French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  Helga led the platoon up the dirt track past the burned out Stug III and disabled casement. German Landsers sat on the side of the road, smoking, exhausted from their efforts. Rudi waved, but they only stared at him.

  Rudi marveled at the long lines of Russian prisoners. In Poland he had seen only a few dazed survivors, but in a single day in Russia, Rudi’s crew drove past a seemingly endless stream of dirty and unkempt soldiers, who resembled civilian refugees rather than the intimidating Slavic beasts displayed in Nazi propaganda.

  Schmidt radioed from the rear of the column, “Don’t waste time watching the Bolsheviks! No slowing down Kleime!” Rudi encouraged Adolf. “Keep moving.”

  Rudi was shaken back into battlefield reality when a machine gun opened up from his left side, bullets bouncing off Helga’s hull. Rudi ducked into the commander’s cupola and ordered the turret swung to the left. Adolf halted Helga as Rudi searched for the fire. He caught sight of movement in a small stand of trees and ordered his gunner to clear the area with his MG34. “Wolfgang, hit the woods with the machine gun!”

  Lieutenant Schmidt’s voice echoed in Rudi’s ears. “Keep moving forward.”

  Rudi was quick to comply and after another burst of the turret MG34, Helga lurched forward. Two uneventful kilometers later they approached a barren hill, with woods at its northwestern base. A concrete blockhouse stood halfway up its southwest side, smoke billowed from its gun ports, barbed wire tangled. A motorcycle reconnaissance platoon from the Second Panzer Division had reached the area before Rudi; the platoon’s riders exchanged greetings with a squad of slumped combat engineers.

  Schmidt ordered the platoon to halt. Rudi looked out from his cupola and noticed Lieutenant Groesbeck approaching. A better fit for the SS, Groesbeck spent his spare time enlightening the regime on the finer points of Nazi doctrine, his brief talks descending into disjointed ramblings.

  Groesbeck saluted Schmidt. ”The Jewish Bolsheviks are attacking!” He waved his hand to the sky, “We have reports of three light tanks and a staff car three kilometers down the road.”

  The men followed his hand to look skyward, as he searched for the Storch that had spotted the approaching Russians. A drab green high wing monoplane banked ahead. Schmidt issued their orders.

  “Lieutenant Groesbeck attack the staff car. The others take positions in the woods north of the road. Kleime deploy behind the blockhouse and halt the last tank to prevent an escape.” Hesitation brought a bark from the lieutenant. “Move, we do not have much time.”

  Rudi ordered Adolf off the road and over to the blockhouse; he positioned Helga behind the smoking structure, shielded from the west but with a perfect line of sight to the road. Able to see only a portion of the platoon at the fear edge of the woods, they waited in place, the trap set.

  “Wait until you see the staff car before firing. We must get all of them,” Schmidt’s voice crackled over the radio.

  “Wagner, load armor piercing,” Rudi ordered. “We’ll take out the last tank and trap the rest.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Sergeant,” his gunner, Karl Wagner, said.

  Flies congregated on three dead Russians, distracting Rudi; he understood that if he did as ordered many more would be joining them.

  II

  Igor and Sasha had made little progress in their escape plan. The German engineers had finally departed for another set of gun emplacements, which left the two Russians alone. Sasha had eased out of the trench, focused on his thirst. Igor knew of a stream and during their journey discovered a knapsack. The feast of rations and stream water fortified them through the day as they watched the panzers prepare for battle from their hiding place.

  They crawled, darted, ran and rolled for three hours before reaching their newest hiding place, a small trench some ten meters inside the woods north of the road. Bullets struck the ground a few meters in front of them and tagged trees behind them. Once safely in their ditch, Igor was determined to remain until the Germans had passed and darkness descended on the forest.

  Sasha was less certain. “We cannot stay here,” he moaned. “My family will expect me, we must return to Barysaw.”

  “We cannot reach Barysaw, it is too far. We would have to march through the battlefield.”

  “Then we should surrender to the Germans. We could work for them and they would take us to Barysaw.”

  Igor had no response, the boy too naïve for his own good. Igor did not believe all the party propaganda but knew surrendering to the Germans meant immediate death.

