Heroes Without Honour

by Alan David

  The Polish plain was ideal for Blitzkrieg, a tactic based upon the deployment of highly armoured and mobile strike forces of tanks, scout cars, self-propelled guns, truck transports and motor-cycle units, which rapidly swept aside the thinly-scattered Polish first line of defence and roared on to destroy command areas and cut off supplies. The railways were savagely knocked out by the Luftwaffe, and the loss of transportation and supply left the Polish forces along the frontier without a co-ordinated defence and no means of moving quickly to the rear to engage in delaying action. Retreating on foot and horseback, large numbers of Polish troops were almost immediately trapped behind German lines as Panzers and their supporting troops raced eastwards.

  Although there was no knowledge of what was happening on the entire front, Eckhardt knew by his orders and their rate of advance that the day was going well. Whenever they came up against strong points they attacked with unbridled ferocity, gaining confidence and experience with each successful attack. They were better fighters than the Poles. The Führer had told them it was so and they were proving him right.

  The advance continued. The sun was concealed behind smoke clouds which hid the agony of a stricken nation. Eckhardt had no idea what time of day it was. His ears were ringing from the shock of bombardment, and although he felt empty he experienced no pangs of hunger. The pent-up tensions of months of training had fled under the quick release of action, and he and the men with him were aware that Poland could not hold out for long. Flesh and blood were no match for fire and steel.

  They halted and dug in, and Eckhardt was surprised to discover that the time was just after noon. The men were tired, shocked by the sounds of battle that had exploded around them through the long hours since dawn, and they worked like automatons, cursing softly as they dug trenches. All around them other troops, as yet unblooded and moving forward from reserve, were preparing to hurl themselves at the positions of the demoralised Poles. Sergeant-Major Leun appeared and rations were eaten and ammunition supplies replenished.

  Resting fitfully, Eckhardt reviewed the morning’s achievements and was satisfied, although he had made a mental note of some names and would be talking later to the men in question. But for the first time in many years the insistent nagging in the back of his mind was stilled. Action had satiated the yearning which had sprung up in his childhood in response to the endless lectures given by his father. He could almost hear his father’s voice in his mind, the stirring words dripping like fat into a fire. But Sergeant-Major Leun came to disturb him, forcing his brooding thoughts back to the present.

  ‘Captain Dantine wants to see you, Herr Leutnant,’ the Oberscharführer reported.

  Eckhardt got immediately to his feet, still gripping his Bergmann. He had cleaned the weapon when they first halted, for it was a part of him, an extension of his hands and mind.

  ‘How have we made out so far?’ he asked as they walked together through the trees towards the Company command post. ‘Have you had a Company roll call?’

  ‘Twenty six dead and forty two wounded, sir.’ Leun, a tall, powerful Berliner, spoke in a harsh tone. He ran a hand across his dusty, smoke-blackened features and bristles rasped on his chin and cheeks. He was thirty-nine years old and tough as an elephant. Soldiering was all he knew, and he had received his baptism of fire in the last terrible battles of the Great War. His field-grey tunic was wet where he had tried to sponge off the worst of the bloodstains he had collected during the fighting. ‘We suffered badly in those woods, but several of the men are on report. Venner and Bauer are under arrest. They broke when the Poles counter-attacked, and turned to run.’

  ‘Why weren’t they shot on the spot?’ Eckhardt demanded angrily. ‘I’ve made a note of three names. I’ll want to see the men later. I won’t tolerate any slackness in this platoon, Sergeant-Major.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Leun nodded. ‘We’ll be going on again in a couple of hours. We’re going to start pushing north to Warsaw, so Captain Dantine said.’

  ‘We covered a lot of ground this morning. If we didn’t have to wait for the infantry to consolidate we could have advanced even further.’

  ‘Well we’ve proved the Poles can’t stand up to us!’ Leun chuckled harshly. ‘We’ve proved something today, sir. The whole world will realise that Germany has now to be reckoned with.’

