Fiction

EnZi Part One Odesa Chapter 22 Yakov Zusya Sand and Iron

by Stanislav Dema
02/09/26
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Mood:
Die Apocalyptischen Reiter - Riders on the Storm

The memories of Captain Zusya (commander of an armored cavalry company) about the battles during the War of Independence of the Republic of Israelites.

Night. The starry sky hung over the desert like a black tent; the heat did not leave, a hot wind carried sand and dust. In the dry wadi, "Chariots" lined up—dark, tall, with barely noticeable glimmers of running lights. The boilers worked at low power, turbines breathed dully in the darkness—evenly, warily. The machines were like beasts preparing to pounce. Sand rustled against the armor like fine rain. No one spoke: before the attack, everyone retreated into their own thoughts.

From the darkness of the wadi came the command:

— Boilers to full! Raise pressure!

Immediately compressors roared, steam hissed, gearboxes buzzed. The adjutant brought a list of radio codes.

— After communication setup—complete radio silence, — he said dryly.

Zusya pulled himself up, climbed onto the hull, and dangled his legs into the hatch of his "Chariot." Inside, a red electric bulb burned, the air vibrated from the work of mechanisms. Sergeant Yitzhak Gur was wiping the sight eyepiece with chamois. In the cramped armored capsule, everything was packed with instruments, machine-gun magazines, and ammunition racks for shells. Zusya settled into the commander's seat, pulled on a leather helmet with headphones, turned on the company radio station, and tuned the frequency. With the toe of his boot, he pushed his duffel bag under the instrument console. The driver offered dry rations, but he didn't want to eat. It was stuffy, the armor pressed in, and outside stood unbearable heat. Zusya flicked a toggle switch, and a stream of cool air came from under the seat.

— Yitzhak, — he said into the laryngophone. — Don't mix it up: upper tier—armor-piercing, lower—fragmentation.

— Relax, Yakov, — Gur replied carelessly. — You're dealing with a professional, but if I suddenly mix it up—your advice won't be needed anymore anyway.

On the medium waves, through which orders from above came, a long control signal finally stretched out, then a sharp voice:

— Battalion commander to group: establish communication!

Zusya successively called the motorized infantry platoons and checked the connection. On VHF he transmitted to the column:

— Eitan to company: confirm radio contact.

All eight machines responded. The communication session ended, a click sounded in the headphones, and the hissing of steam in the valves became audible.

Above, between the acacias near the riverbed, sand flowed between stones. In the east, a pale dawn lit the horizon. In the distance, on the plateau, the steam engines of "Dov Ra'ams" (Thunder Bears)—heavy tracked platforms with 120-mm howitzers—hissed, and armored locomobiles of the motorized infantry puffed smoke.

Zusya climbed out of his "Chariot" and walked to the battalion commander's machine. Major Solomon Lyubarsky had spread a map on the folding step. An adjutant shone a flashlight. Lyubarsky began the briefing: crisp dry phrases, an attentive gaze.

— Listen to the task, — he said briefly. — We are part of the combat group "Archangel". Two companies of "Chariots"—the striking fist. Behind us—motorized infantry transporters, then self-propelled guns. We take an assault paratrooper company with us. Our goal is to break through the blocking enemy forces east of Beersheba, to give passage to the supply column from Dimona. The Ottomans have built up a barrier along the ridge of dunes and old forts. From the north, a brigade is trying to meet us, but it got stuck at the wadi. We—go for the breakthrough, then—cover the passage.

The paratroopers—young lads with tired faces—climbed onto the backs of the "Chariots" and pulled on capes for protection against sand. Zusya slid down and closed the hatch. His heart beat faster; the slightest crackle in the headphones sounded like a shot. "Either the heat or lack of sleep..." — flashed through his mind.

The "Chariots" began to march, and all sixteen machines lined up in a column. Emerging from the wadi, they deployed into battle formation. Behind at a short distance—transporters with motorized infantry. Behind them, the "Dov Ra'ams" crawled smoothly to their positions.

In the viewing instrument, Zusya saw the wide "feet" of his machine trample bushes and clay crust. The east wind threw sand into the faces of those riding on the armor. The infantrymen wrapped their faces in kaffiyehs; attentive eyes shone from slits in the fabric, scouring the terrain in search of the enemy. Major Lyubarsky stood in the commander's hatch, leaning out to the waist, his face expressing firm confidence.

