“I was fine.” Emil vomited earlier in the day, not from the scenes of destruction and death below but from the harrowing rollercoaster ride of sitting backwards in a dive bomber.
By the time Hans landed at their current airfield, it was dusk. While taxiing, Hans noticed a handful of Henschel HS-123 dive bombers sitting in the shadows at the edge of the field. There was also a German bomber. The HS-123 was single seat, open cockpit biplane. Production had ceased in 1938, but they were still in service in small numbers.
“Where would I sit, Herr Captain?” Emil pointed at the Henschels.
“Not on my lap.”
Though drained of energy Hans maintained his smile. The Ju-87B Stuka wasn’t a fighter but it sure beat an open cockpit biplane. Perhaps his life was headed in the right direction.
III
The departure of the ambassadors left Etienne with the banality of routine of answering the queries of French ambassadors about the Quai d’Orsai’s policy on the war. French consuls in Brussels and The Hague, likely battlegrounds if France joined the war, were breathless in their queries. Cables came from missions in Budapest and Bucharest: the governments seeking answers. Hungary eyed possible territorial gains, while Bucharest and the Rumanians sought western assurances as two totalitarian powers moved closer. Then came the Baltics, even more distant and isolated than Poland, their governments seeking answers from the French consuls knowing they would have to bargain with the Soviets or Germans, likely losing their freedom with either.
Etienne had little to say, relying on Francois and the other “boys” who scrambled to type out coded messages, deliver them to the growing pile on the deputy minister’s desk, collect his replies and return them to be coded and sent to the various embassies. It was tiresome work, stating and restating official policy, again and again, the embassies in Chile, Siam, China, Bulgaria, Bolivia, New Zealand, Canada, the United States. Each consul convinced his query demanded immediate attention from the deputy foreign minister even as Etienne knew none deserved more than a few moments of his time.
One who deserved and demanded much more of his attention was Fiorenza. She had left a volley of messages reminding Etienne of his promise to join her at the Italian embassy for his belated birthday celebration on the actual day of his birth. A single night away from her love had made Fiorenza frantic and Etienne knew he could not miss another date without triggering a crisis that would make Poland seem a minor disagreement.
The hours passed as the men in the foreign ministry wrestled with proper language. By the time Etienne eased from the paper work, the late summer sun was more diminished than usual, a haze darkening his office well before sunset. Staring out his window, Etienne watched his sightline slowly close, forcing him to turn away, suddenly claustrophobic.
“There are more,” Francois cried, skittering to the deputy’s office, a folded mass of cables waving in his hand. “Peru, Manchukuo, Morocco, Honduras,” he paused to squint at the next country. “Liberia.” He peered up at Etienne, lines spreading from the corners of his eyes and along his forehead, creating the illusion of gravitas. “Where is this Liberia?”
Etienne waved away the question. “It does not matter.” He swept aside some of the cables covering his desk. “I must keep an appointment,” he said, placing emphasis on the must as if it were a declaration of war. “I have instructions.” Papers crinkled beneath Etienne’s hands as he scrambled to locate Laval’s orders. Sighing with relief he held up the document he could not lose.
“This is the official statement.” Etienne waved it before Francois. “Every cable must be answered with this statement, no changes.” He waggled a finger, mouth pursed with all due seriousness. Francois took it, hands shaking with the sudden responsibility.
“Every cable?” He asked, hand fiddling with his tie and miraculously straightening it. This was the first time Etienne could recall proper neckwear on his deputy.
“Every.” A smile flickered across Etienne’s lips. “It is your responsibility that all of them are distributed before you depart.” He checked his watch. “Fiorenza is waiting.” His delayed celebration beckoned. “She is having a birthday party at the embassy.” Etienne swept his hand across his forehead, the thought of an evening with Fiorenza’s brothers and sisters made the piles of cables seem appealing.
“Party?” Francois collected the messages.
“My birthday celebration,” Etienne murmured wearily.
Francois allowed the cables to tumble. “Birthday.” He knelt looking up at the deputy. “Was that yesterday?”
Etienne sighed, long tired of explaining the intricacies of his birthdate. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, rushing from the office and further scattering the cables.
