by Tony Roberts
“See it,” Gus said and swung the tank. Langer centered the cannon. Stefan rammed a clip into the breech and Langer squinted down the sight. The Polish gun crew were swinging their gun, a wz.36 37mm weapon, round on its two wheels to take on Langer. The tank was a hundred yards away when Langer began shooting. The 20mm cannon shells exploded in front of the gun, then flew past. Langer cursed and tried again. The tank was bouncing along, making accurate shooting impossible.
The crew were loading up. Another burst. One shell passed to the left, the second struck the sloping shield of the 37mm gun and knocked it off line. One of the helmeted Poles staggered away, clutching his face. The vision ahead burst into flame as the Poles fired, but the shot screamed past their tank. Langer switched to the 7.92, spraying death all round and into the three surviving gun crew. They seemed to collapse into themselves.
There was a confusing babble of voices in the earphones. Commanders were barking directions and requests all at once. Heidemann yelled at them to shut up and keep on heading through the enemy lines. Langer ordered Gus to swing back to the left and a line of foxholes came into sight, full of enemy infantry blasting at them. Bullets struck the tank and ricocheted off. Away to the rear three of the tanks were burning. They had broken through but it had cost them dear.
Suddenly a large explosion struck them and sent the tank shuddering sideways. “Hell!” Langer cursed, rubbing his eye where the periscope had dug into it painfully. Stefan cried out and fell across the turret, striking himself painfully on the ribs against the machine gun breech. Gus shouted and spun the tank round on one track. “Anti-tank gun!”
“I know,” Langer snapped, peering through the sights. The gun was ahead, dug in. Earth had been thrown up all round and it was protected by a line of infantry. The shot had struck them and buckled the armor to the right of Gus, and then glanced off into the far distance. They’d been lucky.
“Stop!” Langer yelled and motioned to Stefan to load up the cannon. Gus jammed on the brakes and they stopped, a sitting duck. Langer sighted carefully, then sent the shells pouring out at the wz.36. Explosions tore up the earth around it and one hit the shield, flying off harmlessly. “Damn these useless guns,” Langer exclaimed. “Gus, get us the hell out of here.”
Next moment Heidemann’s III sent a 37mm shell into the gun position and it erupted into flame, dirt, metal and flesh. A smoking hole was all that remained. “That’s what we need,” Gus roared, “one of those babies, not this fucking toy!”
“Agreed,” Langer said. “Get going! Follow those Panzer Is over there!” Polish infantry peppered the sides of the tanks as they roared past, ignoring the soldiers. Let the Schutzen take care of them. “On! On!” Heidemann barked down the radio.
Behind them the two infantry sides got going, shooting the hell out of each other. The tanks now turned left and right. Langer followed the other tanks behind the Polish front line and targeted supply and headquarters positions, guns blasting death. A huge explosion rent the air as ammunition stacked in a huge pile went up, smoke billowing out and into the sky.
Men scattered before the armored vehicles, not having anything to stop them. “They’re running!” Gus yelled, gunning the tank forward towards a tent where men were running and congregating. He believed it to be where the general or commanding officer was. Langer glanced left and right through the side periscopes and saw nothing but chaos, as the attackers had hoped for. Ahead, the soldiers were gathering, aiming at the approaching tank. One or two reached for grenades. Langer flicked the catch off on the cannon and blasted a clip at the tent and the soldiers in front of it. Men span and exploded into showers of red and the tent sagged as shells plowed through the fabric. Explosions rent the air inside and men came staggering out, hands over their heads.
Gus ran into the tent and drove through it, flattening men, boxes and equipment under the rattling tracks. Men screamed and flung themselves out of the way, desperate to avoid the pitiless metallic creature. Langer switched to the machine gun, swiveling the turret. A knot of soldiers stood and aimed grenades but Langer had been waiting. The burst of 7.92mm bullets tore through chests, faces and limbs, spraying blood, brains and mangled pieces of flesh into the air. Stefan saw none of this, being too far away from any periscope. He worked like a ship’s stoker, passing new clips to the cannon or belts of ammo to the machine gun. He hung on to the lockers or the struts around the sides as the tank lurched or span.
