Hitler's Panzers

by Dennis Showalter

  Such considerations were, however, far in the German army’s future during what seemed the endless summers of the mid-1930s. A significant reason for the relative absence of this kind of reflection in military circles was the sheer amount of activity and stimulus involved in the Wehrmacht’s exponential expansion. There was so much to do and so much to learn, not only for the annual intakes of recruits but for officers and NCOs admiring their new badges of grade and rank. A high private from the old Reichswehr who was not sporting at least a Feldwebel’s pips and tresses was a near-anomaly. Career lieutenants and captains blossomed within months into majors and colonels, with even higher ranks on their horizons. This was more than simple careerism. It was a chance for brave work in one’s chosen career. To do good and to do well simultaneously is an enticing prospect. Promotions, moreover, frequently involved transfers to a different branch of service, where different skill sets and different requirements kept men busy staying abreast of the curve.

  Nowhere were those patterns stronger than in an armored force coming into existence with the speed and force of an emerging volcano.

  Between 1936 and 1938, the panzer division also began taking on the internal form later made familiar in World War II. The original Lutz/ Guderian division included too many tanks to control effectively. With much chopping and changing, the number was gradually reduced to around 350 in two two-battalion regiments. Each battalion had four companies with four platoons of five Panzer Is or IIs. And platoon training was the bedrock of panzer tactics.

  There were four standard platoon formations: “one behind the other” for route marches, the “double rank” of commander followed by two pairs in approach marches, the “line” of four tanks with the commander in front for assembly, and finally the distinctive “wedge,” which was actually a V-formation with the commander—again—at the tip and two tanks spread out on either side of him. Company and battalion formations were essentially larger versions of the standard four. Effective enough to take the panzers through six years of war, they were simple enough to execute—once everyone knew how.

  The guiding tactical principle was attack by fire and movement: platoons and individual tanks supporting each other, and in turn supported by motorized infantry, artillery, and engineers—an integrated combat team. Tank-against-tank combat was not considered something to be sought, merely an aspect of the overall mission. Its success depended on hitting first with superior firepower, and, like every other aspect of armored warfare, that situation was best created by seizing the initiative through maneuver. The faster the attack, the stronger the shock and the quicker the primary mission completed. A defeated enemy was to be pursued relentlessly, with every effort made to cut off his retreat and finish him on the spot.

  Advance planning was likely to be limited. For commanders, that meant keeping orders brief and flexible. It meant informing every subordinate, down to the junior ranks, of the essentials: mission, forces, positions; cooperation with supporting elements; what to do once the initial objectives were achieved.

  On exercise fields and maneuver grounds the principle of “sweat saves blood” was translated in the panzer divisions into thrown tracks, breakdowns, disrupted communications, lost directions, smashed fingers—and blistered ears when senior officers and NCOs evaluated the results. But from the panzer divisions’ beginnings, another ethos developed as well—a hands-on, unit-level recognition that mistakes were not merely normal but necessary. Commanders who operated from a “no-defects” mode were denying subordinates the opportunity to cultivate the situational awareness that would enable them to survive in combat, and the initiative that would enable them to triumph. A tanker looking over his shoulder for orders was a dead man walking.

  Nor did it hurt morale when the tankers received a distinctive black uniform for dress and walking-out. It was partly derived from the black coveralls worn as duty uniforms for obvious reasons. At this point, black in German military culture did not yet have a sinister aura. It was rather a positive reminder of the uniforms worn by many of the volunteer units that fought against Napoleon: young, enthusiastic heroes willing to die for freedom. And old-time Panzermänner generally affirm that “tanker black” was a definite social asset in the bars and cafes.