Outside was an embassy car to whisk him away; inside was a surprise, Fiorenza, smiling, affection bordering on giddiness.
“I missed you.” She kissed him, hand smoothing his tie then straightening his collar. “They await.”
Etienne squirmed at the grooming and Fiorenza’s words. “They?” He asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
“My brothers and sisters,” Fiorenza squealed, latching onto his arm. “The surprise,” she hissed. “The announcement.”
The words rushed from Fiorenza and past Etienne. Cushioned in the car he worried about Francois. Duty dictated that the deputy foreign minister remain at his post, ensuring the nation’s policy run smoothly rather than enduring an evening with Fiorenza’s demanding family.
“They are thrilled by the news,” she continued, releasing Etienne only briefly to yelp instructions to the driver.
Etienne nodded, words hitting and missing, with Francois clouding his thoughts. He imagined a few simple changes in wording and the French ambassador in New Zealand learning his country would soon be at war with Germany. Suddenly all Etienne had worked for rested in the hands of the jittery Francois, with his hair askew, tie bent again, shirt rumpled, mind cluttered.
“And we must see them in Monte Carlo.”
Etienne blinked, the mention of the small principality jolting free unwelcome memories from his youth. “Uh, yes, Monte Carlo,” he agreed, unaware of what Fiorenza said and worrying what he had committed to perform.
The embassy car jolted to a stop, Etienne and Fiorenza jerked forward in their seat. This earned the driver a tongue lashing in Italian, a fierce language especially from Fiorenza’s capable lips. Etienne was torn, unhappy there was little distance to travel to meet her family at the same time he was relieved at the short drive, able to avoid Fiorenza’s demands for his attention. The sedan drove through the gates of the Italian embassy without incident and Etienne allowed himself to be pulled from it by an eager Fiorenza.
Etienne had strolled the short distance to the foyer several times, always greeted by a stern looking guard standing behind a marble fronting. Intimidating with his dark features marred by slices along his cheeks, neck and arms, he had always friendly to the deputy foreign minister. This evening the stern visage had softened; Fiorenza’s presence producing the effect on all but the most hard hearted. They climbed the steps to the second floor banquet room, where formal meetings were held and informal meetings began. High chandeliers and poor reproductions of Italian masters was the décor, uncomfortable chairs and a marble floor unforgiving to the knees made it an Italian torture, combined with eager relatives poised for some surprise. Etienne craved a return to the cables and Francois’ sloppy attire.
Etienne nodded at the uniformed guards who opened the gold leaf doors and with Fiorenza dragging him forward, Etienne was confronted by scores of well dressed, well-wishers who held their glass up in appreciation of his presence
“Fiorenza,” a little man in his sixties, a consul of sorts, and an uncle somewhere on her mother’s side, was the first to rush forward, kissing his niece and applying pressure to Etienne’s hands. “So happy, so happy.”
“Yes.” Etienne managed a wan smile.
Then came the brothers and sisters. Fiorenza’s parents
prodigious in their reproduction but also the variety in their personalities, some likeable, others merely bearable, a third category making Etienne’s stomach clench. Faces flashed by, dark, light, wide eyed, heavy lidded, elegant, businesslike, sober, less so, all congratulating him with varying degrees of joy. Etienne took it in stride, reaching his fifty fourth year seeming less of a milestone than his fiftieth and he did not recall much joy at that achievement.
Fiorenza waded into the well-wishers, Etienne struggling to keep pace as his shoulders were slapped, arms gripped, cheeks kissed, halting only when he reached her side as she turned to the marble topped bar, just below a copy of a medieval representation of the known world. Snatching a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and passing it to Etienne then taking another for herself and raising it in the air, Caesar like, she raised her voice above the family cacophony, eventually drawing their attention.
“My happy day,” she turned to Etienne, dark eyes glistening, mouth curled into the most brilliant smile possible. “Tonight, my friend, my lover.” There was brief tittering among the family while Etienne felt his ears grow warm. “Tonight, while driving, Etienne asked me to marry him and I agreed.”