  ‘Poland is only a stepping stone.’ Eckhardt could hear his father’s voice again, talking stridently in the back of his mind. It was as if his father were still alive or, at least, still talking to him, reminding him of the bitter lessons that should be learned from the past and what had to be done in the future if Germany were to take its rightful place in Europe. ‘We have natural enemies, Leun, like any other species, and our particular predators are Jews and Bolsheviks.’

  ‘Shall we halt when we’ve taken Poland?’ Leun glanced into Eckhardt’s grim features. The Leutnant was a coldly attractive man. Of all the Company officers, Eckhardt was the most enigmatic, although Leun had known him almost from birth. He was a fanatical Nazi, like the others, but there was more to him, a sharper awareness of the deeper issues facing the Third Reich, and he was a loner, a man who seemed self-sufficient and incapable of human contacts. He lived in his own narrow world of duty and there was no apparent fear in him. Leun was only too well aware of that fact, having fought with Eckhardt in the Spanish Civil War two years earlier. He had the reputation of being a superman amongst the toughest of the Führer’s New Order, but he took good care of his men.

  ‘What would you have us do, advance into Russia?’ Eckhardt demanded.

  ‘Are we strong enough to do that?’

  ‘I doubt it, yet. There are other enemies closer to our borders who have to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘The French.’ Leun nodded, leading the way to where a dug-out was being used for the command post. ‘They contributed to Germany’s bankruptcy, and we cannot take our rightful place in Europe until they have been dealt with.’

  ‘You’ve been listening to me talking,’ Eckhardt accused, chuckling harshly. ‘But you learned all of it the hard way, Leun. I can remember seeing the Bolsheviks on the streets of Berlin when I was a boy. You were there! Right at my father’s side!’

  ‘I was at your father’s side many times, sir!’ Leun nodded, his gaze reflective. ‘Right from the moment I was his servant in the Great War. But with the Führer leading us there will not be a repeat of the bitter disgrace we suffered then. The Führer was a brave soldier himself. He knows what he is doing. In six years we have been transformed from the underdogs of Europe to the most powerful nation. We have already regained the territory stolen from us under the Treaty and there is no limit to what we can accomplish. The Führer has opened the flood gates.’

  They paused outside the command dug-out and Eckhardt looked into Leun’s weary features. This man was the only human with whom he had any real contact, and only because Leun had been devoted to his father. When Leun talked about the old days and the Great War it was as if Major Eckhardt himself was still alive, and that knowledge was the one thing which could put emotion into Max Eckhardt’s mind. He returned Leun’s salute, and was about to enter the dug-out when the sergeant-major spoke softly.

  ‘Your brother, sir. I lost touch with him years ago. But now the war has started, do you know what became of him?’

  ‘Brother?’ Eckhardt frowned for a moment, then tightened his grip upon the Bergmann. ‘Oh, you mean Kurt!’ He shrugged. ‘He and I have never been brothers, Leun, and you know it. He lived with Aunt Gretel on the farm near Hamburg. He never stayed with us after Mother died. The last I heard of him, he was a sergeant in the Panzers. I think he’s in the north.’

  ‘He is your father’s son, sir!’ Leun nodded and returned to the trenches.

  Eckhardt gazed after him reflectively, slightly disturbed by the mention of his brother and the memories which came flooding into his mind as a result. Kurt was not a brother. Kurt had been the cause of their mother’s death. She had died in childbirth whil
e Kurt survived. He had never forgiven Kurt that fact. He compressed his lips and entered the dug-out.

  Chapter Two

  For Sergeant Kurt Eckhardt on the northern front, predawn of 1 September 1939 was the culminating point of years of training, and when his battalion’s Panzer IV tanks were finally positioned on their start line to await the commencement of the war he pulled off his earphones and yawned to rid himself of the ceaseless crackle which had been hammering against his eardrums. His head ached and there were sharp pains in his ears as he hung the headset from the open hatch with the earpieces turned towards him so that he could hear if his code letters were called. At the moment there was a lot of chatter between the battalion commander and the Company leaders.

