by Tony Roberts
Steffan was chuckling now, covering his eyes. Teacher was shaking his head. “I’m in the company of head cases,” he said to himself.
“Well wipe the worst of it off and get back! We’ll have more to worry about in a minute if a dirty huge Somua comes along for a play!” Langer shouted.
There came more grunting, swearing and sounds of rubbing. Next moment a soiled black wehrmacht jacket went sailing through the air to land in the river. Gus came stamping into view, his face red with anger. He hauled himself up and crashed into the seat, slamming the hatch shut.
“Phaw!” Felix wrinkled his nose.
“Shut up! Shut the fucking fuck up!” Gus snarled and jerked the panzer into motion angrily.
Felix rolled his eyes and glanced behind him. From his position it was difficult to catch anyone’s eye.
Langer detected the aroma of feces and decided to act fast lest anyone else incurred the wrath of Gus. “Get us to the battle, Gus. Sounds as if the others are having a hard time.”
The panzer roared into the hawthorn bush, stopped, reversed, spun, then rolled off again. Teacher and Steffan exchanged looks and both turned to Langer.
“Alright, Gus, you’ve killed the bush, now let us get on with the war.”
Gus muttered angrily and drove forward, the stench of his waste filling the tank. Teacher pulled his shirt up to cover his nose. Langer concentrated on the periscope to see what was ahead and direct things. The land curved with the river and a road joined them, following the course of the Petit Gette, first to the right, then in a quarter circle round to the left. The banks were grassy, dotted with tall grasses, reeds and the occasional stunted tree or shrub.
Smoke billowed from tanks burning on both sides of the river, and there were other vehicles stopped with their crews taking cover in the lee, away from the action. The village wasn’t too far away and French tanks and anti-tank guns were putting up a barrage, with infantrymen dug in on either side of the road, sending machine gun fire at the cowering crews.
“Teacher, anti-tank gun, garden fence, sandbags, to the right of the telegraph pole.”
“Got it. Steffan, HE.”
The shell was put in the breech and Teacher aimed deliberately. Gus, without being told, wrenched the tank round to face the French position, putting the thickest armor to their front. Even so, the French guns would probably go through it at the range they were, around 250 yards. A Panzer IV was sending in high explosive shells repeatedly at the French positions, roaring up and down, trying to put the gunners off. Fountains of dirt erupted from the ground close by but the IV had a charmed life.
Langer’s tank had crept up un-noticed and now Teacher sent his shot straight into the sandbagged emplacement, sending it exploding up and outwards in a spectacular fireball. The anti-tank gun toppled over onto its side and figures of men were seen flying out from the impact.
A Somua’s turret swung round. Langer spotted it. “Gus, Somua at ten o’clock, in front of that café. Move!”
“See it,” Gus snapped and hurled the tank backwards away from the superior gun. The shell spat from the 47mm and flew harmlessly past to explode on the distant slope.
“No point in shooting at it from this range; our shells would bounce off it.” Langer noted the advance of the other tanks had stalled. “We’ve got to clear that Somua out of there somehow.” He radioed the situation.
In response the IV swung round and headed for the village. “Shit,” Felix said, “they’re going to take them all on!”
“He needs help. If he can take that Somua out then the way’s clear for us,” Langer commented. “Gus, attack! Head for those A-T’s!”
The III clattered out from behind a burning Panzer II and its charred crew and went for the other anti-tank positions, Felix sending in a stream of bullets from the hull-mounted machine gun. Shots spattered over the ground, sending up small puffs of dirt. Chips of stone from walls flew up. Wooden fences broke, and bullets rattled into the shields of the anti-tank guns. Three gunners span from the impacts, screaming in agony, and fell to the ground. Teacher demanded an AP shell from Steffan and shot through the shield of the nearest gun, wrecking it instantly and cutting the man behind it in half, sending his entrails out in a gruesome pattern.
