by Tony Roberts
“I understand that you had a relationship with one of our administration staff in Zossen, a Heidi Rossler.”
“Sir.” He had noticed Heidi wasn’t present.
“Unfortunately yesterday she was taken into custody by the Gestapo. They wished to know whether I knew of any other acquaintances of hers. I have not as yet mentioned you, as I do not particularly care for these people’s methods, and I would not wish to lose one of my panzer commanders, especially as we have lost a few in the past few days. However, unless I am convinced your relationship is nothing other than a simple male-female liaison, I may be forced to inform them that you knew her very well indeed.”
Langer snapped smartly to attention. “Sir. Miss Rossler and I had a casual relationship that began in May. We went into the town of Zossen a few times to share a drink but that was how far it went. I swear to you on my honor as a soldier there was nothing else in it. I knew little about her as she kept much of her background a secret. She was merely….. an attraction to me.”
Schweppenburg smiled briefly. He was a soldier and a male, and knew of the keenness of a man’s eye for a pretty woman. He had known Heidi fairly well, as she’d been one of his clerks. “Yes, many men cast longing eyes over her. It appears that she may well have been a communist agent. The Gestapo had been keeping an eye on her contacts for some time. She had been copying orders and reports from my office and passing them onto them. But this is of no importance any more. As long as you were not her contact.”
“Sir, I detest communists,” Langer said earnestly. “It dismays me the Fuhrer has signed this treaty with them.”
Schweppenburg looked up in surprise. “Ah, yes, you fought in Spain against them, did you not? Do not question the Fuhrer, it may present – difficulties – for you should you voice them to the wrong people. You understand?”
“Sir. What is going to happen to Heidi?”
“I’m afraid that is something we can only guess at. If it is proved she is a communist, she may well be shot. Or perhaps returned to Stalin since we’re allies.” The Lieutenant General smiled cynically. “I hope she does not mention you to them. In any event, I think it prudent to send you away from headquarters while this is still fresh. You are being given a replacement panzer and will go with your unit south east to the town of Zambrow, and from here await further orders.”
“Sir!” Langer saluted and left, his heart pounding. So that was what had happened to Heidi. It also explained who Frings was and why he had been closely watching Heidi, and why the Gestapo had been hot on Frings’ heels. Langer puffed out his cheeks as he emerged into the September sunshine. Communists! Lucky he hadn’t become too attached to the girl. He just wondered now what was happening to her. Despite his dislike of the reds, he felt a stab of sympathy for her. Still, whatever his relationship with her, it was now over and there was nothing he could do for her even if he had been part of her cell. The Gestapo had her and God help her.
He returned to the barracks and sought out Gus and Steffan. They were found in the office of the supply commissariat, trying to entice a couple of the typists outside, ostensibly for a smoke, but probably, knowing Gus, for an extended session of breast fondling.
“Oy, you two, c’mon, out,” Langer jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. “We’re to pick up a new panzer and catch the rest up at a place called Zambrow.”
Gus snapped to attention and threw the most tremendous salute ever. “Jawohl, Herr Feldwebel!” He clicked his heels together. “Together we shall spread the word of National Socialism to the untermensch Poles and obliterate all those who support the plague of Jewish-Bolshevism! Heil Hitler!”
Steffan stood open-mouthed at the outburst, as did a couple of the typists. Langer merely put his hands on his hips and glared at the giant driver. “When you’ve recited Mein Kampf to the initiated, Gus, please do us the honor of driving this unworthy one to the regiment.”
“Well, when you put it like that my darling commander, how can this humble man refuse? I’m surprised these good ladies here aren’t throwing their knickers at you.”
“Gus, shut the fuck up and follow me.”
Sniggering and pausing only to pick one squealing typist up to plant a huge slobbering kiss on her lips, Gus loped after Langer and Steffan. “Oh what a delight that we’re getting yet another cardboard vehicle. It’s nice to see the Wehrmacht is sparing every expense in giving us decent panzers in our struggle against Polish aggression.”
“Gus, save your declarations for when there’s nobody to hear you. One day you’re going to be put up in front of a firing squad.”
