Casca 40: Blitzkrieg

by Tony Roberts

  His hands slid up under her skirt and roamed over her thighs and ass. Nice. He pulled her undies off and carried her to the bed. Time for action. He threw her onto her back, spread her legs and quickly unbuttoned his trousers and threw them down round his ankles. Such a romantic, he was.

  He wasted no time and her eyes went wide. The bed creaked, damn it, but hell it was too late to worry about that. He went to work at her hard and fast. Her legs wrapped round his back and she threw her head back, enjoying the moment.

  Gus was deep in the pleasure of the meal. The seventeen year old girl was working doubly hard to keep the German crew satisfied with drink and food. They ate like a whole army of men! Did all Germans eat like this? No wonder many of them were so big.

  Teacher ate more sensibly, restraining himself. He savored the taste of the pate, spreading it on his buttered bread. War tended to make such things scarce, so he had no idea how many more times he would enjoy these things. The memory would stay long with him, and he would write home and tell his beloved about the experience.

  Steffan and Felix had never seen so much food. They gorged on bread, cheese, pate and the acidic wine that was passed to them. Suddenly the other waitress was there and looking a little flustered and hot, but she picked up the empty plates and took them indoors, ignoring the long searching look from her sister.

  Her grandfather was at the bar, carefully checking the labels of the bottles, so she passed through and went up the stairs, having some idea of what had happened. The scar-faced tankman was there, buttoning on his jacket. She stood in the doorway, appraising him.

  Langer saw her. “Yes, mademoiselle?”

  “You think you can get away with what you have just done?”

  Oh? What has the little minx got in mind? “Depends on what you are going to do about it,” Langer said.

  She shut the door, sauntered up to him, then took hold of his hands and placed them on her breasts. “My sister will not get all the pleasure by herself!”

  Langer grinned. Two? Why not! He took hold of her and reckoned he had enough strength to cope with this one.

  The proprietor came out and placed two bottles on the table, then looked around. “Where is the scar-faced one?” he asked the nineteen year old.

  “He wanted the conveniences,” she answered. “He asked me.”

  “Oh,” the man said. “Well don’t just stand there, get your sister, wherever she is, and keep these men happy.”

  “I am doing that, grandpapa,” she smiled and watched as he returned indoors. “Oh, how happy he is!” and she sniggered.

  Langer returned to the table, tired but with that post-coital feeling of pleasure surrounding him. He was famished, too. Giving two eager young women the attention of his loins definitely made him hungry.

  “And where the hell have you been, you deserter?” Gus asked between mouthfuls of salami. “I’ve almost died of starvation.”

  Teacher eyed Langer. “Feeding his hunger, I have no doubt.”

  Steffan looked puzzled. “Uh?”

  Felix leered and elbowed Steffan in the ribs. “See how pleased those two tarts look?”

  “Eh?” the loader looked at the two girls. They did seem like a pair of cats that had just had the cream.

  “You horny bastard,” Gus said with grudging respect. “Both of them?”

  Langer shrugged and leaned back, stretching out his legs under the table. If this was how the war was going to be, he might actually enjoy some of it for a change.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Liege was still recovering from the German invasion. Confusion was everywhere. Some broken pieces of masonry lay in the streets, having been pushed away from the roads by the military vehicles that rumbled past in an almost continual procession – half-tracks, trucks, horse-drawn wagons, armored cars and staff cars.

  Military policeman in their white gloves and sporting whistles and sticks waved frantically at the vehicles, rushing them through the town. New signs in German had been hastily nailed up on signposts, most of them hand-written. Huge red flags with the black swastika in the white circle hung from the important buildings and the townsfolk were going about their lives with their heads down, not wishing to look their conquerors in the eye.

  Erich Farben and Gertrude had found the journey into Belgium a slow affair. Papers had been checked and re-checked, for one never knew whether spies were about. Eventually after a delay on the edge of town they had been allowed to pass and the Mercedes was parked with an appropriate guard standing by it outside the town hall, a large stone construction with pillars and wide steps that dominated the square in the center of Liege.

