by Tony Roberts
“Langer, get out of the town – leave it to the infantry!” Heidemann’s voice barked in Langer’s ears. “We’ve got trouble on the southern edge of town. Get here now!”
Langer rattled off directions to Gus and the panzer smashed out of the warehouse, sending part of the wall down with it, and roared along the street on the other side where they had come in. The edge of town wasn’t far and they angled across some waste ground, flattening a weed-infested fence as they went. A few shots came their way but the French were busy retreating into the town center.
They emerged onto a patch of countryside bordered by scrub and hedges, which looked like farmland. Off to their left a line of French tanks were advancing, guns blazing.
“This is it, Gus, get us down there now!” Langer snapped, taking in the scene before him. There were Somuas and smaller Hotchkiss tanks. The rest of the regiment were trading shots with the French and it was clear the Germans had numerical advantage. “Hotchkiss, front right, Teacher, got it?”
“Yes, zeroing in on it now.”
Gus straightened the tank and halted, his eyes boring out through the narrow slit. The sounds of multiple engines and cannons were easily heard to all of them. Teacher wheeled the gun carriage and the sights centered on the small tank, blasting away with its small armament. The panzer’s shot went straight into its hull and the tank exploded into hot shards of flying metal.
“Good God!” Teacher said, his head moving back a fraction from the periscope. “Those poor bastards.”
“Must have hit its ammo,” Langer said soberly. “Gus, move us close to the wreck – the smoke ought to give us some shelter.”
The panzer rolled forward, crushing a small hedge and emerging onto the field where the French tanks were maneuvering to hit the attacking Germans. The destroyed Hotchkiss was stopped ahead of them, sending a pall of black smoke high into the air. The turret was lying thirty feet away with something that may have once been human lying out of it. A dizzying blow sent the panzer skidding sideways, and a terrible rattling sound filled the interior of the panzer.
“Somua hit!” Gus shouted, teeth clenched, gripping the levers. “Got the track! Can’t steer!”
“Out, all of you now!” Langer shouted. “Grab your weapons!” He seized his MP38 and wrenched the turret hatch open. The other hatches were flung open simultaneously and they dived out onto the rough surface of a field of baby beetroot. Langer leaped up onto the turret. The tank that had hit them was bearing down on them, the machine gun turning on them. Langer flung himself off with a curse as the initial burst tore past him with a sound like something ripping apart.
The rest of the crew had scuttled behind the tank. Langer went the other way, towards a dip in the field that had two stunted trees growing up out of it. The gunner sent a burst of bullets in Langer’s wake but he slid into the natural ditch and lay there getting his breath back, cursing the French.
Gus, meanwhile, was studying a potato masher grenade in his hand with interest. “Well, my beauty,” he addressed the bomb, “here’s your chance to strike a blow for the glory of the Fatherland against the damned French. Do your thing my darling.” He kissed it, unscrewed the bottom, tugged on the fuse cord and took one look round the edge of the tank.
The Somua was plowing towards Langer, intending to roll right over him and the ditch, so Gus sent the grenade cartwheeling towards it, and he watched in satisfaction as it exploded against the wheels.
“Don’t expect that to stop it!” Teacher said critically.
“Of course not, my hasty friend,” Gus grinned, “but it attracts their attention from the boss.”
The Somua swung, as if enraged, towards the four men crouching behind the panzer. A burst of machine gun fire smashed into it and the four ducked hastily down. “Now you’ve done it!” Felix said with some feeling. “They’re going to run us over!”
Gus chuckled.
Langer saw what had happened and watched as the Somua turned away from him, no more than ten feet away. He leaped up, grenade in his hand, and ran to the tank, leaping onto it. He armed the grenade, jammed it against the join of the turret and hull, then jumped off. He rolled to safety just as the grenade exploded, shaking the Somua. The tank halted.
Langer got up and ran to the side of the French tank, his MP38 ready. The turret was slightly bent and appeared to be jammed. The Somua’s exhaust roared and it leaped backwards. Langer sent a burst into the face of the tank, not expecting to hit anything, than ran off towards the ditch once more.
