by Alan David
For some time Kurt had little idea of what was going on. He had been briefed the night before, but most of that had gone now, lost in the exigencies of the moment. The noise of the shells bursting around them, of the exploding ammunition truck and the burning petrol bowser, made everything confusing. But his strict training came to his aid and he instinctively did the right things at the right time.
There was a steep ridge ahead which they had to capture as their first objective. Now daylight was filtering through the dense smoke and heavy shelling plastered the fields leading up to the ridge. Kurt understood that the shells falling around their advance were Polish, for he could see German artillery pounding the ridge itself, where shortly they would be fighting for control of the ground. It seemed senseless to him, but he did his duty as he had been trained, guiding the tank forward into the enemy positions, taking on machine-guns and overwhelming them, first with gunfire then by physically over-running them.
He discovered that he was operating normally despite his sense of confusion. His voice was cold and clear, deliberate, as he issued fire orders to the 75mm. ‘... Steady ... on ... range nine hundred ... Fire!’ It was just like engaging targets in training. The thought kept repeating itself in his mind and he began to believe that it was not going to be as bad as he had imagined.
But the inside of the tank was like a hellhole. Each time the gun fired a flame spurted from its breech-block, and smoke and fumes enveloped the interior, acrid and pungent, searing and stinging eyes and throats. The empty cases crashed into the well of the tank each time the breech-block was opened, and they rolled about with each lurch of the heavy vehicle, clattering and glinting.
A Polish anti-tank gun began firing from the cover of a ruined village. Kurt saw the sharp flash, and the shell struck a tank on his right. Other tanks took on the Pole, firing relentlessly, and Kurt resisted the temptation to join in the general slaughter. His strict orders were to deal with anything immediately in front of them, and he peered ahead as daylight strengthened, giving orders for the machine-guns to start distributing fire along the next hedgerow, for he could see agitated movement along its length. Both weapons chattered incessantly, the noise overwhelming in the turret.
When he glanced around he was appalled to see several of the Company’s tanks smashed and burning, throwing up angry red flames that licked viciously around the steel hulls. Thick, oily black smoke was pouring into the already smoke-laden sky, broiling and dancing on the breeze.
Ahead and above them lay the ridge, wreathed in smoke, with shell bursts erupting ceaselessly upon its broad face. It was well fortified, and Kurt knew there would be a violent battle for supremacy. They had been told that the Poles would not be willing to fight, that they were good only for a stab in the back and quick flight, but in reality it was different. He could see strong points holding out against overwhelming odds, and cavalry were even riding into the open to attack the tanks — long lances against the long guns of the vehicles — in what was the moment where two ages met in unequal conflict. It was a crazy, suicidal venture, and the Panzers took full advantage of the fact.
But the Poles knew how to die, and more than once Kurt saw a handful of them hold a strategic position until their ammunition was used. Only then would they attempt to get clear, presumably in the hope of rearming and continuing the fight, and Kurt clenched his teeth each time his tank overran such a position to crush the survivors. He sensed the sickening crunch of impact although he knew there was nothing to feel. But it was like watching a horror film when brave men tried to run away from the clattering tanks only to fall and disappear in a smear of blood and torn fragments of flesh.
The ground began to slope, and it was soon obvious that the Poles had made full use of the area. Anti-tank guns were sighted to cover all approaches, and Kurt was thankful that they were not in the first wave. They kept passing knocked-out tanks, and each one of them was burning fiercely. There were dead men crumpled everywhere, and although the war seemed slightly more remote from the inside of a tank, Kurt could grasp the full horror of what was unfolding. He winced each time Schultze ran over bodies, and had to fight against giving the command to avoid them.
The leading tank suddenly burst into flames and its surviving crew quickly baled out, tumbling to the ground and running for cover as machine-guns beat the earth about them. Kurt ordered Weilen to fire, his attention taken up with the situation. He had no time in which to be afraid, and saw the spurt of smoke as the Polish anti-tank gun fired again. Another tank, this time to the left, erupted in a sheet of flame. Kurt knew they would be the next target and coolly gave instructions to bring their gun to bear. ‘Steady ... on ... range eight hundred ... Fire!’
