Heroes Without Honour

by Alan David

  Sergeant Meyer appeared from the shadows, his face shapeless under the brim of his steel helmet, and he saluted Eckhardt, who returned the compliment.

  ‘All quiet, Herr Leutnant,’ Meyer reported. ‘We have seen nothing moving on our front.’

  ‘Good, I’ve just come from a company briefing. We move on again at first light.’

  ‘At this rate we’ll take Poland in a matter of weeks,’ Meyer ventured. ‘We did well today, didn’t we, sir?’

  ‘Very well. Even Captain Dantine was satisfied when we finally halted. But another three men have been shot for cowardice.’

  ‘That’s a bad business.’ Meyer started slightly when another figure appeared from the shadows, and Eckhardt tightened his grip upon his Bergmann. But it was Sergeant-Major Leun, who saluted and joined in their conversation.

  ‘Sir, we have to watch for saboteurs,’ Leun reported.

  ‘They are infiltrating other sectors. Some of them are only boys, but they are carrying grenades.’

  ‘Warn the men to be on their guard. They’re to shoot first and ask questions afterwards.’ Eckhardt spoke firmly. He glanced around when a spate of machine-gun fire stitched the shadows. ‘Make sure everyone gets some rest. When we start advancing again tomorrow we won’t stop for anything.’

  He walked on with Leun, and they were silent for long moments, listening to the distant crump of bombs and the hammering artillery. Then Leun spoke quietly.

  ‘We’ve got eight replacements, sir, from reserve. I’ve spread them out among the sections. I think Corporal Steine made amends for his reluctance earlier. I watched him closely, and if you have to put forward any names for decorations you might consider him. He’s a fine NCO. He has a keen awareness of tactical situations.’

  ‘I’ve already made a mental note of him. I saw him perform two special acts of bravery, and he’s in my good books at the moment. I suppose we must make allowances for the fact that it was our first day in action. I remember mine in the Spanish War. I didn’t do too well, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘I remember it too,’ Leun said softly. ‘You saved my life that day, sir.’

  ‘And you’ve saved mine on a number of occasions since,’ Eckhardt reminded him. ‘Let’s hope that the need for that kind of thing won’t arise now.’

  ‘We all have to take our chances,’ Leun said. ‘But I don’t think this war is going to be as bad as we imagined. The Poles can’t stand up to us.’

  ‘It’s the Blitzkrieg they can’t face.’ Eckhardt spoke with pride in his voice. ‘No trench warfare for you this time, Leun. Nothing can stop us.’ He lifted his machine-pistol as he spoke, for he had caught a glimpse of movement in the deceptive shadows. ‘Over there to the left,’ he warned. ‘Be on your guard.’

  Leun yelled a challenge in his hoarse voice, and something came bounding towards them, clattering on the metalled road.

  ‘Grenade!’ Eckhardt shouted, and hurled himself flat just as the bomb exploded some distance from them. His ears rang, but his eyes were closed against the flash and he heard the splatter of shrapnel whirling through the darkness. Opening his eyes, he lifted the Bergmann and sent a string of shots into the area where he had spotted movement. The echoes of the grenade blast were fading and he caught the sound of an agonised cry in the background.

  Meyer came with a rush of men, and Eckhardt explained the situation, then watched the men spread out and begin to search the surrounding ruins. Within a few moments rifles crackled, and then a group of figures came out into the open. Eckhardt narrowed his blue eyes, his Bergmann ready, and saw that three of his men were dragging a prisoner with them.

  ‘Here is one of them, Herr Leutnant,’ Sergeant Meyer reported. ‘You must have wounded him. He cannot walk.’

  Eckhardt peered at the prisoner, who was not in uniform, and saw a youth of about eighteen.

  ‘Are you sure he was mixed up with the grenade throwing?’ he demanded. ‘He doesn’t live in one of these houses here?’

  ‘All the civilians were ordered out before nightfall, sir,’ Leun said, coming up. ‘I supervised their departure.’

  ‘Very well, shoot him.’ Eckhardt spoke coolly, without emotion. It did not matter to him that the prisoner was barely more than a child. He was an enemy of the German Reich and deserved no consideration.