“Who, me?” Gus was genuinely surprised. “Not me; maybe you or perhaps Captain Heidemann one day. This unworthy one is a private and privates are never blamed for the generals’ balls-ups; it’s always the officers and NCOs under the incompetents. You mark my words, my grumpy friend. So, where is this beast of a tank we’re getting?”
Langer nodded at a solitary Panzer II parked by the gates. “That’s the one; the generalleutnant told me we’re to follow the rest down to Zambrow where we’re to pick up new orders.”
They climbed in and Gus brought the Maybach engine into life, and they rolled out of Allenstein camp, two days behind the rest. Langer checked the equipment and found everything they needed was there; shells, sidearms, food, oil, sleeping bags. It seemed someone had done their job right for once.
The Panzer II rattled along the East Prussian roads, passing soldiers heading south-east. All seemed to be in good spirits and waved to the black-garbed Langer who sat out of the turret, his earphones clamped to his head. The Germans had an excellent radio network which enabled them to pass on orders quickly, which in turn meant they could react in no time to any new situation that arose.
The Panzer II had a top speed of 25mph on roads, and they made good time when they were not maneuvering past columns of troops. There were no refugees to contend with, thankfully. No Pole would be heading into East Prussia, and as yet no civilian from Germany had any reason to cross into Poland.
Zambrow lay 35 miles into Poland, and as they neared it, smoke began to be seen on the horizon, smudges and a hazy cloud, way off to the south. The Poles would be putting up some serious resistance now the outlying border regions had fallen and the districts around Warsaw, Poznan and Lodz were under threat.
The signs of war became more and more frequent with ruined buildings on either side of the road, burned out vehicles on the roadside, many of which had been pushed off the road, and bomb craters. Some freshly dug graves could be seen off to the left. Aircraft – Stukas and Heinkels – flew overhead on their way to deliver their payload to stubbornly resisting Polish units and the sound of gunfire grew.
They finally caught up with their unit on the evening of the 11th, a military policeman halting them with an upraised arm and demanding to know who they were and what they were doing.
Langer leaned out of the turret and asked to be directed to the 6th Panzer Regiment. The headhunter waved to the left. “Over across that field there,” he pointed to a churned up area with shattered trees bordering it. “Be careful, the bastard Poles have artillery zeroed in on it. We’ve lost three tanks already. Once across the field you’re safe – they can’t see you then.”
Langer waved and barked down the voice tube to Gus. “Let’s get across that field, but zig-zag and vary your speed. I don’t want to be an easy target.”
“You’ve got it,” Gus said, flipping down his visor and peering through the periscope. The tracks of the preceding tanks were easily spotted and Gus plowed into the field, churning up clods of earth and turnips. It was harvest time, but the war had put an end to all of that. Steffan clung onto his seat for dear life as Gus spun the tank left, then right. Langer crouched low, keeping his head just above the rim of the hatch, his keen eyes picking out the wreck of a Pz I off to the left, and then a Pz II to the right. It looked like anti-tank fire had got them. One had its tracks shed all over the place and a corpse lay half
in and half out of the driver’s hatch.
A bang and a fountain of earth close by heralded the attention of the Polish guns. “Gus, pedal!” Langer snapped, his eyes swinging right to where the shot had come from. The land rose slightly beyond the field, where the wrecked remains of a hedge stood. The Luftwaffe had been responsible for that, probably where infantry had been dug in. It was a mess now. Beyond that a farmhouse stood, most of it in ruins but still defendable and it was from there a couple of muzzles protruded evilly. No doubt there were machine guns nested there too, plus a company of infantry.
A second shell screamed past and smashed into a tree a couple of hundred yards past them, splitting it in two. Armor piercing, not high explosive. “That’s a 37mm, Gus, get out of here yesterday!”
