Casca 40: Blitzkrieg

by Tony Roberts

  “We’re pinned down!” Teacher’s desperate voice came to him over the throaty engine sounds and shooting.

  “Gus, Felix, cover them to the right. I’ll take care of the left.” He raised his head cautiously. He saw the French soldier raise his rifle again and this time Langer’s three second burst ripped into the poilou’s chest, flinging him back. “Teacher – Steffan – go!”

  The two men emerged, scrambling as fast as they could, eyes wild and faces strained with desperation. A tank came rolling into view and Langer emptied his magazine at it. It was a futile gesture but fortunately before it could cut down the two men a Panzer IV appeared and slammed a shell into the French tank’s hull, blowing it up from the inside. The top hatch of the IV opened and a black-clad German tankman popped his head up. “Get behind me; we’re pulling back!”

  Langer grabbed Gus. “Come on! Follow me! All of you, c’mon!”

  The five men raced to the other side and ran at a half crouch through a ruined hedgerow. A shot spat past Langer’s head and he rammed a new clip into his machine pistol and swung it to his right. The Panzer IV was reversing back rapidly and they made for it as fast as they could. Two French soldiers popped up from a foxhole, aiming at the hated tankmen. Langer sprayed the air with an entire magazine’s worth, sending fountains of dirt and wood chipping up all round the two enemy soldiers. One flung his rifle up and clutched his throat, trying to stem the sudden spurt of red erupting from it, and fell back into the hole. The other ducked and remained out of sight, probably out of fear and a need to see to his comrade.

  They got to the panzer and climbed aboard. They got out of the way of the gun that was barking continuously at the French positions, as were the other retreating tanks. The infantry, too, were retreating. The attack had been rebuffed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  They rested that night in the woods, weary, aching, and with a feeling of loss. The enemy had proven too strong. The loss of their tank had been bad, too, but they weren’t the only ones. Over a hundred had been either destroyed or abandoned. Nobody knew what the French losses had been, but they hadn’t been broken and who knows what the next few days would bring.

  Langer rested after his meal, a mug of coffee steaming in his hand. Heidemann sat opposite him, his legs stretched out. The captain had been slightly wounded when his Befehlswagen – the command tank – had been struck. He’d lost his driver, but the rest had managed to get back. “What now, sir?”

  Heidemann opened one eye, then grunted. “We advance. I’ve heard the French are pulling out. They’ve checked us here but we’ve done our job; the group further south has taken Sedan and is cutting through the French countryside. They had little opposition, so I’m told.”

  “So the plan worked?”

  “So it seems. Holland had surrendered, too, by the way. Belgium won’t last long now. All we’ve got to do is to pursue the French back until they give up. They’re cut off from France now, as are the British.”

  “We’re without a panzer, captain.”

  “You’ll get a new one, or yours will be repaired if it isn’t found to be too badly damaged.”

  “Engine’s gone.”

  Heidemann shrugged. “Get some sleep, Langer. You’ll get new orders tomorrow, as will I. We’ll see then what the new day brings us.”

  The next morning they were driven to their panzer, a blackened ruin. They milled about for a while, touring the battlefield and wandering through the nearby village. The French had pulled out so quickly they’d left much of their ordnance where it had been. They’d upped and fled.

  “Well, if each defeat is like this, we can lose every battle and win the war,” Gus said, eyeing a nearby house with interest. “Hmmm….”

  “Uh, oh,” Felix said, “he’s on the scent of something.”

  “Drink, food or pussy,” Steffan said, grinning. “We ought to follow him,” he added as Gus lumbered into the debris-filled garden and stepped up to the broken front door. It was hanging off one hinge and one corner at the top showed the marks of a hit from a small shell – possibly a 20mm from a Panzer II. The windows were covered in wooden planks but bullet holes marked them.

  Langer waved the crew to follow Gus. Clearly the driver was on the hunt and Langer reckoned that if food and drink were on the menu then the rest of them ought to share it. If it was pussy, then Langer would have to put a stop to it. He wasn’t interested in any forcing unwilling women into sex sort of shit, and none of his crew would get up to that. If the woman was willing, then that was different. He’d have to make sure, though.

