Instantly, everyone went very still. As the tremors increased, they heard the first low rumble of powerful engines. Dozens of them. Maybe more.
Hans was looking through a handheld periscope that allowed him to see over the top of the trench without exposing himself. Not that he could discern much in the near total darkness.
“Can you see them?” one of his men called to him.
He shook his head. “But they’re coming. And they sound like the heavies.” Which was what they feared the most.
The Allied Forces had created both “light” and “heavy” armored battalions. Each light battalion had about seventy of the French-made Renault FT tanks. These were only slightly taller than a man and not much bigger than an automobile. They carried only one operator. They were faster and more maneuverable but easier for the opposition to stop. Even a hand grenade, if placed right, could blow off the tracks and immobilize them.
The heavy tank battalions had about fifty of the British-made Mark VI tanks, or MK 6, as the armored cavalry men called them. The MK 6 was a massive and ponderous behemoth, with tracks as tall as a man. It carried 57-mm cannons and two machine guns, one on each side. It could go right over the top of an artillery piece, push over a truck, or knock down full-grown trees. It was virtually unstoppable unless it took a direct hit from an artillery shell or someone ran up behind it and shoved an explosive charge into the tracks.
Hans’s platoon supposedly had artillery support three or four miles behind them, but with the army’s usual efficiency, his platoon had been given a radio whose batteries were so weak that it had gone dead after only four calls. So now they were totally dependent on the forward observers, who were at least half a mile away, to call in their artillery report.
They had been given two cases of explosive charges specifically designed to stop a tank, twelve in each case, but after a full day of fighting yesterday, they were down to ten charges. And judging from the growing roar of the engines, Hans guessed that a full battalion of heavies was approaching their position.
Again he looked in the periscope. Against the black earth and the black sky he could see no silhouettes, but now he could make out dozens of tiny slits of light. There was no question what they were. The night was so dark the tanks had to turn on their headlamps, which were completely blacked out except for one horizontal slit across the width of the light.
“You ready for a flare, Sarge?” someone called.
“Not yet. Our orders are to stop as many of the forward tanks as possible so the others can’t get around them. Then they’ll be sitting ducks for the artillery.”
“Got it.”
He lowered the periscope and turned back to his men. “They’ll probably have a bulldozer or two leading so they can fill in the tank traps. Harnack and Veizey, you two use the trench to get past those tank traps. As soon as they’re close enough, place the charges on the dozers. Be sure you jam them into the tracks so they don’t fall out. Then get out of there.”
“Right, Sarge.” Both men were staring at the ground. Neither of them had looked up.
“Schulze and Streiker, you’re coming with me. We’re going to go after the first three heavies. We’ve got to disable them. Langer and Udke, your job is to take anything we don’t stop. You’ll have five charges. Let’s hope you don’t have to use them.”
“Okay.”
“The rest of you will give us covering fire. But be sure of your targets. We don’t need you maggots putting holes in our backsides.”
They nodded, so relieved that they weren’t going out on point that they actually smiled.
Hans stood up and stepped inside the dugout. He bent down over the case that held the explosives. But just as he reached to open the box, they heard a sound that was one of the most dreaded on the battlefield—the scream of an incoming artillery round. “Down!” he shouted.
Twelve men threw themselves facedown in the mud. KABOOM! The shell hit about thirty yards behind their trench. Instantly a spray of mud and shrapnel rained down on them.
“Here comes another!” Hans threw his arms over his head and opened his mouth so that the concussion wouldn’t blow out his eardrums. The explosion was deafening. He shook his head, his ears ringing.
The next one was even closer and caused one of the poles holding up the canvas awning over the dugout to collapse. A gush of water spilled down on them. The fourth shell hit so close that it slammed Hans back against the wall of the trench. He bounced off and knocked two of his men down.
“They’re ours,” someone screamed. “That’s our artillery.”
He leaped up, swearing bitterly. He was right. The shells were arcing in from behind them. And they had no radio.
“It’s those idiot forward observers,” someone said, cursing. “They’re calling it in before they know where the tanks are.”
Hans knew immediately that he was right. “Find cover!” he yelled. “I’ve got to get to company headquarters and have them call it off.” He didn’t wait to see if they obeyed. He sprinted down the trench. As he ran, he could feel the rain on his head and face and realized that he no longer had a helmet. It must have blown off in that last hit.
Running as fast as he could, he raced down the trench line that led to the positions behind them. The shells were whistling overhead and exploding every three or four seconds now. The gunners had started a major bombardment, and hell itself was raining down from heaven.
When he reached a point where he was a good fifty yards from his platoon, he scrambled up a ladder and sprinted across the open field for the headquarters bunker. He was screaming at them before he ever reached them.
A sergeant stuck his head out the door. “What?” he called, putting one hand up to his ear.
“They’re too low. Your gunners are too low. They’re shelling my platoon’s position,” he shouted.