  It had been appropriated by the fledgling administration of the military occupying power, and smartly-dressed soldiers stood everywhere, rifles slung over shoulders, their coal-scuttle helmets gleaming. None of these parade-ground soldiers had seen any fighting; these were those who followed in after the hard work had been done by the proper soldiers.

  Farben stood before the desk of an immaculately-dressed oberst, complete with gleaming hair and monocle. Gertrude stood by the doors, flanked by two guards who stole glances at her figure, wishing they were off duty and they could take this hubsche mädchen to some roadside café, get her drunk and then take her back to their barracks to hump her senseless. Ah well, such is the duty of a soldier’s life.

  “I think it would be very difficult to locate this man at the moment, Herr Farben,” the oberst said with a sigh. “As you can see,” he indicated the piles of files on the floor to either side of his desk, “we have many things to sort out before we can get properly organized. The situation at the front is confused and very fluid. You would be chasing him for some time and perhaps you may never find him until the fighting stops – he could even be a casualty and in some hospital somewhere or dead. Have you considered that?”

  “I am aware of the difficulties, but my mission is to interrogate this man to decide whether he is the man I want for murder or not. If he is the murderer and is allowed to remain free, he may murder again, you understand what I’m saying, Herr Oberst?”

  “I am, Herr Farben, but I really cannot allow you to continue any further until Belgium is pacified. We do not know whether any Belgian army units remain at large between here and the front line or not. Holland is still fighting to the north although it is likely they will surrender any day now and there are of course the French and British forces to the west and south. It is far too confused to allow you and this young lady here to drive into dangerous areas. I’m sure you appreciate my reluctance.”

  Farben sighed. “I am disappointed you are taking this attitude. I do have here a letter of authority from Gruppenfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich. Here.”

  He handed over the letter that Gertrude had managed to get him, which he had been surprised about, but was grateful, for it gave him almost unlimited power to go wherever he wished. He had held back up to now in presenting it, but faced with this brick wall, he had decided now was the time. Heydrich was just about the most powerful man in the Reich as far as policing and security went; although his direct power was more inclined towards the Gestapo, his job as head of security also included the regular police. Rumors were these days that Heydrich was moving onto another project, some secret thing not many had any idea of, and Himmler was taking over the Gestapo. Be that as it may, this letter of authority, signed personally by Heydrich, was an edict from the Son of God. Farben had asked Gertrude how she’d gotten it and she had merely stated she’d asked for a security clearance in the war zone and he’d given her that. Not for the first time Farben wondered just what her role really was and who she really worked for.

  The oberst looked at the order and his hands shook slightly. “Ah, then in that case Herr Farben, I have no objection to granting you permission to go look for the 3rd Division. Be mindful though that they are in the vanguard of our forces and are battling at this very moment with the enemies of the Reich. I shall give you a military escort of two motorcycles and
a truck; it’s the least I can do for someone working for the Gruppenfuhrer. Please wait here while I arrange it.”

  The man got up hurriedly and left, sweat filming his face. Farben sympathized with him. To have almost refused a man who had the blessing from one of the top men in the Party was a narrow escape from who knows what fate? The policeman guessed if he’d asked for a regiment of soldiers he’d’ve been granted it. No matter, two motorcycles and a truck of men should be enough. He wondered if he should allow their officer, probably a lieutenant, to travel in his car. He glanced at Gertrude who looked at him without any expression. Just who the hell was she? She was a closed book, an enigma. Once he got this affair done and dealt with, he may well try to look into her background, but carefully. He had an idea she was a favored employee of the Gruppenfuhrer.

  * * *

  If the battle at Hannut had been tough, then the fight at Gembloux was twice as hard. Langer and his men had been rounded up from the café, more than a little worse for wear through wine and a hearty meal, by a humorless Headhunter squad and herded into a truck and made to follow a convoy out of the village to a camp beyond where the panzers that had been damaged in battle were being fixed, theirs included.

