by Tony Roberts
“Pah, a tiny force armed with shit. They’re too busy fucking about being the biggest navy in the world.”
“Be that as it may,” Langer said, exerting patience, “you won’t want to fight against them. They’re crazy people. And you think shooting at Somuas is bad? They’ve got Matilda tanks and they’ve got thicker armor again.”
Gus waved his arms in the air. “Their generals have shit for brains and they’re all in bathchairs. Half their army are nurses whose job is to wipe their asses three times a day, the incontinent mind-fucked pensioners.”
Steffan and Felix were grinning. Teacher shook his head. “Don’t dismiss them that lightly. You’ll know when you come up against the British.”
“Ah, you’re frightened of your own shadows! Mark my words, this time next week we’ll be served by captive British nurses. I’ll make sure mine are dressed in see-through veils and perform a blow-job three times a day each.”
Langer spat in the dirt. “Alright, enough already. Let’s get this swine of a panzer up and ready. Are we fueled, and re-armed?”
He was assured all was ready by his crew. Now all they had to do was to wait for the word to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As they roared along the road to Mauberge, Langer became aware of a rattling from somewhere inside the panzer. He craned his neck down and peered past the gun mechanism and the legs of both Teacher and Steffan. “Gus, what the heck is that noise coming from that pile of whatever it is by your seat?”
“What noise?” Gus asked innocently. Too innocently by half.
“Alright Gus, I’m not stupid. That sounds like a load of bottles underneath that canvas cover. Teacher, pull it off, will you?”
Teacher bent low, gripping the turret traversing wheel and yanked the canvas away. What was revealed was a crate of wine bottles, all of them full. Teacher resumed his position and raised an eyebrow, looking Langer in the eye.
“Alright Gus, care to illuminate us all on how you came to possess a crate of wine? Or am I to assume it miraculously floated here from the supply dump?”
“What wine?” Gus asked, looking round quickly, and seeing the bottles, looked shocked. He resumed his attention to the road ahead. “Well, isn’t that a surprise? It must have been left by the previous crew, poor souls.”
“Now, now,” Langer shook his finger. “We all know everything that was breakable broke in here when the last crew bought it, and you can bet your last gold molar that the clean-up crew would have taken it had it been here when they cleaned the thing up. It wasn’t here earlier on, that’s for sure else I’d’ve noticed it. So come clean, Gustav.”
Gus looked thoughtfully through his visor. Langer wouldn’t call him by his full given name unless he was properly pissed, and he certainly sounded it. Best not to piss off your tank commander. “Herr Feldwebel, this unworthy sub-human humbly begs to report that he liberated said crate of wine from the stores as payment for monies owed by the storekeeper Gerhardt Frankl, a particularly lousy card player and very corrupt gefreiter indeed.”
Langer sighed. “Alright so you collected your dues after fleecing this Frankl, is that it? What if he reports you for taking official stock? You’d be in the shit in no time – and so would we!”
Gus looked outraged. “Fleecing him? He lost fair and square. Well, perhaps I did have a couple of marked cards but it’s not my fault there were a couple of unusual beer stains on a few of them. Things do get spilled you know, especially when there’s things going on like a war. I mean we’ve been in a rush all week, without so much as time to have a leak! We’re going to have to modify Felix’s gun here to allow us to piss down it, you know.”
Langer covered his eyes. “Gus, Frankl might report you.”
“Oh no, he won’t do that,” Gus said cheerfully, his teeth showing like huge tombstones. “He owes loads of people money and he’s paid off his creditors with store supplies. It’d take just one of us to mention it and the rest would then back him up. Frankl knows it’s best to keep quiet. Why he continues to play cards when he’s so crap at it escapes me; perhaps he’s hoping for the big win.”
“Alright, alright, so its illegally supplied stuff. What wine is it?”
“Oh, I dunno. Wine is wine, isn’t it? Chateau Reichstag 1933, probably.”
“I give up,” Langer muttered and popped his head up above the hatch again. Best to stay in the fresh air of the late spring rather than the fetid oil and sweat ridden atmosphere inside the panzer.
