Heroes Without Honour

by Alan David

  ‘I have the same misgivings,’ Eckhardt confessed. ‘But I am certain the Führer is aware of the dangers because he had always talked of the Russian menace. I don’t think we have anything to worry about, Leun.’

  ‘I hope you are right, Herr Leutnant.’ Leun saluted and moved away, and Eckhardt returned to his command post.

  At first light the advance continued, and war now seemed a way of life. They attacked strong points and drove through the wavering Poles. Each day now was a repetition of the previous six, and their gains increased unabated. But as their lines of supply and communication increased they encountered more difficulties, and could have made far greater gains had their overworked service regiments managed to cope. Tanks began dropping out of the battle owing to mechanical failure, and the exhausted repair crews were fighting their tiredness as they struggled to maintain the vehicles.

  Then came news that the Poles had delivered a counterstroke of their own. To the west of Warsaw, from within the territory that was being isolated by the northern and southern arms of the German pincer movement, the Polish Pomorz and Poznan Armies struck a concentrated blow against the flank guard provided by the German Eighth Army, and at that precise moment the Germans were concentrating their whole attention on taking Warsaw despite increasing problems of supply.

  But the whole success of Blitzkrieg was based upon the speed with which armoured columns could move, and motorised divisions were quickly diverted within hours to the danger area. Eckhardt found his division withdrawn from the outer defences of Warsaw, where they had been probing, and moved back westwards to take part in the battle which raged to contain the Poles in the Bzura pocket.

  Massed German divisions made an all-out assault that lasted for days before the Bzura pocket was smashed. Then the few Poles who remained stood dazed amongst the wreckage and blazing equipment in territory which had been devastated by bombing attacks and overrun by the German army.

  Eckhardt found darkness a respite from the terrible din of ceaseless bombardment. Guns were still firing, but the volume of fire had diminished, and now came only from the east. Few Polish survivors had escaped eastwards, where frantic attempts to re-establish a front protecting the eastern half of the country were buoyed up by a promise from the French that they would launch a major assault into Western Germany. Eckhardt gritted his teeth at the news and wished he could be transferred immediately.

  But Poland was doomed. The advance upon Warsaw was resumed, where the Panzers soon discovered a grim fact of war. Fighting in city streets inhibited the scope for manoeuvre, and tanks restricted to a single line approach were seriously at a disadvantage. Three hours of fighting cost one division fifty-seven out of one hundred and twenty tanks engaged. It was a bitter lesson, and Eckhardt fumed impotently at the delays which were now affecting their timetable.

  The French failed to launch their much-vaunted assault upon Germany, and on 17 September, as Brest Litovsk surrendered to General Guderian, Russian forces struck across the border of Poland and began to occupy the eastern half of the country.

  Max Eckhardt was thoughtful when he heard the news. He recalled everything his father had said about the bolsheviks. But what would happen when Russian and German forces met in the middle of Poland? Were the Russians coming to the aid of the Poles in the absence of the French and British? They were imponderable questions, and yet Eckhardt felt that he knew deep in his heart that there would be war at some time with the Russians.

  But his unit was fighting its way into Warsaw, and they had to work without the cover of their Panzers. Infantry moved up and fighting took the form of close combat; house clearing and street fighting. It called for a special kind of skill and courage, and while the troops fought savagely against the relentless Polish garrison, who would not surrender, bombers were wheeling and diving through the smoky sky and artillery was pounding obstacles into rubble. The tanks remained in the background, well away from buildings which had not been cleared, and blasted their way forward. Some streets were blocked with trams, and the Poles strongly contested every foot of the way. But the Germans were filled with the confidence of their success and, with the city completely surrounded and cut off, the war of attrition commenced, each hour whittling away Polish resistance and powers of endurance.

  Eckhardt found it a strange world of ceaseless noise and violent action. His platoon was constantly in the foreground of the fighting. His head ached from the never-ending crash of grenades, the shouts of fighting troops and the screams of the wounded. Prisoners were not taken, and the Poles were aware of the fact. Consequently they had to be winkled out of every hole in the battered buildings, and snipers waged ceaseless war against the aggressors.

  Sergeant Meyer was hit in the arm by a sniper — a flesh wound — and another of the HQ section was shot through the head. Eckhardt caught a glimpse of gunsmoke from the shattered remains of a factory chimney and turned his machine pistol on the spot, breaking slates and chipping bricks. Then a figure reared up, tumbled over backwards, and crashed through a gaping hole in the roof, taking his sniper’s rifle with him.

  Sieber fired his MG34 at a group of figures which burst out of a factory gateway and started running across a street. Meyer, who had just returned from the first-aid post, shouted and ran to the machine-gunner’s position. The men were German infantry and Sieber cut down five of them before realising his mistake. Eckhardt relieved the excitable Sieber of his position and placed the dour-faced Altbach, an older man, in charge of the machine-gun.

  Days passed with little change. The guns continued battering all strong points and the infantry crawled forward, house by house, with the tanks remaining in the rear, giving covering fire but otherwise impotent. Rubble lay everywhere. Dust filled the air and the sky was smeared with countless volcanoes of smoke. The din was overwhelming, and Eckhardt felt that they were trapped in a timeless void of hell. His soul cried out for decisive action, and his mind was a battleground in itself as he considered the Russians, the French and the British.