  The idea of surrender had taken hold in Sasha’s mind when they spotted countless Red Army soldiers on the road, marching under the armed supervision of German infantry. Contrary to the propaganda, the Germans had not shot all of their prisoners but Igor sensed most would die.

  He wiggled his finger at the panzers collecting on a far hill. Not a military man he could see the Germans were preparing for battle. The lead tank was manned by a shouting, animated German, his voice carrying as he pointed toward the top of the hill. As the tanks plunged forward, the two men sank further into their shallow shelter with Igor whispering, “We must wait Sasha.”

  The younger man flattened in the trench and began to whimper.

  III

  The journey to the front had not went as expected. Colonel Tarkenov had hoped to lose the commissar then flee to the safety of Slutsk, but Mogilov was determined to reach the front. A fallen tree had slowed them; the staff car unable to avoid the obstacle which the tanks had swept around with ease. An hour of wrestling with the obstacle allowed Tarkenov to escape the car as he clutched his empty stomach, still roiled by the previous night’s partying.

  His condition was not helped by the sound of German dive bombers overhead. Even with his limited military experience the colonel realized the convoy was a plump target for the pilots. The rumbling of artillery and bombing encircled them, while Tarkenov worried the Germans had swept around them to Slutsk, cutting off any possibility of escape. Mogilov was concerned only with reaching the front and reporting; his Moscow bosses more dangerous than any Wehrmacht unit.

  Once the tree was removed another obstacle appeared. Hundreds of panicked Red Army soldiers swarmed them, and forced the staff car to halt again, Mogilov leapt free and confronted the soldiers with curses of “traitors” and “betrayal of revolution.” Mogilov threatened summary executions for all those who failed to turn and face the enemy, but the numbers were too great and he was forced to return to the staff car, slumped in his seat as he watched the mass of retreating soldiers.

  The convoy eventually approached Hill 190 at the rear of the Minsk Fortified Region rising smoke marking the German approach. Tarkenov offered his limited military advice. “Comrade Mogilov, perhaps we should send only one tank over the hill to look for the enemy.” He pointed. “I see smoke from the area of Artillery Casement 70.”

  Commissar Mogilov signaled for the group to halt. He aimed the dead lieutenant’s binoculars towards the smoke and listened. “Colonel, do you hear any firing?”

  Tarkenov feigned interest, cupped his ear as he poked his head from the window. “I hear something.”

  “Nonsense,” Mogilov grunted. “There is more noise at Party celebrations. The smoke is likely from a Fascist plane shot down by our patriotic comrades. This is a mere border incident, those traitors fleeing to the rear will suffer the consequences for their cowardice.”

  Mogilov signaled for the column to continue. Tarkenov slumped in his seat, resigned to his fate. The commissar’s explanation made little sense. The colonel recalled no antiaircraft units in the area that could shoot down the plane. The colonel and the commissar watched as the BT-5U crested Hill 190, waiting for an explosion but hearing nothing. The column continued to the west.

  When the staff car reached the top of the hill, Tarkenov caught sight of Artillery Casement 70; smoke pouring from its rear exit where barbed wire was strewn without design. The sight seemed to awaken Mogilov to their situation, his face frozen. He turned to
the colonel and the world erupted in noise and flame.

  The BT-5 exploded. Machine gun fire ripped into the staff car from the south. Tarkenov jammed his fist against the door lever without effect and yelled at the driver who remained still. The corporal slumped as blood spurted from the side of his neck. Tarkenov kicked open the door and flopped onto the ground as the commissar landed on top of him. Mogilov struggled to rise but could not push free of the fat colonel. The Germans raked the car, the commissar groaned and clutched his thigh, while Tarkenov remained motionless; he realized the body provided some protection. Moments later, the firing stopped.

  0

  Rudi ordered Wolfgang to stop firing. There was little need to continue when the Bolsheviks had not bothered to return fire. The battle had taken less than five minutes. For a moment Rudi was transported back to the American Old West; their ambush resembling those of the Sioux though the Second Panzer Division enjoyed weaponry far more potent than the arrows carried by the Indians.