  He lit a cigarette and wondered if there was time for a cup of coffee. But Schultze, his driver, was easing out of his seat, trying to stretch cramped limbs. He knew there was not time for anything now, and settled himself on the small seat, propping up his feet. But he could not rest and arose once more to lift his glasses and scan the dark surroundings. It was purely an instinctive movement for there was nothing to see except the other tanks in his immediate vicinity, all awaiting the moment of action.

  It was surprising just how quiet the early morning was considering the number of soldiers — Panzers and infantry — there were crouching around in this part of the country. Across the border, too, in Poland, there were tense men waiting and watching, ready for trouble, and no doubt confident that they could contain the first vicious onslaught, if it came.

  Kurt shook his head sorrowfully, for there was no doubt about it. The invasion was due to start within thirty minutes. He thought of Aunt Gretel and the farm near Hamburg, and for a moment there was a sharp pang in his chest. Then he thought of Anna and clenched his teeth. On his last leave he had failed to pluck up sufficient courage to ask her to marry him. But he knew he was afraid of marriage with the threat of the war hanging over them. A sigh escaped him and he changed the direction of his thoughts, startling himself by thinking of his brother Max.

  He wondered why he and Max were so opposite in character and outlook. Was it because each had a different upbringing? Max had been reared by a housekeeper in their father’s flat in Berlin while he had spent his entire life with Aunt Gretel on the farm outside Hamburg. He looked upon his aunt as a mother, for she had nursed him from the time he was born and they had never been parted until he joined the Wehrmacht. He hated the thought of war. All he wanted was to work the farm and live a quiet, fruitful life. But here he was, in command of a tank and waiting to spearhead the invasion eastwards.

  ‘Have we got time to make some coffee, Sergeant?’ Schultze demanded, and Kurt stirred, dragging himself from his thoughts.

  He shook his head silently, barely meeting the driver’s eyes. He wanted to shout aloud that he had no business being here, that he wanted nothing more than to be left alone on the farm. He did not hate the Poles or anyone else. He did not see the Russians as a threat to the German way of life or regard the French as eternal enemies. He listened to all the talk about the international situation, but it did not affect him. He was not a member of the Nazi Party, although he knew his father had been a strong nationalist, and that his beliefs had finally driven him into the Party and to his death in a Berlin street battle while the Party had been fighting for political survival.

  He could remember some of the arguments his father had put forward to Aunt Gretel on the rare occasions he and Max had visited the farm. Max, too, was violently nationalist in his views, no doubt because of their father’s influence, but Kurt could not understand why there had to be such trouble in the world. He had never set eyes upon a Frenchman, so could not bring himself to hate them as a nation.

  He stifled a sigh and looked around critically. There were five of them in the Panzer IV, which was armed with a short 75mm gun and two machine-guns. He was fortunate in having such a good crew. Shultze was a Berliner with a harsh sense of humour and a penchant for stealing anything they needed. Vogel, the radio operator, was from Hamburg and had visited the farm the last time they were on leave. Hohner, an inveterate grumbler, and Weilen, an optimist, were from Hanover, and the fact that they all originated from northern Germany gave them common ground on which to meet. They got along well because they had to. A tank crew was a close-knit community, and they had one another’s lives in their hands.

  ‘Can I get out for a pee, Sergeant?’ Weilen, the gunner, demanded. He was tall and thin, with dark eyes deep-set under a protruding forehead. There was a tacit understanding between him and his loader, Hohner, although temperamentally they were complete opposites.

  ‘You’re drinking too much coffee,’ Schultze chaffed.

  ‘Be quick,’ Kurt ordered. ‘The bombardment could start any time.’

  ‘We should get a stand-by,’ Vogel said as Weilen levered himself out of the side hatch.

  But within two minutes the silence of predawn was shattered by the opening bombardment. The darkness was split by intermittent flashes and continuous thunder. Shells screamed overhead and exploded in Poland. Weilen came floundering back into the tank, his fly undone and his black tankman’s trousers wet. Kurt put on his headphones with trembling fingers. The radio was buzzing with orders and he picked up his call sign and heard the operative command.

