Heroes Without Honour

by Alan David

  The attack was successful, but there was no respite. Major Dantine wanted seemingly impossible results. The unexpected resistance had put them behind their schedule and they had to make up for lost time. They boarded half-tracks and went racing in the wake of the Panzers, the overwhelming din of battle dazing them as they advanced. Smoke was everywhere, obscuring their view of the battle, and all they could see with grim clarity were the many casualties strewn everywhere.

  Then they reached a river, and the tanks were lined up on the bank, pounding enemy positions on the farther side. Engineers were bringing up rubber boats, but enemy machine-guns were stammering rapidly, threshing the water with unseen death. Boats filled with assault troops were already being paddled unerringly across the obstacle, but some had been riddled and were sinking, and heavily equipped men were drowning in the maelstrom.

  Eckhardt found himself with the platoon he had taken over lying behind a railway embankment, looking down upon the river crossing. The Panzers were hosing streams of machine-gun fire at targets on the opposite bank, and their 75mm guns were blasting unceasingly. But the French were entrenched in force and seemed determined to hold.

  Major Dantine came up to look at the situation for himself, and cursed when he saw the obstacle.

  ‘We need tanks on the other side,’ he snapped, looking to the left and right. ‘Let’s have your maps, Leutnant. There is a bridge in the vicinity. If it hasn’t been blown then we can capture it and form a bridgehead on the far side.’

  They checked the maps and Dantine’s stubby forefinger stabbed triumphantly at a bridge some two miles to their left.

  ‘Why hasn’t that been taken?’ he demanded. ‘I’m going back to my headquarters to contact battalion, and if they have taken the bridge then I want our Company pushed across it. If they haven’t taken it then where are the dive bombers? They should be flattening all resistance on the other side of the river to give our men cover for an assault.’

  Even as he spoke there was the growl of aeroplane engines and flights of Stukas appeared high in the smoky air. They came screeching down in almost vertical dives, releasing their bombs with deadly accuracy. Enemy emplacements disintegrated under the pounding as more Stukas arrived and peeled off to attack, and Eckhardt clenched his teeth and held his hands over his ears to try and find some relief from the overwhelming explosions. The sickly smell which wafted across the river was a mixture of explosives and bodies, and it infiltrated everywhere. Eckhardt watched the riverbank and saw more rubber boats being thrust into the water. He waited tensely, trying to will them to get through the arcs of fire covering the area, and was relieved when he saw that now there was less opposition against them. The Panzers maintained an overhead fire, and when the first of the boats reached the opposite side its occupants flung themselves upon the bank and opened fire. They came under immediate mortar attack and, even as they were blown to pieces, more of their comrades reached the objective.

  A foothold was gained and the fighting continued. Soon it was the turn of Max’s Company to attempt the crossing, but by this time the enemy had been dislodged from his forward positions and their only concern was the mortar bombs dropping out of the sky to explode in the river. Some boats were hit and sank without trace, black puffs of smoke marking their last positions, but Max reached the far side safely and the section with him deployed quickly, slipping into firing positions, and, when he glanced back, he saw their Panzers moving off along the river bank, evidently making for the bridge two miles away.

  They had to hold defensive positions for almost two hours before their supporting tanks got across the bridge and returned to the original line of advance. Then the French crumbled and began to withdraw, terrified by the weight of explosives that had rained down upon them. Many of their dead lay around the gaping, smoking craters which had been torn in the ground, and those who had survived were shocked, their eyes wide, discipline gone. Some of them threw away their rifles and ran, their officers vainly attempting to stop them, shooting some of them but unable to stem their mindless flight. Once the panic started it was impossible to halt, and the French began to stream back under fire with the Germans in close pursuit.

  The Panzers punished them severely, firing shells, raining machine-gun bullets upon them, and the grenadiers went forward, eager to get to grips, their iron discipline carrying them into the heart of the inferno.

