French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  Since their arrival in Smolensk the news from the front had worsened even as Natasha adopted the role of propagandist for her country. Their talks about the war quickly descended into arguments; Reilly struggled to make her understand the hopelessness of their situation while he steered her to his preferred solution; Natasha leaving Russia with him. Her question threatened another in the interminable debate.

  “I don’t believe they will.”

  It was the wrong response. “They are reporting the Nazis were stopped at Minsk and their tanks have been destroyed.” They had spent an entire day watching dozens of T26s and BT-5s leaving the training center heading for the Nazi positions.

  Reilly rose, brushing dirt from his trousers. It was the least of his hygiene worries, as he skipped baths over the last week, his beard a dirty mass. “The Germans have marched through the Russian forces and are headed to Moscow.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If Russia is winning, why is Smolensk being flattened by bombs?”

  Natasha’s mouth swung open, eyes flashing, reality hurting.

  “Officers and Commissars panic at the sound of airplanes. They are digging trenches around us.” He swept his arm toward the tank training center grounds. “Smolensk and its people will be sacrificed.”

  “You said our tanks are better than the German tanks and we have thousands more.”

  Reilly swallowed. “The Soviet tanks are superior and more numerous, but the Red Army does not know how to use them.”

  Natasha blanched at his words. Body stiffening she stomped over the door leading from the shack, struggling to open it, kicking at it, the force of her anger sending the door off its hinges and into the mud two meters from the shack.

  “Natasha, stop. Listen to me.”

  Natasha covered her face with her hands. Reilly wrapped his arms around her, then swept her hair from around her face. “The war is lost?” She whispered.

  “Smolensk is lost but that does not mean the war cannot be won. Moscow will determine the war.” He grimaced as a breeze caused several hair strands to drop before her eyes. “The war is over for us. We must escape and the only way to do that is surrender to the Germans.”

  Natasha snatched at him. “Surrender? I cannot surrender.”

  “We can go together. I am an American citizen, the Germans will not hurt me. They will treat me not as a prisoner of war but as a civilian.”

  “I am not an American.”

  Reilly held her hand. “Under American law anyone married to an American is also considered a citizen with all of its protections.”

  “We are not married.”

  “I know that, you know that but the Germans will not if we surrender together. You can leave with me, and return to America.” He kissed her hand.

  “Married,” Natasha mulled the possibility. “I will do what you say Jimmy.” She leaned in to him.

  Natasha’s head drooped onto his shoulder. Reilly checked the interior pocket of his coat and felt the familiar shape of his U.S. Passport. His task was to convince the Germans Natasha was more than a mere Russian companion. Beside his status as an American Reilly also had information the Germans wanted, the numbers and types of Russian tanks they would be facing as they drove to Moscow. He could only hope it would be enough.

  III

  The monotony around Shklov was interrupted by a cloudburst, sending Rudi and his men scrambling for cover. Rain pattered on the covering composed of tree branches and a discarded Russian tent. Rudi touched it and wondered about its previous owners, whether they were soldiers or prisoners of the special units. He knew only that the shoddy material protected his turret from the rain.

  Rudi studied his defensive position as Helga remained facing east, her hull behind a cutout dug into a small hill with only the turret visible to the enemy. Situated in a perfect hull down position, Helga provided an excellent line of sight leaving them with nothing more to do that wait for the unlikely counterattack by the Red Army.

  Rudi was diverted by sudden activity in the anti-tank battery where Lieutenant Lunge was drilling his men. They scampered about as if under attack. “Impressive,” muttered Rudi. “We are too worn for drill today.”

  More important than the drill or the men was the coveted the 50 mm anti-tank gun. Arriving a month earlier, it was capable of slowing the Russian tanks far better than the PzKpfw III’s 37 mm cannon. A 50 mm rocked back on its carriage and emitted a burst of grey smoke. Rudi trained his binoculars down range and gasped, “Verdammt!” It was not a drill.

