by Alan David
Machine-guns chattered frantically, and Kurt peered around, keeping low as bullets struck the hull of the vehicle. He could see a group of determined Poles coming in for the kill, for the Panzer was a sitting target and could not be missed.
Then another tank appeared on their right, all guns firing, and Kurt watched the enemy troops being exterminated. The newcomer, Leutnant Reinhalt, crashed into the ditch, crushing men and churning up the soft earth. Poles screamed and fell beneath the merciless tracks, and Kurt saw limbs being caught up and spun around, bloody and ludicrous, while bodies were torn apart. The next instant their engine fired and Schultze got the tank moving. They continued towards the blazing farm, their guns blasting. When they ran over a dead horse, Kurt looked back to see that it had been flattened into a gory mess, and he resolutely faced the front, his teeth clenched.
Half-tracks carrying grenadiers were coming forward, and Kurt realised that they belonged to the second wave. His tank had fallen behind, but Leutnant Reinhalt was just ahead, travelling as fast as conditions would permit in order to regain his place in the advance. Kurt called to Schultze, for the tank did not seem to be travelling at more than half speed and it was capable of eighteen miles per hour. Schultze muttered something that was unintelligible but their speed increased. Then they reached a fairly wide ditch. Schultze drove at it as if he were riding a horse at obstacles. They went into the ditch at a steep angle and had some difficulty getting out.
Kurt was flung around the turret, and was breathless as he peered at his surroundings, trying to pick out the other tanks of his Company. But all he had to do was keep Leutnant Reinhalt in view, and they continued at breakneck speed until the Leutnant’s voice came over the air.
‘Enemy artillery to the left. Engage immediately.’
Kurt swung his field glasses and picked out the enemy batteries, which were firing rapidly at German infantry farther back. The turret traversed and the gun laid on target. They fired, and then the battle commenced. The din was terrific. Kurt felt that his head would split in two each time the 75mm fired. Thick fumes surrounded him, escaping through the open hatch, and his eyes watered as he held up his glasses and tried to see the effect they were having.
They took on target after target, ignoring the enemy infantry running for cover as the steel monsters careered over everything in their path. The Panzer machine-guns stuttered continuously, taking their toll of the fleeing men, and the tanks crushed those who were more resolute and tried to stand their ground to make an uneven fight of it.
Always their main target was enemy artillery, and they sought out the guns, bursting upon their positions, hammering them with high-explosive and then overrunning them, crushing the crews under their tracks. Polish troops were fleeing the area, unable to cope with the Panzers, and the tank machine-guns kept up their deadly fire, killing those skilled artillerymen who could have held up the advance of the main German forces following quickly and closely behind.
They passed some of their own tanks that had broken down, but the crews were still firing their guns. There were targets on all sides, and the Poles were in confusion because they had been caught unprepared. Their first line of defence disappeared as the Panzers crashed on, and the second and third waves of the grim assault hammered in to deal with the bemused survivors. Behind the Panzers and grenadiers came the German motorised infantry to occupy the ground that had been won. It was fast action and sheer, bloody murder.
A huge explosion far ahead suddenly threw black smoke and leaping flames high into the air, and Kurt realised that their own artillery had probably scored a direct hit upon an enemy fuel dump, or the dive bombers had sought out the target and subjected it to their own particular hell of warfare.
The Mark IV’s engine roared powerfully, and their tracks clanked and clattered as they roared on, finding a road that led into a town. That slowed their advance, for they had learned from bitter experience that it was bad policy for armoured vehicles to enter a built-up area without close support from troops. The grenadiers came up in their half-tracks, and Kurt’s company swung to bypass the town, intent upon reaching cut-off positions and to seek out and destroy more of the enemy’s artillery.
They were preceded by their own barrage which saturated most of the opposition and pulverised the defences. Co-ordination between all arms of the services was good, thanks to training, and the practices they had adopted seemed to be working well against an enemy who possessed few armoured vehicles.
