coat
Basecoat - 992 Neutral Grey Highlight - 990 Light Grey Shadow - 867 Dark Bluegrey gear
Basecoat - 924 Russian Uniform Highlight - 886 Green Grey Shadow - 888 Olive Grey woodgrain
Basecoat - 846 Mahogany Brown Highlight - 981 Orange Brown Shadow - 985 Hull Red skin
Basecoat - 860 Medium Flesh Highlight - 955 Flat Flesh Shadow - 803 Brown Rose
chuman
uniform
Basecoat - 924 Russian Uniform WWII Highlight - 886 Green Grey
Shadow - 888 Olive Grey belt
Basecoat - 846 Mahogany Brown First Highlight - 818 Red Leather Shadow - 985 Hull Red
skin
Basecoat - 984 Flat Brown Highlight - 860 Medium Flesh Shadow - 872 Chocolate Brown
All colors listed are Vallejo Model Color, unless otherwise noted with (VG), these are Vallejo Game Color.
skin
wood
packs
coat
skin
belt
uniform
“Home by Christmas, what a laugh!’ Gefreiter Heinz Gunther spat disgustedly through the jagged hole in the brick wall. He could swear the spittle was frozen solid before it smacked into the frosty mire of mud that surrounded their refuge. He shuddered as he considered what Erich Voss, a grizzled veteran from the 1st Waffen SS division had told him. ‘Enjoy this time, kamerad.
General Winter hasn’t relieved General Mud yet. When he does, then you’ll know what real cold is.’
‘Defeatist swine!’ Gunther turned as he heard the outraged words. He was not surprised to fi nd that they had come from the north corner of the building, the area where fi ve men of the 3rd Waffen SS had billeted. One of them had risen from his seat beside the small campfi re the SS men had made and was now standing at the centre of the room, hands on hips, an indignant scowl marking his youthful features, a stray lock of blonde hair hanging across the soldier’s brow. ‘If the Fuhrer has promised victory, then we will have victory. It is only a matter of days before we will be on the attack again. Then we will march straight through this Bolshevik vermin. Perhaps we might spend Christmas in Moscow, but every man must make his small sacrifi ces for the Fatherland.’ Gunther stared at Rottenfuhrer Reinhardt Radl in disbelief. The SS corporal actually seemed to believe the inane prattle dribbling from his mouth!
Gunther stepped away from the ragged hole in the wall, shaking his head. ‘Take a good look outside, Rottenfuhrer,’ he said.
‘The frost lies thick on the ground until well after noon. Soon it won’t melt at all. Then it will snow. Ask Napoleon about what a Russian winter is like!’
‘Napoleon was only a Frenchman,’ Radl sneered. ‘We are Germans. Nothing these subhumans throw at us can stop us, not even their infamous winters. Nothing can stand before the will and determination of the German volk.’ The Rottenfuhrer’s words brought stern nods of agreement from the other SS men.
Gunther and his fellows of the Wehrmacht did not share the Rottenfuhrer’s confi dence. They’d seen for themselves how hard the Russians had fought even so early as ’41. German rhetoric about the ‘subhuman Russian peasant’ hadn’t made them any easier to defeat. It was a different sort of war than Gunther had fought in Poland and France. The Soviets seemed determined to make Germany pay for every meter that was conquered with blood. They fought to the last man, fought on even when they had no ammunition, when there was no possibility of victory.
Gunther had seen the eerie sight of two score Russian soldiers charging a panzer across open ground with no more armament than Molotov thingytails. The tank crew had mowed them down with their machine guns. When the last of them had fallen, another group of forty emerged from hiding and charged, then another and another…
Not that the Russian soldiers had too much choice in the matter.
Gunther had seen what befell Russians who faltered in such suicidal assaults. He’d been witness to one such sorry scene after his platoon had beaten back a Soviet attack. The survivors ran
back toward their own positions, only to be ripped apart by their own machine guns. The Fuhrer had issued many orders since unleashing his armies against the Soviets, but his decree that all commissars were to be shot was one Gunther fully embraced after seeing the ruthless manner in which the communist offi cers
‘motivated’ their troops. Men who would happily murder their own countrymen were unworthy of mercy.