The IV spat shot after shot from its short-barreled 75mm at the Somua. Even the thick armor of the French tank couldn’t cope with that. One shell crashed through the hull, exploding deep inside, turning the crew into jelly. Smoke and flames rose from the wreck, drawing cheers from the German infantry and tankmen, and they all rose up or broke from cover and converged on Jauche from two directions.
The IV shook and spun, one track unraveling. “They’ve been hit!” Felix shouted.
“A-T, hole in the wall of the café,” Gus said almost at once.
“Got it,” Teacher said and swung the turret.
“One shot, Teacher, HE,” Langer barked, peering at the position.
Teacher sent the 37mm round into the building. Smoke and dust billowed from the explosion and the wall bulged outwards, cracked, and collapsed, revealing the guts of the building, the beams and floorboards ending in broken shreds where the wall had given way.
A bang shook the panzer and they all cursed, grabbing for the nearest support. “What was that?” Langer demanded, his face glued to the periscope.
“Hotchkiss, to the right,” Felix said ruefully. The impact had been close to him. He looked dubiously at a new bulge in the hull. “Lucky it wasn’t one of those Somuas!”
The panzer swung and the smaller Hotchkiss came into view, to the right of the last building of the village. The short-barreled 37mm gun was too weak to penetrate the III’s armor, but the III’s 37mm had more penetrative power because of the longer gun barrel and the Hotchkiss’s armor was thinner. Teacher’s AP shot smashed through the hull at the front and there came a flash of red and the tank shuddered, then smoke came billowing up through the hole and the hatch edges.
Another shell screamed narrowly past and exploded against a hulk already burning. “Where did that ome from?” Langer demanded, frantically looking at the village.
“Right – there are ten French tanks coming at us!” Gus said, an edge in his voice. “And we’re in their sights!”
“Shit – get us out of here, now!”
“Into the village?” Gus said. “We can’t go back or left!”
“Go for it! Through that café!”
The Panzer III shot forward, belching exhaust fumes. Three shots came their way. One glanced off the turret, shaking the tank, another missed and flew across the river to shatter a large tree and the last hit the Panzer IV, bouncing off the turret. Langer swung the sights and saw half a dozen Somuas and a similar number of Hotchkiss tanks churning up the fields to the north, fanning out and heading for the village. The Panzer IV, helpless, decided to trade shots. Its first shell literally opened up a Hotchkiss, spreading the hull armor out in a crazy pattern. The tank stopped, then exploded in a huge fireball, the turret arcing lazily up into the air.
Three Somuas turned to deal with the IV. As Gus barreled into the café, smashing in the remnants of the wood and plaster wall, Langer saw the IV explode into pieces. “Poor bastards – at least they bought us time! Let’s use it.”
“Where now?” Gus asked, wrestling with the levers.
“Straight through. This place is a wreck anyway,” Langer said. “Everyone keep your eyes alert; we don’t want any unwelcome surprises.”
Gus smashed the tank through the opposite wall and they emerged into a side street, shedding debris and detritus in its wake. The panzer swung right and roared down the street towards the intersection.
As Gus drove the tank out into the sunshine they literally struck a Somua in the side.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Everyone staggered or was thrown forward in their seats. Langer’s chest struck the gun painfully. “Reverse!” he croaked. “Teacher – AP!”
The panzer backed up quickly as the Somua’s turr
et began turning in their direction. Steffan slammed the shell home and Teacher didn’t really have to aim. At a range of twenty yards the shell buried itself into the turret and blew the commander and his turret apart. The gun dropped limply and smoke billowed out from the wreck.
“Go through the next building!” Langer snapped.
The panzer swung left and climbed a low wall, crushing the stonework, flattened out and then rumbled into the wall of the building, knocking it in under its weight. The building creaked and began to fall as the armored monster plowed through the ground floor, wrecking walls, furniture, mirrors, a neatly painted balustrade and a side table with a vase resting upon it. Vive la France.
The tank burst out the far side as the house began to slowly collapse behind it. They were in a paved square with exits in all directions. A fountain stood in the center on a raised dais, and a church dominated the far side, its wall rising up like a cliff face. Three French tanks were already there together with infantry milling about, carrying machine guns, pulling anti-tank guns into position and dragging hastily erected barricades across the entry points.