  Max saw Frenchmen being blown to pieces by bursting shells, and there was a wildness inside him which threatened to erupt like a volcano. For years he had nursed a hatred of the French, born of listening to his father’s tales of the Great War. Now he was here on French territory, exacting vengeance for what had happened a generation ago. He signalled to his platoon to move forward, and they went into the danger area of their own fire in order to press home the attack. But it seemed no more dangerous than the training they had experienced in and around Spandau.

  The half-tracks were called up because there was a break-through. The French line had given and it was opportune to pour men and material through the gap and take advantage of the situation. The French seemed to have no control at all, and the Panzers careered on, blasting everything in their path. The roads were packed with retreating French, who were in a frenzy to get away, and all the flotsam of war lay strewn around as the fighting raged, the Germans as eager to continue the battle as the French were to break off and withdraw.

  The Germans were like robots, trained to kill or be killed, and they fought with a determination the French could not equal. Max, as they advanced, thought he knew why the French had not made a counter-offensive in the west while Poland was being slaughtered. They had no stomach for war. Their experience of the Great War seemed to have taken the heart out of them.

  But the Germans would not permit them to break off contact. The rich countryside of France lay before them and the Führer had ordered that they should take it. They set out to do so with their ingrained efficiency and determination.

  Stukas came plummeting from the wide blue vault of the sky to rain death and destruction upon every vantage point and area of resistance. Artillery duels erupted and shells burst indiscriminately amongst the closely packed ranks of infantry who pushed forward eagerly or retreated wildly. Machine-pistols hammered and rifles cracked, and where hand-to-hand combat took place corpses began to pile up, bloody and mutilated. The jackboots of Germany were on the march and all Europe seemed to tremble.

  Another line of defence brought the Germans to a temporary halt. Their first wave of tanks, rampaging like mad bulls through the open countryside, came up against well-sited anti-tank guns, and Max, sitting in a half-track which was following the second wave, frowned when they began to pass burning Panzers and saw black-uniformed crew-men lying dead around their broken war machinery. They debussed and went to ground under a hail of fire as the tanks withdrew to refuel.

  Panting, Max eased his helmet from his forehead and wiped away sweat. Leading a platoon again, he was in a good position to gauge the strength of the enemy against them, and when a runner arrived with an order from Major Dantine for them to push on he sent back word that it was impossible to break through without support or reinforcements. Minutes later Dantine himself came crawling to Eckhardt’s position, his usually immaculate uniform smeared with earth and blood. His dark eyes glowed fanatically as he peered at the enemy positions.

  ‘What do you mean, it isn’t possible to advance?’ he snapped, ducking as a series of mortar bombs exploded only yards away, throwing soil and shrapnel over them. ‘We’re hurling everything we’ve got at them, and it is imperative that we make another breakthrough immediately. I want this line breached, Leutnant, even if you have to lay a carpet of German bodies between here and the objective. We’re falling behind schedule and I have a strict timetable to maintain. Now get these men moving. The tanks are coming back. Follow them closely.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Eckhardt signalled to Meyer and motioned for the platoon to move forward by sections. The Panzers w
ere grinding into view, having rearmed and refuelled, and the Germans used them for whatever shelter they could from the machine-gun fire which came screeching in deadly arcs from the French positions.

  Smoke billowed and blotted out much of the battlefield. The advance gained impetus again, with the tanks dealing out horrific destruction, their machine-guns flailing the French. Shells were bursting all around, and it was impossible to tell where they came from. They killed German and French alike.

  Eckhardt was not the type to throw away lives needlessly, but he was aware that speed was vital at this stage and they had to go forward even though it was suicidal. There was no fear in him as they advanced behind the tanks, and the rest of his men were ready to show the French what they were made of.