Gus was running at it from the other side, another grenade in his fist. This time he waited until the Somua halted, and swung to face the ditch again. He flung the grenade underneath the tank and flung himself out of the way, like some great bear. The resulting explosion shook the Somua and it halted, smoke issuing from underneath.
Langer lined up his MP38 on the hatches as they opened. The first man to emerge had a pistol and looked round for one of the enemy who had disabled his machine. Langer sent a three second burst into him and the Frenchman jerked back, his pistol falling out of his hand. The man slumped down disappearing from sight.
Next moment a burst of machine gun fire almost took Gus’s head off. A Hotchkiss tank had seen the stricken Somua and was coming to its assistance. Gus scrambled back behind the panzer and swore. “Nearly cut me in two there. Anyone got a grenade? I’m out.”
The other three shook their heads.
Langer, meanwhile, emptied the remainder of his magazine into the Hotchkiss. He had little chance of hitting anyone but he distracted it. Now it swung his way and the surviving crew of the Somua bailed out, armed and angry. Langer threw his empty clip aside and pulled the spare from his belt. It was his only other one. He looked up and saw one of the Somua crew gesticulating to the Hotchkiss at the halted panzer, twenty feet away. It was clear he was asking it to take care of the crew while he and his two comrades were going to see to Langer.
Behind him the battle was raging. Tanks were exploding or coming to a halt in a maelstrom of armored vehicles. It was confusing. Tanks were almost colliding in their efforts to maneuver. Smoke drifted over them and Langer wiped his eyes. The Hotchkiss was now turning to deal with Gus, Teacher and the other two, while the three Somua crewmen were advancing on Langer. One went wide on both left and right flanks while the other lay down and began shooting at the ditch with his rifle.
Langer had no time to see what was happening with the others. He had his hands full. He rolled along the bottom of the ditch to the left, popped up and sprayed the air and ground with a three second burst. He saw the Frenchman fold in half and collapse to the ground. He threw himself back, and it was just in time, for a bullet cracked narrowly past his head from the man on the opposite side. He was running forward and had reached the edge of the ditch, working the bolt action of his rifle. Langer’s burst walked up the edge of ditch and impacted on his groin, stomach, chest and the last bullet took him in the mouth.
The Frenchman span and jerked spasmodically before crashing lifelessly to the ground. The last Frenchman came running at Langer, swearing at his ancestry. The eternal mercenary threw his machine pistol aside and grabbed his knife from his belt. The Frenchman leaped into the ditch, his face fixed in a grimace of hatred. Langer dodged the swinging butt of the rifle – Langer guessed he was out of ammo – and plunged his knife up from thigh level into the man’s guts. The Frenchman gasped and clutched Langer’s arm before slowly sliding to the ground, his hands going to his bloodied jacket. He remained in a fetal position.
Now Langer’s thoughts turned to his crew. He popped his head up and saw the Hotchkiss at the rear of the panzer, reversing. Wondering where his crew were, Langer watched at the French light tank turned, then the scene transformed itself as a round from somewhere smashed into the turret, blowing it off. Smoke rose from the wreck and Langer looked round. A Panzer III came clattering up to them, wisps of smoke issuing from the barrel.
Langer waved and waited till the panzer passed b
efore running over to the wrecked Hotchkiss. Nobody was getting out of the burning hulk. His crew emerged from the underside of their panzer. “Whew!” Felix breathed in relief, “thought that was going to be it!”
Teacher looked round the edge of the panzer. The battle was moving away with the French in retreat. They had lost three-quarters of their number. Panzers were weaving all over the field, shooting at the fleeing French, but there were plenty of halted and damaged or destroyed panzers too.
“What can you do with ours?” Langer asked Felix and Gus.
Gus looked at the wrecked track and wheels. “Maintenance job, we need replacement wheels. Not a write-off, but not something we can do here.”
“So what now?” Steffan asked, his rifle pointing down loosely.