He listened as the radio kept them all updated with events. They carried on rumbling south-westwards in the wake of the fleeing French. Pockets of resistance were met and when they occurred the Stukas were called in to take care of them. In some instances the dive-bombers were there within ten to fifteen minutes. The Franco-Belgians couldn’t handle the rapidly changing situation and panic set in. Their orders were slow in coming and often by the time they got to them they were redundant and out of date.
Charleroi was by-passed and they were diverted westwards towards Lille. The miles passed by almost like a Sunday afternoon outing, and if it were not for the occasional flight of aircraft or the crackling of orders in his earphones, Langer could almost have thought this was not a war.
They rumbled on, clouds of dirt and dust being thrown up from the overused roads as the terrain got flatter and flatter. Bomb craters dotted the roads and here and there bodies lay twisted by the roadside. Burning trucks or cars lay overturned in the ditches and it was clear that they had been strafed. The Luftwaffe had been clearing the routes the panzers were taking of all refugees. Brutal, heartless, effective.
They approached Mons. Langer had a flash of memory, only twenty-six years previously, when he and Cockney Dave had been Tommies, fighting against Germany, and here was where they had their baptism of fire in that suicidal and costly war. There had been a bridge not far from here that he had helped blow up.
A warning came through his earphones. Langer flicked on his microphone. “Alright, you lot, word is that there are some French troops up ahead trying to make a stand. Keep your eyes on the hedgerows and ditches; that’s where the bastards will try to ambush us.”
They carried on, eyes watchful. The sound of their engines filled the air. Everywhere were small villages scattered across the Flanders countryside, all linked by small country roads, many of them still mere dirt or mud tracks. The fields to either side of the roads were only just beginning to show signs of life from the spring planting. No animals were visible, having been chased into their pens by frightened farmers. War spared nothing.
The panzers growled through yet another village, the doors shut, the windows curtained, all hiding trembling people, praying to a God they had ignored for years to allow them to be left alone in peace.
A bright flash and a shattering bang revealed where the French were. The panzers scattered left and right save for the unlucky panzer 35 – one of those taken from the recently annexed Czechoslovakia – that had been hit. Langer yelled through the mike to Gus but the giant driver had already begun to spin the tank off the road. They lurched across the roadside ditch and into a field of beet, sending the young shoots scattering in all directions. At least the birds would enjoy the worms in the aftermath.
“Where the fuck are they?” Gus demanded, weaving the panzer left and right.
“Clump of trees to the right of the road up ahead,” Langer said, zeroing in on the position. Teacher was already focusing the sights. “Anti-tank took out the panzer,” Langer commented as he concentrated on the trees, a hundred yards distant. Panzers were everywhere, moving like ants from a disturbed nest. Dirt and smoke went up in clouds, making visibility difficult.
Two more shots spat out from the trees, striking one panzer, making it shudder. Incredibly it kept on going, the turret turning. It shot back into the trees. “Teacher, send an HE shell where Schellinger just fired.”
The panzer rocked as Teacher’s shell screamed across the field to explode deep in the grove. A ball of flame billow
ed up.
“Wow, you hit something there!” Felix exclaimed.
“Ammunition carriage?” Teacher suggested, looking hard for movement. Other shells were being sent into the trees by the massed group of panzers and explosions billowed up in a huge mass. A couple of trees shattered and fell to add to the carnage.
“Go!” Langer snapped. “If anyone’s still alive in there then they’re indestructible.” He felt a frisson of goose bumps as he said that. Gus drove through the smoke and emerged within twenty yards of the French position, crushing bushes and wrecked ordnance. A few shredded soldiers lay bloodied and smashed amongst the destroyed gun pits. Gus rolled on and they came out of the trees and promptly dropped into a wide ditch. The panzer shook. “Shit, my wine!” Gus shouted, turning in his seat in alarm.
“Damn the wine, get us out of this ditch!” Langer ordered.