‘Fine talk, coming from an SS man.’ The growling voice belonged to Johann Hossbach, a hulking factory worker from the Rhineland. Hossbach was so large, he routinely lugged around the heavy MG42 machine gun, and its steel stand by himself, often with a box of ammunition strapped to his back. The fi rst time Gunther had seen the machine gunner, he’d thought the Wehrmacht had conscripted some troll from the Eifel. Most men found Hossbach an intimidating fi gure. To his credit, Radl didn’t even bat an eye as the brutish Rhinelander stalked toward him.
‘Himmler’s done real nice for you fellows. All the best guns, all the best gear, rations that don’t look like horse meat from the company kitchens.’ The comment brought chuckles from every Wehrmacht soldier in the room and even a few of Radl’s SS men smiled. ‘But us poor Friztes in the Wehrmacht don’t have old Reichsheini watching out for us. We haven’t gotten those nice care packets from Berlin with those nice, heavy winter coats in them.’ The smiles faded from each SS man’s face and they cast guilty glances at the thick grey greatcoats sprawled across their pallets. ‘So you’ll forgive the rabble if they aren’t looking forward to winter with the same enthusiasm as the nobility.’
‘Perhaps if your blood was pure, you would be wearing the uniform of the SS and not that of the rabble.’
The tension that fi lled the decaying bakery was enough to make Gunther’s spine crawl. The other men in the building felt it too, the faces of the Wehrmacht soldiers hardening, taking on a wary edge. Gunther saw the hand of an SS man slowly inch toward the MP40 resting in his lap. The two pioniere troopers attached to Gunther’s platoon looked up from where they were working beside the old ovens, the running gear of their Goliath robot tank strewn about the fl oor. The engineers focused on the standoff between Radl and Hossbach.
The two men glared at one another for a long, silent moment.
The moment was broken when Feldwebel Hans Bruno intruded upon the scene. The NCO had been conferring with Leutnant Dietrich, who was sheltered with the rest of the platoon in a granary a few streets away. Now he returned, shaking his head when he saw Radl and Hossbach. Bruno didn’t say anything, but noisily slide back the action on his submachine gun. The sharp metallic sound startled both men.
‘I don’t know what is going on here and I don’t want to,’ Bruno warned. ‘But whichever of you idiots throws the fi rst punch will have the pleasant duty of acting as courier between this post and Leutnant Dietrich.’ The threat was a serious one, as any man who had seen action in Russia knew. If fi ghting started up again,
the narrow rubble-choked streets of the town would become a deadly hunting ground for Soviet snipers and partisans.
‘By that statement, Feldwebel, I take it that the Leutnant has not received orders regarding myself and my men?’ Radl’s tone was only slightly less abusive than it had been with Hossbach.
Bruno removed his helmet, running his gloved hand through the fuzz of black hair growing on his scalp. ‘The Leutnant has more pressing matters to attend to at the moment than fi nding out where to send your men. There is concern at division that the Ivans might be getting ready to stage an attack before the snow comes.’
‘They are coming here?’ The question came from Ernst Klausner, a rifl eman who had been a university student in Vienna before joining the Wehrmacht. He’d been wounded during the recent withdrawl from Kiev, a Russian bullet hitting him in the thigh.
He’d been wounded lightly enough, however, that he hadn’t been evacuated with the fi rst convoy of trucks and ambulances.
He was mobile enough for light duties and insisted to Bruno that he could still fi re a gun and stand a watch – anything to avoid being sent to the aid station. Every man in the platoon had seen what the Soviets did to German wounded and none of them wanted to share such a fate. Klausner felt his chances were better staying with the fi ghting men. As long as he wasn’t a burden on the platoon, Bruno was perfectly willing to let him stay.
‘All along the front, unless every scout the Luftwaffe sends up is blind,’ Bruno replied. Armored columns streaming out of Moscow like Stalin whistled them up with a magic lamp. Ivans as thick on the ground as fl eas in Johann’s beard.’ The quip brought nervous smiles to Gunther and the others in his platoon.
