Just then he saw one of the workers dart out of shop 3 and head diagonally across in front of them. Then he heard Otto Wohl call out. “Herr Jensen! Herr Jensen!”
The man looked startled and, for a moment, embarrassed, as if for some reason he did not want to recognise Otto.
“Herr Jensen! It’s me, Otto... Otto Wohl!”
Finally the man turned and smiled and walked towards Wohl, but in a hurried, almost nervous, limping manner.
Otto then turned excitedly to von Schroif and said, “Boss, this is Peter Jensen, my old art teacher. Any worth I have in drawing came from the encouragement of this one man!”
Otto’s initial excitement paled as the man came closer. Otto recalled that he had once been a burly athletic type – they had played in the school football team together – but now he looked emaciated and haggard, a gaunt spectral reflection of the hale figure he had once been.
“What are you doing here?” asked Otto.
The man looked furtively about, as if assessing whether he could be truthful in his answer. Seeing the others walking off toward shop 4, he must have judged the company of Otto Wohl to be less threatening. He spoke with a whispering, halting voice.
“When the war broke out, because I was a Danish national, I was stripped of my papers and found myself to be stateless, unable to keep my job at our old school, or to find a new job. I was sent here. Conditions here are not good, Otto. I do not know how much longer I have left, or how much I can tell... but you are looking well. Hopefully, when this is all over, we may meet again. It is a great and natural talent you have. I have to go now, but please give me your word you will not tell anyone you have seen me like this. Forgive me.” And with that he was gone, leaving Otto pale and shocked.
Hans von Schroif knew that Otto’s childhood had been less than stable, he even referred to him on occasion as ‘the little urchin’, but this man, this Peter Jensen, had perhaps been the sole guiding light in Otto’s troubled younger years. It must be a cruel blow, seeing someone he had held in such high esteem so humbled and so broken.
On entering shop 4, Hans von Schroif struggled to regain full concentration, so affected had he been by Otto Wohl’s encounter. It was terrible to observe someone so full of spirits having those bright feelings dashed. However, von Schroif was the only witness, and the tour of the factory was about to continue.
“To our engine, gentlemen, the Maybach HL 210,” announced Arnholdt, raising his arm and pointing at the twelve-cylinder behemoth that was being swung into place over the empty engine compartment by a giant overhead crane.
Through his left ear von Schroif could hear Bobby Junge exhale in wonderment, but then something else, another sound, something altogether more ominous, crept into his range of hearing. A tearing sound, tearing metal, and then the shout of the crane driver.
Von Schroif looked up and saw the engine list suddenly and hang for a moment. Without even thinking, he shouted, “Look out!”
The huge engine came crashing down onto the side of the hull and careered off towards them, bouncing and skidding along the ground.
Hans picked himself up off the shop floor. To his great relief, he saw Bobby Junge, Michael Knispel, Karl Wendorff and Kurt Arnholdt all do the same – but where was Otto Wohl?”
“Oh no,” thought Hans, “please God, no,” as he turned and looked in the direction of the now-stationary engine and saw blood spurting from underneath it. Then he heard the unmistakeable sound of Otto’s voice.
“Boss! Boss! Help! Help! It’s the major!”
The men rushed round the back of the engine and were greeted with a sight too awful to properly relay – poor Otto, on his knees, with blood running through his hands, cradling the crushed remains of Major Jurgen Rondorf.
Although von Schroif’s first impression was that there was no possible help that could be directed at the situation, his instinct forced him to seek aid – a crane perhaps to lift the engine from the crushed body – and so he turned his eyes upward and just then saw the figure of a man, high up in the building, running behind the crane.
Even at that distance, there was no mistaking the outline. It was Peter Jensen, the former art teacher, but, before he could assimilate this knowledge, he heard a barking voice from behind him.
“Halt! You there, halt!” It was Heinrich Bremer. “Halt, or I will shoot!”
Peter Jensen did not heed the warning and carried on running. Hans heard the crack of a pistol shot, then another, and Otto’s former mentor staggered, slumped, and fell from the roof, the only noise a crumpled thud as his body fell fifty metres onto a stack of ring gears before landing on the factory floor.
