“The French government respects and understands His Majesty’s government’s position.”
Bainbridge jutted out his chin, an unimpressive picture as the family was known for its weak chins. “This is unsatisfactory. Is Premier Daladier available for consultations?”
“The premier is unavailable,” Etienne murmured without feeling. “He is feeling ill, the pressures of the position.”
Lord Bainbridge reached for his lapels, tugging at his Savoy Row tailored suit and glancing at his wing tipped shoes. “His Majesty’s government is displeased by this lack of cooperation from an ally.”
Etienne bowed his head, more of a flick.
Lord Bainbridge’s face darkened. In his grandfather’s time the mere mention of the British government’s displeasure would send a deputy scurrying off to drag a minister to heel. Instead the thin, balding, expressionless minion was blocking British interests with a mix of monosyllables and silence.
The two men stood, facing but looking past the other. Etienne shifted his weight from right to left, his duty complete only waiting for Lord Bainbridge to realize the appointment was complete. The Brit, sensing abandonment by a Great War ally, eyed Etienne one final time before performing a quick, incomplete bow and with a few long strides left the French deputy to take in the crème colored walls.
The first deputy foreign minister waited for a respectful amount time before turning on his heel and returning to his office. It was a corner affair, looking over at the Seine toward the Tuileries garden, a relaxing view that tempted him to sweep across the river and enjoy the late summer weather. During ordinary times, he had met with his companion, Lisle, though with Fiorenza in his life he became more circumspect. The sight of the relaxing and happy people depressed him, unable to remove the memory of sending an unhappy Lord Bainbridge scuttling back to his embassy.
Etienne was settling into his chair when Francois entered after escorting the dismayed Lord Bainbridge from the building. Grasping the back of a perfect replica of a Louis XIV settee, he asked. “Will there be war?”
Etienne considered the question. “Not with Germany.”
“But Poland.”
“It is inevitable. Poland could not survive long between two great powers. The French nation must make the best decision for its people. What would you rather have, the Bolsheviks on the Oder or the Germans on the Curzon line?”
It was a question with only one answer if one wanted to remain in the Laval ministry and Francois liked his position. “Then Poland must be sacrificed?”
Etienne worked his lips, the absolute truth not necessary at this moment. “The British are too close to the Americans with their morality and sermons. Countries don’t have allies they have interests and the French nation’s interest is peace.”
Francois, barely a child when the Great War was raging, agreed. “Then the British?”
“The British are no longer our concern. They can choose to follow their nation’s interest, keeping the Bolsheviks in Russia or they will fight their crusade alone.”
Francois blinked. Even wandering the halls of the Quai d’Orsai, meeting the leaders who sought French advice and aid, he knew little more than the readers of Le Figaro. “So no war?”
Etienne turned to his window, afternoon light dimming, some vehicles driving with lights. “The British guaranteed Poland. It is their problem. No Frenchman will die for a Pole.”
Francois left, feeling better and worse. France was in safe hands, the rest of the world was a different story. Etienne pushed back in his chair and considered how they had gotten to this point. Laval would not forget the British role in destroying an earlier government. He did not trust the moralism and preaching of the Anglos and like Etienne believed France was a great enough nation to move beyond mere alliances when pursuing the nation’s interests.
His phone buzzed. It was Fiorenza. Her French, heavy with her Italian accent, inquired about his arrival for his birthday celebration at the Italian embassy.
“I must cancel,” Etienne revealed.
“My family is here,” Fiorenza cried. Her family included the Count, his sons and daughters, their spouses, all of them lurking about Paris seeking advantage. “The embassy is prepared.”
“There are problems,” Etienne warned. “I cannot discuss it over the phone lines.” Having access to secret information that could not be revealed under penalty of death was an effective means of dodging unwelcome family gatherings.
“But,” Fiorenza began then stopped. Etienne realized their relationship was as important to her and the Italian government, as it was to him and the French government. Raising issues that might split them would harm not only two people but two countries. Instead of arguing she relented. “Very well, what about tomorrow?”