— A dust storm is coming, that's good, — said the major, glancing at the dense gray veil advancing from the east. — It will be harder for Ottoman bombers to attack us.

They had already covered several kilometers. Tension was growing. The headquarters radio operator spoke in the headphones:

— Artillery, where is the connection? Get me the self-propelled batteries on the channel immediately!

A second later, the commanders of the howitzer divisions responded, then—the motorized infantry commander: voices sounded muffled through interference. Evidently, the Ottomans had turned on electronic warfare equipment.

The "Chariots" reduced speed. The group was approaching the old line of combat contact, which ran along the road. On both sides of the highway, rusty skeletons of old Turkish steam self-propelled forts were visible; in the acacia thickets—shattered artillery pieces. The advance patrol moved forward and checked the area. Another dash—and the ribbon of the highway winding among the hills remained behind. To the right and left, rare tamarisk thickets ended; ahead, the desert plain trembled in the heat. A murky haze hung on the distant horizon: there the Ottomans were firing up the boilers of combat machines.

The joking remarks of the infantrymen sitting on the armor quickly subsided at the sight of these signs of the enemy.

— Increase interval and distance, full speed ahead! — Lyubarsky ordered briefly.

The group crossed a dry riverbed, strode over a clay surface covered with cracks, and fanned out. From behind the dunes, salvos of artillery preparation were heard. A command sounded to the motorized infantry:

— First platoon—two machines to the left flank! Cover the "Chariots."

The paratroopers jumped off and moved in rushes between the chariots. In the headphones, the major's voice:

— Drivers, attention! Friendlies underfoot—don't crush them!

The world before Zusya's periscope was shrouded in black smoke and flashes of heavy shell bursts. The chariot shook like a ship in a storm.

— Close hatches! — roared the major.

The Ottoman fire curtain met them with a furious whirlwind of sand and flame. A fountain of earth shot up right under their nose. The chariot bypassed the crater—and forward again.

— Work in pairs! Number ones suppress with fire, number twos—at the double, march! — Lyubarsky rapped out. The machines, like infantrymen in a chain, began the offensive. While some suppressed the enemy with accurate fire during short stops, others moved forward at maximum speed. After some time, they swapped roles.

— Front edge, — exhaled Zusya, peering into the parapet bristling with fire. A hail of bullets drummed on the armor.

On the right, a "Chariot" went fifty meters ahead, bursting onto the positions; figures of infantrymen flashed behind—and a solid wall of fire cut them off.

— Trenches! — managed to shout Gur.

They wove among a labyrinth of trenches and caponiers. The machines, like iron beasts, crushed and tore the defensive line. Zusya didn't want to see anything anymore—neither parts of crushed bodies flying out from under the "Chariot's" movers, nor those who tried to cling to the armor and rolled under the "feet." Didn't want to—but saw everything. And then Lyubarsky's voice broke through the crackle of interference:

— Line breached! Onward—into the valley!

A rocky bowl-shaped plain spread out before them, overgrown with sparse bushes.

— Watch out for chariot destroyers! — threw the major.

In Zusya's memory floated the course on combating armored vehicles for "Araba Avcısı"—Ottoman chariot hunters, which they studied to understand how the enemy would act on the battlefield: sneak into the dead zone, crouch, let it pass, and strike the joints from behind.

Now he sat in the very heart of the iron beast—and from a hunter could turn into prey. Every nerve rang like a string. Zusya commanded:

— Fragmentation—two, zero, zero, fire!

A shell from their gun hit a group of enemy infantrymen preparing to attack. The bow machine gun chattered, finishing off survivors. Fountains of earth and fire covered the valley, then the sound of a salvo from their self-propelled howitzers reached them. But immediately the machine stumbled, the hull dropped sharply, then leveled out again; the radio operator's scream from a first platoon machine exploded in the headphones:

— Zusya! They're climbing on us! Knock him off!..

— Yitzhak, at 11 o'clock, help Mordechai! — barked Zusya.

— It's hot here ourselves! — cut off Gur and traversed the turret. The gun jerked, a casing fell out with a ring.

