by Tony Roberts
* * *
Langer was told that the crews would have to sleep where they could. Gus thoughtfully examined the tank and then lifted one leg and vented an enormous fart. “Well, that’s sorted that,” he said mysteriously and loped off towards the engineer regiment. Stefan looked lost and waited for Langer to say something.
“Stefan, you ever shot anyone before?” Langer asked, startling the young man.
“Uhh, no, Sarge. Why?”
“Why? We’re probably about to go to war with Poland – and as a result most probably France and Britain. It’s likely we’re going to be thrown into the deep end within the next week, and I want to know if I can rely on you if we ever have to fight outside the tank. You’ve got a rifle. Let me see you use it.”
Stefan swallowed, then ran off to the tank and dived into the turret. Langer hadn’t yet used the MP38 and desperately wanted to. He called to Stefan to bring that as well, and took the metallic sub-machine pistol from the youngster. It was reasonably light, about eight and a half pounds in all, had a long detachable magazine holding thirty-two 9mm rounds and was just over two feet in length with the stock folded. Stefan held his K98 rifle awkwardly. Langer nodded at a copse of trees to the right, beyond the last of the tanks. “Stand over here and shoot at those trees. You know how to work that thing?”
“I-I think so, Sarge.” He fumbled with the bolt action, then finally loaded and aimed at the trees. He shot and was knocked backwards by the recoil. Langer gently guided the surprised loader to the right posture and told him to brace himself, then watched as Stefan fired again. It was better and Stefan nodded in pleasure.
Langer slipped the catch of the MP38 and gripped the barrel. He had never used one of these weapons before and wondered how it would feel. He had seen machine guns plenty of times, but oddly had never been a member of a machine gun squad. Rifles had been his thing up to now. He squeezed the trigger and bullets sprayed out, peppering the trees and passing beyond. Langer lowered the gun and looked thoughtfully at the damaged trunks. “A good close range weapon but useless at a greater range. You’ll have to do the longer range stuff, Stefan.”
Others came up, carrying their own hand held weaponry. They had all decided to test their guns and soon the trees were showing signs of brutal damage and some were more white than brown.
Langer returned to the tank with Stefan and saw Gus with a huge tarpaulin. “Where did you get that?”
“A generous benefactor in the engineering section, my curious friend. I did a small service for him and in return, well, our rain proof shelter. I’ll accept your thanks for this lifesaving device as we bravely take on the wilderness.”
Langer grinned. “Any other essential items you’re going to surprise me with, Gus?”
“Let me think on that. Poland will supply us with plenty of vodka, so maybe a drinks cabinet. What say you, Stefan?”
“If you can fit one inside that,” Langer pointed at the panzer, “then go ahead. But I won’t sacrifice any of the ammunition.”
Gus scratched his very short cropped hair. “Hmmm. I’ll think on that. So, come help me set this up, Stefan!” Gus dragged a bewildered Stefan into setting up the tarpaulin for the night. Langer left them to it and made his way to the supply point. He needed more ammunition for the sidearms and wanted to pick up some gossip as well. To his surprise he saw the headquarters staff congregating in a loose group in the center of the field, the administrative staff hovering uncomfortably on the edges. Langer spotted Heidi and sidled up to her. “Lovely day for a walk,” he said, making her jump.
“Oh! You startled me!” She looked at him closely. “You smell funny.”
“Been shooting. Cordite lingers. You going to be around here long?” He slipped an arm round her waist.
“Stop that,” she hissed, “want to get me into trouble? The General is here!”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport.” Langer stood up straight and put both arms behind his back. “I didn’t know you could get arrested for fraternization. So what’s the agenda for you today? Nod and agree with the General here, go to another regiment and repeat the process there. Then off to lunch and eat more than we soldiers will for the whole week?”
“Oh do shut up,” she said wearily. “I have to note down any orders that need to be made. Shush, I’m listening!”
