Wohl’s vigil carried him through the production and before long they were into the final act, the orchestra careering towards the final coda, when suddenly the dream was shattered by the piercing wail of air raid sirens, a screeching wall of warning and discord, as the terrible reality of the twentieth century intruded on the world of fantasy.
Von Schroif looked around as, one by one, the audience started shouting words of encouragement to the orchestra. “Carry on! Keep playing! To hell with the British!”
And so, Furtwängler, the revered conductor, knowing that he had the support of the crowd, rallied his players. The crowd could hear him calling for more from the orchestra: “Forte! Molto forte!” The sound of the orchestra swelled and carried them across the final few bars to the great orchestral conclusion, which brought the audience cheering and standing to their feet. “Bravo! Bravo!”
The Tiger men stood too, applauding, stirred by the defiance of the crowd, who stood as one with their countrymen from the front. Karl Wendorff cheered the most enthusiastically, passionate tears streaming down his face. However, in the distance they could now hear the low thunder of exploding bombs and the cast cut short their well-earned bows to leave the stage, the whole atmosphere changing as the audience realised that the performance was over. Their senses returned to this world. Get to the shelters, get to the shelters! The exodus was never a panic – the German people would never give the British terrorists that pleasure! – but it was brisk and, once out on the street, von Schroif marvelled at the orderly way the citizens of Paderborn reacted to this outrage.
Luckily for Paderborn and its good people, the sound of the bombs receded, the city for now not being the target, but its effect on the Tiger men was profound. Who knows what war crimes the British and now the Amis were planning together? Who knows when and where they would attack next? Surely their time would come. But for now it was imperative to take care of the war in the east. The men returned to their quarters with renewed vigour and determination. Tomorrow they would be back on board a Tiger.
Professor Jacob von Stern walked briskly through the gates of Berlin University – how good it was to be back after all these years. The great names who had studied here – Hegel and Schopenhauer, Schelling, Marx and Engels, and Stern’s own mentor, the poet Heinrich Heine! Memories of the productive and happy youth he had spent here flooded back – how glorious a period in a young man’s life, before trouble and care insinuated themselves into all aspects of the more middle-aged term! But it was not just memories of the past that filled him with delight, it was anticipation too. How long had it been since he had last seen his oldest and dearest friend?
“Jacob! You are the picture of health! Come sit with me and regale me with your tales, stories, and, if I may add, what will be your incomparable insights!”
“Johan, you flatter me. It is you who shine with life and your insights which all men wish to hear!”
Professor Johan von Lieb did indeed look younger for his years. The academic life suited him, and Jacob felt a tinge of envy that financial considerations had prevented him from taking the same path all those years ago. No matter, it lifted his spirits just seeing his old friend.
“So, what times are these, afflicted by war and Herr Hitler? Who could possibly have predicted such a thing? We haven’t discussed matters since the Röhm affair, I believe,” ventured von Lieb.
“Indeed, and no doubt we share the same opinion. This is a dark age, and all good men must hold true and hope that providence is not too hard on us.”
“All we can do is hope and pray and bear silent witness. Resistance is not for the likes of us. I am not unsympathetic to that position, but those of us who have studied the classics learn to have too high a regard for the Fates!”
“Do you think the fever will pass?”
“I think that is our main hope. Even if Herr Hitler achieves his objective, and, let’s face it, the obstacle proved insurmountable for another corporal, then the man, for all his devilish pacts, cannot live forever. Kinder forces will surely prevail and temper this ‘fever’, as you refer to it.”
“I pray you are right, dear Johan,” replied Jacob, “but you know what Heine said, ‘Burning the books is only a prelude. Next, they will be burning men.’ ”
“My dear Jacob, demented though he is, Hitler is not that inhuman. Anyway, Heine, in that passage from Almansor you were referring to, concerned the Inquisition burning the Koran – surely we have moved beyond such depravities!”
“I do hope you are right, my old friend.”
“If I am wrong, it may be better for us to leave this vale of tears before our allotted time, my dear Jacob. Anyway, what is it that I can do for you?”
“It is a delicate matter pertaining to an old student of mine, whom I met after many years in the last week. He is a man of good character, who excelled in the field of radio communications. His name is Karl Wendorff. He now serves as a radio operator. He’s one of the heroes of Rostov. You may have seen the Wochenschau? He told me of a strange incident of an intercepted message, of unknown origin, which he picked up outside Rostov. He noted the time and frequency and a few other details, and I was just wondering, with your contacts and experience, if you could help shed any light on this matter for him? Like you, I am no friend of these military adventures, in principle, but when you know one of the soldiers involved and hold him in high esteem...”
“I understand completely, Jacob,” replied Johan. “These are innocents. They are sons, brothers and neighbours, and we may need as many good men as we can find in the future. Leave it with me. Our research work in conjunction with the University of Heidelberg is more orientated to applications of a commercial nature. For the military side, the people who know about these things are based in Abwehr 1-K, the crypto analysis section of department Z. If necessary, I can call in help from on high. Admiral Canaris is the man we would have to speak to. My wife is good friends with the wife of his number two, General Hans Oster. So, let’s take a look shall we?”