“I’m on it!” Gus barked, jamming on the brakes. Another shot narrowly missed and Gus slammed the pedal to the floor and the metal beast shot forward. A fourth shot sent up a mass of dirt behind them. They were getting close. Gus swung the panzer to the right, presenting their front to the Poles, then as quickly swung back to the left and careered headlong for the edge of the field and the sight of German soldiers waving to them frantically, yelling encouragement. Steffan lost his balance and ended up on the floor amongst the oil, dirt and noise, clamping his hands over his head.
A fifth shot cracked overhead but missed. Langer ducked involuntarily. Shit, that was close!! To great cheers and pumped fists from the onlooking Germans, Gus clattered through a gap in the hedge and over what remained of a wooden gate and spun the panzer hard to the right, narrowly missing a parked Pz III.
The tank juddered to a halt and Langer puffed out his cheeks, standing up fully in the turret. They were in a dip in the ground with a small rise between them and the farmhouse. Men crowded round, slapping the tank in delight. Langer grinned lopsidedly, wiping his forehead. “Feldwebel Langer reporting back for duty, sir,” he saluted Heidemann who had come up before them and was standing there slowly shaking his head from side to side.
“You maniacs,” the captain replied, saluting Langer back. “You could have been killed there!”
Gus threw back the driver’s hatch and yawned mightily, stretching his arms to the sky. “Hah, that was nothing, Herr Hauptmann,” he said. “Just to prove it I shall drive to the road and back here again. Those cross-eyed Slavs couldn’t hit a barn door from two meters!”
“You shall not, Beidemann,” the captain warned him severely. “You shall not endanger state property unnecessarily!”
“Fear not, Herr Haupmann, I shall look after Langer and Carrel.”
“I was referring to the tank, you ox, and not your colleagues!”
Gus smiled widely and emerged from the tank like a prehistoric monster rising from a lake. He landed before the startled Heidemann and saluted mightily, stamping one foot into the dusty earth, sending up a cloud the size of a small car around him. Heidemann stepped back hurriedly. “Langer, take your crew to the canteen over there and get a well-earned meal. We’re going to attack the farmhouse tomorrow morning.”
“Frontally, sir?” Langer asked, rubbing his ears. The headphones had been on for hours and it always felt odd the first few minutes after removing them.
“Of course not, Langer, what do you take us for? They’ve got a regiment dug in all round the farm blocking our route into the town and Guderian’s getting impatient; he wants them cleared so the town can be captured tomorrow. They’ve held us up long enough.”
“Guderian, eh?” Langer said thoughtfully. “The man behind the panzer development. About time someone high up appointed the right man in the right place.”
Heidemann waved Langer towards the field kitchen. The eternal mercenary saw that Gus had already plowed his way through to the facility, Steffan in his wake, and was commencing a blitzkrieg of his own on the food. The catering staff looked on with a mixture of awe and fear as the giant scooped up a platter load of sausages and cabbage and stomped towards a suddenly vacated table, eating as he went.
“Steffan, just take a normal plate for yourself,” Langer advised as he reached the young man. “Don’t get in the way of Gus when food is around; it wouldn’t be worth your life.”
* * *
Deep in the basement of a police building in the middle of Berlin the beatings had finally ceased. The bloodied figure of what had once been Heidi Rossler lay slumped in the stout chair she was tied to. Her face was unrecognizable; it was swollen, blackened with bruises and masked with blood. Both eyes were shut and her toothless mouth drooled a mixture of saliva and blood down onto her sweat and blood stained chest and stomach.
Two Gestapo employees stepped back from their work, sweat stained themselves. Working physically on someone for hours on end was hard physical labor, and they also had to judge when to stop or ease up, for the subject had information that was needed and it would be no good killing her. They had been under strict orders to get out of her all her contacts; communist spies had to be found and exterminated.
Heidi had taken two days of torture but could take no more. The mumbled sounds that came from her ruined mouth could hardly be understood. Her mouth was a mess, as her teeth had all been smashed out by the leather coated clubs that had cruelly beaten her. Her nose was pulped and now just a flattened piece of flesh and broken cartilage. Pain had been inflicted upon her repeatedly and her mind had lost all contact with reality.
