“They’ll need every one they can lay their bloody hands on, Enzo, if the British have any more of those demon tanks hidden behind their lines!” Pascucci replied with sudden vehemence, the harshness of his emotion seeming out of place against his broad, open features as he spat angrily at the ground. “You scored a direct hit on that bastard this morning and it didn’t even flinch: we’d all be going home in boxes tonight if it weren’t for the cover of our own barrage!”
“I missed, signore… I must have,” Enzo shook his head, unwilling to accept the facts and doubting his own abilities as a result. “Nothing could survive a direct hit from an effete pronto.”
“I wish that were true: that would be a far better thing to believe than the idea than the enemy has a tank that’s impervious to our guns.” Pascucci’s grim smile was completely humourless now. “Unfortunately I saw your shot go in and I’m bloody certain it was no miss!” He shook his head slowly, discomfort clear in his expression. “I think a lot of our men will be meeting their maker when ‘the push’ comes…!” Il mio amico, that monster stood off almost two kilometres and took one-shot kills on everything it targeted… even a Panther tank can’t do that!
“Maybe those Pantere can, signore,” Pascucci’s loader observed as the wine passed his way. “They’re not the same as the others…”
“An excellent point, Carlo,” his commander nodded, taking a good look at the vehicles for the first time. “They do indeed look different… I suspect they’re the new ‘D-model we’ve been hearing about.”
“Gun’s bigger for a start,” Enzo noted impassively, studying the tanks with a careful eye before adding: “…well… longer… at least…”
“The turret’s new too, and that framework around it and on the hull,” Carlo added quickly. “…Can’t see it being much good for stopping tank shells.”
“Might be quite useful for stopping those anticarro rockets the British have been using the last few months,” Pascucci mused thoughtfully, nodding slowly. “I’ve seen what they can do to a tank if a soldier can get close enough – makes pushing forward without infantry support a very nasty proposition!” He shrugged in vague resignation. “No doubt we’ll find out soon enough when the final assault’s going in.”
Oberstgruppenführer Sepp Dietrich wasn’t happy, although that in itself wasn’t much of a statement considering the usual demeanour the commanding officer of the Liebstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (LSSAH). He wore standard Waffen-SS combat fatigues with a mottled desert camouflage pattern, the faded grey insignia and runes at the tips of his collars the only indication of his rank.
As he stalked between the lines of tanks and infantry fighting vehicles, making a direct line toward the newly-arrived trains no more than a few dozen metres away, he made no attempt at hiding his displeasure regarding the current situation. Behind him, Standartenführer Fritz Witt and Sturmbannführer Michael Wittman, both also members of the LSSAH, struggled to keep up as they moved quickly between the rows of armoured vehicles, making directly for the rail siding.
Wittman, 2IC of the LSSAH 1st Panzer Regiment, was incredibly young to hold such a high-ranking position at just twenty-eight years of age. The SS armoured division Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler was an elite unit that was accorded status and responsibility over and above that of practically any other similar unit in the entire Wehrmacht, as much because it represented the honour of its infamous namesake as for any other reason. As such it spoke volumes of the young man’s capabilities that he’d already risen to such heights.
Born the son of a local farmer in the Bavarian village of Vogelthal, Wittman enlisted in the German Army in 1934 and then moved to what was then known only as the Allgemeine-SS early in 1937, posted directly to the elite LSSAH as part of what would eventually break away to become the Nazi Party’s combat service: the Waffen-SS. He would later serve in an armoured car platoon during the Austrian Anschluss and the occupation of the Sudetenland prior to the outbreak of the Second World War. He too wore quite nondescript clothing of camouflage pattern – this time a standard-issue, one-piece tank suit.
Witt – one of Dietrich’s senior officers and CO of the Liebstandarte’s 2nd Panzergrenadier Regiment – wore markedly different dress. Born the son of a Hagen textile salesman, the thirty-four-year-old had joined the elite SS-Stabswache Berlin in 1933 at just fifteen years of age. Witt was quickly recognised to have the makings of a fine combat officer and rose through the ranks of the SS quickly. He’d also served with LSSAH units involved in the Anschluss and Sudetenland operations prior to 1939 in a position of command.