  But the Russians were content merely with taking over land which had been predominantly Ukrainian, and, where their forces were confronted by German troops along the new demarcation line, there was no trouble between them. An uneasy peace settled in the east while the battle for Warsaw continued to rage unceasingly.

  Captain Dantine exhorted his platoon commanders to greater effort, threatening to take men from the Company and shoot them as an example of the punishment which would be meted out to those who were not prepared to give their all for victory.

  Eckhardt passed on the Company Commander’s message to his platoon, although he knew that his men were fighting to the best of their ability. The Poles were resisting stoically, making the Germans pay dearly for every house and street, and casualties were heavy. Eckhardt could not help but feel a grudging admiration for the Poles, who were fighting a vain battle, and the grinding fight went on and on in a series of disjointed actions which were desperate and dispirited.

  At night patrols went out, and murderous tactics were employed to gain the initiative. Men were ambushed and some patrols did not return. Others reported the presence of many enemy troops still in the heart of the city, and during each day the bombing and shelling continued in a determined attempt to force the Poles to surrender.

  Eckhardt led his platoon on the left flank of a Company attack against a railway station, and they came across a Polish armoured train which had suffered air attacks. A tremendous bomb crater had ruptured the railway lines, some of which poked up into the air like accusing fingers, and the train was severely damaged, with armoured trucks derailed and debris and dead men scattered over a wide area. Signals were smashed and a stack of oil drums burned furiously, throwing off acrid black smoke. The troops moved in steadily, working their way forward, but machine-guns sited in cover across the wide stretch of open tracks made the position of the platoon untenable. They were pinned down around the wrecked armoured train and the whole world seemed filled with screech
ing bullets that slammed against the impervious steel and whirled off in all directions.

  Eckhardt led a wild charge across open space, but had to drop to cover despite flank-fire from his own machine-gun. He peered around, sweating, his uniform stuck to his tough body as he tried to plan a way out of the deadlock. He could see a number of his own men stretched out lifeless between the tracks and wanted to spare the rest the ordeal of running blindly into the deadly area of well-sited machine-guns. Panzers were clanking in the background, and he sighed with relief when they began to fire, taking on the Polish strong points. Smoke and dust flew and the opposition decreased slightly. Eckhardt firmed his dusty lips and signalled for the section commanders to advance again, and they got up and ran forwards into the flying death that seemed to stack up against them.

  The battle for the railway station lasted all day. By nightfall it was in German hands. The cost of taking it had been high, but Eckhardt sited the survivors of his platoon in a row of shattered houses beyond the station and gave orders that a strict watch was to be kept for enemy patrols. It was not until he went to the Platoon HQ which Sergeant Meyer had set up in a cellar, that he realised he had been hit in the left forearm. His sleeve was torn and bloodstained, and he was surprised that he had felt no pain. When he sat down and bared the wound he discovered that a bullet had burned a deep gouge through his flesh without touching the bone and the bleeding had stopped of its own accord.

  ‘You’d better get that treated, Herr Leutnant,’ Sergeant Meyer said, lifting his own bandaged right arm.

  ‘I’ll report to Captain Dantine first,’ Eckhardt retorted. ‘Do you think we did well today, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’ve lost almost half the platoon and we’re wounded,’ came the grim reply. ‘I am sure we handled ourselves well. The station is in our hands, sir.’

  ‘But we lost too many men taking it. I have a feeling that it could have been handled better.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that to Captain Dantine, sir,’ Meyer suggested, and Eckhardt smiled grimly.

  ‘If the Captain thinks he handled the battle poorly he will be the first to admit it,’ he retorted. ‘I’m leaving you in charge.’

  Meyer nodded and slumped down, trying to fight off his exhaustion. Eckhardt went out into the darkness, accompanied by one of the HQ section who was acting as his escort. They made their way to the railway station, where Captain Dantine had his headquarters.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ Eckhardt ordered as they entered the wrecked booking hall. There were the usual runners and headquarters men around, and Eckhardt saw a sentry standing outside the door of what had been the stationmaster’s office. ‘Is Captain Dantine in there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, Herr Leutnant!’ The sentry snapped to attention.

  Eckhardt tapped at the door then entered the office, and Dantine looked up wearily, nodding slowly before returning his gaze to the maps spread out on the desk before him.

  ‘A good day, Leutnant. We did well to capture this place. But I have news for you. Warsaw is as good as finished and we shall shortly be withdrawn from the battle. Let the men rest tonight. As soon as we have finished fighting we will regroup and take up our other duties. There is some urgency in this new role of ours, although I cannot tell you more at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Eckhardt suppressed a sigh. He could only hope that the new orders would mean being transferred to the western front, but there was a glitter in Dantine’s callous eyes which warned him to expect something quite different, and he fought down his disappointment and steeled himself to perform whatever duty was given them. His training had been such that he gave no thought to question his orders or even consider what they might be. All orders came indirectly from the Führer himself, and that was sufficient for any true Nazi.