Gus spun the tank and it settled in the bottom, with just the turret poking up. Langer cautiously looked out. “It’s an old watercourse,” he said. “The new one’s twenty yards to our front. Oh hell, Char Bs!” He saw the armored leviathans waiting on the other side of the canal, for that was what it was. He frantically sent a warning to the others.
The panzer rolled forward. The turrets of the Char Bs swung in their direction. Gus revved the engine and they bored on along the bottom of the old river. Three explosions sent dirt and vegetation up behind them. “Useless cross-eyed pricks,” Gus commented, “three of them can’t hit us!”
“Shut up!” Felix yelled, scared, “you’re tempting fate!”
“Teacher, send them a message,” Langer snapped. “AP.”
The gunner nodded and waved at Steffan who obligingly shoved the shell into the breech. The shell fizzed across the canal and ricocheted off one of the Char’s hulls. “Bounced off!” Teacher said in desperation.
“I see cover,” Gus said and rumbled the panzer along the ditch towards a thick growth of bushes and trees.
“Gus. Stop! Reverse now!” Langer screamed.
Alarmed, Gus did so. Ahead of them, close enough to shower the panzer with earth and sods of grass, three impacts erupted out of the ground.
Langer grunted. “Right, get going again! Those Chars had us tracked.”
“Good thinking,” Gus said and rolled the panzer into cover. They slowed but carried on. Now the Chars had to guess. Langer saw their shapes moving, turning round. They were now going to try to use their immense hull guns, the 75s.
“Gus, get us out of this ditch, back to our side.”
Needing no further encouragement, the driver swung up and out of the old dry watercourse. They slammed down onto level ground and growled through the stand of trees. Shells flew past to explode in the distance but none came close. Langer got Gus to swing round and carry on moving towards the edge of the stand. As they reached it they suddenly came across another Char B, one that was side-on. With little time to react, they struck it full on the side. Both tanks came to a sudden halt. The gun was jammed against the Char’s turret.
“Fuck me!” Gus exclaimed. “Where did he spring from?”
“Back off now,” Langer said urgently.
Gus hauled on the levers, the tracks spun, but the panzer refused to move. “Dammit, it’s stuck!”
Teacher wrestled with the turret mechanism but threw his hands up. “Jammed. We’re stuck against their turret ring.”
“Shall we shoot at them?” Steffan suggested.
“No – the impact would wreck us, too. Everyone get your guns. Out.” Langer grabbed his MP38 and flung the hatch open, scrambling out, covering the rumbling French tank which was trying to wrench itself free without much success. Gus shot out of the driver’s hatch and whacked the Char B’s turret repeatedly with a wrench. “Surrender in the name of the Greater German Reich, you inferior sub-humans!”
“Well that’s really going to put the shits up them, isn’t it?” Teacher said sarcastically, loosely pointing his rifle at the side of the metal monster. “What now – micturate down the gun barrel?”
“What? What’s micturate you molester of school children?” Gus demanded, sitting on the front of the Char B, making sure he was away from the 75mm.
“Urinate, piss, piddle, slash, relive oneself…..”
“Alright, alright, I’ve got it. No need to make a dictionary out of it!” Gus whacked the driver’s hatch hard. “Hey, you inside there, frog leg eaters! Surrender! If you come out unarmed you can share our wine!”
“I doubt they understand German, Gus,” Langer said, anxiously glancing about just in case any other tank approached. “Everyone stay clear of the guns. They seem as stuck as we are.”
A muffled voice came to them from the tank. “What’s that?” Gus cocked an ear, “you want a return ticket to Paris? What the hell am I, some stationmaster?”
“Probably asking us not to shoot,” Langer said. “Here, let me see if I can sort this out.” He listened to the voice for a moment, then grunted. He switched to French. “We won’t shoot. Come out with your hands up. My giant colleague says he has wine for you to share.”
“Wine? Then why didn’t you say?” a Gallic voice answered and the hatch lifted. A sweaty leather-capped head appeared, complete with an enormous nose that could only have come from France.
“Shit,” Gus commented on seeing it, “Herr Goebbels would be frothing at the mouth if he saw that!”
“It’s a Gallic nose, not a Jewish one, Gus you idiot,” Teacher said with great patience.