The professor looked at the message and gave a chuckle.
“I don’t think we’ll need Canaris. Your old touch must be deserting you! On second thoughts, we may not need the Abwehr to decode this rather ham-fisted attempt at cryptology, but I am of the opinion that the content of this message may be of considerable interest to those at Tirpitzufer.”
CHAPTER 6
TIGERFIBEL
“Two hours to start her up. I know,” said Major Rondorf, “that seems unnecessarily long, but it’s like an athlete warming up, go too soon and you are in danger of causing damage to the cold muscle and pulling up. So, patience, and always run through the checks.”
“Fuel! Check!”
“Power! Check!”
“Water! Check!”
“Start up! Check!’”
“6x Oil Check! Check!”
“Oil Pressure! Check!”
“Idling speed...”
Bobby Junge sat in his seat and ran through the position of his levers, slowly and methodically. Bottom plug – open. Fuel valves – open. Main battery switch – on. Blower switch – land. Fuel vent – land. Throttle No 1 – down. Throttle No 2 – land. Throttle No 3 – open. Vent flap – closed. Fuel pump – on. Directional lever on “0”. Ignition key – in. Choke lever – forward. Clutch – depress. Starter button – push. Starter button – release. Choke lever – reverse. Throttle – touch lightly for first 5 minutes, warning lamp flickers... do not race the engine! Clutch – engage slowly until transmission and steering gear start to heat up. Throttle – push in, increase engine speed to within 1,000 and 1,500 rpm. Slowly, slowly, think of the spark plugs... fast idle, fast idle... and then, with the cannon tied down to the six o’clock position, she slowly pulled off.
Hauptsturmführer von Schroif wanted to slowly take her up to top speed, so Bobby drove carefully over the open fields before opening her up and going up through the initial seven gears and finally letting her hit 3,000 rpm. She seemed to be handl
ing it, but then he had trouble getting her into the final gear and then – Boom! – something blew and she came to a standstill. Bobby had learnt his first lesson! If you didn’t take the correct steps before venturing out, she’d turn into a sixty-tonne metal mule – and there was nothing to do to get her to budge!
Bobby spent the rest of the day trying to find the problem. The main problem was obviously the Maybach engine, but the transmission and many other things felt wrong too, and that is where the investigation started. In the company of the Paderborn engineers, he checked the oil and cleaned the filter, just in case. He turned the wing nut to the right. He adjusted the limiter on the foot-operated lever. He checked the seating of the connecting lever to the relay box. He adjusted the lever on the accelerator shaft. Next he turned to the linkage on the selector lever. Then he applied lubricant to the linkages to keep them from binding. After that he checked the cables to the steering rods to ensure there was the required amount of play. He even cleaned the steering valve, despite being certain that this wasn’t a problem related to the steering, but better to be safe and methodical.
He was now running out of ideas and had only one option left: checking if the mounting bolts for the sliding gear transmission needed tightening. Eventually, the engine had to be hoisted out and replaced. But now it was too late in the day to continue and so, in effect, they had lost an entire day.
Later that night, von Schroif voiced his concern. “If that had happened in a combat operation, I fear, we – all of us – would be put at grave risk. What is your assessment, Junge?”
“Just as we were going at 2,500 rpm she felt wonderful. This is an incredible piece of engineering. For her size, she is astonishingly responsive to the lightest of touches. In terms of manoeuvrability, turning especially, she is a joy. However, this all comes at a price: complexity. And here I fear we may come up against her greatest weakness. This complexity is necessary, given her size and weight, but it also makes her highly strung – all her demands, everything, absolutely everything, must be met. I’m not sure the Maybach is quite man enough for the job – it needs to be upgraded to something which generates more power... 641 hp isn’t enough, she needs 690 hp at least.”
“You make her sound like a spoiled child!” exclaimed Otto Wohl.
“In a way, she is,” replied Junge, “however, if you do meet her demands, I have the feeling that this temperamental young lady – if in the right mood – will be able to pay us back ten times over.”
“Are you prepared to lavish that much time and attention on her, Junge?” asked von Schroif.
“I don’t think we really have a choice,” replied Junge.
At that point Major Rondorf came bounding into the room and everyone sprang to attention. Rondorf waived them back to their ease. “Gentlemen, I have just spoken to Kurt Arnholdt at Henschel.” Looking at von Schroif, he added: “He passes on his regards, Haupsturmführer.”
“Good, I am looking forward to hearing the good doctor’s opinion,” replied von Schroif.
“According to Arnholdt,” continued Rondorf, “they are looking at an upgraded engine, but, for the time being, it may be that the best solution is to keep her under 2,500 rpm. This is far from ideal, and the designers are working on a solution for the next variation, but that was his suggestion.”
“Please pass on my regards to Doctor Arnholdt,” replied von Schroif, “and let him know that, if the Sunday afternoon driving club say 2,500, then 2,500 it is!” This brought forth a gentle but hearty laugh from all present.