“We’ve caught them before they can prepare themselves,” Langer said. “Teacher, Somua to the right and ahead. We’ve got it from behind!”
“It’s mine,” Teacher said grimly, sweat running down his face. “Steffan, AP quickly!”
Another shell was slammed home and Teacher sent a shot into the engine compartment. The Somua began to burn and the crew flung open the hatches and bailed out. Langer ignored them; they were unimportant. “Next tank?” he demanded.
“Somua, left. Bastard’s already aiming for us!” Gus yelled. Without prompting he threw the panzer forward and sent the wild-eyed French infantry scattering in panic. Felix yelled in glee and sent a chattering burst of machine gun fire amongst them, sending a dozen spinning and falling in agony.
A tremendous hammer blow struck them and they all cursed or braced themselves for the explosion. None came. “They’ve hit the rear of the turret – blown it away!” Steffan said, pointing at a new hole behind Langer.
“Our equipment and food!” Felix exclaimed, twisting round.
“Food? Right, that fucking does it!” Gus snarled. “They’re paying to replace that!” He wrenched on the levers, spinning the panzer round.
Langer gripped his hand hold tightly. “Teacher, get that Somua. Gus, keep us away from its gun. At this range it’ll open us up like a can opener.”
“What about the other tank?” Felix asked, glancing through his slit.
“Hotchkiss, by the far side near the church,” Langer snapped. He was more worried about the Somua, which was chasing them, hoping to get a clear shot. The trouble was Gus was driving like a man possessed, running over anti-tank guns, sending the infantry fleeing in all directions, using the destroyed Somua as cover. The Somua couldn’t shoot as the commander was worried about hitting his own men or the villagers. He would have to have a clear shot.
The Hotchkiss now fired, its low velocity gun dangerous at such close proximity, but the shell struck the hull armor and deflected up, narrowly missing Teacher’s sights. The gunner exclaimed and jerked back as a dark blur spat past. “That was close!” he said.
“Nearly caught that one in my teeth!” Gus said. “Do me a favor Teacher, kill that bastard will you?”
Teacher needed no second bidding. The 37 sent a shell into the lightly armored French vehicle which burst into flame. The two-man crew didn’t appear. The remaining Somua fired in panic and a house beyond the panzer rocked to the impact. Steffan let loose a machine gun burst at the Somua which was swinging round trying to keep the German tank in its sights, and the bullets rattled off the hull and turret.
The next moment German soldiers appeared at the square’s edge and began laying down a curtain of shots which sent the remaining French troops diving for cover. The Somua commander lost his nerve and the tank spun and rumbled as fast as it could away past the church, pursued by rifle fire.
Langer puffed out his cheeks and leaned back. “Glad that’s all over. Let’s get out and check the damage.” They cautiously opened their hatches and peered out. The only people moving now were the field grey men of the Wehrmacht, using cover to scuttle across the rubble-strewn and body-filled square. Flames crackled from burning tanks and buildings and the acrid smell of burning filled their nostrils. Langer slung his MP38 over his shoulder and took a look behind him. The locker fixed to the rear of the turret had been ripped off and all that was left there now were a few torn pieces of thin metal. A few feet different and it would have hit him.
Steffan was examining the dent in the turret close to his side and was whistling in amazement. Teacher began to fill his pipe, sat on the edge of the hull by his open hatch, and sucked in air that was not full of diesel fumes or Gus’ feces. “Where is Gus?” he asked, suddenly remembering the fouled driver.
“He went off to the far side of the square,” Felix jerked a thumb in the direction the panzer was facing. “Said something about collecting what’s due.” He shrugged, puzzled.
A lieutenant came up to them, his eyes watchful for enemy activity. “Are you broken down?”
“Assessing the damage now, Herr Leutnant,” Langer saluted. “We lost a few gaining the village.”
“So I saw, yes. We’re securing the village. Be aware it may not yet be safe.” He moved off, waving a squad to follow him into the church, keen to secure the tallest building in the settlement.