“No, No! You bastard! You murdering bastard!” shouted Otto Wohl.
Von Schroif immediately motioned to Knispel to restrain him. The former boxer struggled to hold Otto Wohl as the loader directed his rage at the Gestapo man.
Hans was operating in survival mode now. They had lost Major Rondorf. The last thing they wanted now was to lose Otto Wohl. What had happened here? Had the art teacher sabotaged the crane? Is that what he meant when he said to Otto, “Forgive me”?
Hans felt the anger rise in himself too, but he didn’t yet have the facts. If that bastard art teacher had sabotaged the crane, Hans would have willingly torn him limb from limb himself. But had he? And why? However, he understood Otto’s rage, and the last thing he needed was for Wohl to get in trouble with – or even, God forbid, be shot by – some trigger-happy, faceless Gestapo man.
“Arrest that man!” Bremer shouted to his colleagues, who ran towards Otto, reaching for their guns.
“Wohl!” shouted von Schroif with all the force and authority he could muster. “Leave this to me!”
This was crucial. If Otto Wohl heeded his plea, von Schroif was sure he could defuse this already-worsening situation. If not, and Wohl continued to struggle, then his life was in danger. There must be no escalation.
Fortunately, in one of those moments in which a soldier’s absolute faith and trust in his commander can mean the difference between life and death, Wohl heeded the call and slowly stopped struggling.
Hans von Schroif immediately put himself between Otto Wohl and the onrushing Gestapo men.
“Halt!” he shouted. “I am SS-Haupsturmführer Hans von Schroif, of the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler, veteran of the Freikorps, and holder of the Knights Cross. In the name of the Führer, I order you to halt.”
Hans’s upright posture and the tone of his order quickly succeeded in stopping the Gestapo men in their tracks. Like all true underlings, they now adopted the only course possible; they looked back to their leader for guidance.
“SS-Hauptsturmführer, this matter is no concern of yours. My authority comes from the highest levels of the Reich Main Security Office. My quarrel is not with you, it is with that man there, SS-Schütze Otto Wohl,” shouted Bremer.
“Good,” thought von Schroif to himself, “he is backing off. Now is the time to raise the stakes.”
“No concern of mine? I think you are badly mistaken. We are here on the direct orders of the Führer, to carry out a mission vital to the future of the Reich, and this man is pivotal to that task. But please, don’t take my word for it.” Von Schroif turned to his driver. “Junge, I want you to go with Doctor Arnholdt to make immediate contact with three men. One, Obergruppenführer Sepp Dietrich. Two, Albert Speer, Minister for Armaments. And three, the Führer himself.”
Hans then gave Bobby a look which, although powerful, was indecipherable, until he added: “We are doing this for Elvira. Bring her here.” At that, Bobby and a still-shaken Kurt Arnholdt headed off to the rear entrance of shop 4.
Refusing to let up, Hans then continued his tirade against Bremer. The thing now was to hammer a wedge between Bremer and his men.
“If, as I suspect, there has been a mistake here, then, however unfortunate that mistake, there will be consequences. For all of you.”
“Good,” thought Hans. A quick look at the faces o
f Bremer’s men revealed flickering glimpses of doubt and the crumbling of resolve.
Bremer, however, was not going to give up that easily.
“SS-Haupsturmführer von Schroif, you were present when this man referred to the Führer in terms that are completely unrepeatable and seditious. Were you not?”
“Damn!” thought Hans to himself. “He has me on the back foot. If I admit to this, his colleagues will be re-energised.” But von Schroif knew that excusing Otto’s “gangster” comment would only lead to the same outcome. He needed to try a different tack to buy time.
“Herr...?”
“Bremer, Heinrich Bremer.”
“Can I see your papers please?”
Two grown men were now reduced to sorting out their differences by displaying stupid bits of paper, but it was a request Bremer could not refuse. He flashed his credentials and pressed home his advantage.
“Answer the question please, SS-Haupsturmführer.”
