by Derek Hansen
Friedrich didn’t argue because he knew there was no point. ‘The real question is, Carl, why did they persist with cavalry at all? Did they learn nothing from the Great War? Has the Polish army been asleep since then? Have the French and British armies also been asleep? You know our Panzer tactics were developed by Heinz Guderian, but who did he learn from? I’ll tell you. From the Britishers Liddell Hart, Fuller and Martel. They developed the three principles of tank fighting. The fast surprise attack to force a breakthrough, close co-operation with infantry, and the use of air support. These are the tactics of our enemy but so far they have ignored them. Why? Our western flank is wide open to precisely this initiative but so far they have done nothing. Why?’
Carl began to chuckle. ‘Sometimes you soldiers can’t see beyond the walls of your trench. Isn’t it obvious? The French and English are frightened. They are frightened of the Führer and they are frightened of our army, now that they’ve seen what we can do. They’re ignoring us in the hope that we’ll go away. They are frightened, too frightened to think, too frightened to act. Do you know that during the attack on Poland, we defended our western border with loudspeakers? It’s true. All we did was broadcast one message: “We won’t shoot if you don’t.” You know I think they were grateful. Anyway they didn’t shoot.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘Do you think they will be enjoying their Christmas, eh? I think not!’ Carl crossed his arms in front of him and leaned back in his armchair, his shoulders shaking as he chuckled. Friedrich could imagine similar scenes right throughout Germany, as self-satisfied, smug and invincible citizens began their celebrations. It wasn’t Christmas that worried Friedrich, it was the New Year and what that would bring.
‘Time for your bath!’ He looked up to see Christiane smiling in the doorway. ‘You next, Friedrich, then father. We’ve all bathed already while you’ve been talking. I don’t know what you men find to talk about.’
Friedrich raised his hands and surrendered, glad to be rescued from the conversation.
‘And hurry,’ Christiane continued. ‘Our Christ Child is anxious to ring the bell.’
‘Tell Ernst that patience is a virtue and that waiting heightens the expectation. I have brought him a gift worthy of the wait.’ Friedrich rose and nodded to Carl.
‘And me, have you brought your father-in-law a gift?’
‘What? I give you Poland and you still want more?’ Carl’s booming laugh followed Friedrich as he made his way to the bathroom.
Ernst, being the youngest, duly rang the bell that summoned the others to the Christmas tree. Had the Führer himself been joining them, they would not have dressed more formally nor more elegantly. The dining table was covered in presents separated into groups, most of which were unwrapped. A plate filled with nuts and biscuits, chocolate and sweets accompanied each pile of presents. You’d never have known there was a war on.
‘Ah, the moment Ernst has been waiting for!’ Carl turned to his son and daughters. ‘Let the blitzkrieg begin!’
Each person moved to their pile of presents as if guided by radar even though there were no name tags to indicate just whose was whose. Friedrich was less interested in the gifts he’d received than in the effect of his gifts. He’d gone to a lot of trouble and risked censure from his superiors. Even so he had to smile. The bottle of whisky among his presents indicated that Carl and he had given each other identical gifts.
‘Whisky!’ boomed Carl who had come to the same realisation at precisely the same time. ‘And where did you come by this rare treat?’
‘I probably bought it from the same rascal you bought mine from. Merry Christmas!’ Out of the corner of his eye, Friedrich saw Ernst scrabbling through his presents until he found the one that was wrapped. His hands shook as he tore the paper away. He stopped awestruck, and reverently picked up the watch the paper had contained.
‘It’s a tank commander’s watch. The hands and the dial glow in the dark. You’ll see later. Take good care of it, but tell nobody where you got it.’
‘Herr Hauptmann, I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Just take care of your sister for me. In fact, take care of all your beautiful sisters. And especially your beautiful mother.’
‘It seems we have all benefited from your thoughtfulness, Friedrich.’ Clara held up the length of material she’d just unwrapped and her two youngest daughters did likewise.
‘It is nothing.’ Friedrich was embarrassed. Their thanks embarrassed him as did any display of affection from anyone other than Christiane. ‘I beat the bureaucrats into Poland. I purchased your presents before they had time to impose restrictions. We all did. You never saw soldiers more eager to part with their money.’