Word came to disengage. The Poles had had enough and were fleeing, their communications and supply smashed. The tanks swung east once more and made for the Brda River, a few miles ahead and the objective for the first day. The river came into view soon afterwards, a flat shimmering expanse of water a few feet below the level of the plains. They came to a halt and swung round in a huge defensive arc.
Hatches clanged open and men tumbled out, sweating, heaving down huge lungfuls of clean untainted air. Langer slid to the ground and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, flapping his beret to cool his face. Stefan appeared unsteadily and sat, slumped, on the turret. Gus bent down and dragged the dead pig out after him and threw it to the ground with relish. He dragged it after him to the rear of the tank and tested the water. It was boiling hot. He pulled out a large knife and began slicing the flesh, gutting it.
Langer leaned against the tank and looked up. “How was your first taste of action, Stefan?”
“Okay. Hot. Crazy. Scary.”
Langer grinned. He pushed away and watched as the infantry trucks approached. The engineers would be with them and the bridging equipment fairly soon and then they would get over the river. Once over the Brda they would have to get through the Tucheler Forest and whatever Polish forces were there, but once past that nothing was likely to pose a problem before the Vistula. Once they crossed that river, then the Polish Corridor would be cut. It wouldn’t be until morning that the bridge would be up, so Gus could get on with his pig feast.
Langer went round to the front of the tank and examined the hit they’d received from the anti-tank gun. He whistled. A fist-sized dent had been knocked in the right hand corner, knocking the armor back a few inches. The metal had been split and rough edges poked up. If they were unlucky enough to be hit anywhere near there again, he didn’t think it’d be kept out. He walked back and sought out Captain Heidemann. He told him of the damage and the captain said he’d get an engineer onto it as soon as he could. “Word is that the Poles are retreating south out of the corridor,” Heidemann said briskly. “Elsewhere our attacks are succeeding and the Poles are falling back everywhere. Tomorrow we make for the Tucheler. We’ll need the Schutzen to go in first; tanks aren’t going to be good in trees.”
“I know,” Langer said. “You think they’ll put up much of a fight? The last lot melted away once we turned on them from the rear.”
Heidemann chuckled. “The new tactics seem to be working. It seems the generals have got it right.”
Langer grunted. Mobility was the key to the new doctrine; Subedei and the Mongol army seven hundred years before had done the same thing. It was new but yet at the same time to Langer it was old.
The smell of the cooking pig reached the nostrils of the men. Heads turned to the boiling vat of water Gus was tending carefully, a large ladle in one of his giant paws. The engine was still running and he had Stefan standing nervously by the rear of the tank placing slabs of pork on the hot engine cover, sealing the sides. The hiss of hot meat carried to the two men. “We’ll eat well tonight, Captain.”
Heidemann slapped Langer on the shoulder. “Just keep your driver under control, Langer.”
CHAPTER NINE
They ate well and while they slept under the tanks serenaded by the distant rumbles of artillery pounding some poor devils and Gus’s farts, the engineers threw up a pontoon bridge across the gently flowing river, and at first light the regiment got back into the metal beasts and the air shattered to the roar of Maybach engines.
First across were the infantry, spreading out
and vanishing into the grassy plains, running for a few yards, then flinging themselves flat and peering ahead for an enemy that never materialized. Langer sat in the turret, peering out across the flat, featureless countryside. The tank had been patched up overnight, so that a lump of plate steel now sat over the hole in the vehicle, like a bandage on a bleeding limb. There hadn’t been time to do much else.
Gus was relaxed in his seat, mumbling some tune, no doubt about the merits of a whore, while Stefan peered up nervously at Langer from the floor of the turret. “When are we to go?”
“Soon.” Langer looked to his left at Heidemann, a distant figure peering across the pontoon bridge. The captain was listening intently to the regimental radio, and suddenly nodded and tapped his throat mike. Langer heard the tap and stiffened, waiting for the order. “Let’s go. Fan out on the other side and head east.”
Langer leaned down and slid onto the seat, pulling the hatch shut. “Okay, Gus. Follow the Captain and stay one to his right.”
