by Tony Roberts
CHAPTER SIX
Training went on and it soon became clear to the divisional chiefs that Langer was damned good at his job. They were also pleased that the uncontrollable and unorthodox Beidemann was in his crew, as they believed nobody else would be able to keep the giant tank crewman under control. If he hadn’t luckily been assigned to Langer’s crew, then it was certain he’d be in custody awaiting a court martial by now.
Gus found his friend to be much more interesting than he’d thought; during the compulsory unarmed combat training routines Gus had injured two people, one with a dislocated arm, the other with a broken jaw. The training officer had screamed in frustration at the puzzled Beidemann, but Gus had merely shrugged and insisted he’d done nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps the two men had physical defects the doctors had missed? Langer had stepped in and volunteered to spar with the giant, and Gus had eagerly gone to grapple his scarred comrade. The next moment Gus had ended up on his back in the dust. What?
Annoyed slightly, he’d decided to teach his enigmatic friend a lesson in dirt eating, but had once more been thrown, this time with an odd passing movement and hold that he’d never seen before. Three times more he had tried and three times had ended up face down in the dust. By this time the rest of the class had stopped and looked in surprise and wonder. Langer had helped Gus up and apologized, but he said that size doesn’t always mean victory; it’s how one uses one’s weapons and resources that counts. Gus’s respect for Langer grew.
Stefan was more relaxed the further they went into summer. Gus’s tutelage of the young man had taken them both through the best women – according to Gus – of the camp and now the two had begun a campaign of plundering the best that Zossen had to offer. Stefan attracted the women through his boyish looks and that was all that Gus needed to take center stage for yet another conquest. He made sure Stefan always got the next best of the pickings, and the young loader never complained.
Langer was perplexed by Heidi’s behavior. She apologized the next morning and their relationship – of going out together to the cinema, or a quiet drink in an inn or just walking together – continued as it had, but never further than that. He resolved to find the identity of the shadowy man in the Horch, so one night he slipped out of camp after saying to Heidi he’d meet her at the inn in Wünsdorf at eight o’clock.
He was there hiding in the bushes at seven. The evening was warm, the birds sang and the sinking sun bathed everything in a warm glow. Langer was not feeling warm. He wanted to know who the hell this man was, and resolved to find out. He saw Heidi approach from the camp, dressed smartly, and vanish into the inn at about ten minutes to eight. From the other direction the shadowy man pulled up in his Horch and waited, just inside the inn’s car park. Langer checked the coast was clear and emerged from the bushes across the road and walked rapidly over to the grey car.
He hauled open the passenger door and slipped into the seat. The man spun round to face him. “What the devil?” He saw who it was and went silent, his face tightening.
“Yeah,” Langer said slowly, “you recognize me, friend. Now who the hell are you?”
The man smiled slowly. “You think sitting here will make me talk?”
“No, but we can go somewhere quiet. Drive.”
“Get out, Langer. You’re no good. I warned Heidi against seeing you but she’s a little too headstrong to listen. Stupid woman. I’ll have to teach her a lesson after I’ve dealt with you.” He slipped a hand into his raincoat and was halfway to pulling out a Walther pistol when Langer’s fist crashed into his jaw, snapping his head backwards. The gun slipped out of nerveless fingers and Langer dragged him out of the seat and threw him into the passenger seat while he climbed awkwardly into the driver’s position.
He picked up the Walther and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He studied the dashboard for a second, then gunned the starter and threw the car into first and slapped his right foot onto the accelerator. The Horch spun on the dirt and pulled out of the car park and Langer threw the car level onto the road to Zossen. The man was clutching his face and slowly sitting up, groaning in pain.
“You’ll be a damned sight worse off if you don’t start talking,” Langer promised, glancing from the road to his right. The man sat up and focused on the road ahead. He looked down on the floor. “I’ve got your pistol, so don’t waste your time looking. If you try anything I’ll hurt you more and maybe use the Walther. Now, who are you?”