The man swore and stuck his head inside, shouting at someone. Then he looked up at Hans again. “We’ll call them off, Sergeant. Thanks.”
“There’s a battalion of heavies about a hundred and fifty yards directly west of our position. Tell them to raise their fire and give us some help with them.”
The guy waved and disappeared into the bunker. Spinning around, Hans took off again, zigzagging between the barbed wire and the shell holes. He felt a surge of hope a moment later when the screaming started to noticeably diminish. He cupped his hands and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Hang on, guys! Almost over.”
• • •
Four miles behind where Hans was racing through the darkness, the first lieutenant in charge of the battery of 155 howitzers slammed the phone down. He turned, waving his arms and screaming, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
He raced to the left, running hard, shouting his message. As soon as he saw the last gunner shutting down, he spun around and started back toward the right side of the line. The closest ones, seeing the others backing off, were shutting down even though they hadn’t heard the lieutenant. But on the far end of the line, the gunners were still firing. Then one by one they turned, saw their commander running toward them, and hesitated.
Except for one. The gunner on the next-to-last gun had his back turned away from the line and was watching as his crew slammed another the shell into the breach. “Clear!” they shouted and jumped back. He turned, opened his mouth, and pulled the lanyard. The cannon bucked and roared and rolled back, smoke shooting out of its barrel. Then, and only then, did he hear the shouts of “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
_______________
Chapter Notes
The Siegfried Line was the German name for the massive defensive fortifications they built in the five months following their defeat at Verdun. The Allies called it the Hindenburg Line, after Germany’s commanding general. Some of the Allied generals said that the Siegfried Line was a desperate, last-gasp attempt by the Germans to avoid defeat, but in actuality it was a brilliant strategic move. Not only did it give them a place that was easily defended, but it protected the Ge
rman border. It also consolidated the Western Front into a much straighter line that needed far fewer troops to defend it. When it was finished, it actually freed up about thirty-eight divisions to be utilized elsewhere. It was finally overrun by the British, French, and American forces late in the war as described in this chapter.
Tanks were first used as a major battlefield weapon in World War I, but not until about 1917. The famed World War II tank commander General George S. Patton commanded one of the American armored battalions that fought in France in World War I.
November 7, 1918—Pasewalk Military Hospital
Berlin, Germany
Hans recognized her footsteps the moment she entered the ward. Strange, in a way. He couldn’t do that with any of the other nurses or staff. Just Nurse Fromme.
As expected, the footsteps stopped after a moment. That would be bed number one, he thought. He guessed that she checked to make sure the patient was asleep, maybe glanced at his chart to see if there was anything new on it. After a moment, the footsteps moved to his right a few steps. Bed number two, across the aisle. Ten seconds exactly. She was always very precise. About ten seconds at each bedside, unless there was a problem. He liked that.
He lay perfectly still, listening to her back-and-forth pattern, counting each bed off. Finally, she finished bed number eight, directly across from him, and came over to the foot of his bed. There was a soft scrape as she picked up his chart and read it. He assumed that there must be night-lights that allowed her to read, but with his eyes bandaged so tightly, he couldn’t tell.
Another scrape as she replaced it. That was the signal he was waiting for. “Nurse Fromme?”
There was a soft exclamation of surprise. Then her footsteps moved up beside him. “Sergeant Eckhardt,” she whispered. “You’re awake?”
“Yes.”
“Is something the matter?”
“No. I . . . I just always wake up about now.”
He heard the rustling of her starched uniform and then was surprised when she laid the palm of her hand on his cheek. It was cool and very soft. And he caught a faint wisp of flowers.
“Really, I’m all right.”
“How did you know it was me?”
He shrugged and smiled. “I just did.”
“Can I get you something?”
He hesitated and then plunged. “I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“I know you do your rounds of the wards every two hours. What do you do in between?”
Her hand pulled away, and a moment later the chair beside his bed scraped on the tile floor. He heard more rustling of her uniform as she sat down beside him. The floral scent was immediately stronger and he breathed it in, trying not to be too obvious.
“I do various things. I have to do my charting, or paperwork, as you would call it. Some patients need medication in the night. Sometimes we have a new patient arrive during our shift and we check him in. If it’s slow, we’ll sometimes just sit around and talk. Why do you ask?”
“I . . .”
“What?”
“Do you ever read to patients?”
Somehow he could sense that he had surprised her again. “Not as much at night as on the day shift, because most of the patients are sleeping now. But yes, occasionally.” There was a moment’s hesitation, then, “Would you like me to read to you, Sergeant?”
“Well . . . I don’t want to put you out.”
“It is not an imposition. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Then, yes, I would like that.”
“I can only do it if you are already awake. I’m not allowed to wake a patient up for that.”
“I’m almost always awake about this time.”
Her voice softened with concern. “Are you having nightmares, Sergeant?”
That took him aback. “Why do you ask that?”
