“And yours, but there is no time for pleasantries here. There is a war to be won, and they tell me that you are just the men to do it... Well, we shall see about that.”
With that, he turned and led them out to the courtyard, and there she stood, almost blocking out the early morning April sun.
“Gentlemen, soon to be at your fingertips... Sixty tons of steel, which can deliver 700 horsepower, giving a speed of twenty-five kilometres per hour on tarmac, and fifteen on rough terrain. All above ground, of course, because, as you will soon find out, she can also swim... Now, I know you would love to jump in the saddle and head east, but first, I’m afraid, the boring routine... You have to read this first, then read it again and again and again, as if your lives depended on it, which I assure you my good fellows, they certainly will.”
At that, he lifted up a bundle of the newly printed paper, three centimetres thick, and handed each crewman a copy in turn.
“Much to digest, gentlemen. Here are the details of how to maintain, and fight with, the Panzer Mark VI... or, as I believe we soldiers must now call it, the Tiger. The preliminary written examination will be in four hours’ time. If you are all as good as you are reputed to be, you should all pass with 80%... Physical conditioning for four hours after that. Same again tomorrow, and the day after.”
“Permission to speak, Herr Major?” asked Wohl.
“Granted... if it’s quick.”
“When do we do some driving?”
“Unfortunately, you are not going to get your hands on 250,000 worth of hard earned Reichmarks until your brain knows every nut and bolt of this beauty... and then the hard work begins... Heil Hitler!”
“What are we going to call her though, boys?” muttered Otto as they turned and made their way back to the barracks. “I was fond of Magda, but I think I may have found someone else... Maria? No, maybe something a little more kittenish... Looking up, he realised that no one was responding. They had all set off at a clip back to the barracks, each clutching the pile of papers close, like a new-born child.
“Ach, I suppose they all have difficult new routines to learn,” thought Otto to himself. “My section will be about a page long. I’m just going down to the river – not much you can teach me about lifting and loading!”
How wrong he was to be...
Settling himself with his back to a tree, Wohl placed his papers by his side. With less than three hours to the first paper, Wohl would have been well advised to start studying, but his hand was drawn once more towards the breast pocket of his overalls, where nestled the well-thumbed copy of Die Wundertüte, which Wohl had picked up from the news stand for 50 Reichspfennigs. The small illustrated magazine described itself on its garishly illustrated cover as “100 pages of humour and puzzles in words and pictures for the Front and Homeland.” The little magazine was purpose-designed for military personnel and was made to fit in the pocket of a soldier’s battle dress.
Wohl was particularly interested in the illustrations; he decided to save the articles by Hermann Krauze for another day. The racy illustrated pictures of beautiful damsels in a state of undress brought to his mind the work of Peter Jensen, his old art teacher from Munich. They hadn’t seen each other for years, but his encouragement still worked its hold and Wohl dreamed of being a graphic artist. His inspiration was the female form.
Die Wundertüte was generously provided with plenty of illustrations of young ladies, most of them in a state of undress. Wohl was soon lost in contemplation as he leafed through the magazine. His favourite strip was “The Little King”, and there came the odd small laugh as he lost himself in the comic antics. He paused at page thirty-three to study a cartoon which depicted four ghosts peering through a window at the seductive form of a naked young woman, and laughed sympathetically at the ghost turning to his colleague with the sentiment that it was not so bad being dead after all. “You could be right,” thought Wohl to himself as he settled down to study the little magazine once again.
As the morning wore on, Wohl was soon lost in Die Wundertüte. Unfortunately, other eyes were concentrated upon him and, shortly afterwards, the telephone on the desk of Major Jurgen Rondorf started to ring.
“Rondorf speaking.”
“Good morning, Major Rondorf,” came a strange voice. “Oberstleutnant i.G. Borgmann calling from Führer headquarters, Rastenburg.”
Rondorf was immediately alert to the range of possibilities. “How may I help you, Oberstleutnant?”
“You can help me by turning to your left and looking out of your window.”