“I’m saying nothing,” the man said thickly, his jaw swelling. His tongue explored his mouth and found no serious damage. It hurt like hell, though. Langer eyed him for a moment, then looked back at the road. They were going fast enough to stop the man having ideas about jumping out. The town of Zossen was approaching and the fading light meant Langer now flicked the lights on and thrust the car through the narrow canyons in between the houses.
“Where are you taking me?” the man asked, holding onto the dashboard. He was tensing himself up. The blow’s effects were subsiding and he felt braver. The tankman had caught him off guard. He was ready for the right moment to take advantage.
Langer spotted the entrance to the army HQ and flattened the pedal. The car zipped past the entrance at a high speed and continued on out of the town into the countryside. A car pulled out of a side entrance and began following, the headlamps bright in Langer’s mirror. The man twisted round, then back at Langer, his face white in the glare. “You idiot! That’s the Gestapo behind us! Now we’re done for! They’ll be quicker than this vehicle.”
“How do you know that’s the Gestapo? They could be anyone. We were too fast to see anyone and they’re just a blur in the mirror.” Langer had to slow down a fraction; the road was dark and even with lights it was hard to make out the road.
“I’m guessing.” The man was still looking behind him, fear showing in his eyes.
“The hell you are. You know. Why is that? Because they’re after this car, that’s the only thing they can see. We could be anyone in this car. So who the hell are you, a man the Gestapo are prepared to chase?”
The man lunged in desperation, reaching for Langer’s throat. Langer threw up a hand and caught the man across the forehead but the man still came at him, pressing against the wheel and jabbing for the eyes and throat. Langer slammed his head against the flailing man’s face and felt something break. The man cried out and fell back but he’d done the damage. Before Langer could wrench the wheel back, the car left the tarmac and bounced onto the grass verge. With a cracking rumble the car plowed into a hedge, throwing both men forward. Langer struck the wheel hard and something dug into his thigh. The car was now skidding sideways and fell through the hedge, rolling over onto the roof and over onto the driver’s side, pieces breaking off and the windshield cracking and splintering.
Then there was silence apart from the hissing of steam from the radiator. The engine had stopped. Lights flickered through the hedge and the following car came to a halt where the car had left the road. Langer scrambled out through the wrecked windshield and crawled across the soft leaves of knee-high beet crops. He stopped, reached for the Walther and turned round. The beams of the other car were shining to left, right and above, but where he was, was in shadow from the wrecked car.
The man was lying half in and half out of the car, his eyes open but unmoving, his head lying at an un-natural angle. Whoever he had been, he’d never say now. Langer crouched, pistol ready. Two figures came clambering through what was left of the hedge and walked side by side through the beet to the wreckage of the car, outlined perfectly against the light. They carried pistols and wore the ubiquitous Homburg hats that all Gestapo agents seemed to these days. Langer rose up as they split to go round left and right, and aimed at the one closer, the one coming round the wrecked front. He saw Langer and raised his gun but he was an age too late. Langer’s shot took him through the sternum and flung him back, a red stain splashing across his coat.
The second man ducked in reflex and sprang to th
e rear of the Horch, bending low and peering round the edge. He saw nothing. He turned and quickly made his way to the other corner and thrust his pistol round, ready to shoot. Langer was already there, and seized the man’s wrist and brought his Walther down across the man’s temple. The man toppled and fell backwards to lie still.
Langer examined his pockets at leisure. The identification papers confirmed his worst fears. Wilhelm Unger, Geheime Staats Polizei. Gestapo. The second Gestapo man was stone dead and Langer dragged the body into the wrecked car. The dead man they’d been after was examined too and Langer found papers on him stating he was one Karl Frings of Landsberg. Occupation Surveyor. Langer grunted. Surveyor was a good cover for someone who could go anywhere. He dragged Unger upright and slapped him a few times to bring him round. “You understand me, Herr Unger? Why were you following Frings? Who is he?”