“Wait for orders. I’ll get on the radio. Felix, make sure it’s working.” Langer climbed back up and donned the earphones. Heidemann was relieved to hear from Langer. Losses had been high but fortunately as the Germans had the battlefield they were able to salvage most of the knocked out tanks and repair them.
“We’re camping further on tonight. Get your panzer fixed and then join us at Avernas. You got it on your map?”
“Sir.”
“Good. We’re going to regroup and get resupplied. Fuel is a concern. We can’t move until we get more. See you later.” Heidemann signed off, no doubt to deal with another crew’s report.
Langer jumped back down and relayed the orders to the others. They’d taken Hannut but at a cost. What awaited them ahead at Gembloux was anyone’s guess.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Erich Farben tapped his fingers impatiently on the wooden desk of the clerk in Zossen. He had come with papers of authority from his superior to get permission to have Carl Langer recalled from the combat zone and sent back to the camp. However there were obstacles.
In war there were always obstacles. Who was it who said that in times of war all laws are suspended? Farben sighed. How could someone like him exercise the law when so many people tried their best to thwart him just so that his quarry could continue to kill to the advantage of the state? There had to be some line over which one could not cross, else why bother with law enforcement?
He’d been given no response from his friend in the Gestapo, so he assumed they weren’t interested in the slightest. That was the green light as far as he was concerned. He had to interview Langer and find out exactly what had happened in that hotel room in Berlin. Was Langer really a German, or a Spaniard? Was he a National Socialist or a Communist? Was he a spy? A member of some secret group within the Wehrmacht contracted to carry out assassinations? Was he an enemy of the state? Farben resolved to find out, but first he needed to get his hands on this elusive man.
Outside in his car his driver waited patiently, a girl seconded by the Ministry of Justice. She knew how to drive but wasn’t very communicative. She seemed around mid-twenties, had a south German accent, possibly Munich or maybe Nuremburg. Nice figure but hard eyes. Probably some Hitler fanatic. Best not to get too familiar with her; she might be one of the Nazi spies they put on people to make sure they were doing their job correctly. Gertrude Hrubisch was her name.
He looked about the room and fanned his face with his papers. It was hot with the sun shining through the window panes. A fly buzzed high up somewhere, repeatedly ramming its stupid head against the windows. The solitary army clerk in the room studiously ignored him, and concentrated on shuffling papers from one file to another. He seemed to be filtering out those who had died, by the looks of things. Farben hoped to God that Langer was still alive. It would be so frustrating to have to close the file as ‘unsolved’ if the man had got himself shot or bombed somewhere in France.
The door on the far side opened and a colonel strode into the room, holding a buff file. He stopped and surveyed Farben. “Oberst Kalten. You are Erich Farben?”
“I am, Herr Oberst,” Farben bowed stiffly.
“Come.”
Farben resisted the urge to click his heels. All very Prussian, even after all this time. He walked smartly enough across to the colonel’s room and sat in the chair offered him. The colonel sat slowly down behind his desk. “Herr Farben, I regret I cannot spare you much time. There is a war going on, as you know,” he smiled ironically. “This man you are interested in, Feldwebel Carl Langer, could you please expand on why you wish to interrogate him?”
Farben went over the story of the murder in Berlin. “He is our prime suspect and I fully believe he is the murderer. If so, he will be placed under arrest, with the possibility of being sent to prison.”
“All for killing a communist agent?” the colonel said, an edge to his voice. “Herr Farben, he may well have done the Reich a favor, in which case why punish him?”
“Herr Oberst, the deceased was a Spanish national, a neutral. It may well be that the Spanish government would be interested to hear that we have apprehended the murderer of one of their nationals.”
The colonel snorted. “Franco would not be interested in the death of one of those his side fought against up to a short while ago. He may wish to decorate Langer, if Langer is indeed the perpetrator of this so-called crime.”
“Be that as it may, there has been a murder in my district and I have to follow the investigation through to its conclusion. I must interview the suspect under caution and with armed guards at the earliest opportunity.”