From his office window, Rondorf had a clear view of the ground down to the river. He could see nothing remarkable.
“You have me at a disadvantage... What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Do you not see the figure by the tree? Maybe the binoculars would help.”
With the aid of his trusted Zeiss binoculars Rondorf was soon able to identify Wohl, and was able to make out the name of Wohl’s reading matter... Die Wundertüte.
“I see the problem now, Oberstleutnant.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We need only the best men in the Tiger crews. I trust you will deal with the matter accordingly.”
“You can count on me, Oberstleutnant.”
Rondorf replaced the receiver and sat in stunned silence. “Rastenburg was calling him? How? How could they know what a single lowly Panzerschütze was up to?”
One thought immediately sprang to mind and Rondorf’s mind was a blur of acronyms. RSHA? SD? Or GESTAPO? He quickly ruled out the SD, he got the feeling an arrest would follow. This had to be Gestapo work. As commanding officer they’d need his authority though, so he would soon know.
Four hours later, seated at their classroom-style desks, four men scribbled quickly, occasionally staring into space to collect their thoughts and find the right phrasing for their answers. Not so the fifth man, Otto Wohl, whose deeply furrowed brow dripped sweat onto a half-finished and much-amended paper with most of its answers crossed out, re-crossed out, and then crossed out again... and the rest left blank. He had started out well, and initially the answers flowed as he scratched out each response in his untutored hand, consisting of block capitals.
Q1. What do you do with shells with fractures or dents?
THROW THEM OUT.
Q2. What do you do with shells with a marred rotating band?
THROW THEM OUT.
Q3. What do you do with shells with leaking explosive?
THROW THEM OUT.
Q4. What do you do with shells without base plates or crimping?
THROW THEM OUT.
Shell identification was straightforward too:
Q5. Anti-tank grenade no 39 is what colour?
BLACK WITH WHITE TIP.
Q6. Anti-tank grenade no 40 is what colour?
BLACK.
Q7. HL Grenade is what colour?
GREY.
Q8. High-explosive shell is what colour?
YELLOW.
So far so good, but then came questions on the cannon. He knew the answers – he just couldn’t remember them! Damn! He should have been more prepared! Was this supposed to be kindergarten? His head was spinning, and he declared to himself that facing a half-dozen T-34s was easier than this. So great were his tribulations that he didn’t even reach the questions on turret trouble, let alone answer them.
All too soon Major Rondorf rang the bell and then collected the papers.
Otto Wohl let out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God that is over! Just put me in the tank and get all these schoolboy exams away from me!”
Korsak sat in the murky gloom of the forward command dugout and reflected quietly on his situation. Outside, behind the clouds, the moon waxed towards the full. The stars were screened by the ominously dark clouds which seemed to conspire to suck the life out of the few flares that climbed into the night sky. Other than the distant chatter of a lone machine gun, it seemed as if the whole front had succumbed to darkness and lethargy.
Korsak kne
w that he needed to do something to regain his reputation, and quickly, but his companion in the dugout offered no immediate sign of hope. Slumped over his table and feeling extremely sorry for himself, Major Leonid Naminsky stirred and poured himself another tumbler of vodka. Korsak was all too aware that two major setbacks in a few days meant that he was dicing with death. He was viewed with extreme suspicion by Major Naminsky, the local commander, who knew that he had to tread carefully. Korsak could almost feel the legend of the invincible White Devil deflating day by day.
As each day passed, Naminsky grew just slightly less deferential. He was clearly no longer intimidated by Korsak, or he would not have had the temerity to pour a fifth glass of vodka. But Naminsky had his own troubles and, although he hardly glanced at it himself, he was very willing to share his intelligence with the legendary Comrade Korsak.