  Sergeant Meyer despatched the prisoner with a rifle shot and the men went back to the platoon positions. Leun remained at Eckhardt’s side.

  ‘Even the children are fighting in this war,’ he observed after a pause.

  ‘He was not a youth but an enemy. Do you think he should not have been shot?’

  ‘No, sir. I understand the orders, Herr Leutnant.’ There was no tremor in the sergeant-major’s voice. ‘It is just that this kind of war takes some getting used to. I fought in the Great War, as you know, sir, and it was different. There were other rules.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why we lost,’ Eckhardt retorted. ‘I do not question the orders, and they are clear enough. The Führer says the Poles are unfit for everything but slavery. When they have been overpowered they will serve us in that capacity. We all serve in whatever way we are best suited, and it cannot be other than that.’

  Leun did not reply and they walked around the platoon position. Then the sergeant-major took his leave to check upon the Company’s other platoons, and Eckhardt went back to his HQ, which was in the cellar of a shattered house. There Sergeant Meyer and the four men of his HQ section were ensconced. Eckhardt settled down to get some rest, with orders for Meyer to call him in time for the Company Commander’s briefing at 0400 hours. He dozed gripping his Bergmann, and was awakened later by the sergeant, who offered him a mug of coffee.

  Eckhardt readied himself for duty, then went out to check the platoon before going on to Company HQ. He was the first platoon officer to arrive, and entered to find Captain Dantine poring over a large-scale map.

  ‘Ah, Eckhardt, I might have guessed you would be the first to show. We had a good day yesterday. Our original timetable proved to be useless because we had expected tougher resistance from the Poles, but our tactics shattered them. The Colonel tells me that he expects us to roll right through Poland in three weeks. It will not be a long campaign.’

  ‘Then what, sir?’ Eckhardt was looking at the map, his helmet under his left arm.

  ‘After Poland?’ Dantine raised his thick eyebrows and his fanatical eyes glittered. He swept a fleshy hand across the surface of the map. ‘Who knows? Only the Führer can tell. But I do know this, Eckhardt. Whatever the Führer, in his infinite wisdom, commands, it will be done. We are invincible. Nothing can stop us. Today it is Poland. Yesterday it was Czechoslovakia and Austria, and tomorrow it could be Russia or France.’

  Eckhardt considered the viewpoint, drawing a quick breath. His father had often talked like this and he knew all the alternatives and the strategies for and against choosing one in preference to another.

  ‘I think we must settle the West first, Herr Hauptmann,’ he opined. ‘France will be getting restless. We have the pact with Russia. That should suffice to hold the bolsheviks until we can deal with them. But France is another matter.’

  Dantine laughed harshly and rubbed his hands together, his guttural tone low-pitched and exultant.

  ‘You are a man after my own heart, my dear Leutnant. On occasion I have listened to you talking in the mess, and largely I agree with what you say. Who taught you? Where did you get your ideas from?’

  ‘My father, sir.’ Eckhardt straightened his shoulders. ‘Major Klaus Eckhardt. My first memory of him was in 1919 when he returned home to Berlin from a French prisoner-of-war camp. I would be about six years old then. My mother had shown me a photograph of him, but I did not know what a father was. He was taken at Verdun; one of the first battles.’

  ‘That is interesting. He must have been a very bitter man at the end of that war. But he believed in the future of Germany, eh?’

  ‘Always, sir. Even in the bad days of the depress
ion. My mother died in 1920, giving birth to my brother Kurt.’

  ‘You have a brother? I didn’t know. Is he a member of the SS?’

  ‘No, sir. My Aunt Gretel brought him up from birth on a farm near Hamburg while I stayed with my father and saw the hardships of the people. Berlin was an uneasy place for many years. But Kurt had an easy time of it on the farm. We never saw much of each other. He’s a sergeant in some Panzer regiment on the northern front. The Fourth Army, I believe.’

  Eckhardt found a release in talking, but paused when he saw that Dantine’s attention was wandering back to the map. He suppressed a sigh and forced himself to think of military matters.