‘Rear echelon stuff,’ Kraus, one of the pioniers observed.
‘Reserves and penal battalions, obsolete tanks and ill-trained personnel. Stalin can’t have anything else left after his losses at Kursk.’
Bruno shook his head. ‘From what I was told, these are full divisions, not partisan trash. The tanks are the nasty ones, the heavy ones that chewed up our Mark IVs so badly. Make no mistake, this isn’t some half-hearted fi asco like the Bolsheviks were so fond of back in ’41. The Ivans mean business this time.’
The crack of Mausers fi ring punctuated Bruno’s words. The soldiers in the battered bakery scrambled for their weapons, the SS men leaping to their feet. Almost all of the Wehrmacht soldiers in the town had been armed with the new Mkb42 assault rifl es and the SS men almost all carried the MP40s. Only Wehrmacht snipers and scouts were still armed with the Mauser Kar 98 rifl es. And the only snipers and scouts Gunther knew about in the area were positioned on the outskirts of the town, detailed to watch for any advancing Soviet forces. If they were fi ring, it meant that the respite was over, the communists were coming.
Bruno barked orders to his platoon, sending rifl emen to every window and doorway. Hossbach and his assistant, a wiry
Bavarian named Dietz, hurried into the upper fl oor of the building to position their machine gun. Radl snarled a command to one of his SS men. The target of his attention was already in motion, strapping on a heavy backpack, a thick cable running from it into the immense scope that had been fastened above the barrel of his MP44. The sniper quickly checked his vampir night vision equipment, then followed Hossbach and Deitz upstairs.
The electronic contraption would allow the SS man to pick out enemies hiding in the gloom of the town’s abandoned buildings, making them stand out as clearly as if they were in the open.
Gunther hoped the fi ght would not rage so long that the vampir’s designated purpose would be needed.
‘Is that bucket of bolts ready?’ Bruno roared at Kraus, gesturing with the barrel of his MP40 at the disassembled Goliath.
Outside, the crack of the Mausers was now joined by the screech of Soviet PPsh submachine guns and heavier German weapons.
The Soviet assault had reached one of the other platoons.
The pionier shook his head. ‘The drive system is kaput,’ he explained. ‘Fuel line is frozen solid. We haven’t been able to fi x it.’
‘Can the damn thing still shoot?’ demanded Radl. Kraus stared at the SS corporal for a moment, not understanding his meaning.
Radl shouldered his MP40 and raced over to the Goliath, two of his SS men running to help him. Gunther set down his own weapon and joined the straining Germans. At last, comprehending Radl’s meaning, Kraus and the other pionier lent a hand, helping lift the robot tank and carry it to the bakery’s doorway. Klausner and two other men from Gunther’s platoon began piling loose brick and other rubble in front of the immobile Goliath to obscure it as much as possible and provide it with cover. Gunther gave the weapon the fi nal touch, draping an old cavalry blanket over the Goliath. Kraus stepped back, the radio command device clutched in his hands. He quickly tested the controls, the weapon carriage mounted atop the robot rotating and elevating in response to his actions. A thrill of excitement swept through the Germans. Now they had use of the Goliath’s dual mounted machine guns, dramatically increasing their fi repower from one MG42 to three.
Outside, the spit-hiss of Russian PPsh submachine guns grew in intensity, augmented by the boom of grenades. Gunther shook his head as he scrambled back toward the east wall of the bakery and positioned himself beside the ragged hole. It was typical of the Soviets. No artillery barrage, no tank support, just an ill-trained horde of peasants thrown at enemy positions.
The communists relied upon numbers to combat the Germans, seemingly determined to drown the invaders in the blood of their countrymen. Gunther would have been disgusted if he wasn’t well aware that such callous tactics had carried the day for the Soviets many times in the past. Even if the Germans killed ten Russians for each of their own, they were losses Stalin was perfectly willing to accept.