As usual, Witt wore his field-grey dress uniform replete with his numerous decorations that included the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross and the German Cross in Gold. His attire was immaculate and his awards carefully polished. As they walked at a brisk pace, Witt was accompanied as always by Bulli, his beloved German Shepherd. Accustomed to its masters’ habits as a serving combat officer, the faithful pet followed silently a few paces behind, happy to be out on a fine evening walk and blissfully unaware of trivial human problems.
“…Finally, we have the new models we’ve been waiting for!” Dietrich snarled angrily as he walked on, the sarcasm clearly evident in his words. “Only six weeks late…” he added in a similar tone “…and a whole fucking twenty of them!” He snorted with derision. “How ever shall I fit them into our plans with the hundreds of inferior bloody tanks I have already?”
“We’ve assembled over a hundred Panthers between the Leibstandarte and the 21st Panzer, Mein Herr,” Witt attempted to placate, suspecting from prior experience that it was a lost cause. “The Model-A can destroy any known Allied tank and is practically impervious to them at anything over suicidal ranges… we can hardly call it ‘inferior.”
“‘Known tanks’, you say?” Dietrich snapped quickly in reply, halting for a moment to turn toward his subordinate officer. “Well, Fritz, you’re quite correct… it can destroy any ‘known’ tank…” He paused momentarily for effect. “I however am more concerned about unknown tanks – particularly the two ‘unknown’ tanks the bloody British used to shatter the Makkaroni attack this morning!”
“Most Italian tanks at best mount medium-velocity seven-point-five centimetre cannon, Mein Herr,” Wittman countered evenly, meaning to point out that the KWK49 88mm gun fitted to the P-4A main battle tank was a far superior weapon. Witt was no tanker, but Wittman agreed with the infantry officer in this instance.
“I have a report here…” Dietrich snarled, cutting the young man off as he stuffed his hand inside his field jacket and drew out a crumpled sheet of paper, waving it about for all to see “…stating that one of their panzerjäger landed a direct hit on one of these bastards with a high-velocity nine-centimetre gun leaving not even a scratch!” He had no idea that at that very moment, he and his fellow officer were standing just dozens of metres away from the very crew of which he was speaking. “This unknown bloody tank then proceeded to send one of their Semovente straight to hell with one shot at a range of almost two thousand metres!”
“Mein Herr, we know the Italians’ panzer abwehr rounds have inferior performance to ours,” Wittman continued, still confident in his quite reasonable logic. “We’ve tested them ourselves, and even their nine-centimetre gun can’t manage much better than seventy millimetres’ penetration at those kind of ranges. The wolfram rounds used in our eight-point-eights can beat that by at least twenty per cent… the new guns will be even better with their higher velocity!”
“…And fine weapons these will surely be…!” Dietrich declared, managing an honest smile for a change as the conversation turned to a more pleasant subject and he case an outstretched arm toward the newly-arrived tanks. “Tell me, Michael: how do you like our new model panzers? Your advice helped design them, after all...” Dietrich was incredibly proud that one of his brightest, most up-and-coming young panzer commanders had been so directly involved in its development; one of the reasons Wittman had been asked to come along th
at evening for a first glimpse of their new arrivals.
“They look like an engineer’s nightmare,” Wittman replied honestly with a wry smile of his own, “…however the wire mesh schürzen mounted to the turret and hull sides will be excellent for protecting against these ‘Bazookas’ the Tommis are using now, so I shall not complain about our new toys’ aesthetic shortcomings.” All three laughed at what was an otherwise accurate assessment. “The long gun will be useful also – accurate to three kilometres or more in good conditions... extremely accurate, if the results we saw in testing hold true in combat conditions.”
“I’ve seen these bastards on exercise,” Dietrich confirmed with an evil smile, “and they can shoot off a fly’s balls at two thousand metres with the sights they’ve put in them now.” He lowered his voice slightly, as if concerned enemy spies might be listening in. “We’ll have night sights before next summer too – mark my words. The RFR has nearly finished work on those infra-red units you tested earlier this year and I have it on good authority we’ll have a model in service by May or June.”