The Frenchman dropped to the ground, his hands on his head, followed by three others, all dressed similarly. Two were short and swarthy, the third was taller and had a cigar clamped to his teeth. This third man introduced himself as the commander. “Serge Foucard, 1 DLM. I am your prisoner.”
Langer waved to the four Frenchmen to lower their hands. “Carl Langer,” he said. “Sergeant, 3rd Panzer Division. Let’s be civilized about this, since both our tanks are stuck. The battle will go on regardless, and we’ll see who are the prisoners at the end of it. Meanwhile, I think we ought to pass the time with a few drinks.”
“Ah!” Foucard grinned, seeing Gus pulling out the crate of wine, “it is such a relief to see our enemies are men of good taste and know how to conduct a war properly.” He waved his three apprehensive men to sit and the panzer crew did likewise. Foucard had a flat box of cigars which were passed round the nine and the wine was soon flowing. The crews, thanks to Langer’s translations and with much sign language from the others, swapped tales of criticisms about their respective vehicles. Neither were entirely happy about the machines they were using, and both sides were critical of their leadership.
Langer took another swig from the bottle he had and passed it to Foucard. “Tell me, Serge, why is it your high command doesn’t use your tanks en masse like we do? Spreading them thin isn’t going to use them the best way.”
“Ah, our generals are all over seventy years of age and are stuck in the last war. It is a shame. We have one or two generals who show some promise, like de Gaulle, but we’re badly served by idiots like Gamelin and Weygand. They’d be best playing war games in retirement homes.”
“Agreed. We have some fools on our side too, but we’re fortunate in having the right people in the right places like Guderian.”
“Yes, I have heard about him. So, why are you here? You know you cannot possibly win, and you were punished enough the last time. What do you think will happen to you after this war?”
Langer sighed and sat back against the front wheel of the Panzer III. “To be honest, Serge, I’m here to fight communists, not France or Britain. The sooner we turn on the Soviets the better.”
“Ah! I agree! Communists have ruined France!” Foucard exclaimed, waving his hands high. “Spreading defeatism and pessimism, trying to undermine national pride with stupid socialist bullshit! They are dung beetles crawling over a pile of shit!”
“Let us drink to the defeat of communism then,” Langer said, a warm glow spreading through his b
ody. Foucard agreed and proposed the toast in French. His crew all nodded. Langer repeated it in German. “To the destruction of communism!”
The nine raised their bottles and drank long and full. Gus would drink to anything, even to Josef Stalin if it were proposed, so it meant nothing to him. Felix and Teacher felt a little uncomfortable about toasting to the destruction of something they had some sympathy with, but while they were part of the National Socialist system they would toe the line. Steffan had little care either way about politics so he readily toasted.
The afternoon passed, as did the battle. The gunfire ceased and the fields became peaceful once more. Smoke drifted their way from time to time, and aircraft passed overhead, laden with bombs heading west, and then shortly afterwards returning with their payload gone.
“Well,” Langer said, getting to his feet a little unsteadily, “time for a leak. I’ll have a look and see who won.”
The others waved him happily off. Langer relieved himself against the base of a tree, then after buttoning himself up, pushed through the undergrowth to the canal. The French tanks were gone but the buildings beyond were burning, and it looked like they had retreated. He circled back to where they had come from, crossing the dried up river bed, and emerged onto the beet fields where a few panzers remained, destroyed or crippled. A few repair crews were at work and a half-track came plowing over to him, sending up dust.
“What unit are you?” the lieutenant standing in the rear demanded.
“6th regiment, 3rd panzer division. Our panzer is through there, stuck with a French Char B. We have the crew as prisoners, sir.”
“Oh, very good. We’ll take them off you, and I’ll send a crew to get you unfixed. I think your unit has moved on west towards Lille.”
Langer saluted. The half-track turned round and roared off. Langer returned to the crews and informed them of the situation. Foucard sighed and stood up, swaying slightly. “Well, it was an honor sharing the time with you. I trust we shall be treated correctly as prisoners of war.”