Unger looked at Langer for a moment, then wiped his face. Langer stepped back and allowed the Gestapo man to stand on his own by the Horch. “I asked a question.” Langer pointed the Walther at Unger.
“I don’t give information,” Unger growled, “I ask for it!”
“Shut up you idiot,” Langer said. “If it hadn’t come to your notice, I’m the one with a loaded gun pointing at you. I’ve already shot dead your comrade, so killing Gestapo agents isn’t something that worries me.”
“Who are you?” Unger demanded, peering at Langer.
“I’m not saying,” Casca replied, relieved the secret serviceman had no idea who he was. It confirmed that they weren’t after him, but after Frings, or whatever his real name was. He had no doubt Frings was a cover name.
“So what are you doing with him in his car? Are you one of his kind? You’ll be arrested and shot. You cannot defy the Reich. It is our destiny to sweep any menace to the Reich from the face of this earth, and that includes you!”
“You’re full of shit,” Langer commented and shot Unger through the heart. The Gestapo agent staggered and slowly slid down the exposed underside of the car. Langer sighed and threw the gun up into the air and it lazily vanished through the open side window into the car. He next dragged the corpse of Unger up and threw him after the gun, then unscrewed the petrol cap and tore off a piece of his shirt, stuffing it into the petrol tube. He brought out a box of matches and struck one, lighting the soaked shirt rag, and ran for the hole in the hedge. He was almost at it when there came a deep throaty whoof! and the sky billowed bright red and orange.
Langer surveyed his handiwork for a moment, then made for the Gestapo car and got in. The keys were still in the ignition and he turned the vehicle round and drove back towards Zossen, thinking deeply. He’d have to ditch the car in Zossen and then make his way to the camp. Heidi would just have to be stood up. Hopefully she’d forgive him.
The summer was past its height when orders came to move out. Weapons were issued and given to each crewman. Gus and Stefan each received a Mauser 98K rifle while Langer was given an MP38 sub-machine pistol. He thrust it into clips on the inside of the turret. They were also given P38 Walther pistols. “What’s this, someone’s upset the Fuhrer?” Gus asked, handling his Mauser. He was handed a few clips of bullets. “Oh, they’re serious!”
“Is it war?” Stefan asked, a slight tremble in his voice.
“Not heard anything,” Langer commented, checking the spare clips of MP38 ammo. “But this is serious. What do you think, Gus?”
“France? Poland? Mongolia? I hope its Sweden. Those blond beauties they have there is good enough reason to invade! Lots of plunder, pillage and rape.”
“Poland, I bet,” Langer said. “I’ve heard they’ve been doing maneuvers close to the Polish border over the past couple of weeks. I’ve read that these often disguise military build-ups before war.”
They were ordered to their tanks and in column left the camp, the air reverberating to the Maybach engines, the smell of kerosene thick. Langer was sat atop his turret and looked at the Administration Block as they passed, hoping to see Heidi. She’d been quiet and withdrawn since the night he’d stood her up and killed the Gestapo officers. There’d been a fuss of course, but the charred and blackened remains of the three dead men couldn’t be easily identified until they’d resorted to dental records. The car was traced by the chassis number and the hunt had centered on Zossen, especially when the Gestapo car was found close to the army camp. Nobody thought to check on the 3rd Panzer Division camp. Langer had found Heidi a closed door since then.
She was watching, but from behind a window, looking at the tanks rumbling out the gates, then she returned to her desk and resumed the paperwork she’d been doing. The place was almost empty; much of the personnel had gone north east to Pomerania. She knew because she’d typed out the Top Secret orders to each regimental commander. She wrote a number down on the top of a stack of clear papers and then slipped another virgin sheet down the back of the typewriter and rolled it under and up ready for a new set of figures she had to copy.
Langer and the others clattered across the countryside to the south of Berlin and north east across the flat plains of northern Germany towards the Polish border. At a town called Bütow they came to a halt and were directed into a large field by uniformed military police. Langer directed Gus to the next available spot and the three of them jumped out of the tank, grateful to be out of the noisy, rattling machine. Something had come loose during their journey and Langer called the unit mechanics over. The chief mechanic looked harassed. “This is madness. Nearly a third of the tanks have developed faults. Six haven’t even got here! What do they expect me to do, cure every damned fault on these panzers?”