  He spotted Red Army light tanks approaching across the fields, either BT-5s or 7s. There were too many to count and Rudi lacked the time. He threw the covering from the turret, a stream of cold water running down his back. He shuddered then barked instructions. “Brauch get in your seat and prepare to start the engine. Werner, Kroening crank the engine. Braun get the gun ready to fire. The Russians are here with at least 20 tanks.”

  Kroening and Werner cranked the engine, struggling to claw the flywheel to 60 rpm, the threshold needed to start the Maybach engine. After much swearing, the big engine groaned, spit and rumbled into life.

  Rudi watched the Red Army tanks sprint toward their position, faster than Helga. Their hatches were buttoned down, the opposite of the German doctrine, which demanded its Panzer leaders remain in an open hatch to ensure greater visibility. Kroening and Werner scrambled into position.

  The Russian tanks fired, Rudi was calm as Helga was hull down. One of the attacker’s 45 mm shells whooshed harmlessly overhead as Rudi ordered a counterattack. “Werner, load armor piercing. They are out of our range, but Lunge’s 50s can hit them. I see only tanks.”

  The anti-tank platoon’s larger guns found their mark and scored four hits but the Russians kept coming, Rudi noticing half a dozen BT-5s advancing from the left. “Braun, 20 degrees left, 1000 meters,” he ordered. “The one with the metal frame around it, that’s the commander.”

  “Jawohl.” Braun spun the hand crank with his right hand, traversing the turret 20 degrees left. “Watch it Franz.”

  The warning was unnecessary as Werner dodged the moving turret. For some reason unknown to the Panzer men, Helga’s designers fixed only the seats of the commander and the gunner to the turret. The loader had to follow the turret from the floor of the tank. Franz Werner scampered along on Helga’s floor, avoiding contact with the turret’s protruding components. Braun turned the crank wheel and elevated the cannon, his speed and adeptness in using both hands making him one of the best gunners in the Wehrmacht. He worked the hand cranks effortlessly and lined up the range and sighting plates with the BT-5 that bore the odd metal frame.

  “Sighted.”

  “Fire.”

  The 37 mm cannon roared, the round struck the radio frame and partly ripped the radio frame from its anchors. The command BT-5 slid to a halt.

  “Fire.”

  Werner slammed the next round into the breach while Braun adjusted the elevation downwards slightly. Braun fired again; the 37 mm armor piercing shell easily ripped through the mere 13mm of frontal armor, an explosion marking the end of the BT-5’s three man crew.

  “5 degrees left, 900 meters,” said Rudi. Werner loaded the round while Braun acquired the target. “They have stopped.”

  Braun dispatched the second BT-5 with his first shot, Schmidt able to send another exploding into flames.

  “10 degrees right, 900 meters,” ordered Rudi. “Hold fire. They are fleeing.”

  “Don’t let them escape.”

  “They are leaving the tanks and running away,” Rudi reported. He puzzled over the Russian tactics. “Why wreck their tanks when we can capture them?”

  Braun climbed out of his hatch and joined Rudi, who swung his binoculars to eye the battlefield. He counted ten Red Army tanks, half of them belching smoke.

  “I do not see anything else moving,” remarked Rudi. The “battle” had lasted less than 20 minutes.

  “What was the point of that?” asked B
raun.

  “I do not attempt to understand the Russians, Wolfgang. They may have attacked to spoil our attack.” Rudi raised his binoculars unable to spot any sign of life.

  “Schmidt is on the radio,” announced Kroening. “We are counterattacking with the PzKpfw IIs and the mobile infantry.”

  “Brauch back us out of this position and proceed north of the town. Kroening, inform Lieutenant Schmidt we are coming.”

  Werner and Brauch jumped off Helga and gathered the crews’ gear. “One minute,” warned Rudi. “If you don’t have it on this Panzer by then, you don’t need it.”

  Moments later they had rumbled in behind Schmidt. He waved Rudi alongside.

  “Regimental headquarters says the Russians used over 40 light tanks in that attack. We destroyed half and the rest were abandoned,” Schmidt said. “We found five stuck in the marsh three kilometers south, on the other side of that stand of woods.”