‘Nevertheless, that good fortune won’t save you from our thanks. Come here.’ Clara reached over to him and kissed both his cheeks. Her daughters however, seized the chance to be considerably less formal and kissed him squarely on the lips. Friedrich flamed bright red as they knew he would.
‘And you, Christiane, what has he brought you?’ Clara turned to her other daughter expectantly.
‘Friedrich is giving me his present later.’ She glanced mischievously towards her husband.
‘Not quite.’ Friedrich began unbuttoning the top pocket of his jacket. ‘I slipped something for you in my pocket at the last moment. It’s something I thought you might like.’ With the skill of a conjurer, he concealed her gift as he withdrew it. ‘Close your eyes.’
Christiane closed her eyes while her family looked on. A gasp from her mother and sisters caused her to open them as she reached to investigate the new weight around her neck. ‘Friedrich, this is beautiful! Where … how …?’ She suddenly found herself lost for words as she tried to comprehend the exquisite jewels and intricate setting that now hung around her neck.
‘There is not much in Poland now that cannot be purchased with a bag of coffee beans.’ Friedrich shrugged deprecatingly to dismiss the subject. It was no time to invite speculation on who the previous owner might have been or the circumstance of its surrender. That would only diminish the gift. But he hadn’t counted on Carl’s reaction to seeing his first spoils of the war in Poland.
‘You didn’t buy that with a bag of coffee beans,’ bellowed Carl, ‘any more than Hitler conquered Poland with water bombs! What did you do? Steal it?’
Friedrich winced. ‘No, of course I didn’t steal it, nor did I buy it with a bag of coffee. But in truth I paid nowhere near its real value though, as you’d expect, I did pay a lot. The Polish have little need of finery now and a great need of food and favours. I have no knowledge of what transactions took place. I purchased it through a middleman.’ Friedrich paused, looking for a joke that would ease the situation. ‘We’re not supposed to do such things, and I solemnly promise my Führer never to do it again. Unless my wife needs matching earrings!’
Carl laughed gleefully. ‘And a brooch perhaps!’
‘I think right now a kiss would be sufficient.’
Friedrich turned to his wife. There were tears in Christiane’s eyes. Her hands still cupped the necklace and she hadn’t moved. He took her hands gently in his own and kissed them.
‘Was ever a man more lucky to have a wife like you and a family that welcomes him into their home as one of their own? I don’t think so. This day is precious to me. I will carry it with me in the battles ahead.’ He gazed steadily into her eyes and she returned his look. Suddenly she felt the full weight of the words he’d just uttered and was confused. What did he mean? She was sure the war would soon be over. All the Führer wanted was to take back what was rightfully theirs. Once that happened, the war would end. Her father was certain of that. She saw love in her husband’s eyes and looked beyond it for reassurance, but found only sadness.
‘Don’t be so dramatic, Friedrich. The British and French don’t want war. Neither does our Führer. Ask Daddy.’
‘We’ve had that conversation. Friedrich, it’s time to forget about the war. It will all be forgotten by next Christmas
anyway. Now we must spill some wine to prepare us for the carp. I don’t know why it is traditional to eat carp on Christmas eve, I’m sure we’d all prefer salmon.’
Friedrich gently released his hold on Christiane and surrendered to the occasion. Afterwards he’d have plenty of time to think about the war. ‘A drink, yes, a drink. That’s what we all need.’ He grimaced and held his hands to his head. ‘I already have a squadron of Stukas dive-bombing inside my head. But it’s a poor celebration that doesn’t also bring suffering!’
That night Friedrich set about giving Christiane the second part of her Christmas present. With an effort of will, he put his misgivings aside and they made love passionately and tenderly. Once in Christiane’s arms he found it easy to forget everything but the pleasures at hand. But later, sleep was elusive. Christiane lay cradled in his arms and he clung to her like a shipwrecked sailor to a spar. His mind filled with ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’ but the only certainty was what was. Hitler had enjoyed a freakish run of victories and successes, but could he maintain the pace? Could the master magician weave a big enough spell to bring about the final miracle? Victory for Germany. God in heaven, victory for Germany! Right then every sane German would have happily settled for peace.