  VI

  THE SPANISH CIVIL War appeared to consign much of this to that airy empire of dreams Heinrich Heine had described as the Germans’ true home. Its operations were characterized by the use of tanks both epi sodically and in small numbers. While occasionally as many as fifty or sixty might appear at one spot, fifteen or twenty was the usual norm on both sides. Rough terrain and poor roads limited movement. Poorly trained infantry eschewed the risks of staying close to tanks; the things drew fire. Not surprisingly, tanks proved disproportionately vulnerable to antitank guns—especially the light, handy 37mm types just coming into widespread use. When tanks did manage a local breakthrough, their next move usually involved turning around and fighting back to their own lines. Even the apostle of mobility, B. H. Liddell- Hart, concluded that the lessons of Spain were that the defense was presently dominant, and that few successes had been gained by maneuver alone. The French and Russian armies came institutionally to similar conclusions. So did most of the rest of Europe.

  The widespread negative judgments on tanks may have reflected as well the image of the war, assiduously promulgated on the Left, as a struggle between Spain’s common people and its “establishment.” In that context the tank invited definition as a quintessential Fascist weapon. Songs and stories consistently described tanks and aircraft pitted against “guts and rifles,” with the latter combination ultimately triumphant. Within armies, even hard-shelled social and political conservatives might well take heart from this apparent reaffirmation that men, not machines, determine victory.

  The Germans nevertheless continued on their pre-Spain course. It has been suggested that they did indeed react to the difficulties encountered by the Spanish and Italians in effectively employing armor. Instead of deciding the thing was impractical, however, they concluded that “of course these people can’t do it.” Robert M. Citino offers a more nuanced paradigm when he states that the Spanish Civil War was not a proving ground and “the Spaniards were not guinea pigs.” The Germans on the ground had neither the numbers of tanks, nor the tank technology, nor the degree of control to impose any of their ideas on the Nationalist high command in a systematic fashion. In contrast to the aircraft of the Condor Legion, the crews of the three dozen Panzer Is initially sent to Spain in October 1936 were restricted to training missions and observation—at least in principle. In fact, the tankers, whose strength eventually increased to three companies, regularly spent time at the front and were regularly rotated back to Germany. Their commander, a future general but then merely Major Wilhelm Ritter von Thoma, personally led the Nationalist armored attack on Madrid in November 1936, and claimed to have participated in 192 tank engagements.

  The men coming back from Spain were an invaluable conduit of lore from the sharp end to the grass roots of the panzer regiments. The wider results of their experience were summarized in a General Staff report of March 1939. The Nationalists, the document concluded, never used tanks in strengths larger than a company, and then only for infantry support. The corresponding restrictions on their movement made light tanks in particular vulnerable to even rudimentary antitank defenses. That, in turn, enhanced the need for gun-armed vehicles. Whenever possible, the Soviet tanks used by the Republicans were salvaged and welcomed for their high-velocity 45mm guns. And there was good reason for the German armored force’s emphasis on unit morale and individual moral fiber. The report mentioned that an initial enthusiasm for armored service among the Spaniards quickly evaporated when it became known what the inside of a burned-out tank looked like. By the end of 1938, rumor described captured Russian tanks as being crewed by pardoned criminals or men given a choice between prison and making a single attack in a tank.

  This was hardly sufficient data to justif
y completely revamping the Wehrmacht’s approach to armored war. German professional literature regularly featured warnings against overemphasizing the Spanish experience. In more practical terms, the armor lobby was by now too firmly entrenched to be dislodged by internal means.

  Higher-unit training in the peacetime panzer divisions continued to emphasize maneuvering and controlling tanks in large numbers. On June 1, 1938, the panzer divisions got their own manual, Richtlinien für die Führung der Panzerdivision. Emphasis on combined arms had not yet produced the closely integrated battle groups characteristic of the war’s later years. Instead the pattern was the panzer regiments leading and the motorized infantry acting in support, somewhat along the lines of the British armored divisions of 1943-44.

  To a degree, that reflected the progress of training: Tank and motorized formations had to become comfortable in their own skins before they could begin to work in genuinely close harmony. But teething troubles notwithstanding, in the fall maneuvers of 1937, the 3rd Panzer Division put on an impressive show, breaking the enemy flank, successfully assaulting a bridgehead from the rear, then shifting again to disrupt logistics and headquarters systems—all in close cooperation with Luftwaffe elements.