  Chapter Eight

  During the week following the declaration of war on Germany by Britain and France, Kurt Eckhardt became accustomed to the turn of events. Nothing drastic happened and German forces continued to batter through Poland almost unhindered by the defenders. The Poles had no answer to Blitzkrieg, and the Allies could do nothing to help. They did not attack on the western front, as was feared by all the German troops in Poland.

  Kurt began to believe the many rumours that the Allies would be content to sit upon the borders of Germany and do nothing. His hopes that the war would soon be over so that he could return home began to rise once more, and as the ceaseless advance continued, stretching through each successive day, he grew inured to the new way of life which had engulfed him.

  Each night they had to stop and wait for their service regiments to catch up. They always outdistanced their supplies and, by the time they arrived and all the tanks had been refuelled and rearmed, the night was half over. They slept very little.

  They rumbled on towards Warsaw, having joined up with the Third Army from Prussia, and Kurt felt as if he had not slept at all since the war began. This massive advance was being led by exhausted men who were fighting in Panzers badly needing attention. They were as surprised as the enemy by the ease with which they tore through all obstacles and barriers.

  Village after village was attacked and destroyed; towns were battered into submission. They left the imprint of their broad tracks on rich farmland and shattered every strong point that dared to oppose them.

  Fear had slipped into the background of Kurt’s mind. His worries of the first few days had faded as he became familiar with the war situation. He felt that he had never known any other life but this eternal rushing through a foreign countryside, shooting up almost defenceless troops who could not stop the steel monsters that belched flame and smoke and high-powered death.

  Now he could look upon the dead with remoteness, even those Poles cut down by his own weapons. They were the enemy. They were not humans, flesh and blood, men who could suffer the agonies of wounds and the ultimate transition into awful, final death. They were merely impersonal figures who had to be killed before the war would end, and he could not return to the farm and Aunt Gretel until the war was over. Thus his mind associated the Poles with the disappointment he felt at not being able to return to the old life, and his desire to see the farm again gave birth to the need to kill as many Poles as possible. The more they killed the sooner they would be out of this hell.

  It was a soldier’s philosophy and he accepted it, giving no consideration to the terror and horror he and his comrades were inflicting upon the Polish nation. The Führer had ordered the attack and all Germans were taught to obey orders, so the fighting continued with unabated fury.

  ‘There’s a village ahead, Sergeant!’ Schultze’s voice jerked Kurt out of a reverie which was close to sleep. He had to rub his eyes before they would focus properly, and then he saw the small cluster of houses in the distance. Great gouts of earth were rising as Stukas dived and screeched through the disturbed sky, and artillery-fire was continuous, hammering the practically undefended community. The noise was thunderous and the air seemed to ripple with blast after blast. There was no danger to the Panzers and they saw nothing of the enemy.

  Orders suddenly came through from the troop commander for them to move towards the village, and Leutnant Reinhalt warned that there was some enemy activity.

  Being in the first wave of the Panzer attack, Kurt’s duty was to seek out and engage enemy artillery. They overran infantry positions without stopping, shooting up the worst of the opposition but leaving any survivors to be taken care of by the second and third waves. Careering across the fields was exhilarating, and the sensation of speed was uncanny. Kurt had not realised that Poland was so large.

  They approached a farm on the nearer side of the village. There was some activity around the buildings on which he quickly focused his field glasses.

  ‘Polish artillery trying to pull out,’ he rapped. ‘Load with HE. Range ... nine hundred ... commence firing.’

  The tank rocked as the 75mm blasted, and Kurt watched for the effect of the shot. He saw a roof disintegrate on a b
arn and nodded, his lips pulled tight.

  ‘Keep firing,’ he ordered coolly, although his throat was dry. Other tanks commenced firing and the farm soon became a scene of exploding shell bursts, the buildings flying into the air. Men were shattered and equipment blown to pieces. A horse was lifted bodily from the ground and deposited fifty yards away, shredded and shapeless. Figures of men were tossed high in the air, and came crashing down like hideous rain. Evidently the enemy artillery had been surprised by the breakthrough of the Panzers and left it too late to withdraw. Now they had lost the opportunity. Kurt watched intently as the entire area was obliterated. Fire spread and explosions reverberated as ammunition dumps were hit and destroyed.

  Horses were galloping away beyond the farm, probably animals the Poles used to pull their artillery, and Kurt frowned as he saw shells dropping amongst the animals. Some of the tank gunners were killing for the sheer love of it, and it sickened him. Then an explosion struck the tank with a clang that almost deafened him. Simultaneously the engine cut out.

  ‘What in hell was that?’ Kurt peered around while Schultze tried to get the engine restarted. ‘Get moving, Schultze, we’re almost on top of Polish troops. That was a grenade.’ He tried to keep his voice expressionless but it rose a note or two in excitement and tension. Their machine-guns began to chatter furiously, but Schultze could not get the tank started.

  Weilen fired the 75mm, and the blast of the shot rocked them. Hohner reloaded quickly. Schultze was cursing, but suddenly shouted as he struggled to get the engine started.

  ‘The bastards are attacking us, Sergeant. They’re coming in along a ditch on the right.’