  ‘What of today, sir?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ll talk about that when the others get here.’ Dantine checked his watch then walked to the door of the room and shouted for the sergeant-major. ‘Leun, where are the other platoon officers? I want to begin my briefing. The Panzers are moving out at 0500 hours.’ He came back to the table and sat down, resting both arms upon the map. His eyes were bright in the lantern light as he gazed intently at Eckhardt. ‘What happened to your father? From the way you spoke, I assume that he is dead.’

  ‘He was killed in 1932, sir, in a street battle against anti-Nazis.’

  ‘So he is a hero of the new Germany.’ Dantine nodded and reached under the table to produce a bottle of schnapps. He found two glasses and filled them, indicating that Eckhardt should take one. Raising his glass, he gave a toast. ‘To all heroes of Nazi Germany, both past and present, and to those who will come after us.’

  Eckhardt gulped the fiery schnapps, and there was a picture of his father’s face imprinted upon the screen of his mind. His father’s death had triggered off in him a deep hatred for all the enemies of the Third Reich, and he hoped that this second day of the war would again plunge him into the thick of the action. As the other platoon officers arrived, he recalled that the day was Saturday.

  Captain Dantine gave them an outline of what would be expected during the day, with a timetable for events. They made notes, and Eckhardt was pleased to discover that his platoon would be in the front of the fighting. He itched to kill more Poles, and his eyes were filled with speculation as he checked his own maps against the notes he had made. Satisfied that he had an overall picture of the Company’s objectives, he relaxed and listened to his colleagues questioning certain aspects of the battle plan. Dantine dealt with them in a professional manner and, when there were no more questions, dismissed them to prepare for the dawn stand-to.

  Eckhardt found the time to eat and have some coffee, but his mind was not upon the food. Already he was thinking ahead, checking mentally the orders and the map references. The details were all stored away in his keen military brain, ready for instant use, and he kept running through them like a gambler shuffling a pack of cards.

  Then they stood to. It meant being prepared to withstand any counter-attack that might come out of the greying dawn, and as night fled towards the west and range of vision began to increase, Eckhardt found himself hoping that the Poles would be in a position to mount an attack. It would make a pleasant change to be on the defensive with their massed weapons waiting for just such an event. But all they saw were empty fields and nothing but drifting smoke.

  At their backs the Panzers suddenly began to make their presence known and tank engines started up everywhere. The growing roar was a song of power, and Eckhardt’s soul became elated by it. Then tank tracks began to clatter, and Eckhardt checked his watch. It was time their half-tracks arrived to collect them. The first wave of tanks was on the move.

  He saw Mark IIIs and Mark IVs coming out of the shadows, lumbering forward like prehistoric monsters. The German juggernaut, he thought, and smiled happily. God help anyone who got in their way. Nothing but the strongest resistance could stop them today.

  The second wave of tanks passed, and behind them were the Company half-tracks. The platoons boarded quickly and without fuss, the result of many hours of tough training, and then they were on the move, trundling across open country, heading towards the enemy. Daylight increased, and smoke began to drift more thickly as the Luftwaffe arrived to commence their own particular type of war.

  Ahead, the first wave of tanks was already disappearing into the apparently flat plain ahead, and their guns could be heard firing at enemy artillery. German artillery, which had been firing desultorily all night, increased its rate of fire, and Eckhardt knew that a battle was hotting up somewhere out of sight and that they were making straight towards it.

  Using his glasses, Eckhardt spotted a small village about a mile ahead, partially obscured by shell bursts, and Stukas were giving it special softening-up treatment, which meant the Poles were there. He nodded, looking around to check the formation of platoon carriers, and MG34s began to chatter with their characteristic rapid fire. Sweeping the battlefield with his glasses, he saw Polish infantry running towards them, having lain low until the first wave of Panzers had passed. Mortars coughed dryly and black clouds of smoke appeared amongst the massed ranks of the enemy. The advancing figures did not seem real. They were more like puppets jerking about in the hands of unpractised puppeteers. Gaps appeared in their ranks, and yet they came on, for the Poles had great fighting qualities and powers of endurance. Yet there was little they could do against armoured columns except face annihilation with great courage in a heroic attempt to defend their homeland.