Kurt was thankful that they had not come up against any anti-tank guns, and he tried to ease his aching body as the tank blundered on, crashing through all minor obstacles. A machine-gun post opened up at them, its weapon chattering like an angry woodpecker. Bullets splattered against the hull and screeched away in blind flight, and Kurt watched as Schultze manoeuvred the tank into position and squelched across the enemy emplacement. The tank paused atop the post and Schultze used his steering rods to twist the heavy vehicle, exterminating the men and weapon like a giant fly-swatter.
They reached a line of trenches filled with waiting, khaki-clad infantrymen, and the tank’s machine-guns hammered but they did not stop. Before they reached the trench the Poles came out of it, dusty, pale and determined, charging forward with fixed bayonets, grenades ready. Kurt watched them being cut down by the heavy fire from the formation of Panzers, and then they were crushing the survivors, not pausing in their headlong flight towards distant Warsaw. Glancing back, he saw the second wave of their advance following closely, and the half-tracks carrying the grenadiers were rattling forward. Some had already stopped to disgorge their occupants, and hand-to-hand fighting was taking place.
A frown touched Kurt’s face as he watched for a few moments. His kind of war seemed remote, squatting inside a tank, and he did not fancy having to face an enemy soldier with a bayonet. He saw the furious fighting that swayed back and forth. The two factions were like wild animals, slashing, kicking and clawing in a blood lust, slaughtering without mercy; no quarter given.
A clang against the front of the tank alerted him and dragged his attention from the horrific scene behind. The second wave and what they were doing was no concern of his, and he peered ahead, cursing himself for having let his concentration waver. It was the most dangerous thing a tank commander could do.
They were travelling at about ten miles per hour along a road and there was a bend just ahead with a cluster of trees in a field at the point of the bend, concealing the farther side of the road from their view. It was an ideal spot for an ambush and Kurt felt his stomach muscles tighten as he suspected that anti-tank guns might be waiting for them to draw within range. His personal nightmare was of being hit by the solid shot from an anti-tank gun, and he sweated even in his sleep when his unconscious fears ran rife through his head.
The interior of the tank was hot and acrid, the fumes from their 75mm stinging their eyes and burning their throats. Hohner was working like a maniac, loading and reloading the gun. His heavy gauntlet gloves were singed and smoking. Kurt saw that his face was blackened, and he was gasping for breath. But soon they would have to stop and reload and refuel, and that would give them a welcome break from this hell.
He returned his attention to the bend, searching the trees for signs of activity. He saw movement within its cover and gave a fire order. The 75mm roared, blasting smoke and flame from its muzzle, and trees went crashing under the force of high-explosive.
‘Keep firing into the trees,’ Kurt ordered, ‘and keep moving, Schultze. If you stall the engine now we’ll be a sitting duck.’
The tank rocked and vibrated. Petrol fumes were sharp and exhaust fumes sickly. Kurt had a headache and his stomach was hollow as a drum. He was thirsty and hungry, but personal deprivation counted for nothing in the fury of the chase. Nothing mattered but that they pushed on with all speed. Danger did not count and death was ignored. The way ahead seemed clear and anyone who tried to stop them had to be killed. Those figures in khaki were merely wild animals to
be hunted down and crushed.
The bend was coming up fast, and their machine-guns were now raking the trees. Kurt was satisfied that no Polish 37-pounders were concealed there because they would have opened fire by now, and their own 75mm was firing continuously, hurling shells into the timber, obviously catching enemy infantry. Geysers of earth were rising farther back, but German artillery had to range well ahead of its own forces.
They were taking the bend fast, and for a moment Kurt could not tell if the road twisted to the left or right. He clenched his teeth, for this was a good spot for an anti-tank obstacle, but they had to press on. He could hear Leutnant Reinhalt’s voice in his headphones, ordering him to push on even faster, and the turret traversed slowly as he saw the road bending to the right. They had to be ready for anything.