Langer quickly kissed her on the cheek and moved off, smiling. Heidi sucked in her breath and tried to ignore him. Langer wasn’t interested in the top brass or what they decided; he’d hear about it soon enough and anyway when the shooting started orders went out of the window and the men fought as best they could. Their job would be made that much easier if the top brass kept quiet until the shooting finished. The local commanders would be the best judges of the situation, not those miles away looking at maps that were probably too old anyway.
As Langer went to replenish the small arms ammo, miles away in a Berlin office, Gestapo agent Ferdinand Marks listened to his old school buddy Erich Farben telling him about the frustration of not being permitted to continue with his investigations, thanks to orders from high up. “I know the two are foreign nationals and so should really fall under your jurisdiction, but it was my investigation and it’s not correct that it should be taken away from me! This man, Romano, is easily identifiable. He’s got a facial scar on the right hand side of his face and he’s a big man, very tough. Yet he’s vanished into thin air!”
“I understand, Erich, but what can be done? We are in regimented organizations and orders must be obeyed. We don’t see the entire picture and when word comes to us from higher up, it’s probably because someone has seen a bigger picture and we must obey. But I will make discreet enquiries. The Gestapo have ways to cross barriers.”
“I have no doubt about that, Ferdy,” Farben said, a little bitterly. “Which is why I’ve come to see you. If anyone is to carry this on, I’d prefer it to be you.”
Marks smiled thinly. Farben had given him a good description of a man who had murdered a communist agent and then vanished into Berlin’s streets. After his old friend had gone, Marks studied the case notes he’d been passed that day. He was to take a group of men to Zossen and arrest a suspected enemy of the Reich working in the Wehrmacht, a Heidi Rossler. The trouble was, his phone enquiries had revealed the woman had gone east with the army to the Polish border. Things were on hold until the situation became clearer. Much of the Gestapo’s spare capacity was diverted to preparing a new administration in Poland once the army had cleared the way. Marks was remaining in Berlin, and he would make a few enquiries about this Romano while he waited.
The political tension grew over the next few days and the men were put on a war footing. Langer was intrigued to see Gus fix a metal drum to the rear of the tank and fill it with water. “What the hell are you doing, Gus?”
“Ah, well this is our field kitchen, Carl. Being next to the exhaust will heat it up and we’ll have boiling water on hand whenever we stop. We can drink, or wash or even cook with clean safe water.” Gus looked pleased with himself.
“Yeah, great,” Langer said, eyeing the lump of metal. “And the first sharp ridge we shoot over the whole lot will spill out.”
“I’m driving, and I’ll be very careful.”
“Not if some Pole is shooting at us. Gus, if I tell you to go across a pill box at maximum speed you will. Get it?”
“And get arrested for speeding by some over-zealous Polish traffic cop? Never!” and Gus made off, grumbling at Langer’s touchy behavior. Langer slapped the tank and hoped to hell Gus wasn’t being serious, but with Gus, who knew? The next couple of days they were told to get ready, then stepped down. The men grumbled. Rumors of Britain and France rattling sabers were dismissed contemptuously, then more came of last minute diplomatic attempts at a solution to German demands for Danzig and a route across the Polish Corridor, but finally on the last day of August they were suddenly told to mount up, load up and follow the General eastwards towards the border.
Exci
tement grew as they rattled across the flat countryside to an unremarkable spot close to a wood. The air filled with exhaust fumes and the heat rose in shimmering waves. Men in black hung out of hatches and peered forward, trying to see what lay beyond the trees and gently undulating rises. Small villages could be seen in the distance to the right. “Why have we stopped?” Stefan asked, popping up through the turret.
“We’re at the border,” Langer said, looking to left and right where the other tanks of the regiment waited, muzzles pointing into still peaceful Poland.
Stefan stared hard but could see nothing different. Gus turned from his seated position on the front of the body of the tank. “Yes my boy, in front of us is the land promised by our glorious Fuhrer, Adolf Schicklegruber. This is the land set aside for the mighty German race to expand into once we drive the sub-human Slavs eastwards.”
Stefan looked confused. Langer shook his head. Nazi ideology sounded mad, but people throughout history had driven their neighbors out of land they coveted. It was nothing new, except it was being widely advertized in advance. He’d been part of many migrations and population culling in the past, so it was old stuff to him. War was war, no matter how anyone tried to justify their part in it.