“Now that would be something useful, Mein Herr,” Wittman grinned widely and all three stared up at the lines of new tanks that sat on flatcars towed in by those three coupled locomotives.
The new-model Panther P-4D used the same hull and powerplant as its ‘A-Model’ predecessor, from which it was directly developed, and that was basically where any similarity ended. Cast complete from one huge piece of hardened steel, the forward half of the new turret was almost identical to the ‘flattened-dome’ type used in the original but was completely different moving aft.
Rather than a well-rounded and almost hemispherical shape, the rear section was instead contoured into a deep, slab-sided turret bustle that overhung the rear engine decking when positioned with the gun pointing forward. The increased interior space allowed for the installation of large radio and the storage of extra ammunition – ten more than the seventy carried by the P-4A despite the new rounds being far longer and more powerful than those of its predecessor.
The main armament too was a huge improvement over that carried by the Panther-A. At almost 6.3 metres long, the barrel of the new KWK52 L/71 gun was a full 130cm longer than the 56-calibre KWK49 it replaced. In combination with the larger propelling charge used by its ammunition, the result was a far higher velocity that provided the weapon with supreme accuracy and hitting power out to ranges of three kilometres and beyond.
All of the twenty new tanks were painted in standard Wehrmacht desert camouflage patterns of thick, irregular green-grey stripes over a base of dark yellow (which in practice seemed to be blended with a good deal of brownish ochre ). Roughly sprayed in similar colour patterns, a light framework of steel mesh known as schürzen was fixed to the rear and sides of the turret and in large, plate-like sections on either side of the hull.
Standing off some distance from the tank itself and mounted on short sections of welded angle-iron, the armoured skirts had little effect against armour-piercing rounds fired from high-velocity tank guns. They were however extremely effective against Allied infantry weapons such as the Australian Army’s 84mm Mark 2* PITA (Projector, Infantry, Tank-Attack) – a shoulder-fired recoilless rifle firing a powerful HESH round – and the American-made M1A1 Bazooka – a one-shot, disposable anti-tank weapon firing a 66mm shaped-charge HEAT warhead. Both were devastating weapons against armoured vehicles at close range and the use of both had become increasingly frequent in North Africa over the last twelve months.
Although neither weapon had noticeably slowed the Axis advances any more than any of the new weapons systems the Allies had fielded to that point, casualties had nevertheless increased and counter-measures had been developed quickly as a result. The schürzen were a simple yet quite effective method of causing premature detonation of slower HEAT and HESH warheads that could partially if not completely neutralise their effectiveness.
“Split the platoon and send in two troops each against these two tanks,” Wittman mused thoughtfully to himself as the others listened carefully. “Concentrate them at the centre with ‘regular’ mark-threes and -fours moving slightly ahead and to their flanks… draw their fire long enough to bring our new Panthers into range... with gunship and Stuka support as back up.” He gave a shrug of pragmatic resignation. “We may take some casualties if the Italian reports are accurate, but I doubt it will be too much problem in the overall scheme of things… They will be destroyed and we will prevail…”
“You see, Fritz?” Dietrich beamed, almost laughing. “This is the kind of positive thinking that makes the Waffen-SS the superior service!” He clapped a jovial hand on Wittman’s shoulder. “When Reichsmarschall Reuters himself recommended you personally all those years ago, Michael, I will admit I had my doubts. ‘Who is this little upstart’, I wondered to myself. ‘Why should I give any consideration to this staff-officer’s ‘pretty boy’?’” He shook his head as he remembered the distrust and indignation he’d felt at the time. “…But I’ll be the first to admit now that Herr Reuters was one hundred per cent correct: you’ve become one of the finest tank commanders I’ve ever seen, by God, and I’ve personally told The Führer as much on several occasions.”