With time running against him, Korsak devoured the intelligence reports which Major Naminsky had brought with him. They conveyed very little of value, other than the fact that the same SS unit which had caused him so much embarrassment now defended two important hills immediately in front of the Russian lines. From these hills, the fascists obviously had good observation of the Russian forward positions. As a result, the Soviet positions were continually kept under highly effective harassing fire which was causing an alarmingly high rate of casualties. Korsak was painfully aware that the bold attempts of the Soviet infantry to capture the hills by advancing in a human wave had been completely in vain. As a result of these failures, Naminsky was now terrified of what might happen to his own neck. They needed each other. The commander needed a success to save his skin, and Dimitri Korsak needed a result to save his reputation.
In the stuttering light of a candle, while Naminsky fretted and helped himself to another calming measure of vodka, Korsak wracked his brain once more and agonised for a solution which would win the heights and restore his reputation.
Tired of waiting for an answer, Naminsky took out his pistol and put it to his temple. “Come, Comrade Korsak, give me some help, or there’s only one way out for me ...”
“Stop drinking that shit and you might be able to think straight,” came the blunt reply. “Wars aren’t won by idiots who feel sorry for themselves,” added Korsak with mounting venom. “You don’t deserve help, but I have decided that the best solution is to attack at night, with my tanks and what’s left of your infantry. We attack under cover of darkness, it’s the only hope we’ve got.”
“It’s no use, because...” began Naminsky. He got no further with his opening statement as he was suddenly seized and pinned against the wall by the snarling Korsak. Naminsky felt the unmistakable caress of cold steel against his throat. The razor-sharp blade drew a few drops as Korsak pressed close, the fug of alcohol-tainted breath now issuing in short blasts from the terrified Naminsky.
“You really are a cowardly snivelling louse,” hissed Korsak. “I could have you shot or cut your throat now... You don’t even take the time to understand the intelligence reports. If you did, you’d know they reveal that the fascist system of defence is based on the establishment of a series of separate firing points which mutually support each other. The defences are well planned. The distinguishing characteristic is the irregularity of the pattern of layout. They were designed by a wily old fox named SS-Sturmbannführer Helmut Voss. They are effective, but his resources are being stretched thin. A wide front has been covered very economically by establishing these firing points, but it is not invulnerable. They are placed along two general lines; some have embrasures and overhead cover while others are open. At distances from 50 to 200 metres to the rear are dugouts used for rest purposes, or for protection from artillery and machine-gun fire.”
Korsak pressed the dagger a little closer to the Major’s throat. The drops of blood became a definite trickle.
“In the forward firing points are the fascist light and heavy machine guns. Some of these are protected by a single row of barbed wire. In the rear firing points are mortars and light artillery. All firing points are assigned regular and supplementary sectors of fire. The sectors are overlapping and, in the case of machine guns, final protective lines are also interlocking. The fascists have burned all villages on the east bank of the river, thus materially improving their observation and field of fire.
“As a commander, you must understand that it is necessary to utilise every means of reconnaissance to discover, as nearly as possible, the exact positions of the enemy’s forward firing points and his main line of resistance. You were too drunk and too lazy to do this. As a result, I have had to do things myself, and I don’t like to be put to unnecessary trouble. However, after careful study of the terrain and the enemy defences, which has taken four nights of reconnaissance and cost the lives of eight brave comrades, I have decided to strike by night at the enemy centre of resistance. You will support me to the end... understand?”
“Yes, Comrade Korsak!” came the rapid reply.
“Good. On the night of the attack, your infantry is to be deployed along the east bank of the river. A plan for coordinated infantry-artillery action must then be drawn up and, by God, I want some punch in that bombardment!”
Major Jurgen Rondorf strode into the early morning light of the lecture room. His demeanour suggested that he was a less than happy man.
“A mixed bag, I’m afraid. SS-Panzeroberschütze Wendorff. Excellent! 95%. Not only do you seem like an expert in your field, but it also seems that you continue to apply yourself in that field, something many experts would do well to remember. Well done!