  The battle had started well, the first shell from the Helga’s 37 mm cannon sliced through the side of the last BT-5 like it was made of butter. Rudi’s mouth sagged as he watched the light tank explode into flames. Their second shot missed the middle tank, but their third round pierced its thin armor just below its turret. The tank shuddered to a halt. The hull hatch opened and the driver popped out, hands above his head, anxious to escape the tank before it also exploded.

  Rudi’s attention was diverted to the lead BT-5, smoke was billowing from its hatches with either Schmidt or Heldreich hitting it. Among the Red tankers in the convoy only the driver from the middle BT-5 appeared to have survived.

  Rudi squinted through his viewing window and looked for signs of life in the staff car. The men from the motorcycle platoon gingerly approached it, submachine guns at the ready. The men swarmed, a commotion followed with excited yelling and moments later, members of the platoon were proudly displaying their captives. The prisoners appeared to be officers; one wounded in the leg and the other, head held up only by his double chin. He appeared to be sobbing.

  Dismounting, Rudi approached the wrecked BT-5’s and noticed the lead tank had dispensed with its tracks and had been running on its wheels. He stared at the strangely designed machine. No German panzer could simply eject its tracks and continue to move. Less innovative was the crude and cumbersome radio frame surrounding its turret.

  “No match for the PzKpfw III,” Rudi chuckled to Sergeant Heldreich, commander of the third Panzer in their platoon.

  “Yeah, the 37mm was plenty big enough for these,” Heldreich said. “Unless they have heavier tanks, doesn’t seem like we need the 50mm upgrade.”

  Rudi closed his eyes at the mention of the guns. During their months on the Russian border much of the Second Panzer Division had been consumed by the debate over whether to upgrade the PzKpfw III’s main gun to a 50mm cannon. He learned the original design specifications for the turret ring included placement of a 50mm gun. A 50mm gun would have provided greater range and firepower but the Heereswaffenamt, which was responsible for procurement, settled on the 37mm gun because it was being produced by the thousands as the Army’s standard towed anti-tank gun. Ease and the standardization of equipment meant little to Rudi or the others who had heard stories of Soviet tanks capable of taking direct hits from a 37mm gun and continue attacking. Staring at the smoldering Soviet tank, Rudi had to admit the bureaucrats in the army may have been correct in not replacing the 37mm gun with the 50mm gun as it was not needed.

  “Let’s go look at the Bolsheviks,” said Rudi, pointing to the two officers and the tank driver.

  “Ja…I don’t care how many millions of them there are, they look like scheisse to me,” Heldreich said as he followed Rudi to the staff car.

  0

  Overhead, Lieutenant Shriver pumped his fist. Watching the skirmish 300 meters above Hill 190 he resembled a hawk watching his squirming prey squirm. Shriver was impressed by the speed at which Schmidt’s panzers dispatched the column

  Shriver radioed to the division HQ. “Russian column destroyed, they are retreating offering no organized resistance. Road to Slutsk open. ”

  His communication acknowledged, he banked to a heading of 270 degrees and flew west towards the late afternoon sun.

  0

  Tarkenov stared blankly at the German with the MP38 submachine gun pointed at the colonel’s epaulettes.

  “Commissar?”

  “Nein,” sobbed Tarkenov. He knew only a few words in German and was afraid to say anything beyond denial of every question thrown at him. Shaking, knees wobbly, stomach on the edge of revolt, the colonel watched two Germans climb from their tanks. They paused to eye the Russian machines before they approached the prisoners. Black uniforms dusty and worn, they seemed less threatening; their expressions simpler than the soldier barking out questions.

  The German turned to Mogilov. “Commissar?”

  Clutching his leg, face white from his loss of blood and authority Mogilov shook his head, “Nein.”

  Tarkenov felt no sympathy for the tottering Mogilov. Instead he saw an opportunity to curry favor with his captors. He pointed to Mogilov’s Party badge. “Commissar…Ja!”

  The dangerous looking soldier spun and glared at the fat colonel. After a few moments the German approached Mogilov and ripped the Party badge from his tunic. He turned it over in his hand and snapped, “Commissar?”

  “Nein,” Mogilov repeated, his denial undermined by his wide eyes and near translucent skin. “Nein.”