  Armored force theorists made a correspondingly forceful case for the concentration of the panzer divisions into a corps, and the concentration of that force at the operational Schwerpunkt, the vital spot, of the opening campaign. Heinz Guderian’s 1937 book Achtung—Panzer! is widely credited with structuring and popularizing that perspective. The book was in fact written on the recommendation of Lutz, who sought to make armored warfare’s case in a public context. It was derivative, a compilation of Guderian’s previous lectures and articles, but made up in conviction what it lacked in cohesion. Never lacking in an eye to the political sector, Guderian cited the Four-Year Plan, controlled by Hermann Göring, to support the argument that Germany would soon be able to produce enough synthetic fuel and artificial rubber to be freed from its current dependence on imports. He quoted Hitler’s affirmation of “the replacement of animal power by the motor [which] leads to the most tremendous technical and consequently economic change the world has ever experienced.”

  Guderian’s concluding peroration that “only by providing the army with the most modern and effective armaments and equipment and intelligent leadership can peace be safeguarded” resonates ironically in the context of Hitler’s 1938 purging of the army high command and his subsequent reorganization of the armed forces’ command structure, culminating in his assumption of supreme command. The book, however, was widely discussed, and sold well enough to pay for Guderian’s first car—an amusing sidebar given his support for motorization.

  Armored force doctrine and training placed increasing emphasis on ground-air cooperation. The long-standing myth that the Luftwaffe was essentially designed for close support of the land forces has been thoroughly demolished by, among others, James Corum and Williamson Murray. During World War I, the German air force had nevertheless paid significantly more specialized attention to ground support than its Allied counterparts. The Germans developed armored, radio-equipped infantry-contact machines for close reconnaissance. Used in twos, threes, and larger numbers, German Schlachtstaffeln (battle squadrons), each with a half dozen highly maneuverable two-seater Hannover or Halber stadt attack planes, proved devastatingly effective at shooting in attacks from the summer of 1917. In the later stages of the 1918 spring offensive, aircraft were used to parachute ammunition to frontline infantry. The experience of being on the receiving end of tank-infantry cooperation at the hands of the BEF in the war’s final months drove home the lesson: close air support was a good thing for an armored force.

  During the Weimar years the Reichswehr worked closely with the civil aircraft industry and the civilian airlines to keep abreast of industrial and technological developments. Under the guidance of Hans von Seeckt, German officers developed intellectual and doctrinal frameworks for air war in general and air-ground cooperation in particular. As early as 1921, regulations stressed the importance of using attack aircraft in masses against front lines and immediate rear areas. Maneuvers used balloons to represent forbidden aircraft, and emphasized unit-level antiaircraft defense with machine guns and rifles in lieu of the banned specialized weapons. In Russia, from 1925 to 1933, the air school at Lipetsk successfully functioned as both a training base for pilots and a testing ground for aircraft.

  The initiation of full-scale rearmament and the creation of the Luftwaffe as an independent service temporarily combined to take air and ground on separate paths in the mid-1930s. Luftwaffe theorists accepted using fighters for direct support of ground forces as a secondary mission, but emphasized the greater importance of interdiction behind—well behind, as a rule—the fighting front. That attitude began to change as reports from the Spanish Civil War highlighted not merely the potential but the ability of aircraft to have a decisive effect on ground operations—especially against troops poorly trained, demoralized, or even temporarily confused. Nationalist or Republican, it made no difference.

  Luftwaffe officers were increasingly expected to know army tactics and doctrine; to participate directly in army exercises and maneuvers as air commanders; to instruct the army in the nature and missions of air power. At the focal point of the new relationship was the armored force. Luftwaffe doctrine insisted air support must be concentrated at decisive points, not dispersed across fronts and sectors. This concept meshed precisely with the panzer commanders’ emphasis on concentration, speed, and shock.