— Rifle pit underfoot, they're sitting there! — wailed Gur.

The "Chariot" began to stomp, spinning in place, then jerked forward. Zusya thought he heard the crunch of bones, crushing bodies. Somewhere behind, a monstrous explosion rang out—and everything went quiet: "Tail-end Charlie" was hit by enemy infantry with a demolition charge, and the ammo rack detonated. Sand mixed with burning fuel, soot, and blood. "Where are the paratroopers?" — flashed through his mind. He began requesting the infantry commander's call sign, but there was no answer.

They inexorably moved forward and emerged on the opposite edge of the valley. The radio crackled with voices of motorized infantry platoons:

— Four wounded. Requesting evacuation.

— Continuing trench clearing.

— Attacked from all sides, forced to dig in.

— Push! — said Lyubarsky. — To the ridge of dunes—we take up defense there.

A fountain of sand sprayed before them.

— Hunters! — Zusya's voice broke into a scream, and immediately the battalion commander corrected him: — No, armored cars! Yitzhak, armor-piercing! Reference point—that rock with the sheared top, at two o'clock!

Shot!

Immediately Zusya gave the command to the driver: — Left, behind the hill! Move!

They pressed in, took cover behind the hill. A dull thud rang out as if someone struck the hull with a giant sledgehammer.

— We got lucky, ricochet. Camouflaged well... — muttered Gur and fired a second shot.

— Hit! Well done! — said the major without raising his voice.

Suddenly a fireball swelled on the crest—a long-range "one-fifty" covered the Ottoman ammunition depot.

— Ours arrived in time, — said the major with relief, listening to the medium waves:

— "We are bracketing. Attack. There aren't many of them."

The motorized infantry responded dully:

— "Pinned down at the breach point. Repelling counterattacks."

— Means the Ottomans are already trying to close the gap... — grumbled Lyubarsky. — If only once everything went according to our plan...

They moved toward the ancient fort at the edge of the rocky plateau, overcame the ridge, and jumped out onto the highway. For half an hour they walked along the road until they took cover in a grove under acacias:

— Air! — someone shouted. — Ottoman attack planes!

Hatches closed with a clang. A machine-gun burst struck the roof, bombs thundered. The chariots stood motionless, covered by tree crowns. The attack planes circled for some time over the grove, then went south.

— Call the motorized infantry! — said the major restrainedly.

The platoons answered—their voice was barely audible through interference.

— "We are stuck. Fighting back. Constant flank attacks, waiting for support," — came as if from afar.

They began to return to help the motorized infantry. Crossed the railway tracks leading to the mine and, like predatory beasts, suddenly jumped out into the valley. There, near the old Ottoman fort, on a large paved square, intense work was underway: about two dozen enemy "chariots" were refueling with kerosene and replenishing ammunition.

The skirmish was frantic and short. The roar of guns, the unrestrained chatter of machine guns, explosions, flames, torn bodies. Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. A pile of twisted steel and charred corpses filled the square. At this sight, Zusya began to feel nauseous, but with a huge effort of will, he restrained himself. One stupid thought spun in his head: it's good the machine is sealed tight and I don't smell the burnt flesh.

They continued movement, once more—in a desperate dash—broke through the Ottoman defense line from the rear, slipped through the barrage of enemy mortars, and helped the infantrymen who already considered themselves doomed. Artillery suppressed the last pockets of enemy resistance, and the battle was over. The rest of the day they withdrew to the rear for refueling, replenishing ammunition, and repairing machines. Finally, they arrived at the base.

— Stop, kill engines! — said the battalion commander to the driver, and the chariot settled on the ground. Fourteen machines out of sixteen returned to the field base. There were many dents and chips on the armor, some machines limped, but overall the battle turned out quite successful for them. One crew perished. The crew of the second hit machine managed to be evacuated.

Major Lyubarsky climbed out, pulled the helmet off his head, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and staggered toward the field headquarters.

As soon as the machine stopped, Zusya opened the hatch, climbed onto the roof, but he no longer had the strength to descend. He tore the helmet from his head, poured a canteen of water over himself to refresh at least a little. He was shaking; a spasm rose to his throat. "Broke through. Alive," — he thought, inhaling the hot air deeply. A minute later he wiped his face, slowly descended, and lay on the ground.