The colonel sighed. He looked out of the window next to him, over the blue sky and scattered white clouds. “Our division is engaged at this moment in a battle against the French. The outcome is not yet known since details are not forthcoming. You may need to go to Belgium to interview him there, since the war is continuing. I shall grant you permission to go to our headquarters in Liege and it will be up to the commander there whether you will be allowed to continue on.”
Farben breathed out in relief. At last!
When he got back to the car he caught Gertrude applying red lipstick to her lips. She hastily stopped, pressed her lips together, then got out and opened the door for the policeman. “Success, Herr Farben?” she asked in her husky voice.
“Yes. We are to report to Liege.”
“Liege? That is hundreds of kilometers away.”
“I know that. We will need travel permits. Drive back to Berlin and I shall see if we can get those into Belgium. It is a war zone. Are you cleared to travel to these sorts of zones?”
“Yes, Herr Farben. I have clearance.”
Farben settled into his seat and raised an eyebrow. “Something I would not have expected of a mere driver from the Justice Department. No offense of course, Gertrude.”
She looked up at the rear-view mirror briefly. “None taken, Herr Farben. My superiors thought your investigations may take you to sensitive areas, given that this is a case involving the Wehrmacht. So,” she shrugged before engaging the Mercedes into first gear, “I have a variety of passes. Nothing like the Gestapo of course.”
“Of course,” Farben said, looking up at the back of her head from under his eyebrows. Was she Gestapo? It wouldn’t be beyond the realms of possibility, the secret police planting a young, pretty woman on him to keep a check on his activities. She did look the perfect recruit poster image for the service.
Gertrude smirked to herself and then concentrated on the route back to Berlin.
* * *
The panzer was fixed by late afternoon and it was with some relief the crew got back into the armored beast and made their way, along with a number of similarly newly repaired panzers, across country to the north-west to where the new camp was. A group of dark shapes met them as night was falling, camouflaged from the air under trees or with netting thrown over them.
Gus threw open his hatch, hauled himself out and emitted a thunderous fart. “Ah! That’s better, didn’t want to gas my comrades in war there. Now, where’s the sunken bath and the topless masseuses?”
The soldiers lounging in the darker shadows of the panzers and tree boughs chuckled and
watched as the new arrivals wearily made their way to the center of the camp where the command post was, hidden under netting.
Heidemann raised a weary hand in welcome and resumed chatting to another man, another captain, while sitting on an oil drum. Langer presented himself to the colonel, an Oberst Kuhn. Kuhn, a stocky man with a thick neck and close-cropped hair, was the perfect image of a Prussian officer. “Ah, Langer, I see you survived today’s fight. Good. What is the state of your panzer and crew?”
“The panzer is fine; it had damage to the track and wheels. Needs fuel, ammunition and a proper check-up. My crew is fine, they just need a rest and food.”
“Your panzer will be seen to tonight. We have been speaking to General Hoepner and impressing upon him the shortage of fuel. Much of our attack today failed due to a lack of this. Tomorrow you and the rest of your regiment will attack here,” and his stubby finger jabbed down onto a spot ahead of them where a river flowed north across their path. “The villages of Orp le Grande and Orp le Petit. Defended by the 3rd DLM with dug-in infantry, anti-tank, Somuas and Hotchkiss tanks.”
“A fairly risky attack, sir.”
“Nevertheless we are to continue to attack. Our orders are clear, Langer. We are the diversionary attack, and therefore we must make it look as if we are the big danger. We must keep on pushing the enemy back. Their best army is up against us, and General Hoepner has the utmost confidence in us!”
“Sir,” Langer clicked his heels.
“Good. Now get some food.”
Langer saluted and found his crew, by the simple expedient of following his nose and ears; the smell of cooking and the sound of Gus consuming a week’s supply of sausages. Somehow he had managed to get hold of a bottle of Calvados. “Where did you get that?” the eternal mercenary demanded.
“A French tank, abandoned on the battlefield today. Didn’t I tell you? Ah well, no matter, I’ve got it open now. I suspect you wish for some?” he waved the dark bottle at him.