Langer got onto the radio and reported they needed repairs and resupplying. Heidemann acknowledged but said that would have to wait as the French tanks were still contesting the ground outside the village and things were heated at the moment. Langer signed off and sauntered past the clawed hands of a dead French soldier pinned underneath an upturned anti-tank gun, looking as if his cadaver was reaching up for help. Langer had seen it all before and ignored it. Death came in many shapes and forms. The only ghosts that plagued him were in his sleep, and then only those whom he’d known or killed personally. This poilou was not amongst them.
Steffan paled and looked away as he followed. Being in a tank was different to facing the raw world of combat outside. It seemed more primitive, more animalistic. He shivered.
Langer stopped and put his hands on his hips in amazement. Before him, seated outside a restaurant, underneath a parasol, was Gus, being served by a nervous looking owner and his two assistants. Piles of pate, bread and cheeses were being heaped on a plate before him.
“What in the name of the gods are you doing?” Langer demanded.
“What do you think, Herr Feldwebel? I am famished, and since the enemy shot our supplies off I’m merely gaining compensation.”
“These are Belgians, not French,” Langer observed.
“They speak the same language; they’re on the same side.” Gus shrugged and troughed a huge slice of bread into his maw, lined with a slab of cheese that would have deflected a Somua’s shot.
Langer chuckled in disbelief. “You’re not right, you know, Gustav. Still, Heidemann’s told us to sit it out till we get the mechanics to look at the panzer.” He looked round and waved Teacher, Felix and Steffan to sit with Gus. He looked at the proprietor and his assistants, two young girls. “Bonjour, m’sieur. I trust this beast has not taken advantage of your hospitality?”
The man, an elderly individual with a huge Hindenburg-type moustache and sideburns, looked startled initially at the German speaking fluent Walloon-French, but then shrugged in that Gallic manner. “He seemed hungry and was very – ah – persuasive. How could I refuse, especially seeing so many of your countrymen are here now?”
Langer surveyed the passing groups of soldiers briefly. “You are right, m’sieur. And these are your daughters?”
“Grand-daughters! They are seventeen and nineteen. Their parents, my daughter and son-in-law, are in Brussels. They were here for the summer. When the war broke out, we were stuck here; the military took all the vehicles and the roads were full. Ah
, I remember the last war. I served your countrymen then as well.”
Langer nodded. He flipped open his wallet and passed the man a few notes. Reichsmarks. “This should pay for the food and drink for my crew, even the amounts he eats!”
The proprietor swiftly pocketed the notes. “You are very kind, sir. I trust your comrades are as equally generous in the months to come.”
“I hope so too. You have a decent wine in your cellar? It would look fine on the table.”
“I shall go and see,” he smiled and left.
Langer had a sense of déjà vu once more. Paris, 1914. On leave with Dave and the others from the front. They had taken advantage of the café owner’s wife and daughter then. He admired the two girls who were serving, then decided the nineteen year old, a short, dark haired woman, was the one for him. He winked at her and glanced up at the upper storey window.
She hesitated, looked him over, then sidled up to him. “He would go mad.”
“A quickie?”
The girl smiled, liking the big, muscular man with the scar and gorgeous light blue eyes. There was this je ne sais quois about him that made her tingle and her legs shake. It was war and who knows what would happen the next week, or even tomorrow? She led him into the darker interior, then right, through a doorway, left and up the bare wooden stairs as lightly as she could, untying her white apron as she went.
There were a number of doors along a bare boarded passage and she took him by the hand and led him into the second bedroom, shutting the door. He was already unclipping his belt and she threw her apron onto the bed that dominated the middle of the room. His black beret was tossed carelessly after it and she began unbuttoning her black dress top.
Langer reckoned they had about ten minutes before the old man returned and wondered where his grand-daughter had gotten to along with the scar-faced French speaking German. Her dress ended at her knees where it flared out, so he took hold of her and pressed her up against the wall and began kissing her ardently. She responded eagerly, her hands running over his serge uniform, emitting small noises of pleasure.