by Alan David
The company tanks were strung out in battle formation, and the leaders were barely fifty yards from the crest. Kurt held his breath as they reached the crest itself, and then they were over it and he could see the whole panorama of the objective spread out before them. The bridge was still intact and enemy troops were using it. There was a cluster of five buildings to the left of the crossing, four to the right, and three directly in front at a distance of about three hundred yards from the bank. He could see through his glasses that there were earthworks down there, and enemy troops were in position.
‘Keep moving,’ he ordered calmly, although his throat was constricted and dry. ‘See those trees, Schultze? Make for them. They will give us a little cover. There are sure to be anti-tank guns sighting upon this slope.’
As he spoke, Kurt was thinking of the overall plan. They were advancing in several waves of tanks spaced over a very narrow front that barely exceeded five thousand yards in width. Ahead and to the flanks artillery and Stukas were pounding enemy artillery positions, and if they kept moving fast they should capture their objective intact.
They reached the trees, and Captain Zimmermann’s voice came over the air, complimenting Kurt upon his advance. They had not come under effective fire although shells were bursting around them. But they were not unduly worried by the enemy artillery. Only their own motorised infantry in their unarmoured vehicles would be concerned about that. He glanced around and saw Panzer-grenadiers in their half-tracks moving swiftly over the ridge and speeding to the right to begin their flank attack. He ordered the tank through the trees and on down the slope towards the buildings fronting the approach to the bridge. Now the battle could commence in earnest.
The river was wide and fast-flowing, and the bridge would have made an easy target had they been ordered to destroy it. Kurt studied the enemy positions this side of the river. The ground was sloping away steeply and they rolled fast into the valley. But there were several folds in the ground before the river, and anti-tank guns could be concealed anywhere in the terrain.
There was a small, thick copse to the far right, and Kurt studied it several times as they clattered on. He was afraid of that particular area. It looked like a perfect spot for anti-tank guns. But he was not on the flank of the attack and there would be some warning for him if trouble did come from that position. His orders were to concentrate upon his immediate front, and he could hear machine-gun fire splattering against the hull as the enemy began to challenge them. He knew that the Poles already streaming across the bridge would be massing on the far side in order to use the river itself as a barrier, but he was apprehensive of anti-tank fire, and strived not to imagine what it would be like to receive a direct hit.
Even as the thought crossed his mind the tank shook vigorously from the effects of a high-explosive shell which blasted almost on top of it. But no damage was done beyond the shock to the crew. Kurt clenched his teeth and screwed up his eyes as the interior of the tank became filled with thick fumes. A second shell struck the glacis plate, but again it was not solid shot and they trundled on, rocking under the impact, the fearsome sounds of the hit worse than the effects of it.
Glancing around, Kurt saw hits on other tanks, but there were no anti-tank guns firing, and he could not believe their luck. Surely the Poles had anti-tank guns in the area, particularly to cover the bridge! He gave the order to fire and the short 75 began to hit the buildings in front of the bridge. Other tanks were already firing at the buildings to left and right, and now he could see their own half-tracks crashing forward on the flanks to take the grenadiers into the very heart of the enemy position.
An anti-tank gun fired from the left, and the crash of the solid shot striking one of the Company tanks echoed menacingly. Kurt’s head turned quickly and he saw the tank explode in a sheet of flame. At the same time there were figures leaping out of the vehicle, and he counted three running for cover. Two others did not appear, and he dragged his gaze from the sickening sight and forced himself to concentrate upon his front.
Several tanks were stopped, and he noted that one had merely thrown a track. Two others were smoking, although he could see one commander still standing in his turret, his guns firing rapidly.
They continued on a zig-zag course to throw off enemy fire, and Kurt glimpsed the grenadiers debussing amongst the earthworks covering the bridge. The chatter of small-arms fire was tremendous, and smoke drifted across the area, almost blotting out vision.
A rise in the ground covered them as they dipped into the hollow behind it, and Kurt drew a raspy breath of anticipation, wondering how much farther they could get before they, too, received a hit. His ears were singing from the shock of the artillery fire, and voices were humming incessantly in his earphones as Captain Zimmermann controlled the company, issuing orders to troop commanders and talking to individual tanks.