“Onwards to victory,” Gus boomed and slammed the tank round on one track and then shunted it forward, hot on Heidemann’s heels. “Hey Gus, we don’t want a mouthful of his exhaust fumes,” Langer complained.
“Worried about an air strike, Herr Feldwebel?” Gus laughed. “The mighty Polish air force may descend upon us like devils?”
Langer leaned forward. “I said not too close, Gus.” Gus heard the edge in Langer’s voice and shrugged. He wasn’t normally given to respecting anyone, but the tough, muscular tank commander was different to anyone he’d come across. Someone who didn’t take any nonsense, even from Gus. Once or twice he’d wondered about the strength of Langer, and knew instinctively that although not as strong as the driver, there was something else to him that said he’d best be careful around him. His memories of being thrown over the training ground that time still rankled him.
He allowed a twenty meter gap and followed the Panzer III onto the swaying temporary bridge. Infantry knelt protectively at the far end and waved the smoke belching tanks on their way. Their objective was to push clear of the Forest by the end of the day. No aircraft were seen but to the south a huge pall of smoke could be seen rising and Langer had been told that was Bydgoszcz, or as he’d called it in the past, Bromberg. That was the HQ of the Polish Pomorze Army and was getting a pasting. The Poles weren’t too interested in the Corridor as it was clearly indefensible. They’d left a light screen here and even that was starting to flee south as the tanks cut through it.
“Oh what a lovely day for a gentle drive in the country!” Gus said above the roar of the engine. “Have you brought the sausages, Carl?”
“Have I…?” Langer stared at Stefan who tried to stifle a giggle. “No, of course not!”
“Then it’s lucky I remembered,” Gus said and pointed at a large canvas sack to his right. It was bulging with unknown objects.
“Gus, where did you get that from? It’s not official rations!” Langer put a hand to his forehead.
“Oh, it sort of fell into my bag. I was passing the regimental cookhouse, escorting that kind engineer back to his truck, and I guess they must have fallen into this. By the time I noticed I was nearly back to you so I felt it wasn’t worth the fuss returning them.”
“What else have you got in there, you maniac?”
Gus laughed. “Wait and see, Carl.”
Langer grumbled and sat back. Gus would be court martialed if he was found out, and Langer knew his head would also be on the block as his commander. He peered through the forward periscope and saw the infantry vanishing into the edge of the forest. Suddenly all hell broke loose and bullets spat out from prepared positions all across their line of advance. One smacked straight into the turret and pinged off into the distance.
“That’s not friendly!” Gus roared and swung out wider from Heidemann and steered towards a slight hump in the ground. A machine gun was spitting bullets left and right and a few of the Schutzen had been hit; the others were trying to burrow into the flat ground. “Stefan, machine gun ammo.” Langer operated the 7.92 and sighted on the post. The loader rammed the belt home and Langer flicked off the safety.
The burst of fire rattled all round the hump and into it. The Poles turned the machine gun on them and peppered the hull but to no effect. Langer steadied himself and sent another burst into it, and something lit up with yellow flame. Even as Langer bared his teeth in triumph, something struck the hull to the right and a sudden explosion sent them sideways. Burning reached their nostrils.
“Out!” Langer yelled, grabbing the MP38. He flicked up the hatch and stuck his head out. The side of the tank was burning and their right hand track was in pieces. A Polish infantryman was close and arming a second grenade. That was what had done them. Langer swung the machine pistol and sent a three second burst into his chest, flinging the man aside. Langer leapt out and down by the side of the tank, crouching low. Stefan joined him, clutching his rifle. “What do we do?” he asked, his face white.
“Stick close.” Langer peered around the edge of the tank. The other panzers were advancing into a hail of fire and grenades, trading fire. The Poles were putting up a brave fight but against tanks were on a hiding to nothing. Gus came loping round, clutching the bag of sausages as well as his rifle. Bullets chased him but passed harmlessly wide. Langer spotted the enemy post, a ditch dug close to the knocked out machine gun nest. “Ready to go? I’ll keep their heads down. You two get to the machine gun nest. And Gus, put those damned sausages down!”