“Haupsturmführer von Schroif, 91%. At what distance does a T-34 7.62 cm long barrel penetrate my armour? The answer at three o’clock is under 1,500 metres, not 1,200 metres, with a T-34 at 800 metres the answer is 300 not 250, and the answer to the question you didn’t answer: if an enemy turns from ‘side’ to his own ‘45 degrees’ then his target will be increased by... 10%. Highly commendable though. I’m sure that you will be up to speed soon enough.
“SS-Hauptscharführer Knispel, 85%. I understand where you are going wrong. The magnification of 2.5 and the 26 degree first field of view on the TZF 9b are not what you are used to. I have attached some notes to help you with the new optics. Apart from that, well done.
“SS-Panzerschütze Junge. Again, it is going to take some time to get used to this particular Maybach version, but, like Herr Knispel, this should not be something which is beyond your capabilities. 81%.
“Now, Herr Wohl. It seems that you enjoy your free time. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with that, there is a place for relaxation, especially in hard times such as these, but not if it interferes with your duty as a soldier of the Reich. If you have mastered your subject, then yes, by all means, while away the odd hour...”
“I tried my best, Herr Major.”
The Major’s cordial attitude changed instantly.
“Do not insult me or the uniform you wear! Idling your time down at the river reading Die Wundertüte, when you should have been studying hard, does not constitute trying your best. Believe me, SS-Panzerschütze Otto Wohl, in light of your results you are marked in my eyes, a man who has not mastered his subject and is now in need of revision. It appears that you are either stupid or vain, and there is no place for either of these inflictions on this course.”
“How the hell does he know what I was reading?” thought Wohl.
“I am not going to embarrass you in front of your fellows by revealing how poorly you did on this test, but I will say this: any man who thinks that he can step inside this new Panzer VI without having prepared himself to the highest of standards is not only a danger to himself and the machine, but to the other members of his crew. If you do not want the blood of these men on your hands, I suggest you shed this false faith you have in your own abilities and start preparing for your second paper tomorrow... otherwise, you can say your farewells to your former crewmates.”
The words landed on Otto Wohl like hammer blows and he hu
ng his head in shame, knowing he had only himself to blame. Soon, however, he lifted his head as a sign of his stern determination to master his task and redeem himself in front of his fellows the following morning. However, his newly emboldened heart again sank to his boots when he heard of the next day’s task.
“The central ethos of what we are trying to instil in you here,” continued Major Jurgen Rondorf, “is teamwork. A tank crew is not a collection of individuals, but a unit. Each expert in his own sphere must also be an expert in the sphere of not just one other, but of all others. You are a totality and this is total war. Hence, I want SS-Haupsturmführer Hans von Schroif to sit an exam on gunnery tomorrow. You, SS-Panzerschütze Junge, to study the role of the loader. SS-Scharführer Knispel to know, inside out, the duties of a commander, and SS-Panzeroberschütze Wendorff to immerse himself in the vital task of driving and mechanics. Wohl, you are to come in here tomorrow an expert in radio operations and the operation of the bow machine gun.”
Otto Wohl appeared so utterly broken by the announcement that even the hard-bitten Major Rondorf, who now felt himself under observation by the RSHA, was moved by a small measure of pity.
“I am a fair man, and there are clearly forces out there who do not want you to be part of this crew. You are obviously unused to the world of examinations, so I will accept a 51% mark in the Funkmeister’s exam. However, you are also to re-sit and achieve an 80% pass in the exam on the gun loader’s duties or, for you, the course ends here! Dismissed.”
Walter Lehmann poured a glass of schnapps and thought angrily to himself, “So why the hell has it all gone so wrong?”
He had sent that damn von Schroif and Knispel into the perfect ambush at Rostov, but even the White Devil had been foiled. What was he supposed to do now?
Thanks to Borgmann’s influence, he had been present at Rastenburg on Hitler’s birthday. Lehmann recalled bitterly the shock as von Schroif had appeared. Moscow had demanded that he sabotage the Mark VI project, and his discrete interference had almost killed off the whole project – until that damn von Schroif took things into his own hands.
Tiger Command! Page 9