Langer left him to it and trotted off in the wake of Gus who was walking, one arm round Stefan’s shoulders, loudly discussing the merits of Poland. “The vodka is fantastic. My uncle Heinz once got hold of some Polish country vodka and he was in a coma for a week! Instant cure for a cold and cock-rot.”
Stefan was agog. Everything Gus stated was half believable, half fantasy. He just didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Captain Heidemann was calling the crews together. They gathered like a black cloud, eager to hear what their commander was going to say. “Men of the 6th panzer regiment,” he said loudly, “I have some very exciting news to tell you all. As of yesterday, the Fuhrer signed an agreement with the Soviet Union, an alliance between our nations. This is to counter the alliance between Poland, France and Britain. As of today we are on full alert. We expect to receive orders to attack any day. I want all of you to go to full combat readiness by tomorrow, and we will practice our tactics the day after. Beyond that, I cannot say what will happen.”
The men cheered, but Langer was stunned. A deal with the Soviet Union! How did this come to pass? It had been Hitler’s signature, his avowed intention, to destroy Bolshevism. Ever since his imprisonment in the 20s, when he wrote Mein Kampf, he had described how Bolshevism is the enemy of the German people and that it would be destroyed – it would have to be destroyed – in order for the German people to be able to thrive. Langer cared not a jot about that; all he cared about was the destruction of Bolshevism.
“Well, that’s that then!” Gus announced, flexing his belt and standing next to Langer. “Poland’s fucked. With the Reds in bed with us, who’s going to oppose us kicking down the borders?”
“France and Britain,” Langer said softly. “Although they’ve seemed reluctant to stand up to Hitler so far.”
“And they’re nowhere near Poland. Well, this time next week I’ll be drinking Vodka in Warsaw with a nice big Polish wench serving me. Stefan my boy, I’ll treat you to a nice big hipped Polish whore the first day we’re in Warsaw!”
“Get the equipment checked, Gus, Stefan,” Langer snapped. “I don’t want us to cross the border and break down.”
The two others groaned but made for their tank, as did most of the other crews. From now on, it was serious. War was coming.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhardt Heydrich studi
ed the neat white sheet of paper in front of him. Standing before him, on the other side of his mahogany desk, waited Ferdinand Marks, head of the Berlin region Gestapo bureau. Heydrich was head of the Gestapo, and to Marks the Son of God. If Heydrich asked for Marks’s first born, then it would be impossible to say no.
“This is serious,” Heydrich commented, frowning as the neatly typed words were devoured by the neat, tidy and slick-haired man. “Two of our agents burned deliberately in a car after being shot?”
“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Marks said nervously. “The doctors found bullets in them after their remains were examined.”
“In a car belonging to a known enemy of the Reich.” Heydrich looked up. “Who was also found dead in the same car!”
“That is so, Herr Obergruppenführer. Our agents are even now looking into his known associates. Arrests will no doubt be made in the near future and somebody will know something, I am sure.”
Heydrich allowed the paper to fall to the desk top. “Leave no stone unturned, Marks. It is imperative we find whoever is responsible. Of course,” Heydrich said slowly, “it could be that the dead man shot your two men and then was in turn killed by an unknown fourth.”
“Or the fourth killed the two Gestapo agents after they killed Frings, Herr Obergruppenführer.” Marks sweated as he stood in front of his boss.
“That is possible. Round up all Frings’ known associates and interrogate them thoroughly. I want a detailed report handed to me the moment you find anything out. I will not allow this situation to continue. You may go.”
“Heil Hitler!” Marks shot up his right arm and clicked his heels. Heydrich raised his right arm in response, then watched Marks depart. He then returned his mind back to what he’d been thinking of before Marks had knocked on the door: the elimination of Europe’s Jews.