Korsak cast a knowledgeable eye over the experimental light tank he had requisitioned. Captain Androv stood by nervously. It had been some time since their horse riding adventure, and he was understandably anxious as Korsak outlined the features of the T-26B which had recently been delivered from Moscow. The machine had caused a great deal of comment, as it had obviously been adapted for use as a flamethrower.
“Please God, do not let him take us out in this,” thought Androv, all the while feigning readiness to leap into action in this death-trap. His unease increased as Korsak approached a tank driver who was inspecting the vehicle with professional curiosity. Androv knew that this was a three man machine, and now that they were three, it could only mean one thing.
“Have you driven the T-26, comrade?” asked Korsak of the curious driver.
“Yes, comrade, it was the tank we trained on. I have driven it hundreds of time, but this looks unusual.”
“Indeed, it is,” said Korsak. “Many experiments have been conducted by our comrades in the tank development department of the Red Army to determine the advisability of converting the T-26B tank into a flamethrower!”
“Well, that is certainly an unexpected development. Is it an effective weapon?” asked the driver, who was becoming increasingly interested.
Korsak continued with his explanation. “That remains to be seen. As you are aware, this tank normally carries two 7.62 mm machine guns...”
“I have also served in these machines with one anti-tank gun and one machine gun, although the main gun is far from effective,” said the driver. “ On balance, I prefer the dual machine gun version.”
“I stand corrected, comrade,” replied Korsak, “but here is an intriguing new variant. If the tank is converted to a flamethrower, only one machine gun can be carried. We need to find out which is most effective, the flame or the bullet.”
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” thought Androv. “He’s going to drag me off on one of his insane adventures. Please let me live. I don’t need this man in my life. If I get the chance, I’ll kill the bastard!”
“Will you help us in a test mission, comrade?” Korsak asked the driver.
“Willingly,” replied the driver.
“Good,” said Korsak. “Now, pay attention. On this experimental model of the T-26B, the fuel tank for the flame-throwing apparatus is mounted on the tank, instead of being towed on a trailer. This does not strike me as a good design feature. Various tests on flamethrowers using crude oil, and some other similar fuels with a greater potential to cling to victims, show that ten gallons of fuel per second are consumed under high pressure through a three centimetre nozzle to obtain a range of 100 metres. At this rate, the blast could be expected to last from ten to eleven seconds. By lessening the pressure, the range is reduced to between 25 and 40 metres, and the stream of flame lasts longer. The question therefore arises whether it is worthwhile sacrificing the firepower of one machine gun for such a short-lived flame.”
Korsak gestured towards the tank. “Shall we, comrades...?”
The three crowded in and the driver asked for orders. “Where do you wish me to go, comrade?”
“Fucking Berlin, if I know this lunatic!” thought Androv, wisely keeping his own counsel.
To his great relief, the journey was a very short one. 500 metres past the workshops was a small barbed-wire holding compound for German prisoners. Fifty or so dispirited men lay on the grass and contemplated their ill luck. That luck was about to run out.
Korsak wasted no time and immediately sent a five second blast of flame into the compound. Almost thirty prisoners were immediately engulfed in flame, the screams and cries of agony and shock unearthly in their intensity. Korsak observed the effects of his handiwork as the burning men desperately tried to extinguish the clinging flame engulfing them in an unendurable anguish. The screams intensified and the smell of oily smoke and charred flesh filled the air.
A further intense blast of searing flame was directed towards the men who had avoided the first jet. Korsak lessened the intensity and amused himself by chasing the few untouched prisoners with the jet of flame, like a father spraying his children with a water hose. The deadly game was soon over, as the flame gave way and flickered out.
Androv sat in his seat, shocked and catatonic with disbelief. He could not comprehend the horror he had just seen, and he was unprepared for Korsak’s cynical suggestion: “Come, Comrade Androv, we should not allow our prisoners to suffer. Y
ou have the machine gun...”
The screaming mass of writhing men presented an unmissable target, and Androv had little trouble in internally justifying his own part in the barbaric trial operation which was unfolding. The prisoners were suffering beyond human limits and their horrific plight needed to be brought to an end. Six long blasts from the machine gun silenced the cries of misery, but it was a scene which would never leave Androv, one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Day by day, the crew at Paderborn were getting better and better. Bobby Junge was growing in confidence, and the longer he kept her at just under 2,500 rpm, the more confident he became that his spoiled young lady would not throw a tantrum! The next day they were to conduct some trials with armoured cars in the role of T-34s, duplicating their speed, movements and tactics. They were moving smoothly through some hilly terrain when a target appeared, coming up over a hill directly behind them, approximately 1,000 metres away.
“Target, 6 o’clock!”
Knispel immediately adjusted the position of his feet on the hinged platform and the turret began its slow traverse. The gun was at 12 o’clock and, to von Schroif’s great disappointment, it took over thirty seconds for the turret to swing around. He knew that, in a battle situation, this would grant vital time for the Soviet driver to make up ground on him and become a potential threat. This was going to have to be accounted for, either by Bobby Junge swinging the tank around, or by an evasive manoeuvre. But this was why they were here, on the training ground. All of these potential problems had to be ironed out or, if not, alternative strategies which took note of these deficiencies would have to be developed.
Tiger Command! Page 12