  The door was brushed aside almost as an afterthought by Gus and it crashed into the passageway within the gloomy interior. Steffan and Felix were close behind with Teacher and Langer following more leisurely, exchanging looks. The house had a living room and a kitchen, and a flight of stairs leading to the next floor.

  There was a cellar door underneath the stairs and Gus wrenched this open, splintering a bolt on the inside. He booted the door in and peered into the darkness. “Hey, you down there, come out, now!” A command like that always sounded harsh in German.

  “Gus, take it easy,” Langer said, his hands slowly making for the trigger of his MP38.

  “Worry not my nervous leader,” Gus announced, grinning. “I smell good wine!”

  “I don’t,” Steffan said sniffing the air and looking confused. “How can you?”

  Gus lit a length of paper and threw it into the void. There came an intake of breath and suddenly a flashlight switched on. The five Germans peered into the cellar to see a room crammed with wine racks and barrels. Three people huddled in fear in the center of the room on rudimentary wooden chairs. The man was holding the flashlight.

  Langer pushed to the front, his gun pointing at the floor. “The battle is over,” he said in French. “You can come out now.”

  “Please, do not shoot,” the man said in a shaking voice, his arm round a woman of approximately his own age. The third person was a teenage boy, looking at them with an unpleasant expression.

  “We won’t,” Langer reassured them. “Your wine?”

  “Please – it’s all we have. I’m a vintner. It’s our living. If you take it we’ll have nothing.”

  “That’s not for me to say,” Langer said. “I think more of us will be on the way. We’re off soon.”

  “A bottle each,” Gus said, eyeing the dark glass vessels with hungry eyes. “For morale purposes; we have, after all, lost our beloved panzer. I need cheering up.”

  “Gus, you’re incorrigible.” Langer waved the three out. The others stood back and the boy glared at each of them. Langer decided to have a word with him. He turned his back on the cellar. Teacher went after Gus who bored into the room like a torpedo. “What’s your name, boy?”

  The boy said nothing. His eyes were full of loathing. “Alright,” Langer said heavily, “you hate our guts. Fine. Just don’t do anything stupid, got it? You might think you’re doing something noble and glorious for Belgium,” the scarred soldier said with an edge to his voice, “but all that’ll achieve is you dead and your folks here either the same or put away in a prison camp, and those who’re coming after us aren’t ones to mess about with. We’re the soldiers, simple people with simple needs. The ones you’ve got to be really careful of are the administrators, those with time on their hands to think up some really nasty stuff. So for your folks’ sake, don’t do anything stupid.”

  The boy glared at Langer, and flinched as his father put a hand on his shoulder. “You heard him, Raoul, please help your mother and me to repair the mess.”

  Raoul sighed and turned away. The shame of the conquest of his village was clear for all to see. Langer shrugged and left the family to ponder on their lives while he dragged the others, with Teacher’s help, out of the cellar. Gus he reckoned had more than one bottle, while Felix and Steffan definitely had two each. Langer forced them to hand over one each to Teacher and himself, before he urged them all out. “I’d keep quiet
about being a vintner,” he advised the father, “or you’ll get plenty of these visits.”

  Outside they wandered along the street, bottle in one hand, gun in the other. Frightened faces stared out from behind half-open shutters or windows. Gunfire sounded in the distance but it wasn’t coming any closer.

  They were picked up on the far side of the village and driven to the new camp. Much of it was given over to gangs of mechanics trying to fix what seemed like hopeless cases; the panzers had been given a hell of a fight but some they were hopeful of saving.

  Heidemann waved at one forlorn looking III with shell holes in the hull and turret. “This is your new machine. Yes, yes, I know it looks a state, but the engine’s fine.”

  “What happened to the crew?” Langer asked.

  “Those holes? The repair crews took an hour to clear up the guts and brains from the sides and floor. They probably died instantaneously, lucky swine.”