  Bullets were hitting the tanks and ricocheting in all directions, some of them tracers, which formed a kind of deadly firework display. Shells exploded too close for comfort and the air was filled with lethal fragments that whined and clattered everywhere. Men fell from the ranks and the reserve platoon came running forward, losing men at each stride, but still they pushed on until they came to grips again with French troops. Fierce hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Eckhardt used his Bergmann, clearing his immediate area, cutting down every Frenchman who appeared out of the broiling smoke of the battlefield. It was a never-ending hell with overwhelming noise.

  Dead men began to pile up when they reached the line of French defenders holding up the advance, and again they used knives and bayonets, boots and bullets. Throats were slit, chests pierced by hot lead or cold steel, and some men fought with fists, growling and screeching, tearing at living flesh with their bare hands. Blood was a cheap commodity to be spilled freely, with no thought for the lives that were being destroyed.

  Grenades exploded with their peculiar hollow sound, and the French broke and turned to run. Eckhardt exhorted his men to follow swiftly, and the Panzers lumbered on, hosing the disordered Frenchman with streams of fire. There was a trench system in front of them, and Eckhardt’s men cleared it with grenades, getting into communication trenches and bunkers. The Panzers began dealing with French artillery, and soon the battlefield was ablaze and the French were routed.

  The Germans settled down to regroup while their tanks ranged ahead, shooting up strong points and taking on French artillery. But before they could consolidate, which meant waiting for the German infantry to come up and take over the newly won ground, the French counter-attacked. A horde of them came charging forward, reversing the role of both sides. Now Eckhardt found himself on the defensive, and it was the French who came yelling and screaming with bayonets flickering in the uncertain light of the battlefield. They came to grips and hand-to-hand fighting ensued once more.

  Eckhardt barely had time to slip a fresh magazine into his machine pistol before his position was overrun, and he blasted at the enemy with short bursts while his men used bayonets and rifles. Machine-guns rattled and chattered. Men fell, sometimes locked together, so fierce was the fighting, and the dead sprawled while the wounded screamed in timeless agony.

  For a few minutes it seemed that the French would overwhelm them, but the reserve company came lunging in to add their weight to the German side and the French melted away, cut down in a hail of small-arms fire which erupted from the quickly consolidated German line. Then another wave of Panzers arrived, and Eckhardt narrowly avoided being crushed by one of his own tanks. Their crews were unmindful of who was in front of them. With their restricted fields of vision, anyone who moved outside the tank was an enemy. But the French were pulling back and Eckhardt saw a large number of them being crushed by the rampaging tanks.

  Dantine was calling for the continuation of the advance, and the grenadiers arose and ran forward to maintain contact with the enemy. Timetables had to be kept, no matter the cost, and along the whole front the Germans were smashing forward.

  A grenade exploded close to Eckhardt and the blast threw him sideways, depositing him in the midst of several bodies that had been maimed by a mortar bomb blast. He lay still for a moment, blood soaking into his uniform from the dead, and then regained his feet by instinct, running forward with his men, shouting for control, trying to organise them into that efficient fighting machine which had been forged by their training.

  Stumbling over bodies, both German and French, they went on. Eckhardt saw one of his own platoon sitting on the ground, staring at the tattered stump of his left arm, his hand and wrist lying several feet away. Another was stretched out on his back, holding both hands against his bulging intestines, with blood spilling out over his fingers from the five closely spaced bullet holes from French machine-gun fire. Yet another lay with his head hanging by a thread of flesh and windpipe at the throat, while a large pool of blood had spread out several feet from the body. Everywhere there were wounded men, some screaming in intolerable agony and others strangely silent, shocked beyond comprehension. The French wounded who were still moving or sitting up were mercilessly shot as the grenadiers continued their advance.

  The fighting seemed to go on and on, and Eckhardt did not have the time to even look at his watch. They made fresh contact with the French and the whole bloody business started again, with shells and mortar bombs claiming victims before both sides came together in a clash of small arms. But the French were demoralised and would not stand, and Eckhardt was happy. While they could press on they had to be winning, and now, perhaps, Major Dantine was satisfied.