The tank weighed just over seventeen tons, and Kurt did not know what to expect as they took the bend. The last thing he dreamed of seeing was an enemy staff car loaded with Polish officers, but that was what came tearing around the bend from the opposite direction. The trees on the bend were alive with enemy troops, but they presented no real danger to the tank, although their presence distracted Kurt’s attention. He clenched his hands as the staff car tried to brake. There was a high verge on the left and the car skidded towards it. He could see the driver struggling with the wheel, and the vehicle came back across the road and ran head-on into the front of the tank with a terrific crash. The tank jarred slightly but kept moving, and Kurt stared down at the car, which rebounded several yards from the impact. The officers inside were catapulted forward, those in the back seat being thrown into the front and the driver and the officer beside him in the front seat coming through the windscreen to slump on the road.
The tank continued forward, crushing the two figures on the road, and Kurt gritted his teeth, watching the car intently. The left track hit the bonnet and crawled up until the weight of the tank proved too much for the thin metal. Then the car was flattened and the tank passed over it, leaving it twisted and smoking like an ant that had been squashed by a jackboot.
The next tank in line followed closely, and a spark from its tracks set fire to the petrol tank of the car, which exploded in a sheet of flame. The tank was immediately engulfed, the roar of igniting petrol attracting Kurt’s attention, and he stared in mounting horror at the holocaust which erupted behind them. The tank crew bailed out quickly and dived to safety, but two of the black-clad figures were afire and burning fiercely.
‘Look at that!’ Schultze’s voice brought Kurt’s attention back to their front, and he stared ahead to see the road stretching straight in front of them. It was crowded with a column of Polish transport which was coming forward at speed. There were trucks filled with troops and others loaded with supplies and equipment — obviously reserves being rushed up to try and contain the battle taking place in the rear of the German first wave.
‘Fire!’ Kurt rapped the order without thinking, and the 75mm made a hollow din as it blasted. The leading truck took the shell in the cab, and a sheet of flame flew skywards. Pandemonium immediately broke out in the enemy column and Kurt saw troops jumping out of the vehicles ahead and running for cover. The 75mm kept blasting at targets which were impossible to miss, and as truck after truck began to blow up, Kurt reported the situation to Leutnant Reinhalt.
‘Get off the road, keep advancing, and rake them as you pass. Take the right-hand side of the road. Watch out for anti-tank guns.’ Reinhalt’s voice was calm and clipped in Kurt’s earphones, and Kurt acknowledged quickly.
The tank swung off the road, mounting the verge to the right and crashing through a hedge and across a ditch to follow the field at the side of the road. The turret traversed as they reached the head of the column and their guns roared ceaselessly as they continued. Towards the rear of the column the Poles were trying to form up into some kind of a defensive position, but the first wave of Panzers quickly spread out and opened fire, continuing to advance as they did so. There were fifty trucks in the column and they were soon reduced to blazing wrecks while their former occupants either were killed or skulked helplessly in cover.
‘Keep moving fast,’ Reinhalt ordered. ‘There’s no need to mop up. Leave it to the others. We’ve got to keep moving.’
Kurt glanced back at the shambles they had created, and his mind seemed to protest at the slaughter. Why didn’t the Poles surrender? They must know by now that they could not win! He faced his front, sweating, trembling, filled with a sense of unreality as he peered ahead. No matter how far they advanced, the Stukas were always up there ahead of them, bombing and strafing the worst strong points, and their artillery was shelling continuously, hammering every target which threatened the inexorable advance. It was an immense operation which must have taken a great deal of meticulous planning, and Kurt wondered at the juggernaut of which he was a part.
‘That’s our last shell, Sergeant,’ Hohner suddenly warned, slamming the breech closed.
‘What about petrol, Schultze?’ Kurt demanded.
‘About fifty litres left, that’s all,’ came the terse reply. ‘We’re going to have to stop soon.’
Kurt reported the situation to Reinhalt, and orders came through for them to pull off the road and take a hull-down position in cover. Their supplies were not far behind and they would be attended to very quickly.