“I’d rather lose the rifle!” Gus snapped and reversed his gun. “Stefan, you do the shooting. I’ll club the swine to death!”
Langer leaned out and sent a spray of bullets at the ditch, kicking up dirt and keeping the Poles down. Gus and Stefan got to the cover of the hump and the younger man began shooting along the line of the ditch into the exposed infantry’s flank. Langer sprang to his feet and ran in a zig-zag manner at the ditch. Two Poles got up and scrambled for the rear but Gus roared and landed next to them, swinging his gun one-handed, flattening the nearest one. The second swung round, rifle coming up to shoot, but Langer opened up with a two-second burst from twenty feet that ripped into the Pole and he fell backwards.
They all landed at the bottom of the ditch together and Langer threw away the empty clip and reloaded. The dirt was dry and fresh. It had only been dug the day before by the looks of things. A panzer came rattling past to the right, the cannon blasting ahead, sending the surviving enemy scuttling for cover. Langer slapped Gus on the back. “Come on, follow the panzer!”
The three clambered out of cover and ran in the wake of the rattling tank. More panzers were sweeping left and right, mopping up any pockets of resistance, and the Schutzen were close behind, ready to take prisoners. Langer led the two others to a barn and they took cover. A few shots were still being fired so they looked round to see where the danger lay. Panzers were still charging ahead through the fields and a few distant figures were seen running for their lives. A panzer came close and halted. The turret hatch clanged open and the commander popped his head up. “You three plan to spend the war here? Get on board. We’ll give you a lift.”
“Thanks, Gerd.” Langer sprang up and crouched behind the turret. Gus and Stefan joined him, clinging to the sides. This was a Panzer IV, the biggest of the panzers available, a five-man beast with thicker armor and a short barreled 75mm gun which was easily the best armament on the battlefield. Gerd Hannemann was a thick set, blonde haired man with a severe face, but he was a man with a sharp sense of humor and the others liked him. He was lucky in being given the IV as there weren’t many around, and his role was to knock out the anti-tank guns.
They set off again. Hannemann ducked back into the tank and directed his driver to follow in the wake of the rest. Langer clung on as they rolled over the plains and charged towards the Vistula. It seemed all resistance had collapsed and by the end of the day they had reached the river. On the other side beckoned East Prussia and Germany. They had c
ut the Polish corridor.
CHAPTER TEN
The war went on, but for Langer, Gus and Stefan it was put on hold. The regiment had lost six panzers, most to anti-tank fire. The Panzer Is and IIs had been proved to be not up to the task, so any replacements would be the IIIs or IVs. When the regiment crossed over to East Prussia they were refitted at Allenstein but Langer was told to report to the regimental command post.
Puzzled, he did as he was bidden and in the temporary headquarters presented himself, saluting smartly to the adjutant, a leutnant with smooth cheeks and bright blue eyes. One of Hitler’s poster children, no doubt. Langer was ordered to present himself to the commanding officer immediately – sofort! – so he made for the brown paneled door to one side and, with a feeling of trepidation, knocked.
There came a short barked order to enter and once more Langer did as he was bid. The room beyond was a square spacious chamber with two desks and cabinets. The single wide window looked out onto the road that passed the block. A single guard stood by the door and watched Langer carefully.
The side desk was occupied by a male clerk, bare headed, wearing a private’s uniform. He was unimportant. Across the room was the main desk and seated behind it was the divisional commander, Baron von Schweppenburg, holder of the Iron Cross from the Great War. Schweppenburg was a fair haired, florid-faced individual with piercing blue eyes. He watched as Casca marched the three paces up to his desk, stamped to a halt, and threw up a smart salute. Feldwebel Carl Langer reporting as ordered, Herr Generalleutnant!”
Schweppenburg nodded in response. He was an aristocrat from old Prussia and expected subordinates to show deference to him. “Langer. I hear you have conducted yourself well in the campaign so far. I have read a report from your Hauptmann Heidemann.”
“Sir.” Langer did not know where this was going, but he was certain it wasn’t to congratulate him on his so far straightforward conduct through Poland.