Weilen fired and watched for the shellburst. Hohner acted instinctively in response to his training, jerking out the used shell-case from the gun and pushing home another one. They fired again, the tank rocking slightly.
‘Armour-piercing this time,’ Kurt ordered. ‘Can you see him, Weilen?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. The first two shells have blown away his camouflage.’
‘Good.’ Kurt nodded. He was covered in a cold sweat. ‘Take your time now. Put the A.P. right into the middle of him. Vogel, spray the area with your machine-gun.’
Vogel crackled into action immediately, and Kurt studied the area, his lips pulled tightly against his teeth. The next shell from that anti-tank gun would be directed at them! But he was hoping their high-explosives had put the crew out of action. He swallowed with difficulty. His eyes were dilated, his hands trembling. They moved forward again, for it was inviting disaster to remain stationary, and Weilen fired. There was an immediate spread of flame from the target and Kurt knew it was a direct hit upon the gun. They made their way inexorably up to the crest of the ridge.
Panzer-grenadiers were almost level with them, taking on the Polish infantry, and artillery were still hammering the crest. Smoke drifted rapidly, and the unnerving screech of dive bombers was endless in the background. Kurt could only feel a kind of horror-stricken pity for the Poles. They were being torn apart, their country violated, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
They were almost out of ammunition and fuel by the time the ridge was cleared and in German hands. They remained in a hull-down position while artillery and dive bombers blasted the next obstacle. Another regiment of Panzers went through their position, with grenadiers sitting on the back of the tanks, and Kurt received warning to expect fresh supplies of fuel and ammunition. They alighted from the tank and threw themselves down for a breather, drawing fresh air into their clogged lungs. But their attention was drawn to the battle ahead of them, and the crest of the ridge gave them a perfect view of several miles of countryside.
Everywhere they looked there were shells and bombs bursting, and many of the fields were shrouded in dense smoke. A small town lay in the middle distance, and it was being systematically destroyed, street by street. Kurt looked away, sickened, and gazed at the defensive trenches which they had overrun. Bodies were sprawled around carelessly, and German and Polish soldiers were strewn thickly where the fighting had been fiercest. He saw dead men with no outward signs of violence upon them, and others lay drenched in blood, torn open by shrapnel or gruesomely stitched by machine-gun fire.
When he realised that his own guns and orders were responsible for some of these dead men he felt ill, and fought down the desire to vomit. He turned to his crew, now relaxing and smoking cigarettes, and ordered them to prepare for refuelling and replenishing their ammunition. The empty shell-cases were tossed out of the tank and the hatches opened in the hope that the fumes inside would disperse.
Captain Zimmermann, the Company Commander, came to within thirty feet and parked his tank, swinging out of the turret to come in a hurry to where Kurt was standing. Zimmermann was in his forties, and Kurt knew he wanted to marry Aunt Gretel and settle down on the farm. They lived in the same village and Zimmermann had once been the headmaster of the local school. Kurt care
d for Zimmermann, who had been like a father to him for many years, and it helped to have a friendly Company Commander.
‘Kurt, you did well!’ Zimmermann was tall and spare, with a bushy moustache which was beginning to show some grey in it. His eyes were a pale colour, neither green nor blue, and his brows were light. His face was smudged with dust and smoke, and he seemed tired, his expression taut. He looked into Kurt’s narrowed blue eyes and saw the obvious signs of shock. ‘Are you and your crew all right?’
‘Everything is all right, sir,’ Kurt reported. ‘But we are low on fuel and almost out of shells.’