The tank on their left was slightly ahead, and lurched up out of the fold in front of them. It was hit immediately by an armour-piercing shell, and there was no mistaking the sound of the explosion. There was an anti-tank gun somewhere in the Polish defences, and it had held its fire until the range made it impossible to miss. Kurt saw the eight-ton turret of the tank lift and disintegrate, and the short-barrelled 75mm gun flew off in a low arc. Smoke and flames spurted and men began to leap from the interior, but one figure flew out of the tank and crashed upon the ground, where it lay like a discarded rag doll. Even as Kurt gazed at it the ammunition inside the tank exploded and the whole vehicle erupted like a volcano.
Kurt was overcome by sheer animal terror, although his voice sounded normal as he issued orders. He put the tank into a hull-down position instead of breasting the rise as their colleagues had done, and used his glasses quickly in an attempt to pick out the anti-tank gun. He saw that the whole weight of their divisional artillery was crashing down upon the enemy positions on the far side of the river, and the bridge was still intact although some shells were exploding in the river itself. The grenadiers were trying to fight their way through to the bridge.
The anti-tank gun fired again and a tank on Kurt’s right, which had incautiously exposed itself, rocked under the impact of the solid shot. Kurt spotted the gun’s position and calmly gave his fire order, although he was tense inside and afraid that they would be too late. The tank rocked under recoil, and he saw the strike of their shot. They tore some camouflage from the gun’s position, and he shouted for rapid fire. Hohner was loading as fast as he could and Weilen fired steadily, his concentration upon the target.
Captain Zimmermann’s voice came over the air, ordering Kurt to advance, and the tank lurched up out of the dip in the ground and began to rumble forward on the last slope down to the now furiously burning buildings skirting the approaches to the bridge. Machine-gun fire came at them, screeching and zipping in invisible flight, leaving gleaming scars upon their hull. Kurt kept his head down, his teeth clenched, and watched for targets. Their guns blasted continuously.
A tremendous explosion rent the thunder of the battlefield, and Kurt stared at the bridge as it disintegrated and flew skywards in sections through a pall of broiling smoke.
‘Oh God!’ he muttered involuntarily. ‘They’ve blown it!’
He closed his eyes for a moment, aware of the problem which now faced them, and Captain Zimmermann was talking over the wireless before the debris of the bridge had settled into the river.
‘Forward all tanks. Destroy everything this side of the river.’
The order was repeated, but already Kurt’s Mark IV was jolting towards the enemy positions, and they fired into the defences and buildings, their machine-guns chattering at the Poles still moving towards the river’s edge.
In a matter of minutes they were amongst the positions where the grenadiers were fighting hand-to-hand, driving out the Poles. The arrival of the tanks swung the tide of battle in favour of the Germans and, despite losing the bridge, they had successfully cut off the Polish line of retreat.
Orders cam
e through to destroy all Poles on the near side of the river and the tanks split into two groups, half attacking furiously while the other half guarded against counter-attacks. The Poles, without armoured support, were quickly overwhelmed, and Kurt eventually found himself in a hull-down position on the near bank of the river, screened by reeds and awaiting his turn to refuel and rearm. The Panzer-grenadiers were already preparing to launch an attack across the river in rubber assault boats under fire support from the tanks.
There seemed little enough time in which to get rid of the empty shell cases in the tanks and replace them with fresh shells. The crew were tired but worked willingly, and Kurt sweated as he listened to the talk coming over the air, getting his orders for the first attempted crossing, which would soon be under way.
Machine-guns were firing from the opposite bank, and it was obvious that the assault troops were in for a tough battle to gain a foothold over there. Weilen kept firing at targets which Kurt selected, and Hohner loaded automatically, sweating in the close confines of the tank. Kurt watched the rubber assault craft being put into the water and loaded with grey-uniformed soldiers. He was afraid of the war, but he would rather face its terrors from inside the Mark IV than take his chances in those frail boats. He saw some of them being ripped apart by Polish machine-gun fire, and gritted his teeth as he used his Zeiss binoculars to locate the enemy positions. The 75 blasted repeatedly, but, no matter how many targets they destroyed, there were always other machine-guns opening up with grim determination.