  Langer had been dressed down for allowing a lack of discipline to creep into his crew which he stoically took, staring above Oberst Kuhn’s shoulders as he was ticked off. The fact his crew could have done little else was beside the point; too many jealous officers had marched past through the village seeing the five men being fed and watered seemingly sitting on their butts when they should have been rampaging through the ranks of the perfidious French and Belgians.

  Suitably berated, Langer waited in his turret staring from the thick woods they had spent the night under cover of. He didn’t give a flying damn what Kuhn or the others thought. He was ten times a better soldier than they were and knew that in time all their bullshit would count for nothing; they’d be dead and he’d be carrying on fighting more wars for other people in new causes. He watched as the artillery pounded the prepared positions behind a railroad that ran across their line of attack. Their objective was to take the villages of Perbais and Ernage and spill out beyond the town of Chastre. Once beyond that, they’d be free to roll up the entire French force and take the Gap. After that there was nothing to stop them moving onto the Channel.

  Stukas droned overhead and began their distinctive wailing as they dived down on the defenders, enduring artillery shot and other anti-aircraft fire. Bombs erupted, shells exploded. Earth, concrete, stone, brick and flesh went skywards, but the advancing schutzen were still finding it hard to make headway. The French forces contained Moroccan troops, so it was said. Tough bastards, Langer knew from his time in the Rif Mountains. He’d fought them while part of the French Foreign Legion. They’d murder you for a water flask if they felt so inclined.

  “Not going to be easy today, is it?” Teacher said softly, peering out from the side hatch below Langer. “We’re supposed to wait for them to clear the villages, then exploit the break and counter any French armor move. Can’t see it, myself.”

  “Neither can I, Teacher,” Langer admitted, studying the smoke and flashes in the distance. “They’re too well dug in.”

  “I think we ought to move south to Sedan,” Gus announced, reinforcing his announcement with a mighty belch. “At least there we’re making progress, unlike here where we’re bashing our heads against a brick wall.”

  “Guderian and Rommel would have trouble against this lot, don’t go blaming Hoepner,” Langer said. “He’s got fewer panzers and tougher defenses to fight against. Let’s not forget we’re here pinning the best French army down while Guderian cuts through a load of shit further south.”

  “I want a transfer,” Gus pouted. “They’ll get to Paris and their willing girlies first at this rate!”

  “There may be plenty in Brussels, Gus,” Felix pointed out, chewing on a hunk of stale bread. “I’ve never been to Brussels.”

  “Doesn’t compare to Paris,” Langer said offhandedly, his mind drifting back to 1815 and the campaign of Wellington against Napoleon’s last throw for power. Belgium always seemed to be the place armies fought, no matter what war. No wonder it was sometimes called ‘the cockpit of Europe’.

  “Where is it you haven’t been, Carl?” Teacher asked. “You’re one hell of a widely traveled man, aren’t you? Your parents diplomats or something?”

  “Something like that – before they died.” Langer had difficulty in remembering them so far back. Plague had taken care of them before he’d been fully grown. He’d grown up fast enough after that – the legion he’d enrolled in had taken care of that.

  The earphones crackled into life. “Alright, let’s get ready – orders for us to advance,” he told his crew. All the other panzer crews were springing into life, vanishing down hatches which were clanging shut. Engines burst into throaty life and the unmistakable clanking of tracks filled the woods as the company prepared to advance on the French lines. The infantry had tried, and were getting nowhere. Now it was the turn of armor.

  The land fell away from the woods towards the railroad, and the villages beyond had been turned into mini-fortresses by the French and Moroccan troops. Shell damage, bomb craters, bullet holes, smashed barricades all riddled the area, but there were plenty of the defenders left. Pits, lengths of iron girders and other hazards littered the ground as they advanced in a staggered formation.

  Langer glanced left and right through his sights. There were too many German bodies lying ahead of them. Panzer IIs and IIIs roared on towards the railroad where the schutzen were taking cover, then climbed the embankment and topped the rise.

  That was when all hell broke loose.