Hans von Schroif changed tack again and adopted the voice of reason. “Of course I’ll answer the question, but may I study your papers first, please?”
Bremer could not refuse that request. However, von Schroif knew that his stalling could only work for so long. “Where was Junge?”
Bremer reluctantly showed von Schroif his papers. Hans took as much time as he could verifying them, but he couldn’t take forever.
“Now, SS-Hauptsturmführer, answer the question.”
Then, just at the right time, Karl Wendorff intervened.
“I am SS-Panzeroberschütze Karl Wendorff. If your memory serves you correctly, I was also present when the alleged comment was made. I have known Otto Wohl for over ten years, I have fought side by side with him in some of the most vicious combat situations imaginable, and he has never been anything other than a loyal and patriotic German soldier.”
“I am SS-Hauptscharführer Michael Knispel. I have nothing to add to my comrade’s comments, other than that they are entirely correct, and I am willing to stand by them with my honour and my life,” added Michael, stepping menacingly close to Bremer.
“Fine words,” answered Bremer. “No less than one would expect from loyal comrades. However, the question remains. SS-Hauptsturmführer, you are a man of honour and you cannot lie. One final time, did you hear what your loader called our Führer?”
Hans knew he that could not lie, and that time was running out. “Where on earth was Junge?” From the corner of his eye, he noticed a group of workers gathering behind Bremer. These men looked hungry, and angry, and had bitter retribution in their eyes.
Michael looked at Bremer and said quietly: “I think we have a situation.”
However, Bremer refused to look behind him. He raised his gun and pointed it directly at von Schroif. The crowd was growing and continued to move quietly upon Bremer, who continued to fix his gaze on Hans von Schroif.
“This is your last chance, von Schroif. Tell the truth, or else.”
Then one of Bremer’s men noticed one of the workers lunging at Bremer from behind with a tank road wheel above his head.
“Sir! Behind you!”
Bremer turned immediately and shot the worker through the face, igniting a tinderbox. The rest of the workers charged him and his men with whatever tool or component they had at hand.
Hans knew they could be next and that, outnumbered, they stood little chance against this crazed, blood-scenting mob. Just at that moment, out of nowhere, came the huge roar of a tank engine. Hans turned and saw a Tiger roar through the gates of shop 4. Here was Junge at last!
“Quick, into the tank!”
All four of them dashed for the safety of the Tiger 1, clambering up over its frontal armour and into the turret. Arnholdt fired some rounds to frighten off the baying crowd. From the commander’s hatch, Hans could make out the pitiful sight of Heinrich Bremer being pulverised by a massive Tiger suspension arm, his bloodied hands outstretched, begging for help.
The small security garrison was running into the factory and shots were already being fired. The situation would soon be under control.
“Leave them, Junge. Reverse gear, and let’s get out of here!”
Dimitri Korsak half-dozed as the KV-1 made its way back to the Russian lines. The full moon lighted their way and it was simply a matter of following the tracks they had left on their outward journey.
The marshy forests outside Leningrad had a marked influence on German strategy. Such roads and railroads as existed in the wilderness were not first-class. Moreover, a demolition which would be merely a nuisance on dry terrain would be disastrous in a region where any detour from a roadbed meant becoming hopelessly bogged down in bogs and swamps. The marshes could not be effectively penetrated by the narrow tracks of the fascist tanks and they were now safe from pursuit.
The German axis of advance was determined by the disposition of highways and railroads. The fascists had no tank capable of following in their wake. So, for once, Korsak could relax and allow his tired brain to taste the sleep it craved. As he dozed off, he took confidence from the fact that brave men like Boris Stankov were in these woods and marshes in considerable force, and were beginning to seriously harass the German flanks and rear.
The situation in the woods and marshy flanks could not be ignored. At every crossroad or junction, a German task force had to be constituted to cope with a possible Russian attack which, if neglected, might threaten the flank or cut off communications.