Above, in the ruined second fl oor of the bakery, Hossbach’s machine gun roared into life, fi lling the air with its sawing groan. The SS sniper called down, warning that he could see Russians charging down the narrow street. A moment later, the
bakery shook as a grenade went off nearby, dust billowing about the west end of the building. Gunther tried to ignore the pained screams of the grenadier who had been standing closest to the blast. There was nothing any of them could do for him now, they had their own skins to look after.
Hossbach’s machine gun continued to blaze away. Grenadiers and SS men at the windows began to join in, fi ring into the streets. Gunther was not sure if they could see any Russians or if they were just fi ring wildly, hoping to keep back the attack. He peered through the tear in the brick wall and started to blaze away with his assault rifl e. He heard a voice cry out in Russian, but couldn’t say for certain he’d actually hit anything. The bakery rocked again as another grenade went off. Gunther felt a sick feeling grow in the pit of his stomach. Russians had a favourite tactic for clearing a building infested with Germans and that was to toss an entire bag of grenades into a room, then scramble into the aftermath and machine gun anything still moving. The gefreiter didn’t rate his chances if the Soviets got close enough to pull off that trick.
The fi ring intensifi ed. Above the hiss of submachine guns and the roar of Hossbach’s MG42, Gunther heard the sharp crack of a Russian rifl e. He saw one of the SS men crumple behind his window, a gory hole punched through his helmet and into his brain. Radl snarled in fury, shouting orders at the ceiling. As he did so, the Soviet sniper fi red again, this time splattering a grenadier’s grey matter against the wall. The surviving Germans instinctively ducked down as the threat of the communist sniper asserted itself, momentarily reducing their rate of fi re.
The Russian assault troops were quick to exploit the lapse in concentrated fi re, charging toward the bakery, shouting a war cry at the top of their voices.
Beside Gunther, an overweight grenadier named Adler pitched over, his face obliterated by the Russian sniper. Gunther swore, keeping his head behind the wall. He held his Mkb42 above his head and fi red blindly through the hole. He heard the Russian rifl e fi re and was horrifi ed to see a brick less half a meter from his face explode as the high-velocity round punched through it.
The sniper was trying to pick him off even behind the wall!
Abruptly, there was a piteous shriek from across the street. A voice called down from the loft above the bakery. Radl’s own sniper had fi nally found the Soviet one and dispatched him. The news brought a ragged cheer from the men down below, and they returned to their positions with grim determination. None too soon, either. The two Soviets Gunther could see through the hole in his wall were close enough that he could pick out the insignia on the collars of their brown uniforms. He blazed away with his weapon, pitching both of the Russians to the muddy ground.
The grenadier near the doorway shouted to Kraus and the pionier activated the Goliath. The twin machine guns exploded into life, shredding the oncoming Russians. Kraus rotated the Goliath’s mount, sweeping the MG42’s back and forth, forming a curtain of steel death before the doorway. Dozens of Soviets were surprised by the sudden attack, shredded by the heavy caliber bullets as they tried to turn and run. Gunther saw a Soviet
offi cer in the peaked cap of a commissar shouting furiously at the retreating Russians through a tin megaphone. The German took exceeding delight in ripping apart the commissar with a concentrated burst from his rifl e. The communist pitched over into the mud, his broken body stampeded by his own fl eeing men.
The Germans breathed a sigh of relief as the assault broke. Those who still had them broke out cigarettes and started to smoke.
Klausner hobbled over to try and quiet the screaming man who had been injured in the fi rst grenade attack. Bruno marched the length of the building, checking to see who was dead and who was injured. The attack had claimed ten of the Germans, including two of Radl’s SS men. Another six had been wounded.
That left only Gunther, Hossbach, Dietz, Klausner, and Bruno himself from their original squad, with another ten men from the other two squads. Radl still had his sniper and one of his men, but Kraus’s fellow pionier had taken a burst from a PPsh in his gut. Gunther could tell that the engineer wouldn’t last another hour.
‘Another attack like that and they walk right in,’ Gunther
‘Another attack like that and they walk right in,’ Gunther