The trucks will be along shortly. We have priority.’ Zimmermann produced a map and smoothed it out on. Kurt’s tank. ‘Take a look at this. See that river? Our artillery and dive bombers are preventing the Poles from using it to evacuate this area. They are trying to use it and that’s the reason it is still intact. We need it badly so our Company is going through everything to get it, and we’ll have grenadiers to hold it. Be ready to move out as soon as the Company is ready.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kurt saluted and turned to urge his crew to move quicker. But inside he was filled with dismay, for this was war and his experience so far proved that he was not suited for it. He wanted to get back to the farm. He was not of the material from which soldiers were made. He felt like crying when he looked at the good farmland spread out before him and saw how it had been devastated. Cows and sheep were lying dead in their natural surroundings, and these Panzers were nightmarish creatures which had no right to be here.
He was tired and his head ached. His ears were protesting painfully against the hours they had spent in their cramped quarters fighting their way eastwards, and the war was still going on. The sounds of it were never-ending, and he felt shaken, light-headed, as if he were living a nightmare from which there could be no awakening. But when he looked at his crew — men he had known and trained with for years — he could tell that their morale was high, that they were exuberant about the way the battle was going. They enjoyed the sensation of being victors, and he could not help wondering if he was an odd man out. Should he not be happy to lead them on their march to glory? Why could he not accept this war for what it was, for what they were told it was? They were liberating the Poles from the threat of Bolshevism. Parts of Poland rightfully belonged to Germany, and it was time Europe was straightened out.
The petrol bowser was making a round of the surviving Company tanks, and soft trucks were approaching, loaded with ammunition and supplies. Kurt watched them through narrowed eyes and wished he could get rid of the tight knot of fear squeezing his guts. It did not seem to be the normal reaction to a man’s first taste of action. The others had not seen action before, but already Schultze was joking and grinning, nosing around the dead men in search of souvenirs. He shook his head, victim of a sudden premonition. The war had started with a bang and Poland looked like going the way of Austria and Czechoslovakia. But would it end with Poland’s defeat? He did not think so, and the knowledge frightened him more than the fighting he had already seen.
Chapter Three
When Max Eckhardt entered the dug-out, Captain Franz Dantine was seated at the trestle table poring over a large-scale map. Looking up, he nodded grimly and returned Eckhardt’s salute. The other Company officers were already present, and there seemed to be an atmosphere that grated against Eckhardt’s nerves. He frowned as he glanced around, wondering which of his colleagues had incurred Dantine’s displeasure. The Company Commander was an intolerant, passionate Nazi Party member of medium height whose uniform looked as if it had been moulded to him, and his dark, fanatical eyes seemed to glow under the rim of his steel helmet. He was in his forties, habitually hard-faced, and obeyed the SS code to the letter. If there was an ounce of compassion in him he kept it well hidden.
But Eckhardt was similar in outlook to his Company Commander and they had always got along well. They lived blindly, by the rules of SS Reichsführer Himmler and both existed only for the SS. Anyone who failed to measure up to their rigid standards soon paid the penalty for incompetence.
‘Good to see you, Eckhardt,’ Dantine said in guttural tones. ‘I have just returned from a battalion briefing, and although I pass on Colonel Spaten’s compliments on the way our objectives were taken according to schedule this morning, he was talking of the battalion as a whole, and I was not impressed by this Company’s performance. We, the SS, are the elite of the armed forces, and must prove ourselves to be better than all other fighting units. There are jealous eyes watching us, praying that we shall fail and so prove what has been said about us behind our backs over the years. Now I don’t care about the other companies in this battalion. But this is my Company, and it will be the best if I have to personally shoot every man who lags behind his battle schedule. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?’
Eckhardt listened with only half his mind. He was reliving the action that had taken place that morning, checking to see if he were guilty of not giving of more than his best. But it did not seem possible that the Poles would be able to form any serious resistance. They were disorganised and outmoded, using cavalry against Panzers! He was more concerned about the Russians. Too much had been made of the non-aggression pact signed a month earlier between Russia and Germany, but the Communists were not to be trusted. Since their 1917 revolution they had been infiltrating western Europe, and war was the only antiseptic that would cleanse the world of Bolshevism.