Etienne wobbled, suddenly afraid. Had he been too distracted to recall? He eyed the twirling Fiorenza, arm outstretched, fingers flicking to show the ring she insisted he had slid onto her finger while proposing.
A cheer sounded through the room and Etienne found his hand being splashed with champagne as his glass was smacked by others glasses, members of his “fiancé’s” family competing to be the first to welcome the happy couple.
“What is wrong?” Fiorenza bubbled. “Are you scared?”
Etienne smiled weakly. He feared Lisle’s reaction to the news of his engagement.
Fiorenza’s glass touched his and she began to drink. Etienne hurriedly tipped his glass to his lips and allowed the champagne to rush down his throat and begin to dull his surprise. The glasses were refilled and emptied with every toast, and Etienne hoped by the end of the celebration he remembered the moment he had proposed marriage.
6
September 3, 1939
“Where the hell are they?” General Veiel demanded. “Why are we not moving toward Krakow?”
The occasional burst of Polish shells above and in front of the Second Panzer Division’s commander had sent Veiel into a rage. The line of tanks that had crossed the Czech border had been halted in a narrow ravine in the midst of the southern Polish mountains. Veiel was deluged by queries from Corps headquarters about the delays, the drive from Silesia east dependent upon a subsequent drive from the south to smooth the path. Two days into the Polish war and the Second Panzer commander was feeling the heat.
The news was all bad. Veiel had been convinced the disorganized Polish forces represented a mere obstacle with their dispersed tanks tied to the infantry, but the reality on the ground was much different. The tanks had proved more effective, many British designed built in Polish factories. The ire of the corps headquarters had been redirected to Lieutenant Luttwitz, who handled the questions. Lieutenant Luttwitz briefed him on the division’s status.
“The 10th Motorized Cavalry Brigade, commanded by a Colonel Stanislaw Maczek, is responsible for the delay. It is equipped with Vickers Armstrong light tanks and Carden-Loyd tankettes. Some are the TP7 models armed with the 37mm Bofors cannon which easily penetrated the PzKpfw I and II panzers’ frontal armor.”
Veiel clenched his fists. “We are sent here by the desk generals in Berlin with tanks that cannot even defeat the Poles. How can we be expected to win with the Pzkpfw I and II’s unable to stop a tankette’s shell? Berlin should be ashamed.”
Luttwitz remained silent in the face of the general’s accurate if dangerous rant.
“And how can this colonel with a mere brigade hold up the entire Second Panzer and Fourth Light Divisions. Summon General von Hubicki and my staff. I want plans for flanking this brigade to the north. We must move faster than ten kilometers a day.”
Luttwitz saluted and twenty minutes later the exhausted staff assembled at Veiel’s forward command post. The general addressed them as one. “Our advance has been the slowest of all the panzer divisions. This must change immediately.”
Captain von Arnim expressed concern, “Fuel deliveries have been slow. We cannot move without a regular supply.”
Veiel raised his hand. “Third Panzer Regiment will attack north of the Polish 10th Motorized Cavalry Brigade here.” He pointed. “A battalion of motorized infantry, a motorcycle battalion and an armored car battalion attack with them. Send the Pioneers (combat engineers) with them with all available fuel.”
The orders were greeted by a chorus of “Jawohls.”
“Divisional artillery, the antitank battalions, the Fourth Panzer Regiment and the rest of the motorized infantry remain here until relief from advancing infantry reaches their positions. They will hold this 10th Motorized Calvary Brigade in place,” continued Veiel, stabbing his finger at the map. “Get the Luftwaffe to pulverize their positions. I want the attack launched by dawn.”
Again, Veiel’s orders were acknowledged with unbridled enthusiasm even as his final words contained a threat. “Bring me this Colonel Maczek’s head.”
0
Staff Sergeant Rudi Kleime opened his eyes. He had slept in a hastily dug trench under their Pzkpfw III’s hull which blocked out the sunlight. He had received his first appreciable sleep since crossing the Polish border. Rudi shivered at the crisp morning air then crawled from his hole to survey his surroundings. He could see little of note, having parked in a slight depression just off the dirt track that served as a Polish road. The sound of birds greeted him on this fourth day of the war.