The assault went on while automatic fire stitched the air overhead and deluged the opposite bank where the Poles resisted. But Polish mortars came into action, their bombs plummeting into the water, throwing up fountains of black smoke and spray, ripping open the boats and depositing the heavily armed men into the broiling water. Bombs crashed down thickly, landing right on target, and men were torn asunder in the maelstrom. Heads and limbs were sliced off by shrapnel, flesh torn and slashed, and men drowned in the murk, dragged under by the weight of their equipment and arms. The tanks fired repeatedly, seeking out targets, and the artillery, farther back, added its own particular hell to the battle, pounding the farther bank where the Poles continued to hold fast.
Some of the rubber boats actually made it across the lethal stretch of river, and Kurt, watching through his glasses, saw their occupants cut down by machine-guns that were sited farther back. He shook his head, certain that no attack could succeed. This river was a natural barrier and worth a division of tanks to the Poles.
But the attack was pressed home with mounting intensity. More boats were brought forward and loaded, and Kurt could not believe that men would willingly paddle themselves into the hell of that open reach of water. He cringed in his tank, trying to select targets amongst the smoking fury across the river, and watched the assault troops being slaughtered. Some boats were drifting helplessly on the slack tide, filled with dead and dying, and others were sinking, their fabric ripped, splattered with the blood of the occupants. Yet some of them made the crossing despite the carnage, and they were forced to dig in at the water’s edge while machine-guns and mortars hammered them.
Smoke was put down finally, and Kurt wondered why it hadn’t been ordered initially. It curtailed their vision, but, at least, more of the little rubber boats began to cross, and storm-troopers staggered out on the farther bank and began to attack the defenders entrenched there.
The tanks could do nothing more until a pontoon bridge had been thrown across the river by the engineers, and they were ordered to pull back from the bank. The gloom of late afternoon hid much of the terrible scene about them, but the noise of the battle raged on unceasingly.
About a mile west of the river they pulled into the fields and Kurt removed his headphones, yawning and swallowing in an attempt to clear his ears. His head was aching, his mouth and throat parched, and his mind was filled with recurring pictures of the nightmares of action he had witnessed. But there was no rest for them. They set to and discarded their empty shell cases, took on fresh ammunition and filled their fuel tanks. The tasks seemed never-ending, but at last they were ready for action again, and Kurt left the tank in Weilen’s charge and went to report to HQ for orders.
‘We cannot do anything until there is a pontoon across the river,’ Captain Zimmermann said, flanked by his troop commanders and faced by the tank commanders. Kurt heaved an inaudible sigh of relief. ‘Food and coffee will be coming up shortly, so make the most of the rest. As soon as we can get across the river we shall push on. We have suffered heavy casualties today, but, apart from losing the bridge, all the battalion’s objectives were taken as expected. Very good work. Congratulate your crews for me, please.’
Kurt went back to the Mark IV to find his crew stretched out beside the vehicle, resting while waiting for food. He did not know how they felt, but he wished he could sleep for a week. He sat down beside them, almost too tired to talk, but Weilen, always the optimist, was cracking a joke, and Schultze, their scavenger, was ready to go foraging.
‘We had a good fight, Sergeant,’ Weilen said cheerfully. ‘I don’t know how you managed to do it, but I was scared stiff the whole time while you were giving fire orders and directing the tank as if we were back in training.’
‘Me?’ Kurt demanded in surprise. He glanced around at the blackened, tired faces turned towards him, noting the shock in their eyes, and sighed heavily.
‘Yes,’ Hohner added in his usual grumbling voice. ‘I don’t know how you did it so coolly. I nearly made a mess in my pants several times, but whenever I looked up, there you were, peering out of the hatch with your glasses, and bullets were rattling against the hull. You handled the tank like a veteran, Sergeant.’