  Rudi frowned. “Are we forming a keil?” During his first days training for the panzer forces, he learned about the keil or wedge which served as the standard attack pattern for Panzer divisions. A narrow part of the front, 3,000-5,000 meters wide, would be hammered with an arrow like wedge with the panzer regiment at its head. The objective was to overwhelm a weak part of the front with massive firepower and create a breakthrough.

  “No time to organize. Everything that has tracks or wheels is moving right through the knocked out Russian tanks. Regiment expects light opposition, if any.”

  Rudi glanced to his right as five Pzkpfw IIs moved into the field, followed by three halftracks laden with infantry. “The IIs can’t handle anything heavier than infantry or trucks,” Rudi said, motioning to the advancing light Panzers.

  “Who is going to shoot at them? Mein Gott, did you see such an inept display?”

  Schmidt’s grey Pzkpfw III started rolling. He waved Helga forward, shouting, “Best of all it has stopped raining.”

  IV

  May 27, 1940

  “Is there anything to eat?” Marina moaned, poking a stick into the damp earth in search of a root.

  “Nyet,” Sasha shaded his eyes from the hot mid-day sun.

  “What about from the dead Fascist?”

  Sasha retrieved the Death’s Head Totenkopf patch he sliced from the dead German, turning it over. “We have nothing.”

  “We must return to the zveno. My mother had a secret store of canned beats and potatoes. If we leave now and come out of the woods at dusk, no one would see us.”

  “It is too dangerous.”

  “You said we could live another week and it has been a week,” Marina said. “What difference does it make?”

  “We are hidden and have plenty of water. We have caught two fish.”

  “I can’t eat water. The fish made me sick.”

  Sasha looked at her face, her smile a reward for his attention. Even with little food Marina looked better than when he had found her.

  Sasha walked to the bank of the Berezina River far from the remains of civilization. The shelter along the west bank of the river offered a hiding place from prying eyes but did little to keep them dry during the days of rain. Even with the sun above them, moisture hung heavy in the air.

  “We cannot go back, the Germans are there. We are safest here. We have seen no one, heard no battle, they have moved far beyond us, toward Smolensk.” Sasha grabbed her shoulder and squeezed. “When we move it will be northeast, toward Vitebsk.”

  “The kolkhoz, there will be people there and if we see Germans, we can kill them”

  Sasha slumped, body creating a depression in the wet ground. “With what? I have a gun, you have nothing. We cannot do what the entire Red Army could not do.”

  “We have no food, Sasha.”

  Sasha’s head sank, exhausted. Marina slid to his side and nuzzled her face against his. Sasha wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Her hair was smooth as he remembered; Marina had cleaned it in the river.

  Sasha felt his strength draining. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “We will go back to your zveno.”

  Marina grinned. “Thank you, Sasha.” She unbuttoned his uniform tunic as Sasha placed his hand on top of hers and stroked it. Marina nuzzled his neck and kissed it softly. He could not resist making a promise. “We will survive.”

  0

  An hour passed before they gathered their meager possessions. Sasha slung the German Mauser 98K rifle over his shoulder. “We go.”

  They followed the mushy path along the Berezina. After a couple of kilometers they turned west and a path leading back to the kolkhoz. Sasha held up his hand, halting Marina.

  “Sasha, we must rest,” whimpered Marina.

  Sasha touched his finger to her lips. “I hear voices.”

  “Germans?”

  Sasha shook his head, mouth tight with concentration. “Be still.” He crept forward, each step threatened discovery. Sasha managed a mere 50 meters in fifteen minutes. As he approached the voices became intelligible, Sasha recognized Russian.

  He spotted a small fire smoldering under a metal contraption arranged to hold a large pot. A peasant woman stirred the contents, an aroma of stew infiltrating his nostrils. A man towered half a meter over the peasant woman, blond hair and scraggly beard hiding his face. His height was less intimidating than his bulk, torso and legs resembling tree trunks. He peered into the pot, speaking something Sasha could not hear.

  Others came into view; there was a dozen or more men wearing Red Army uniforms. The giant wore the same uniform though bearing the stripes of a sergeant, the other men rallying around the giant, waiting for direction. Sasha sensed danger and knew if discovered he could never protect Marina.