  But finally they had to pause and regroup, and the men dropped into shell craters for cover while the Panzers retired to rearm and refuel. The French took advantage of the lull to plaster the entire area with heavy shells, and the grenadiers hugged the ground, waiting mindlessly for the storm of steel to abate. They were on French soil and would die rather than retreat. The long-awaited war had started, and it could have only one ending. The Allies would lose because they were not prepared for the kind of fighting being thrust upon them. They could not stand up to Blitzkrieg, and Eckhardt knew the harsh fact would be thrust upon their enemies within the next few days.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kurt was stunned when the news of the war reached him. His regiment had been moved close to the French/Belgian border, but over the past weeks they had made so many tactical moves along the various borders that he had not expected anything to develop from their latest move. Now they were on alert, and in the distance he could hear the ominous sound of gunfire. The darkness was riven by flickering light, and his mind reverted to all the nightmares of the Polish campaign. But this time he knew it was going to be much worse. Now there would be British and French tanks to contend with, and he had learned a great deal about enemy tanks during the past months.

  At dawn the Regiment received orders to advance, and they rattled forward into the strengthening light. Tracer bullets immediately came arcing towards them, bouncing against the hull and Kurt hunched his shoulders and tried to get rid of the fear that was rampant in his breast. He was scared, his guts knotted, and in the back of his mind was the knowledge that if anything happened to him Anna would be widowed before they had the opportunity to discover what marriage was all about.

  He could not see this war ending quickly. The French maintained a large army, and the British were sending an expeditionary force. He had heard about the Tommies. They never knew when they were beaten, and they had some of the best tanks in the world; at least as good as the Mark IV. He drew a swift breath, trying to overcome his nerves, and concentrated upon what lay ahead. If he was careful he might escape the worst of the fighting, but if he let his fear gain the upper hand he might make some stupid mistake which could cost them all their lives.

  Schultze took the tank along at about forty kilometres per hour, and Weilen was ready to fire the 75mm. Hohner was loaded with HE, but Kurt was worried about French tanks. He knew the enemy vehicles were comparable with the Panzers, except that the French had lighter guns; about 47mm against the Panzer 75mm. But the French S-35 was heavier and faster. />
  Perhaps it was because he had never been in a tank battle that Kurt was more scared than usual. Tank against tank was a situation which had been a nightmare in his mind ever since Poland. They had been fortunate there, but their good luck could not hold forever, and he kept low in the turret, using his periscope rather than risk a sniper’s bullet through the head.

  They were advancing upon a village, and German troops were already down there, street-fighting and house clearing. Beyond the village he could see a retreating column of French troops, with geysers of earth rising up and spreading out as German artillery pounded them and Stukas plummeted out of the sky in their nerve-racking dives. The whole gamut of sound which ruled a modern battlefield hammered inside the close confines of the tank, and he knew he was again facing stark reality.

  Leutnant Reinhalt suddenly came over the wireless, his voice thick with excitement. Enemy tanks had been spotted in their vicinity. Kurt swallowed nervously as he acknowledged, and swung his periscope around, studying their surroundings. He gulped when four squat armoured shapes suddenly appeared within his field of vision.

  ‘There they are!’ he rapped urgently. ‘At four o’clock!’ He identified them immediately. They were S-35s.

  Leutnant Reinhalt acknowledged, and rapped orders to the Troop. Kurt heard him passing on the information to Captain Zimmermann, and the Company Commander ordered them to attack at once. There would be a confrontation. They were more heavily armed than the French, and the sooner they discovered what their enemy could do the better. Kurt gritted his teeth when he heard other troops being ordered to attack the village itself, while Reinhalt and his troop were ordered to attack the enemy tanks. If only they could have gone to the village, he thought remotely. But his training took over and he ordered Hohner to load with armour-piercing. The tank continued to race forward in formation with the rest of the troop.