His actual birth date. “It appears things will be settled,” he said. Settled with France at peace even as war beckoned in Europe.
Fiorenza rang off, leaving Etienne to consider what was going to be a long night, not only for him but for many in Europe.
4
August 31, 1939
Generalleutnant Rudolf Veiel eyed the twitchy lieutenant standing outside the concrete building dragooned to serve as the Second Panzer Division’s headquarters. The lieutenant was a mere boy, not yet thirty according to Veiel’s calculations, an effect of the military buildup that drew thousands of inexperienced officers into front line units. During his service in the Reichswehr, with the post Great War German Army limited to 100,000 men, Veiel could not recall a lieutenant under forty, certainly none as young as the gaping, wide eyed one standing before him.
“Ja?” Veiel said.
“A message from Corps Headquarters.” A folded piece of paper was hand offer followed by a quick but practiced salute and hasty retreat, duty done.
Veiel did not need to open the orders to know their contents. His division had been poised on the Polish border for nearly two months, moving forward when tensions rose, back when they subsided, forward, backward, then forward. The paper in his hand told Veiel there would be no more backs. They were to sweep around Cracow and across the Vistula.
The orders were clear; the Second Panzer Division was moving at 3:30 am local time the next morning, a few hours before sunlight. Hopefully, the long hours of studying topographical maps and overflight photos would pay off as the attack began. Once the code word was sent to the regimental commanders, the panzer divisions would see their first action, the initial test of a theory of warfare that had worked well on test fields.
“General,” Luttwitz was Veiel’s adjutant, a paper pusher of some ability but little pretense. His position was one of necessity. A driving accident on the road to Prague when the German army enjoyed another bloodless victory had nearly destroyed his knee, sidelining his quest to eventually command his own panzer company. Sporting a marksman badge, Luttwitz was the right kind of adjutant for division headquarters, handy with a weapon in case the Poles broke through to the rear echelons.
Luttwitz, eyes bloodshot from hours of sleepless preparation for the assault, noticed the paper in the general’s hand. “It is time?”
Veiel nodded. “It will be tomorrow, before sunrise.”
Luttwitz limped off without another word, each step making the general wince, the turning of his adjutant’s leg, seemingly impossible and obviously painful. Veiel was pleased when his adjutant and his suffering was out of sight as it left him alone with his thoughts on the eve of battle.
Combat would be a new and frightening event for many in the Second Panzer Division, not so for Veiel. Trained in the cavalry for the Great War, he earned his Knight’s Cross during the dash toward Paris in 1914; then consigned to limited duty as the war bogged down in the trenches. One of the few allowed to remain in the Reichswehr after the war, he watched the army dribble away during the Weimar Regime, the general staff acting to avoid the limits on tanks and other weapons written into the Versailles Treaty. Military morale improved with the Nazi government and the formation of t
he new panzer corps had caught Veiel at the height of his career. The former cavalryman saw many of his troops adapt to the new transport, the dash and élan of horses replaced by the brute roar of the panzer forces.
“Sir,” Captain von Arnim offered a strict salute as he halted a few feet from his commander. Another youngster, though closer to forty than thirty, von Arnim was the logistical officer. A genius with numbers, his importance to Veiel could not be overstated. He could tell him what and who was available and what machines were operational.
“Captain.” Veiel eyed the bound notebook in his arms, the Second Panzer’s bible. Much like the real book, Veiel only understood the basic thrust of its contents. The captain’s numbers gave the general headaches, but fortunately von Arnim recognized Veiel’s limitations and culled the numbers down to a few easy understood statistics.
“We are at ninety two percent capability,” the captain reported, struggling to open and read from his notebook in the dying light of the day.
Veiel nodded. The movement in the rugged regions of Slovakia with its uncertain roads made only worse by an August rainy season had bogged down some of the lighter tanks and trucks. Broken axles, torn treads and burned out engines made Veiel feel like a motor pool sergeant than the dashing leader of one of the Reich’s premier panzer forces.