  “Lucky?” Steffan said before he could help himself.

  Heidemann turned on him. “Soldier, I’ve got to write fifty-two letters today to families telling them their sons have died for the Fatherland. Another thirty-eight are in a serious condition; I’ve been on a walk around them at the field hospital. Burns, wounds; missing arms, half-shot away heads. Want me to show you? Those who died quickly are indeed lucky. And you, you’re unharmed. Count yourself lucky you have men like Beidemann and Langer here as crew mates.”

  Steffan stiffened and hung his head in shame. He saluted. “Sorry sir.”

  Heidemann returned the salute. “Carry on, Feldwebel. Get this panzer in working order by two o’clock; we’re to set off in pursuit by then.”

  “To where, sir?” Langer asked.

  “South-west. The French are running hard for their own border, abandoning Belgium. The British are falling back, too. Orders are to push hard for the Channel ports. Rommel is heading towards Amiens.”

  “Is he, by God?” Langer shook his head. Warfare was so different from the Great War, and that had only been a generation ago. Things were changing so fast these days; it was getting harder to keep up with them. What next – remote controlled wars? As Heidemann wandered off, escorted by a couple of assistants, Langer glanced at the panzer. The insignia on the turret was already half rubbed off with a thin covering of paint. The holes were edged with black. It really wasn’t fit for battle but the sudden lack of vehicles meant that anything that moved and could shoot was being pressed into service. “Felix, give it the once-over and make sure it does work. Gus, check that the engine and gears are sound. Teacher, you make sure it can shoot. Steffan, check the ammo situation; if we’re short I want to know now.”

  The crew wearily climbed up into the tank. “Aww shit,” Gus exclaimed, “they haven’t cleaned up the mess properly. Some poor bastard’s left his guts all over the floor.”

  “Leave the hatches open,” Langer said, peering down through the turret side hatch. There was some blood and pieces of uniform lying in a pile below the gun assembly. It stank. Muttering, the eternal mercenary sought out a camp orderly and ripped a piece off him. Within minutes a team of press-ganged Belgians turned up, complete with buckets and mops. Langer was disappointed to see young Raoul amongst them. “Opened your mouth, did you?” he said.

  Raoul scowled. “We will defeat you like we did the last time.”

  “I won’t argue with you, boy, but learn to keep quiet when you’re not winning. Hopefully we’ll be gone before long and things will return to something like normal. Now I want my vehicle cleaned up. Get the mess out of it.”

  The young Belgian muttered and resentfully clambered into the panzer and was passed a bucket. Gus sat on the edge of his hatch peering down, and the others sat on top of the armored vehicle. There came noises from within the panzer. “What’s going on?” Langer demanded.

  “The boy’s thrown up on top of the remains of Fritz,” Gus grinned. “He’s got twice as much to wipe up now.”

  Langer shook his head and looked away. What a mess. He thought the British were good at muddling things through, but the Germans seemed little better. Maybe it was the way of things these days. How would the Roman legions do with panzers? Now that was a thought – rumbling through the wilds of Germania or Parthia with tanks. He smiled weakly, then dismissed the idle speculation.

  Raoul emerged, white-faced and with a bucket full of something foul and evil smelling. He was helped down by his comrades and was helped away, shaking. He stopped and looked at Langer once. Langer held his glance. The boy looked down and allowed himself to be sent to the makeshift water tap to clean up.

  Langer grunted. Perhaps that little dish of reality might knock some sense into the boy. Blood, bones, guts and brains tended to have a sobering effect on people. The crew now piled into the panzer and the engine roared into life, blue-grey exhaust fumes belching into the air. The turret whirred and the panzer whirled on one track half circle, then went back again. A few clanks and knocks sounded, then Steffan leaned out from his position. “Sir, we’re short of HE.”

  Langer nodded. “Right. Any other issues?”

  “Gun seems to work alright,” Teacher announced.

  “Engine’s sluggish and we’ve got half a tank of gas.” Gus popped his head up. “Plenty of space for booze, though.”

  “Booze isn’t official or authorized, Gus,” Langer said, smiling.