Kurt sighed with relief when he ordered the tank to halt. They crashed into a small wood, and saplings and small trees were ripped apart by their weight as Schultze manoeuvred into cover. They opened the hatches and climbed out of the hellhole, gasping for breath, and Kurt checked their surroundings for signs of the enemy before he could relax.
But they were not left long in peace. The tank had to be emptied of used shell cases, and it was back-breaking work. The refuelling vehicles arrived, and Kurt checked the tank for damage as they were being prepared for further action. They had some food and drank thirstily. German water bottles were small and did not contain enough to slake their thirst, but there was water on the trucks and they took their fill. When the tank was ready for action again, Kurt went across to Leutnant Reinhalt’s tank for fresh orders.
‘That was a good morning’s work, Sergeant,’ Reinhalt said, his face blackened and dusty. His blue eyes were semi-glazed, as much from the shock of the battle noises to which they had been subjected as from excitement and battle fatigue. ‘We’re moving on in one hour. The second wave is taking the point and we’re dropping back to second place. We lost five tanks since dawn, and one of the casualties was caused by that staff car you hit.’
‘I saw it, Herr Leutnant,’ Kurt said huskily, and explained what had happened.
‘Never mind that,’ Reinhalt retorted. ‘You’ve done well out there in front. You’re a good tank commander, Eckhardt.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Kurt drew a deep breath, for the last thing he felt like was a successful soldier. He was about to remark upon that fact when he thought better of it and remained silent. It would not do to communicate his real feelings to his superior. Talking to Captain Zimmermann was all right, but Reinhalt was a different matter.
‘Get back to your tank and stand by,’ Reinhalt ordered. ‘We’ll see the second wave passing through very shortly. Be ready to move on. We should sight Warsaw in the next couple of days. By the way,’ he added as Kurt began to return to his tank. ‘I heard some news a short time ago which might prove to be very interesting.’
‘What was that, sir?’ Kurt wiped sweat and dust from his caked face.
‘The Russian army have crossed the eastern border at several points and are occupying parts of Poland. In a few days we shall be face to face with them.’
Kurt held his breath as he turned and almost stumbled back to his tank. The Russians! He shook his head in disbelief. Surely not! That now familiar nagging sensation in the back of his mind returned to plague him. This action was not going to remain a local fight between Germans and Poles. Already Britain and France had declared war, although they w
ere taking no positive action. But the Russians were another matter. What would happen when they met head-on with a victorious German army that was swollen with great success? Would both sides halt and sit down behind their guns or would they hurl themselves headlong upon each other like two voracious animals?
Kurt let his shoulders slump, and his legs almost gave way beneath him. Weariness attacked him as the sinister news rocked him from his high pinnacle of alertness. There was going to be no end to this hellish nightmare. They had started something which they would not be able to finish, and what commenced as a deliberate plan for lebensraum could deteriorate into a cataclysmic world war.
Chapter Nine
Warsaw was a stricken city, attacked from all sides by the victorious German forces. Endless lines of vehicles made their way towards the Polish capital, where fighting was going on in the suburbs as the Germans probed and pressurised the stoic defenders. There was no easing of the assault. With western Poland under German domination, most of the German forces were free to concentrate upon the capital.
Max Eckhardt saw his platoon shrinking daily as the fighting continued. Despite the masses of mechanised forces and countless bombing planes working together in close co-operation, the Poles did not seem to know the meaning of surrender, and each house and street had to be wrested from them at a terrible price. German artillery, supported by tanks, battered a way through the streets for the infantry, and the sun shone in sardonic mockery. A nation was in its death throes and the sun shone brightly high above the smoky hell.
Eckhardt was frustrated by the slow attrition of his ranks as he took his men forward into yet another street that had been almost flattened by bombs and shells. They had learned to their cost that battering buildings into almost unrecognisable ruins did not kill off the enemy but merely made the houses better defensive positions. It was practically impossible to dislodge fanatical soldiers who were prepared to fight to death.