As night fell, final checks were made on the vehicles and on weapons. Captain Heidemann called Langer and the other tank commanders to him for a final pep talk. “Men, the Poles have refused us access through the Corridor, so it has been decided to take it by force. You know this means war, and I’m confident that we will prevail. What France and Britain do is out of our hands; no doubt we’ll have to cope with their armies in time. But to the job tomorrow. We have been given the job of cutting through to East Prussia, our heading is Marienwerder across the Vistula River. We are to move fast and hit hard. The Poles are expected to fight like devils but it’s thought they lack the equipment and tanks we have.”
The commanders looked at each other, their faces reflecting a mixture of fear and excitement. This is what they trained for, what they existed for. Now they would pit their skills and courage against the enemy.
The next morning the skies began to brighten ahead from the east, and a deep rumble came to the waiting men from the skies, and necks craned to see dark shapes flying east, gull-winged Stukas laden with bombs. The men exchanged looks, then slipped into their tanks and waited for orders. Langer sat in the turret, torso and head out, taking in the fresh clean air, earphones clamped to his head.
Heidemann’s voice came thinly though to him. “Regiment will advance.”
Langer slipped into the turret and clanged the hatch shut. “Okay Gus,” he said into the pipe by his head, “put the foot down, we’re off!”
The tank’s silence was shattered as Gus gunned the starter switch and they lurched forward as the brake came off, and Gus drove them over the border into Poland.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They ran into trouble three miles inside the border. A Polish unit came running out from a small village and took cover along a raised road and began shooting at the advancing tanks. Bullets struck the metal sides and fronts, reverberating inside the vehicle. “We’re being shot at!” Stefan shouted, eyes wide.
“Gus, slow down,” Langer barked, spinning the turret wheel. The periscope revealed low-lying Polish defenders shooting and reloading from behind cover. A few were bringing up heavy machine guns and a couple of long metallic barreled weapons. “Gus, anti-tank rifles. Turn right.”
The tank span on one track and Langer centered the turret once more. He motioned to Stefan to load up and grabbed the 7.92mm machine gun stock and trigger. The tank echoed to the rattling of the gun as it spat death. Langer watched as the bullets tore up the ground on the near side of the road, then walked up to the road and beyond, shredding bushes and a couple of soldiers who were too late in getting out of the way.
A loud explosion to their left stopped the firing and Langer glanced through the left hand periscope. “Shit, they’ve hit Wolff! He’s gone up!” The tank nearest them was billowing smoke, a Panzer I, and the hatches flew open and the commander scrambled to get out, then jerked as the Polish infantry gunned him down.
“Bastards,” Gus snarled and slammed the levers forward and bore down on the Poles. They didn’t see if Wolff’s driver got out; they were tearing through the rich green grass towards the road. Bullets clanged off the hull, like some manic hailstorm. The tank bounced as it rolled over some obstruction half hidden in the grass. “Fuck,” Gus muttered. Langer briefly closed his eyes, visions of water slopping all over the rear of the tank filling his mind, then he grabbed the trigger guard of the 7.92 again and wheeled the turret to the left, at 11 o’clock. Three Poles got up, panicking, and blasted away at the tank as it approached the roadside. Langer pulled the trigger and the bullets ripped through the air. Two Poles were literally flung off the road, now bloodied corpses, while the third dived to safety to the right. Gus hauled on one lever and the tank span and then rolled up the rise to the road top. The Polish infantry were running back towards the village, including the anti-tank rifleman, and Gus went after him.
Other tanks were chasing the fleeing men and machine guns chattered, cutting down dozens. Gus closed on the anti-tank rifleman who flung his weapon away and dodged left and right, wild-eyed. He leaped high over a garden fence and plunged through an alleyway. Gus gritted his teeth and smashed into the two houses bordering the alley, crushing the mud and wooden structures. Roofs of thatch slid slowly down and the tank emerged from the crumbling buildings like some monster being born from hell.