  Schultze gripped the steering rods and set the tank in motion, the hatches still open, and they lurched forward. Kurt stood in the turret peering intently through the observation ring, but there was little to see. The flashes all round proved disconcerting to the eyes, and he maintained his station with the other tanks of the Company. He had no idea when they actually crossed into Poland because there was nothing tangible to mark the border, but they pressed forward, and shells kept exploding ahead of them. There was no sign of Polish troops or defensive positions, and he began to wonder if there would be any resistance at all.

  Vogel sat by the radio set. His duty was also to use one of the two machine-guns, and he kept checking the weapon and the long cartridge belt that resembled a coiled, deadly snake. Hohner opened all the ammunition lockers and stood ready to slam shells into the breech of the 75mm. Weilen was ready to fire the heavy gun the instant Kurt gave the order.

  A shell burst just in front of them and bits of shrapnel rattled against the hull like lethal rain. It was high-explosive, and there was little danger to them unless they received a direct hit. The flash was vivid and left Kurt’s eyes half-dazzled. He realised that a lot of fire was being hurled at their position and was thankful that all of it was high-explosive. He kept alert as they crashed through a hedge and started across another field, leaving the deep imprint of their broad tracks behind. They had to be in Poland now!

  The greyness of dawn was marred by the smoke of shellfire, but Kurt found his range of vision growing imperceptibly and began to make out features around them. The other tanks of the Company were still in position, and some of the knotted fear in his belly began to ease. This was not going to be as bad as he had thought it might.

  Cows suddenly moved, frightened by the appearance of the tanks, and for a moment Kurt thought they were Polish tanks. He could imagine that the Poles had massed their entire force of armour along this sector of the front. A shell exploded in the midst of the cows and smoke, dust and bits of beef flew. When the eruption cleared he saw that all the animals were down, and a frown touched his face for farm animals gave him a direct link with home. He sighed heavily, then ducked instinctively as tracer bullets sped in a stream about him. He heard bullets rattling heavily against the hull, but was safe from them, and when he looked for and found the source of the fire he gave orders to his crew. The machine-guns stammered harshly, and it was as if they were back on the firing ranges during training. Then they crunched through a hedgerow and flattened the enemy machine-gun post.

  He saw two enemy soldiers running for fresh cover, and Vogel’s machine-gun chattered briefly. Both men went sprawling, and Kurt realised that these were the first casu
alties his tank could claim. He felt bemused by the knowledge that he was responsible for the death of fellow humans. All the training and preparation had seemed unreal. There had always been talk of killing the enemy, whoever that enemy might prove to be, but none of it had really sunk in. Now there were dead men lying out there in the open field, and he, Kurt Eckhardt, was solely responsible for their untimely end. They were men unknown to him, who had never done a thing to harm him, and he had blundered out of the grey light of dawn and exterminated them.

  There was a sudden brilliant flash to the right and he jerked his head around in time to see Corporal Schmidt’s tank bursting into flames. Dark figures appeared as the crew baled out, but his attention was diverted when something clanged against the side of his tank. There was an explosion and a shower of sparks. The tank rocked powerfully, and for a moment he thought they were finished, but the vehicle continued to lurch forward and he realised that they had been hit by an armour-piercing shell which had not been powerful enough to penetrate. He forced himself to concentrate, a part of his mind on the orders pouring through his earphones and the rest concerned with what lay before him.

  A mine had accounted for Schmidt’s tank, he knew, for the explosion had come from beneath its tracks. When he glanced back he saw the survivors already moving to the rear, and faced his front resolutely. If they could end this war quickly he might be able to return to the farm before too long.

  A tremendous explosion in the rear made him look back once more and he saw an ammunition truck throwing bright red fingers of fire in all directions. Then there was a whoosh as a petrol truck disintegrated in a great pall of black smoke roaring skywards. All around them shells were bursting, and he wondered if they were being fired by Germans or Poles, for it was impossible to tell.