  Suddenly, Sasha heard a faint yell of “Nyet, Nyet” from behind him. It was Marina. He rose but never saw the rifle butt which knocked him senseless.

  0

  Sasha dreamt of the biggest meal of the year which came after each harvest. His mother always took special ingredients she had squirreled away and prepared the feast that included morsels of meat. Voices awakened him before he could dip his spoon into the treat and he blinked at unfamiliar surroundings.

  A young soldier stood over him. “We have too many mouths to feed,” he said. “We must leave them.”

  “No Volodya, they will be captured and reveal our position.” The voice belonged to another soldier, skinny and worn, his uniform caked in mud with a red blotch staining his trousers.

  “Don’t send us away.” It was Marina. “Our kolkhoz was burned by the Fascists, everyone was killed. We have nowhere to go.”

  “We do not have provisions for two more,” Volodya grunted.

  A female voice interrupted. “We cannot leave them; they are Russians like us.” Sasha appraised her. Some thirty years younger than the peasant woman, she wore the smart apparel of a city dweller. For a moment Sasha imagined she was an actress with her light brown hair and a perfectly shaped nose

  “What does it matter what you think, Tanya?” snarled Volodya. “It only matters what Comrade Sergeant says.”

  The dark haired beauty shook her head. “Comrade Sergeant Mikhail Tosynagevich Shervechev, what do you say?”

  The enormous man approached the smoldering fire, scooping stew from the pot with a metal cup while he eyed the bickering pair. He raised the cup and poured the contents slowly into his mouth.

  Tanya touched his arm. “Misha, let them join us.”

  Misha looked from Tanya and much to Sasha’s discomfort locked onto him. Sasha tried to stand, his mind spun and forced him to slump on the ground. Misha moved over him, pale blue eyes unthreatening.

  Sasha sputtered. “Comrade Sergeant, we can work. I was with a construction unit building the Stalin Line.”

  “The Stalin Line,” Misha spit.

  “I don’t know of such things but we did much of the digging, it should have been strong.”

  “We are not digging fortifications,” Misha said. “You are but a boy and a girl.”

  “Com
rade Sergeant, I can fight. I have a German rifle.”

  “How did you get the Mauser? You killed a Fascist?”

  Sasha paused and contemplated his response, the giant’s glare unnerved him. “I took it from a dead Nazi in a black uniform,” he said. “They murdered everyone at our kolkhoz.”

  “Everyone left in Belorussia has a sad story,” Volodya said. “It does not change that these two children will be nothing more than mouths to feed.”

  Misha turned. “Quiet. I will listen and then decide.”

  The peasant woman appeared with Marina in tow. She was wide eyed, face smeared with dirt and tears. “Let them stay. The Fascist pigs assaulted this girl.”

  Sasha reached into his pocket, drawing Volodya’s ire as he raised his rifle. “Hands from your pockets."

  Sasha complied. “I do not have a weapon. I want to show Comrade Sergeant what else I took from the dead Fascist.”

  The old woman berated the giant. “Big Misha, they have suffered enough. They will be useful.”

  Tanya approached from the opposite side. “Let him show us, brother.”

  Misha nodded to Sasha, “Show us.”

  Sasha edged his hand into his pocket, then slowly pulled out a piece of black cloth. He presented the Death Head’s Totenkopf patch to Misha then nodded at Tanya. “The men who wore this patch burned our kolkhoz and murdered our families. I will not rest until every last one of them is dead.”

  Misha eyed the patch, as his massive palm swallowed it. He passed it to Tanya. “You are part of us. You will work, you will fight.”

  25

  “Feldwebel Sandmann, get your fat ass in the aircraft,” The backwards Austrian’s lumbering threatened to waste the cool dawn, the best time to fly in the brutal Russian summer.

  Hans adhered to the strict code of enlisted men and officers never mixing beyond the battlefield. Watching Sandmann struggle toward the plane, panting after a mere twenty meters Hans could not comprehend how the Fuhrer and Sandmann were of the same volk. The Fuhrer was salvation for all German people while Sandmann served as ballast. Hans tried to jolt him into action. “The weather has cleared and you are wasting our time.”