“Third Panzer Regiment has 151 panzers as does the Fourth.”
“Third Panzer Regiment.” Veiel clucked, drawing a flicker of a smile from the mousy von Arnim. Since taking the division from its original commander, Heinz Guderian, Veiel had struggled to contain the 3rd Panzer Regiment. It was created in 1935 from the city boys of Wurzburg that seemed to crave adventure over the tedium of military life. As such, the regiment had suffered more disciplinary cases than any other of the panzer regiments in Das Heer, the army. The city dwellers had brought the typical military boozing and whoring to a whole new level. They had earned mention in a corps communique warning of a lack of discipline and suggesting stricter limits on association with civilians. The regiment crowded the infirmary with injuries suffered during fights, usually broken bones and sprained muscles but also a strange outbreak of an itchy rash leading to a disabling burning. The epidemic was quickly traced to a single house for wayward girls, a few miles from their base in Slovakia.
Unfortunately the Second Panzer Division’s movement from civilization to the more isolated border offered little relief. While the governments in Berlin and Warsaw tangled over the Danzig Corridor, commerce between the two peoples continued. Polish girls, fresh from servicing their brave soldiers on the opposite side of the border, crossed into Slovakia in search of more prosperous customers. Possibly sensing the future of their country, the girls demanded payments in Reich marks.
The onset of war would end the trade, the girls forced to return to the drudgery of village life while the soldiers prepared for combat. The easy days of preparation were replaced by the endless days of fighting and seeking out supplies.
“Ten days rations,” von Arnim continued. “Five days munitions with expectation of battle.” He arched an eyebrow, official news of the planned assault not having reached his ears.
“Yes,” Veiel said. “The order has been given.”
Von Arnim offered no reaction, returning to his notebook. “Petrol remains our biggest obstacle.” He listed the various units, their needs and his provisions for them, everything from flak units to reconnaissance. Veiel listened, having learned quickly that panzer units were much more than the three hundred tanks that were their primary weapons. The cavalry had run on fodder and water with rest for the horses, the panzer division ran on fuel.
“How many Pzkpfw IIIs?”
Von Arnim grimaced, “Still only six in total, half in each of the regiments.”
“Pathetic…it was supposed to be the main battle panzer,” grumbled Veiel. “Instead we must rely on obsolete Pzkpfw Is, which were never supposed to be more than a training platform.”
Von Arnim was temporarily distracted by Luttwitz limping into sight. The adjutant was as dumbfounded by numbers as Veiel and usually kept his distance when the captain was reporting on the division’s supplies. Only when von Arnim departed did the adjutant approach.
“It is time,” the general said, nodding at his adjutant. An amateur historian, the general had spent much of his free time reading about the military leaders of generations long past with particular attention to their preparations for battle. There was Admiral Nelson prowling the HMS Victory before Trafalgar, King Henry V speaking with his troops on the eve of Agincourt, Peter the Great prior to Poltava, all of them dramatic victories for the leaders. Veiel was determined to repeat that success.
During an earlier deployment to the border, the general acted too hastily, making the rounds to exhort his troops only to have the assault postponed. This evening he was determined to act only when he knew the real attack was imminent. It was too emotionally taxing for Veiel to ready the men for battle only to have it called off. Leading his adjutant to the awaiting staff car, Veiel flexed his hand, nervous but excited about what the next twelve hours would bring.
His Mercedes staff car powered along the mountain roads of Slovakia, bumping along the unpaved tracks where the Second Panzer Division prepared for battle. He did not have far to go; his motorized troops congregated closest to the rear, their trucks and halftracks ready to move his troops forward, widening any breakthrough by the panzers while providing cover for further movements.