Rudi found Corporal Brauch inspecting the front of Helga, her right fender torn free, her armor nicked by rifle and machine gun fire.
“Nothing to worry about?” Rudi asked.
“Just scratches.”
“Lieutenant Schmidt will want to get going right away.”
“We need fuel.”
“What about coffee?”
Brauch pointed over his shoulder, “Werner is handling it.”
Rudi circled the panzer and found the loader, Franz Werner, huddled over a small fire with a coffee pot. Moments later, Rudi was cringing at Werner’s coffee; its only redeeming value being it was hot.
Lieutenant Schmidt approached, signaling Rudi join him and Staff Sergeant Wohler, the commander of the regiment’s third PzKpfw III.
“We need some petrol, Lieutenant,” Wohler said
“Everybody does. If we push north on this road another ten kilometers, there’s a village where we can wait for supplies.”
Wohler squinted, unenthusiastic about further advance before resupply. Schmidt eyed him, “We cannot remain here.”
“I’m also low on petrol, Herr Lieutenant,” Rudi said.
“This terrain is too mountainous. It requires too much fuel,” Wohler grumbled.
Schmidt’s face darkened at the criticism. “Our orders are to sweep around the Polish tank brigade blocking the division.”
“We should blast right through them,” Wohler said. “It would save petrol.”
“Schmidt’s neck tightened at the mention of fuel. “We cannot. The PzKpfw I and II’s have failed to push past them and General Veiel is unwilling to risk our only three PzKpfw III’s against a fixed defensive position. Fourth Panzer Regiment and most of the division’s anti-battalion guns will hold them in place while we skirt around them to the north.” He turned. “Kleime, how much petrol do you have?”
Rudi swallowed, fearful of delivering more bad news on the fuel front. “A quarter full but our cans are empty.” He pointed to the cans on the side of Schmidt’s panzer. “Should we continue into the enemy rear?”
Schmidt seemed to relax at the aggressive talk. “Twenty minutes.”
A flight of three Ju-87B Stukas flew overhead, their gull like wings glistening in the bright autumn sun. “Goer
ing’s boys will be active today,” Schmidt said. “Your identification flags must be visible so the Stukas don’t confuse us with the Poles.”
It was a deadly possibility that the German panzers mistaken for the rag tag Polish forces but Rudi was not one to take chances. He found Brauch already strapping the bright red Nazi flag over the PzKpfw III’s rear deck. “Get it tight, Corporal Brauch.”
Another row of bombers passed overhead. During the three days of fight Rudi experienced newfound respect for the Luftwaffe, after receiving much needed help from Heinkel bombers. The memory was fresh. Rudi’s platoon ran into company of Polish infantry entrenched in a good sized village near the frontier. After an order to bypass the stronghold, they maneuvered to the east, only to find the carcass of a PzKpfw I. The panzer had rolled up on a Polish field gun positioned behind a wall, one of its shells severing the PzKpfw I’s turret from its chassis.
Schmidt radioed the other two PzKpfw IIIs to head out of the field gun’s line of sight to a thicket west of the village. Not two minutes later, a flight of Heinkel 111s dropped countless bombs on the village. Rudi was unbuttoned, his body halfway out of the hatch. The concussions smacked at Rudi, and his upper body ached as if pummeled in a boxing ring. The black smoke marked success, the He-111s departed for more ordnance.
Lieutenant Schmidt was on the radio, ordering them to continue around the nameless village. Their path took them back to the turret-less PzKpfw I where they found a single survivor, arm missing, blood pool a sign of slow death. A disagreement ensued. Rudi wanted to stop, but Schmidt focused on the mission above all else. The cry of advance at all costs based on Heinz Guderian, who dictated speed was everything. Schmidt’s crackling voice prohibited a halt
The platoon bypassed the village as far to the east as the terrain would allow. During the drive Rudi struggled to shake the image of the dead soldier from his mind. Prior to the war he had never seen a dead person other than at his grandfather’s funeral, but by the fourth day of the invasion, his senses were overwhelmed by scores of dead Poles. He tried not to look, focusing on the few live Poles, harmlessly stumbling around their destroyed village.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 7