“Clean it up and when it’s able to move, transfer it to the new camps for enemies of the Reich that we have constructed,” the senior interrogator ordered coldly. To him, the subject was no longer a human being; it was merely an object under ownership of the State. As such, it could be moved wherever the State wished, to any place so desired. There were new camps being set up, concentration camps, and she would be sent to one of these. They had been invented by the British forty or so years before to break Boer resistance in South Africa, and it had worked, so why not use the same tactic to break the Bolsheviks and Jews?
As the two minions threw a pail of water over what remained of Heidi, Ferdinand Marks examined the manuscript of her ‘confession’. It would be presented to his superior upstairs, Heydrich, but in neater script and without spots of blood. There were four names on there, two of which had already been accounted for, including the dead Frings. Of the two remaining names, one was interesting. It referred to a soldier serving in the panzer korps, it appeared his name was Karl Linger or at least that was how it sounded. It must be the 3rd division, as that was whom she was attached to, so orders would go out to find this Linger and arrest him on suspicion of being a communist sympathizer, or even worse, a spy.
Marks smiled. He would probably command the arrest party himself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The assault on the farmhouse began at dawn. Langer and his crew were in their tank, ready to roll over the ridge before them. The plan was to pin down the anti-tank guns from the front while the flank attack hit the defenders on the right and then rolled them up. The problem was that, once again, intelligence was lacking on the exact composition of Polish forces facing them. It was known that they belonged to the 18th division but beyond that, nothing. There would be no Luftwaffe support; they were busy plastering Warsaw to the south-west and indeed the rumbling from that direction could be heard.
As the day grew, the guns opened up. Shells smashed into the farmhouse and surrounding landscape, sending up gouts of earth, stone and undergrowth into the air. The trouble was the Wehrmacht guns were too small to cause too much damage, but their task was to pin the enemy down while the left hook did the real damage.
Heidemann looked at his watch. He was sat in his turret of the Panzer III, counting down the seconds. Alongside him were two Panzer IVs, their squat, evil short barreled 75mm guns ready to give fire support and suppress the enemy shots; that was their purpose. The real killing would be done by the Is, IIs and IIIs.
The signal was given, and squads of the schutzen infantry poured over the top of the ridge, vanishing from the sigh
t of the panzers. Gunfire opened up and bullets could be seen spraying into the air above the ridge top, a mere ten feet above Langer’s head. A couple of the grey-clad soldiers jerked upright and slid to the ground to lie still. Heidemann slid down into his tank and banged the lid shut.
Through the earphones Langer heard the order to advance. He dropped into the tank, closing the hatch, and kicked Gus on the shoulder. “Alright Gus, take us over. Steffan, get ready with those shells.”
Langer gripped the trigger guards of the 20mm as the tank lurched up the slope, claiming its twenty foot wide path. Tanks to their left and right belched smoke as they roared up onto the ridge’s top and Langer got a good view of the countryside beyond for a second. The town lay close by, along a country road wide enough for one vehicle. Below them stood the Polish positions, wreathed in smoke, taking a pounding from guns on two sides. There were three anti-tank guns visible and one was lying buckled and in shreds, the crew smashed, bloody figures all round, however the other two were swinging round to face the advancing panzers. In between the gun positions lay the machine gun posts, set in holes in the brick walls or amongst rubble that had been built up into low walls. Tracer bullets spat out and performed a deadly dance on the hull of the tank. Gus swore and plunged the tank down the slope. Langer was pitched forward and the trigger guard dug painfully into his chest.
A large explosion engulfed one of the Polish 37s and one figure was seen tottering away into the smoke, clutching his face. The second spat a round at point blank range into the turret of a Panzer I which literally imploded and then roared into huge gouts of flame. “Steffan – a clip!” Langer snapped.
The rounds were slammed into their slot and Langer drew a bead on the gun. It was a matter of fifty yards away. He squeezed the trigger and sent a whole clip into the gun. The shells ricocheted off the shield and smashed into the walls and ceiling of the farmhouse, then one took the head off one of the gun crew, spattering the others with blood and brains. The gun was knocked sideways by the force of the shots and a schutzen squad gunned the survivors down.