Sleep came at last but in it he saw the burned and charred hulls of the Polish light armour, and the crews blackened and cooked like meat in a can. An icy gust crept under the covers and sent its chill down his spine. Christiane snuggled in closer to share her warmth.
Chapter Fifteen
The months passed in uneasy peace until April 1940 when the battle for Norway began. The German navy needed a pacified Norway to provide ports for its ships and access to the North Atlantic, but mainly to safeguard supplies of Swedish steel which were carried down the Norwegian coast while the Baltic Sea was frozen over. But, as important as that action was, the battle for Norway was no more than a sideshow to the battles ahead, as Hitler massed his armies for an offensive on their western flank.
Friedrich was assigned to the Seventh Panzer Division, part of Army Group A under von Rundstedt. His commanding officer was Major General Erwin Rommel, a young officer who was highly regarded throughout the Panzer corps and a darling of the press. Friedrich didn’t realise it at the time, but Rommel was to become his friend and mentor and, very probably, his saviour.
On May 10,1940, Hitler launched his offensive against the west. Instead of engaging the French along their heavily fortified Maginot Line, he ordered his troops into the neutral low countries and out-flanked them. It was an obvious manoeuvre foreseeable by all except the terminally stupid and the French. With no forces held in reserve to counter such a manoeuvre, the French folded as Poland had done.
The Germans captured not just the pride of the French army but most of their armour intact as well. But for an error of judgement on the Führer’s behalf they would also have captured a quarter of a million men of the British Expeditionary Force. It would be wrong, however, to think that the German forces met no resistance. The Seventh Panzer Division and Friedrich in particular felt the steel of one such set-back.
The Panzer III tank was the cutting edge of the German forces in their advance westward and can claim a lot of the credit for the successes that followed. But although it was greatly feared by the Allies, it met its match on the advance to Arras when it came face to face with the Mk II Matilda, one of the most awkward looking tanks ever made.
The Vulcan Foundry in Warrington, Lancashire, normally made locomotives. In the late thirties it lent its expertise to the production of tanks. The Vulcan Foundry had seen fit to protect the Matildas’ crews behind armour plate that was not only well sloped but up to 78 millimetres thick in places, and equipped them with a two-pound gun. Though it would never win a beauty contest, the Mk II was one of the most effective tanks of its time.
The British forces advanced southward to cut through the German lines of supply as their armoured spearheads swung north to the English Channel. It was a manoeuvre the German commanders feared because it had the potential to isolate the infantry from its supporting armour, whereupon the infantry would become easy pickings for the British tanks. And that is precisely how the battle began.
Infantry of the Seventh Panzer Division was first to make contact with the British. They set up their 37 millimetre anti-tank guns and let fly. In theory, at least, the Germans held the advantage because the great majority of the opposing tanks were Mk I Matildas, armed only with machine-guns. But the Germans had a rude awakening coming. The anti-tank gunners watched in horror as their Panzergranate, their armour-piercing shells, ricocheted off the British armour plate.
Friedrich arrived on the scene just in time to see the artillery overrun. He quickly identified the British tanks and instructed his wireless operator to inform the Command tank. They took up defensive positions as more anti-tank units moved up to engage the enemy. Friedrich had every reason to feel alarm. It was their policy not to engage enemy tanks because of the high rate of attrition. Tanks were valuable and had better uses. But he could see that they’d soon have no option for, accompanying them, was an unblooded SS-Totenkopf Motorised Division. Their light tanks and half-tracks would be sitting ducks for the Matildas. He was even vulnerable in his Panzer II, as the British artillery ranged in providing a protective screen for their tanks. He called down anxiously to his radio operator.
‘Call Command. Tell them the armour-piercing shells are bouncing off the Matildas. Suggest they instruct their anti-tank gunners to shoot for the treads.’ He heard a familiar scream and looked up. Manna from heaven. German divebombers had begun a series of attacks on the British tanks.
Whether they’d be more successful against the advancing leviathans was yet to be seen, but at least it would buy them time.
‘Hauptmann!’
He turned his attention to his radio operator.
‘We are instructed to cross to the west and attack the British on their flank.’