Langer swung the turret, then suddenly the tank stopped and Gus threw open his hatch. “What the devil?” Langer exclaimed and looked on amazed as Gus threw himself out of the tank, and ran right out of sight. Shots rattled against the tank and Langer grabbed the MP38. “Stefan, stay in here!”
He threw open the turret hatch and popped up, quickly scanning to left, right and ahead. A few Polish soldiers were taking aim down the road to the left so Langer brought the machine-pistol round and blasted away for two seconds, spraying half the magazine at them. Bullets smashed into walls, windows and the ground. One man flung up his arms and fell back while the others ducked for cover. Langer rested the MP38 on the turret edge and waited for the enemy to show themselves again. Gus came staggering back from the opposite direction, wrestling with a pig that was squealing the village down.
“Gus, for Christ’s sake!” Langer shouted, wondering what the hell was going on. He pointed the machine pistol at the Polish infantry who were watching, amazed, as Gus brought the screaming pig to the tank and threw it through the driver’s hatch. Stefan shouted in shock and saw a pink animal scrabbling across the metallic engine cover, squealing like a baby being slaughtered.
Gus piled in and clanged the hatch shut, and Langer ducked down and threw the MP38 down with a clatter and grabbed the trigger guard again. “Gus!” he screamed, trying to make himself heard over the wailing of the pig. “Are you insane!?”
“Couldn’t let it go for someone else to pick up,” Gus answered, throwing the tank once more into motion. More shooting came and now the support infantry for the tanks, the Schutzen, were turning up, having poured off their trucks, and were surrounding the remaining Polish infantry. Hands were shooting up into the air as the defenders realized they were onto a hiding and gave up. “Onwards, to the Vistula!” Heidemann’s voice came scratching through the earphones.
“Gus, east. Forget the village, the infantry have it. And for Chrissakes, do something about the pig!” The animal was squealing in fear, adding to the deep throated roar of the Maybach engine. Stefan was gaping at the animal turning round and round in panic, having nowhere to go. Gus turned and, wielding the hammer used to repair tracks with, brought it neatly down on the pig’s head. He turned back to driving without missing a beat.
“Roast pork tonight!” Gus roared with delight.
Langer sighed and shook his head, while Stefan just continued staring at the dead animal. “This is
an insane crew,” Langer muttered and scanned through the periscopes, seeing nothing around. He threw open the hatch and stuck his head up cautiously. Nothing shot at him. “Stefan, the MP38.” He held out his hand and took the gun the young loader handed to him, and began reloading.
They roared on across the plains, skirting woods. From the radio traffic, Langer learned that a large Polish formation was up ahead and they had the task of cutting through their lines. The infantry, riding in the trucks behind, would then roll up the enemy lines. They had lost just the one tank so far, and the ease in which an anti-tank rifle had taken it out was sobering.
“Langer, is your tank hit?” Heidemann’s voice came at him.
“No sir,” Langer turned and saw the engine cover steaming and sending clouds up behind it. It was soaking wet and the water tank was about two thirds full. “Just got wet plowing through those houses, sir. We’re fine.”
“I heard something about a pig, Langer.” Langer grinned. He looked to his left at Heidemann’s Panzer III, a bigger vehicle. Heidemann was looking at him. “Sir. Roast pork tonight.” A babble of cheers broke through the earphones.
“Very good. Stay out of trouble in that case. It would be a tragedy to lose your tank.” Heidemann nodded and dropped out of sight. Langer did likewise and shut the hatch. “I saw Wolff hit. Did his driver make it?”
“Yes. He’s with the Schutzen. Poor Wolff died instantly,” Heidemann said. “Onwards. Five miles ahead is a large Polish force, intelligence says it’s the 9th Division, part of their Pomorze Army. They’ll be a tough nut. Try to keep our infantry close!”
They roared on. Suddenly the ground ahead erupted with bright flashes and shells landed amongst them. Two tanks exploded into billowing smoke. “Shit!” Gus yelled.
“Anti-tank guns,” Langer growled. “Gus, two o’clock to the right. One on the line of those thick bushes.”