  “Ja, Ja, Ja,” Tarkenov jabbed his pudgy finger.

  It was not necessary. The German grasped the party badge, took a few deliberate steps from Mogilov then wheeled and pointed his submachine gun at the commissar’s chest.

  One of the tank drivers waved at the other soldier, as words tumbled from his mouth. Tarkenov glared at the German who saved Mogilov’s life. He heard the other soldier disagree, understanding “Fuhrer,” “Commissar” and “Third Reich.” The colonel knew the Nazi’s hatred of Bolsheviks, having heard the warnings that party members would be shot on sight.

  The other tank driver pulled his companion free of the argument and Tarkenov jumped at the sound of automatic fire, tasting blood as Mogilov’s remains were scattered over several meters. The soldier strolled away, the two tank drivers shuffled off, the one who save Mogilov shaking his head, forehead creased, mouth moving, words unintelligible. The Colonel shuddered, as he realized how close he had come to joining Mogilov.

  The colonel receded from the vision of the protesting tanker, Rudi Kleime, who directed a snarl at the retreating Lieutenant Groesbeck and his smoking submachine gun. “It’s not right.”

  “Not our decision,” Heidrich, the other tanker, said. He turned toward the north woods and his PzKpfw III, while Rudi hustled over to Helga.

  “What happened Sergeant?” Wolfgang asked, wide eyed at the sound of gunfire after Rudi had left the safety of Helga. “A prisoner make a run for it?”

  “Something like that,” replied Rudi. “Let’s get moving over to the road.”

  Minutes later the three tanks of Rudi’s platoon were ready to move out. Lieutenant Groesbeck’s motorcycle platoon roared over Hill 190. The Panzers followed in the direction of Slutsk.

  0

  Watching the skirmish from their ditch, Igor made a decision. “It is time to surrender,” he announced, as he pushing to his knees then to his feet. Sasha followed him, brushing the dirt from his clothes. Their trek ended when the burst of gunfire dropped the commissar. Igor grasped his young friend and pulled him out of sight.

  “Back to the trench,” he hissed. “The German are shooting prisoners.” The two men scrambled back to the relative safety of the trench.

  “The Commissars were right!” whispered Sasha. “We will be shot if we surrender.”

  Igor merely held up his finger to his mouth, imploring silence. They waited for the motorcycles and Panzers to move east but could not flee as the German comba
t engineers remained at the base of Hill 190 with their Russian prisoners, the captured tank driver and the fat Russian colonel. Moments, then minutes passed, as the two remained motionless, legs cramped, their sanity tested by thirst. Just as their pain and suffering became unbearable, the Germans departed and Igor motioned Sasha to follow him. Confused, tired and hungry, they crept northeast, deeper into the woods; their plans to surrender discarded, and their survival instinct seizing control.

  0

  Plopped on the ground, Colonel Tarkenov accepted a cigarette from one of his German captors. The day had produced mixed feelings. His homeland had suffered a terrible defeat but the colonel had survived. Commissar Mogilov was dead, eliminating one threat, and the war had ended for him. He would not be killed fighting the Germans while his new task was to cooperate with them. The colonel had exploited their hatred of commissars, and he shared that feeling. He would have to find other hatreds to exploit in order to survive.

  He smiled at the German who gave him the cigarette. It tasted much better than the Russian version. Cooperation with his captors had ensured his survival, the next day would bring new challenges. Watching the sun begin its slide over the western horizon, Tarkenov experienced a surge of confidence; he was beginning a new life, one where the survival skills he had learned in the Soviet Union would serve him well.

  21

  May 10, 1940

  Reilly sat in a small room at the Kirov People’s Factory in Leningrad. It was not a conference room in the Western sense; it was not even an intact room, the sounds from the factory floor seeping through the gaps in the wooden walls. He peered through the opening to the floor, watching the machinery and men construct the tanks he had helped engineer. Sitting on the scuffed wooden table before him were the blueprints for possible improvements to the KV-1’s wheels. He had been assigned the task of eliminating rubber; the Soviet Union’s supplies nearly exhausted by its rush to construct a tank army.