Around them the other Panzer IIIs and the IVs they’d borrowed from the Fifth Panzer Division swung left, using the smoke and distraction of the air attack as cover. It was an impressive sight but Friedrich was under no illusions as to what lay ahead of them. The Panzer III suffered as most tanks did at the time from over-rapid development, but it also had two potentially fatal weaknesses. It was underarmoured, with just 30 millimetres of armour plating to protect its occupants. To compound the problem, the designers hadn’t considered the need to shape the armour plate in such a way that it could deflect anti-tank missiles. Instead the Panzer III offered invitingly flat vertical surfaces which would greedily accept whatever shells came their way.
They cut directly across the battlefield in a bold manoeuvre which exposed their flanks to the enemy tanks and artillery. They grabbed what cover they could, as they headed for the intersecting highway. Once more Friedrich blessed the French military for insisting that highways be lined on each side with poplars to conceal troop movements. It was never intended that the movements they concealed would be their enemy’s, but Friedrich blessed them nonetheless. The highway was slightly raised and the Panzers took up position with both the embankment and the poplars providing cover.
They opened fire with armour-piercing shells and watched for impacts so that they could adjust range and direction. Friedrich had no option but to stand on his turret seat so that he could see his shells land through his field glasses, all the while shouting instructions to his gunner. He needn’t have bothered. His gun was the same calibre as the anti-tank guns and no more successful at penetrating the British armour. It was every tank commander’s nightmare. Again and again the advancing tanks were hit with no appreciable result. He instructed his wireless operator to pass his observations on to the Command tank, just as the Panzer IV alongside took a direct hit. Friedrich felt the concussion and recoiled instinctively. He watched in horror as the tank commander emerged from the turret hatch, his uniform ablaze, only to slump back into the inferno. He looked up ahead to where t
he Matildas advanced relentlessly, and reported the hit. He watched helplessly as the British tanks targeted in on the SS Motorised Division where their machine-guns and two-pounders could wreak havoc. All he could do was sit tight, calling in the range, waiting for an artillery shell to find him, wondering if he’d be next to fry.
The German policy of not pitting tank against tank was clearly vindicated as the battlefield became littered with burning Panzers. Friedrich couldn’t help but be reminded of Poland, of the charred hulls and blackened, unrecognisable corpses of their crews. He realised with a shock that, somewhat illogically, he’d never expected to see German tanks destroyed in numbers the same way. Yet it was happening before his very eyes. Where was Major General Rommel? The situation was desperate.
In fact Rommel had already realised the danger they were in and taken personal control of the artillery. He brought his anti-aircraft guns into the action. This wasn’t the first time anti-aircraft guns had been pitted against tanks, and it was a tactic that was soon to gain wide acceptance. Friedrich breathed a mighty sigh of relief when he heard the familiar thundering crash of the 88 millimetre guns. But he had little opportunity to rejoice. His tank took a direct hit and he was blasted unconscious from the turret.
Friedrich came to on the back of a half-track troop carrier. He felt no pain and no panic, just an overwhelming sense of peace. There were sounds, but they seemed so far away they didn’t matter. He gazed at the evening sky, blue and perfect, and so very far away. He’d never before noticed how high the sky was and how very far away, and felt himself drawn to it. Instinctively, he knew he was dying but that didn’t matter either. The sky swung and bounced from left to right and right to left and sometimes he felt as though he were among the clouds, strange columns of clouds that appeared and disappeared as the sky swung.
But the more he thought about dying the more puzzled he became. Why didn’t he feel any pain? He knew the fate of Panzer crews as well as anyone. His mind flashed to the commander of the Panzer IV, his clothes ablaze, collapsing back into the inferno of his tank. He saw his face contorted in agony, agony that he must surely now share. But he didn’t, and he didn’t understand why he didn’t. It began to worry him that he didn’t feel any pain and that everything was so far away. Maybe that’s what happened when you were dying. Maybe his body had died and his head was still dying. That seemed to make some kind of sense. It was good that he didn’t feel pain from his burns because he knew that burn pain was the worst of all. He began to slip away. The sky disappeared beneath his closing lids. He was dying and dying was very peaceful and pleasant. Then the world around him exploded again.