‘The Führer has said that we are to be congratulated on our courage,’ Dantine continued. ‘Our names will go down in history as the men who struck the first blow for Germany. At fourteen hundred hours we resume the attack, and I want no lingering in the battle area. The tanks will take us through, and this town, Przedz, is our objective.’ He tapped the map on the table. ‘It must be captured at all costs.’ His guttural voice rose a note, sounding almost hysterical. ‘Do you understand that? At any cost! Leutnant Eckhardt!’ He paused while Eckhardt stiffened to attention. ‘I want a firing squad from your platoon in thirty minutes. Seven men are guilty of failing to comply with the sacred oath. Two of them, Vonner and Bauer, are from your own platoon, and I am disappointed, Eckhardt. I thought you, above all my officers, were completely in command of your platoon.’ There was a glare of disapproval for the other officers present, and Dantine continued. ‘You have my express order that any man suspected of not giving of his best must be executed summarily.’
‘Yes, Sir!’ Eckhardt nodded grimly as the words of the SS oath ran through his mind. ‘I swear to you, Adolf Hitler, as Führer and Reich Chancellor, loyalty and bravery. I vow to you, and to those you have named to command me, obedience unto death, so help me God.’
‘Then that is all, gentlemen.’ Dantine glowered as if daring them to raise objections. ‘Check that you are ready to move out and that your men understand their orders. While there is daylight we shall advance. We are all aware that Colonel Spaten has the finest battalion in the division, and this is the most disciplined Company. Bear in mind that I do not want to be further disappointed at the end of the day. These Poles cannot fight! Cut through them. Take no prisoners. Capture your objectives according to your timetable. If anyone fails to push on he’ll have me to face later. That is all. Heil Hitler!’
Eckhardt saluted and departed with the other officers, and they separated to return to their platoons. He did not know how the others felt, but he was swollen with pride for the Vaterland Division. He was a product of his times, having passed out with honours from the SS Leadership School at Bad-Tölz in Bavaria. SS leaders were not only physically fit but men of quick intelligence who were politically indoctrinated. The training school had offered instruction in history, geography, militarism and racial ‘hygiene’. This training, for which he had unwittingly been prepared by his early life with his father, had influenced Eckhardt to such an extent that he was a perfect example of Himmler’s Aryan ideal and believed implicitly in the ancient Teutonic mythology of blood and earth.
> When he reached his platoon position, Sergeant-Major Leun saluted and stood at attention.
‘Leun, we must provide a firing squad in thirty minutes. Seven traitors are to be executed. There are three men I noted slacking this morning and I want them included in the squad. They are Schwarz, Muller and Corporal Steine. The experience will do them good. We are going back into action at fourteen hundred hours, and I want you to keep an eye on those three. If they show any sign of hesitation in future they are to be shot immediately.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Leun saluted.
Artillery fire was heavy to the east, and they could hear the screaming of Stukas in the distance and the crump, crump, crump of exploding bombs. Near by, the rumble of supply trucks continued ceaselessly, and Eckhardt thrust back his shoulders. The German Army was invincible. His father’s voice was again talking in the back of his mind, the words passionate and soul-stirring. The Führer was a genius. God had sent Adolf Hitler to help the people of Germany restore order in Europe and provide a bulwark against communism. Germany must arise from the ashes of the Great War, which had not been a defeat but a bitter crucible to mould and prepare the nation for its ultimate destiny.
Corporal Steine approached and saluted, a tall, thin, pale-faced man from Hamburg. ‘Herr Leutnant, I beg to report that Private Schwarz is absent from my section. I have checked the area and there is no sign of him.’
‘Was he present when you called the roll, Sergeant-Major?’ Eckhardt demanded in steely tones.
‘Yes, sir.’ Leun stared unblinkingly into Eckhardt’s face.
‘He was acting strangely when we were digging in, sir,’ Corporal Steine continued. ‘I think his nerve failed during the wood-clearing this morning. We were overrun and cut off for thirty minutes. I had to strike him once to keep him quiet.’