Korsak drifted off in satisfaction at the knowledge that the fascists were becoming irked by the cost of the operations, knowing that a full-scale battle had to be fought for each miserable forest village, which was tactically, operationally, and strategically worthless in the first instance, and a useless pile of charred wood and rubble when captured.
Hans von Schroif listened intently as a still-shaken Kurt Arnholdt paced up and down his office.
“Spies, saboteurs, shootings, executions, and the murder of four agents of the Gestapo... This does not look good, Hans. Where were our factory guards? What will Berlin make of our security arrangements? Production has been held up... This does us no favours at all...”
“There are various factors, some of which you have no control over, Herr Arnholdt. Major Rondorf told me of the labour shortages and the calibre of men now being forced to work for you. This does you no favours. Neither do the working conditions, which are obviously going to be a breeding ground for resentment. I understand your concerns.
“However, that does not take away from the magnificent work you and your team have done on this tank. It is my firm belief that this is where the final judgement shall fall. If this tank lives up to expectations, then I believe all other considerations will slowly fade. Trust me, once good German crews get their hands on this wonderful Tiger, Ivan will not know what has hit him, and there will be dancing in the halls and corridors of the Reichschancellery!”
“I hope you are right, Hans! And there is no better crew to show the world, and particularly Ivan, what this machine can do! Speaking of crews, how is your loader, Herr Wohl? Has he been adversely affected by events?”
“SS-Schütze Wohl reacted as he does. It was a visceral reaction, there is not a political bone in his body. All he saw was a favoured old teacher, he was not aware of any political changes his old teacher may have undergone, but I would be loath to lose him. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that eventuality might fatally undermine our combat effectiveness... and on this matter, if I may, I would appreciate any discretion you could afford. You know how sometimes a man’s name can appear on a bit of paper, then another, then an investigation... It can take up valuable time.”
“Indeed. In fact, I shall make you a deal,” replied Kurt, slapping Hans heartily on the shoulder. “My recollection is already a bit vague, but if you make over fifty kills in Rostov in this new tank, I will completely wipe this entire incident from my memory!” Both men laughed nervously.
Hans said his goodbyes and left Kurt’s offi
ce. As he was walking out into the dim evening, he couldn’t help but remember the Danish art teacher. At first impression, he did not seem a bad sort. In fact, Otto had attested to his previous character, and there was still no absolute proof that he had in fact sabotaged the crane. But, if he had, what would drive a man to embark on such a hateful and reckless course of action?
Walter Lehmann was furious.
“Damn Bremer! If he hadn’t been so trigger-happy, he might just have been able to throw a spanner in the works. Maybe I should have sent someone a little less zealous, a little less than a true believer,” thought Walter Lehmann to himself.
But then people like Bremer provided excellent cover. Anyway, Bremer was dead now. Lehmann thought he’d better just leave it like that. No point in stirring things up. The less his fingerprints were found on any of these investigations the better. Fingerprints could be linked to patterns, and patterns to motives.
Walter Lehmann had been an active Soviet agent for over ten years now, and this was one of the secrets of his success. Remove yourself from the scene of the crime. He had sent Bremer to investigate Otto Wohl, but there had been no paperwork, until now. This would be the report.
“Bremer was acting on a tip-off about a communist art teacher who may have been selling information to the Russians. Bremer confronted him. The spy ran. Bremer shot him, and was then turned on by an angry criminal mob. Died a hero. Case closed.”
Time to move on...
Lehmann returned to shuffling through the day’s paperwork on his desk. Routine, routine, routine.... But then one report caught his eye. A Soviet agent in custody in the cells. Red Orchestra. Walter Lehmann’s mind started putting pieces together.
The walk from Prinz-Albert Strasse to the holding cells was pleasant, all the more so because Walter Lehmann took the time to sit in his favourite cafe, before buying a bottle of an expensive Asbach Uralt. Then, looking for all the world as if he was on a Sunday afternoon stroll, Walter Lehmann walked smartly into the corridor and asked one of the guards if he could possibly spend some time with Dieter Kleimer, in charge of the cell block. Making the visit look as accidental as he possibly could, of course...
Tiger Command! Page 17