“Many do,” she responded. “And . . . And last night about this time, as I passed your bed, you were thrashing around and moaning, as if you were in pain. You actually even sat up and cried out. You were very distraught.”
“What did I say?” he asked, shocked by her words.
“Nothing intelligible. I pushed you back down and held your hand for a few minutes, and you quieted down again.”
“You held my hand?”
She laughed softly. “Yes. Do you not remember that?”
“No. None of it.”
“So, do you have nightmares every night?”
He let out a long breath, not sure if he wanted her to know this, but then finally nodded.
“And you can’t go back to sleep afterward?”
“No. Not for an hour or more.”
“Then I shall come and read to you. We have a small library here. What would you like?”
“What do you have?”
Again there was that soft chuckle. “Our hospital director is a former schoolmaster. I’m afraid he’s quite cerebral.”
“Cerebral?”
“Yes, sorry. The cerebrum is part of the brain. Cerebral means he’s kind of an intellectual thinker. So we have the biography of Sigmund Freud and also his The Psychopathology of Everyday Life. We have a book called Collected Writings of Preeminent German Philosophers. That includes writings by Kant and Nietzsche.”
“No thanks. Any novels?”
“Oh, good,” she said merrily. “I was hoping you wouldn’t choose philosophy.”
He felt himself relaxing. He loved the sound of her laughter and wanted to say something that would bring it forth again.
“Do you speak English?”
Surprised, he nodded. “Actually, yes I do.”
“So do I. So we could do James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans. We also have The Swiss Family Robinson, in German, of course, and . . . let’s see. What else? Oh, yes. I must not forget Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. And that would be in English as well. That’s my personal favorite.” She sounded a little embarrassed as she added that last sentence.
“Let’s do Pride and Prejudice,” he said without hesitation.
“Really?” she exclaimed. She reached out and touched his arm. “Or are you just saying that because you think that’s what I would choose?”
“Does anyone go to war in it?” he asked.
“No. It’s a very happy book.”
“Actually, that sounds quite wonderful.”
She was back about twenty minutes later. As she drew closer, he could tell she had gone up on tiptoes when approaching his bed. When she stopped, he heard a very soft whisper. “Sergeant Eckhardt? Are you still awake?”
“I am,” he said. “Very much so.”
“Oh, good.” She came around and sat down beside him. As she opened the book, he turned his head toward her. “Before we start, can I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Of course.”
He rose up on one elbow. “Am I blind?”
He heard her quick intake of breath.
“Please be honest with me, Nurse Fromme. The nurses tell me that they can’t say and the doctors are pretty vague. They say I have to wait until the bandages come off to know for sure.”
She was silent for a long moment, and he realized he had probably put her in an awkward position. “If you can’t say, that’s all right.”
“Nurses are not allowed to talk to patients about their condition. Only doctors can do that.”
He fell back, not surprised.
“But . . .” She lowered her voice. “But I can tell you what happened to you, if you promise not to tell anyone. Nurses are not supposed to read patient files, either, but I . . .” He could almost feel her blushing as her words died away.
“Good for you,” he exclaimed. “You have my word. I won’t say anything to anyone. All they’ve told me is that I was caught in an artillery bombardment.”
“You don’t remember anything?”
“I remember going to a briefing about a major Allied offensive in the morning. The next thing I remember is waking up
here in the hospital two days ago.”
Her hand came out and touched his arm briefly. “Four days, actually,” she whispered. “They kept you heavily sedated the first two days you were here.”
He didn’t say anything as he took that in, so she went on. “Your platoon was on the front lines somewhere in France with an assignment to stop an attack from tanks. Suddenly, you started receiving friendly artillery fire.”
He jerked up. “Friendly? You mean our own guns?”
“Yes, that’s what your patient history said. I guess ‘friendly fire’ is not the best of terms, is it?” She withdrew her hand. “You left your men in the trench and went back to try to stop the firing, which you did. But just as you were returning to your men, one last round came in. It exploded just behind you.”
He could hear the emotion in her voice now. “Evidently, you heard it coming and started to turn around, because the blast caught you sideways. You were peppered with shrapnel, nearly a hundred wounds.”
He swore softly, astonished to be hearing this for the first time. Then he remembered where he was. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Go on.”
“Most of the wounds were superficial or required only a few stitches. But you took a bad hit in your right hip, one in the right side of your chest that broke a rib, and one in your right arm.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I can feel every one of them.”
She stopped, and he wondered if she had started to cry. But her voice was steady when she continued. “And one piece about the size of your thumb hit you in the right temple. It penetrated the skull and lodged against what we call the cranial nerve II. That’s the nerve that transmits visual information from the eye to the brain. We also call it the optic nerve.”
He lay back, his face registering shock. “What about my platoon?”
She hesitated and then very softly answered him. “Six of them were killed in the shelling. Three, in addition to yourself, were critically wounded. One of those died in the field hospital.”
Fire and Steel, Volume 1 Page 23