  “That makes no difference to me. Two o’clock, you say?”

  Langer nodded. Gus cut the engine and heaved himself out, dusted himself down and ambled off, hands in his pockets. Teacher put his head out and looked at Langer wordlessly.

  “Say nothing, Teacher.”

  The gunner pulled a wry face. “I know, I know.”

  Langer sighed. “Felix, give the engine a real good look over, and the gears and transmission. I don’t want it breaking down the moment we charge into action.”

  Felix slid out of his position, wrench in hand. “On it already, sir.”

  The rest of the morning went by swiftly. The regiment was called together at noon and a large stand had been erected in the middle of the camp with a huge map pinned to it, with black markings written on it. Heidemann stood by the side and faced the sea of faces. He had an improvised pointer in his hand, a ripped off and whittled tree branch. “This is the situation. Yesterday the French checked our advance here,” he smacked the map loudly, “but the rapid advance further south by Army Group A has forced the enemy to withdraw south-west towards their own borders. Our orders are now to pursue the French towards Charleroi and Mauberge.” He pointed to the two cities in southern Belgium. “We don’t expect to encounter much resistance until we get close to the ports or the French border. The enemy have now realized our intention of trapping their best forces here in the north while we cut south of them to the channel. Intelligence believes that should Army Group A get to the channel ahead of the retreating enemy then the French and British will have no option but to either surrender or use the ports to try to escape. Our mission is two-fold.”

  The men waited while Heidemann moved his pointer westwards and smacked it against the west of Belgium.

  “We have to keep on pushing the enemy westwards, and we are to capture as many ports as we can. If we allow the enemy to move south they may yet escape the trap. Therefore if we threaten the ports, the British in particular will have to turn and fight to prevent us from taking them. Also if we take the ports of Calais, Boulogne, Dunkirk and Ostend, this will almost certainly force Belgium to capitulate as they will be totally isolated. Therefore the order is to attack, and to keep on attacking.” Heidemann nodded slowly at the expressions on the faces of his men. “Yes, I know you are all tired and have been on the move for six days now without a rest. Believe me, I feel your exhaustion. We have lost many friends and we are fewer than before, but the enemy is on the run and we must keep up the pressure. I am informed that they are close to collapse. Just five more days and we will have achieved the encirclement of two whole armies.”

>   Langer grunted. It was classic Prussian mentality; to execute massive encirclements. They’d done it many times before, most notably in 1870 at Sedan. Although he’d not been there, Langer remembered an old story about that campaign. On the eve of the French surrender, the trapped French emperor Napoleon III had been approached by his tired general who had informed him: ‘sir, we are in the chamber pot, and are about to be shat upon.’ So now they were about to do the same, but with tanks.

  The briefing over Langer returned to his crew. Felix was sat on the engine cover, oily, dirty, but with a satisfied look on his face. “All sorted, Carl. It was a bit loose, as expected of a beast like this that’s been on the go for this amount of time. Frankly I’m amazed we’ve got the number we still have. They weren’t designed to fight for a week.”

  “As long as it gets us where we want to go that’s all I want,” Langer replied, clapping the mechanic on the shoulder. “Go get a bit to eat; we’re going to be on our way pretty soon and it’s a pursuit.”

  Gus scratched his crotch. “Not to Brussels, then?”

  “Nope. Mauberge, most likely.”

  “Where the fuck’s that? Sounds like a social disease! Got a touch of the old Mauberge. Shit, I was looking forward to shagging legions of Belgian whores.”

  “They want us to go for the ports. My guess is we’ll be heading for Calais and Boulogne.”

  “Oh, the seaside! Lovely,” Gus said with enthusiasm. “Deckchairs, souvenirs, sandcastles and women in bathing costumes! Right time of year too! For once our glorious leaders have timed it right; I wouldn’t have put it past them to take the seaside in December!”

  “We’ve got the British to kick out of the way first before you can pass the time of day looking at seagulls, Gus,” Langer said. “And they’re not going to let us go past without a fight.”