  The ground shook to explosions and metal screamed past in lethal bunches. Panzers were hit, some bursting into flame, others taking the blows and staggering on. “Shit,” Gus said, wrenching on a lever, swinging the tank to one side. “They’ve got us spread-eagled like an old whore.”

  A glancing blow shook the panzer and they plunged down the other side of the embankment, zig-zagging. A battery of anti-tank guns stood just off to the right. Felix peppered the position with machine-gun fire, cutting down a few of the crew, and Teacher sent an HE round into the emplacement, sending sandbags and crew up into the air, torn asunder.

  Smoke billowed up all round from burning tanks, destroyed emplacements and the occasional structure that was alight. There was no room to maneuver and men killed each other at close range, often shooting at a friend by mistake in the confusion.

  A Hotchkiss rolled past and Teacher sent a shot into its rear end, shattering the engine. The two-man crew spilled out and threw themselves onto the ground as their vehicle caught fire. Langer swung his sights and looked for the next danger. His blood ran cold as a huge metal shape rolled into sight, emerging from behind a long, low wall that was crumbling from the incessant hail of shot. “Char B, left!”

  “Oh, Christ,” Gus answered and brought the panzer to a halt, then slammed it into reverse.

  The Char B had two guns, a turret mounted 47mm and a hull-mounted 75mm howitzer, a monster of a gun. The 75 boomed and if Gus hadn’t have moved then, it would have cut through the panzer like a knife through butter. The shell missed narrowly. The turret swung.

  Gus swung the panzer round and weaved past a burning gun pit. The Char B heaved itself through the wall and began to chase them. The turret spat at them. The impact deafened them. “Fuck!” Gus exclaimed, shaking his head. “Where did that hit?”

  “Turret,” Steffan said, opening his jaw to unblock his ears. “Right behind me.”

  “We have a hole,” Langer said, soberly looking at a small crack that had been punched into their turret by the near miss. It could so easily have broken in and blown them up. He returned his attention to his sights. The Char B was backed up by two more French leviathans – Somuas by the look of them through the haze, smoke and confusion from the wildly moving panzer. Langer decided to c
all for help for sooner or later one of them would get a clear shot on them.

  He got a rapid acknowledgement and six panzers converged on the position from three sides, guns blasting away at the French positions, carving a swathe of destruction. One panzer didn’t make it, brewing up after an anti-tank shell struck it in the hull, killing all five crewmen. Langer saw the position that had been responsible and barked to Teacher to take it out. The gunner zoomed in as Gus held his course for a few seconds, then the 37mm crashed straight into the gun, knocking it over in a cloud of brown smoke and debris. Gus ran straight over the wrecked position, flattening it into the dirt. French gunners scattered in panic, some raising their hands in the confusion, but when no infantry appeared to back the panzers up, they put them back down again and ran for the nearest village.

  The panzer staggered again and this time Gus swore and slammed the levers straight. “Engine’s fucked! They’ve hit it. Out!”

  Langer snapped the situation over the radio hurriedly before grabbing his MP38 and a couple of spare clips, mindful of the last time he’d been out, and threw himself down to the floor which was now deserted. Smoke was beginning to fill the interior of the tank, and he used Steffan’s escape hatch to bale out, lunging headfirst over the rim and plunging to the ground, his arms and legs tucked in.

  Bullets spat past from the enraged French soldiers and Langer rolled into cover, the broken remains of the gun position they’d just flattened. A half crushed French gunner lay at the bottom, his guts squashed out all over the ground. The expression on his face wasn’t that pleasant, either.

  Langer quickly glanced left and right. Gus was in the same hole as was Felix. “Where’s Teacher and Steffan?”

  “Under the panzer,” Gus jerked his thumb behind him.

  Langer swore and scrambled to the edge of the position. A Frenchman shot at him from behind a broken wall and the bullet narrowly missed him. Langer cursed and ducked involuntarily. He leveled his MP38 and sent a quick burst at the wall, then noted the panzer’s position, beginning to burn twenty feet away. “Teacher, Steffan – get out from there! It’s going to go up!”