The big staff car shuddered to a halt and Veiel was out before Luttwitz could drag his bad knee from the car. An overpowering odor of petrol hit the general in the face, forcing him to take few and quick breaths, the fumes threatening to clog his sinuses. He tread cautiously, the fading light making the path darker. The trucks of the motorized infantry regiment were positioned in tight rows for quick and organized movement.
“Herr General.” Veiel’s presence could not go unnoticed for long. “Corporal Heinz Steckel,” came the introduction from a thin figure accompanied by a smart salute. The general eyed him, wondering how such a boy could handle the MG34 machine gun cradled in his arms. Veiel returned his salute then snatched the corporal’s hand, “Where are you from, son?”
Veiel learned that Corporal Steckel was from Holstein. Three days into his eighteenth year, he joined on his seventeenth birthday seeking adventure. His father had protested, not wanting his only son, of seven total children, facing death. Patriotism, though, had won out over family loyalty and Corporal Steckel had entered the panzer forces.
Lieutenant Luttwig tapped General Veiel’s arm, urging forward to greet other men of the division. After ten minutes of nodding and smiling, Veiel addressed the troops, “Brave men of the Second Panzer Division! The time is here. In a few short hours, you will cross the border into Poland. We must be relentless in our advance. We will faithfully execute our duty to the Fuhrer and the Fatherland. We will show the World the strength and courage of the Second Panzer! Victory shall be ours!”
General Veiel’s speech was met with loud approval from the soldiers of the motorized regiment. The general shook hands and patted backs as he made his way to the Mercedes, advising Luttwitz, “Let’s take a look at the Third Panzer Regiment.
Fifteen minutes later, the general was surprised when the staff car halted. In the diminished light he did not realize that they had arrived at the Third Panzer Regiment’s headquarters. Camouflage netting concealed everything from prying eyes. The panzer men were a different breed than the motorized infantry. They were cocky, their conversations steered toward speed and maneuver, confident that they would blast through the Polish infantry in the PzKpfw I and II panzers.
Veiel was more cautious in his appraisal of the Reich’s panzer forces, smiling uneasily at those who treated the machines as invulnerable. The general had seen his share of the Allies’ tanks in combat near the end of the Great War, slow moving monsters used by the infantry to shield their advance. They were vulnerable to the right sized gun or to dar
ing men who moved close to disable them with explosive charges.
Tomorrow, the new Blitzkrieg theory of attack would be tested in earnest. The Second Panzer Division would seek identification of an enemy weak point and make it the Schwerpunkt, the main point of attack. Massed panzers would slam through the hole and rip into the enemy’s rear, without regard to flank security. Veiel was confident of the soundness of his tactics, but worried about the division’s machines.
For two years Veiel had commanded the division. He knew that the PzKpfw I was obsolete as a main battle tank. It was actually designed for use in training and was thinly armored and under gunned. The PzKpfw I was vulnerable to everything but lightly armed infantry. It was deathtrap if it came into contact with an enemy tank. While not much better, the PzKpfw II could destroy its tiny ancestor with little difficulty, suggesting enemy tanks could do the same.
With Lieutenant Luttwig in tow, General Veiel wandered along the rows of PzKpfw Is and IIs until he found what he was seeking. The three PzKpfw IIIs of the regiment. He approached the closest panzer.
“Sir?” The general turned to find a full bodied, black suited sergeant approaching. Recognizing the division’s commanding general, the panzer crewman responded with military precision. He straightened, salute tight and official, “Herr General, Staff Sergeant Rudi Kleime.”
Veiel squinted in the darkness. “Very well Staff Sergeant,” he said. “Is this yours?”
The sergeant pointed behind the general. “Jawohl, Herr General.”
“Your name is Rudolf?” smiled Veiel. “It’s a good name, ja?”
“Jawohl, Herr General,” replied Rudi, grinning that the Generalleutnant recognized that they shared the same Christian name.
“Relax, Sergeant Kleime,” Veiel walked the length of the machine, observing but not really examining in detail. He stepped back. “How are you finding the PzKpfw III…Rudi?”
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 5