  Polish artillery began to range in on the second wave of Panzers despite having to fight off the attacks of the German first wave. Now the battlefield seemed to sprout grotesque crops of shell bursts, and they were accurate. A large shell exploded only yards behind Eckhardt’s carrier and blast thrust at them while shrapnel cleaved the air. The man next to Eckhardt was hit between the shoulders, and his head, sliced neatly from the body, crashed against Eckhardt’s chest. Blood spurted like a fountain from the neck as the head fell to the floor of the carrier like some nightmarish football.

  Eckhardt clenched his teeth as men screamed in agony, and he looked around to see that several of the section had also been hit. Sergeant Meyer was in the half-track, and for a moment the NCO looked panic-stricken. Then he and the other unwounded men began to attend to their less fortunate comrades. Meanwhile, the advance went on, and when Eckhardt looked ahead for the advancing Polish infantry he was surprised to see the majority still on their feet and coming forward.

  It was the task of the Panzer-grenadiers with the second wave to engage enemy infantry and, when they drew closer to the enemy troops, the half-tracks stopped and the grenadiers began to debus and prepare to meet the challenge. Now it was impossible to tell whose shells were dropping around them. But Eckhardt paid them no heed. He organised his sections and put them into open order. The Poles were coming through the concentrated fire of the accompanying Panzers, who were loosing off their 75s and firing machine-guns indiscriminately into the thick of the enemy ranks. Earth showered down like rain and shrapnel flew. The ground seemed to heave like some gigantic beast in its death throes.

  The grenadiers ran forward, sweating, flinching at the surrounding explosions, but concentrating upon their opposite numbers. The Poles were being blown out of existence, but those surviving the tempest kept coming, running like automatons. Eckhardt firmed his lips, eyeing the sections of his platoon, and then they were within small-arms range and weapons began to blast, punctuating the heavier sounds of battle.

  The noise was terrific. It was impossible to communicate with a man even by putting one’s mouth to his ear and shouting. Eckhardt relied upon field signals, and took his men forward at a run, his Bergmann rapping, cutting down the khaki-clad men who were coming from the opposite direction. Then the two lines met with a clash and there was the desperate confusion of close combat.

  The Poles were shouting, although it was impossible to hear voices, and their bayonets looked sinister in the smoky light of the new day. Eckhardt watched his troops meeting the enemy, and felt a thrill of pride
at the way the SS beat down their opposition. They seemed to be outnumbered, but the SS were well trained and used bayonets and knives, fists, bullets and boots. Faces appeared and fell away, mouths opened, screaming mutely, and blood flowed. Some men were taut and afraid, others sweating with excitement, roused to fever pitch by their blood lust. Men were wounded, but some sprang up to continue fighting while others were cut to pieces by machine-guns and rapid fire.

  Eckhardt triggered his Bergmann at a spot where the Poles seemed to be breaking through, and half a dozen of the enemy went sprawling carelessly, stitched by 9mm bullets. Eckhardt quickly changed his magazine, and Meyer was close to throw two stick grenades which halted the danger and enabled the reserve section to come forward and throw their combined weight into the fight.

  It was brutal while it lasted, and time seemed to stand still. Life and death struggles swayed back and forth. Blood bubbled and frothed from gaping mouths or spurted from gashed heads and bodies. Wounded lay in the grass, eyes wide and staring with fear and shock, and the dead were beyond it all, having passed the great barrier into eternity.

  Then there were no more fighting Poles in front of the grenadiers, and Leun was at Eckhardt’s side, passing on orders for the men to get back into the half-tracks so they could push on. Gasping for breath, Eckhardt looked around the battlefield, unable to believe that he had survived the metal hurricane that had erupted there. Men lay everywhere, Polish and German together, lifeless now after so much action and violence, with, here and there, the wounded writhing in agony, calling for help or trying to crawl away from the hell which they had helped to create.