“You’re too kind, Mein Herr,” Wittman deflected the compliments awkwardly, quite embarrassed at such open praise as to have been mentioned in such a way to Hitler himself.
“Bullshit…!” Dietrich countered coarsely, dismissing the attempt at humility out of hand. “You earned every single one of those decorations I’ve pinned on your chest and you damn well know it!”
“Has there been any further word on a deadline for the advance…?” Witt asked pointedly, some frustration clear in his tone.
“Baahhh…!” Dietrich snarled sourly, his good humour instantly dissipating once more. “The date for this final bloody attack has been pushed back four times now and still nothing concrete from the OKW. Herr Rommel hasn’t returned from this ‘all-important’, ‘world-conquering’ new weapon trial he’s flown back to headquarters for and he’s left Nehring with explicit instructions the advance is not to begin before he returns…” he spat at the bare ground in disgust “…as if we poor ‘mortals’ cannot manage such a simple task of mopping up these remnants of British resistance without him behind us, holding our hands. Every day I get new reports indicating he’ll be ‘back tomorrow’, and the next day the same… someone needs to point out to these ‘desk pilots’ back in Berlin that tomorrow never bloody comes!” His grin became positively malevolent as another thought occurred to him. “Tell me, Herr Sturmbannführer; when the time finally comes, what would you think of me offering your platoon the opportunity to take our new models into battle?”
“It would be an honour, Mein Herr…” Wittman answered sincerely without hesitation.
“You mentioned we might have a chat…” Davids reminded, his voice only vaguely slurred as he and Thorne sat with the rest of XFV001’s crew around a small campfire not far away from the parked tanks, invisible in the desert darkness and some distance further from the light and indistinct sounds of the CP’s main tents and structures. The group chatted and drank and passed about a packet of Lucky Strikes, all four smoking the occasional cigarette as they talked.
“Yes… yes I did…” Thorne grinned with another beer in hand, seated beside him and staring intently at the fire. He intentionally paused for some time, giving the impression he was about to end the conversation with just that blank statement before taking a deep breath and continuing on.
“You said yourself that you’d heard plenty of rumours flying around about me…” he began slowly, his own words also slightly affected as the alcohol continued to take its toll. He raised his eyes and stared directly at each of the four other men present in turn. “What about the rest of you…? You’ve all heard some weird and wonderful stories about Air Vice Marshal Max Thorne?”
Toms, Ingalls and Connolly each nodded silently as his gaze fell upon each of them, the intensity of th
at stare in no way lessened by the outward lightness of his tone or the thin smile that remained fixed across his features.
“I’ll bet…” he muttered softly, lowering his eyes once more as a faint sense of bitterness crept into his voice for a moment. He released a long, low sigh as a wave of tiredness swept through him, although he was possessed of enough self-awareness to recognise the alcohol he’d already consumed was a major cause of the feelings he was suddenly experiencing. “How shall I start…” he mused, almost to himself “…how shall I start…?”
A faintly wry and irreverent smile flickered across his features. “‘No one could’ve believed, in the last years of the Nineteenth Century, that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space…’” he began slowly, attempting mostly successfully to hide a smirk as he tried to add some gravitas to his tone.
“I thought we were in for a true story…” Davids interrupted softly, no real displeasure in his voice as he reached down and drew a small, folded paperback from the thigh pocket of his tank suit. “…I can read Astounding if I want science fiction.” He tossed the book across to Thorne, who caught it easily and unfolded it. “I think you might’ve misquoted a bit there, but you were pretty close for all that…” The Australian broke into a genuine, toothy smile as he recognised it for what it was: a well-thumbed ‘Armed Services Edition’ paperback print of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds.
“The whole friggin’ Eighth Army for me to work with, and I have to come across a bloody sci-fi fan!” Thorne chuckled with wry embarrassment at being caught out as he opened the first few pages to reveal the novel’s opening lines, some of which he’d quoted almost word for word. Armed Services Editions were a new idea developed by the US-Army and distributed for the entertainment of American soldiers. Many had also made it into the hands of Commonwealth troops as a sideline of the ongoing Lend-Lease program.
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