Kurt laughed, and the sound was harsh, forced, although his crew did not appear to notice. ‘All of you were all right,’ he said. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Captain Zimmermann said to give you all his congratulations. We did very well today.’
‘Well enough for a spot of leave?’ Schultze demanded. ‘But it was pretty bad today, wasn’t it? We had to force our way through the enemy’s main lines of defence. After today, now that we have broken through, it should get easier, shouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t think it will ever get easier,’ Kurt replied slowly, shaking his head. ‘But I don’t think it will get any worse than it was today.’
‘Today it was the first time,’ Vogel said wisely. ‘It must have seemed a lot worse than it really was. Mind you, I wouldn’t have fancied being in one of those little rubber boats. The tank is good enough for me. All we have to worry about are anti-tank guns, but the Poles don’t seem to have many of them, and we haven’t seen one enemy tank yet.’
‘It’s not the Poles I’m worried about,’ Hohner observed. ‘I want to know what happens when we’ve beaten them, eh? Where do we turn next?’
‘Nowhere,’ Kurt retorted firmly, frowning as he toyed with the idea. He had never let his mind stretch that far into the future. ‘We will take Poland and that will be an end to it.’
‘Do you think the Russians will let us take a front seat on their border?’ Weilen demanded harshly. ‘If we’re not careful we’ll be looking at Ivans through the slits of our tank before we’re finished.’
‘Here come the food and coffee,’ Kurt said quickly, glancing around. ‘Stop that kind of talk now and let us eat. We deserve a rest if anyone does.’
‘We haven’t won this war yet,’ Schultze warned. ‘The British and French have a pact with the Poles, or didn’t you know? They promised to come to Poland’s aid if the country was attacked. All the forces we have are here in the east. What happens now if we are stabbed in the back in the west? We can’t fight on two fronts.’
‘I said shut up,’ Kurt snapped, getting to his feet. ‘I don’t want to listen to that kind of talk. We have our hands full here. Tonight the engineers will put a pontoon bridge across the river and we will be going on tomorrow at first light, so stop your talking and eat and r
est up. If you thought today was hard then wait until tomorrow. Today the Poles were surprised by our attack. By tomorrow they might well have got over their surprise.’
The others did not reply, and Kurt drew a shuddering breath as he looked at the now silent Mark IV and took in the gleaming marks made upon the armoured hull by bullets and high-explosive. This was only the first day and they had survived it well. But some of the others had not been so lucky. He was still badly shaken, although the admiration of the others for his coolness under fire had bolstered his nerve. But they had lost a number of tanks that day and if his mathematics were correct then they had about a one-in-four chance of being knocked out themselves in the next battle, with the possibility of being killed in the process.
It was an aspect which he did not care to consider too closely, for the war looked as if it would last for weeks and the law of averages was against them. In a month of fighting he could expect with some certainty to be either killed or wounded, and that was a frightening prospect for even the most ardent soldier.
He looked at his crew as they sat by the tank and ate their food. No matter what happened, he must somehow try to remain calm and alert. They would have to take risks, but even in the tightest spot there was a chance for the man who thought quickly and did the right thing. He drew a deep breath and held it for a moment, trying to stifle his fears. But the only way he could accomplish that was by killing his imagination, for his mind was his worst enemy. It was trying to betray him even now by thrusting up little scenes of what had gone before, and he clenched his teeth, praying that this would not be a sample of what the rest of his life would be like.
Chapter Five
An uneasy night fell upon the Polish town of Przedz. The darkness was kept at bay by the flames of burning buildings, and their flickering light created nerve-racking shadows that leaped and moved as if concealing Polish troops making preparations for a counter-attack. Max Eckhardt toured his platoon positions, fighting exhaustion. They had fought hard all day and captured their objectives. Now they had dug in on the eastern perimeter of the town, having winkled out all the enemy defenders. But the night was not still or silent. Bombers were unloading their deadly cargoes somewhere ahead and artillery blasted and pounded distant targets. In the rear of their positions the Panzers were leaguered, silent now, motionless monsters taking their rest and awaiting the return of daylight. Their crews were snatching what rest they could, having refuelled and rearmed their vehicles.