  Implementation took three forms. One was the creation of specialized tactical reconnaissance squadrons assigned at corps and division levels, and the parallel development, from field army headquarters down to panzer divisions, of a system of air liaison officers to report ground-force situations to air officers commanding the supporting reconnaissance squadrons and the antiaircraft units.

  The Luftwaffe’s second contribution was close support. As early as the 1937 maneuvers, an entire fighter group, 30 aircraft, was placed at the disposal of a single panzer division. The obsolescent Henschel Hs 123 biplane, a failure in its intended role as a dive-bomber, found a second identity as a ground-attack aircraft whose slow speed and high maneuverability made its strikes extremely accurate. The Junkers 87 Stuka dive-bombers, deployed in small numbers to Spain, manifested near pinpoint accuracy and had a demoralizing effect out of proportion with the actual damage inflicted. Given the right conditions, it seemed clear that a few Stukas could achieve better results than entire squadrons and groups of conventional bombers. Throughout 1938, Stukas and Henschels exercised with panzer formations in an increasing variety of tactical situations. In the air and on the ground, the same conclusion was being drawn: Close air support, especially in the precise forms normative for dive and attack planes, could become “flying artillery fire,” bringing the tanks onto initial objectives and keeping them moving not merely at tactical but perhaps operational levels as well.

  No less significant was the Luftwaffe’s third contribution: the development of a maintenance and supply system mobile enough to keep pace with the armored columns and keep the relatively short-ranged close support aircraft in action even from improvised airfields. Turnaround time and sorties mounted are better tests of air-power effectiveness than simple numbers of planes. It would be a good few years before the panzer divisions would have to wonder where the Luftwaffe was. It would be striking just ahead of them.

  Colonel Hans Jeschonnek was appointed Luftwaffe Chief of Staff in February 1939. A bomber officer with—limited—unit experience, he nevertheless recognized both the importance and the difficulty of integrating close air support to ground operations. He understood as well the desirability of keeping air assets under Luftwaffe control—not as easy as it might seem even with Göring as chief, given the army’s historically dominant position in Germany’s military system. Jeschonnek’s response was to organize a specialized ground-support force. In the summer of 1939
he began consolidating the Stuka groups into a Nahkampfdivision (close-combat division). Its commander was Wolfram von Richthofen, cousin of the Red Baron, who had extensive Spanish experience and was among the Luftwaffe’s leading dive-bomber enthusiasts. Eventually the division would expand into a full and famous corps. But with more than 300 first-line combat aircraft on strength in September 1939, it was already the world’s largest and most formidable ground-support air element.

  The panzers experienced the differences between the most rigorous maneuvers and the least demanding field conditions in March 1938. That was the month when Hitler bullied the right-wing government of Austria into accepting Anschluss, or union, with the Third Reich—a more fundamental violation of the Versailles settlement than rearmament had been. He convinced the rest of Europe to accept it through the application of diplomatic smoke and mirrors. The 2nd Panzer Division was ordered to join the Wehrmacht forces assigned to occupy the Reich’s new province. The new mobile forces had deliberately been held back from earlier “flower occupations” of the Rhineland and the Saar. Now Guderian had two days’ notice to march his division from its garrison in Würzburg the 250 miles to the soon-to-be-former border, and then enter Vienna in presumed triumph.

  The result was one of the most monumental compound fiascoes in the entire history of mechanized operations. Guderian, a master at presenting himself in the best possible light, could find nothing good to say about the inadequate planning, inadequate maintenance, and inadequate logistics that left broken-down tanks stranded on every major road out of Würzburg and constrained the survivors to refuel from obliging Austrian filling stations whose low-octane gas fouled engines so badly that many vehicles required major overhauls at the end of the march. Perhaps it was just as well that the division remained in Vienna once the garrison-shifting generated by the Anschluss was completed. In any case, Guderian stood at Hitler’s side when the Führer spoke in his hometown of Linz, and basked in his pleasure at the sight of the tanks the mechanics were able to keep going.