French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  The yellow “Y” showed bright on the back of the passing Pzkpfw 38(t)’s turrets. The 7th Panzer Division pushed past Rudi’s division towards Smolensk; they rushed to reach their positions before the light was extinguished. The halftrack slowed to a stop adjacent to a group of armor vehicles. Rudi was attracted to the dummy gun mounted on the command Pzkpfw III when a major approached the halftrack.

  “Well done. You are wanted,” the major nodded at Reilly. “The prisoner will go nowhere.”

  “Jawohl Herr Major,” Rudi dismounted from the halftrack. Such a summons frequently foretold trouble and Rudi wanted to present the best image. Unfortunately he was barely presentable to any in command, his uniform singed beyond recognition, a quick smoothing of his trousers having little effect, hand sizzling.

  They walked a short distance. “Is this the hero?” Rudi turned to face Major General Erwin Rommel. He struggled to stand erect and saluted in the military style.

  “Nein, Herr General…I was trying to eliminate the monster Red Army tank…to stop further losses,” offered Rudi. His salute left a ribbon of fresh blood on his brow.

  “Ja that heavy tank caused much difficulty,” said Rommel, his voice softening. The general took Rudi by the right arm and turned it over and frowned at his hand. “Tell me what happened, then we will get you treatment.”

  Rudi recounted the afternoon’s events, replacing bravado with precision. Rommel stopped him when he described the failure of the 50 mm antitank shells to pierce the frontal armor of the tank.

  “You saw the shells bounce off the tank without effect?” asked Rommel.

  “Ja, they merely made dents on the KV-1. I saw it hit at least 20 times.”

  “How did you know it is a KV-1? I do not think we encountered them?”

  Rudi turned and pointed to the halftrack. “From the American.”

  “Was ist das?”

  Reilly moved forward. A Landser shoved a machine pistol into his belly and stopped his progress. Rommel waved him away and approached, he frowned at Reilly’s civilian clothes.

  “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

  “Jawohl Herr General,” replied Reilly.

  “What in God’s name is an Englishman doing in Smolensk?”

  “I am American and I have been working in the Soviet Union for the last five years,” Reilly grasped his U.S. passport, the only document keeping him alive.

  Rommel flipped through the well-worn booklet then turned toward the setting sun. “What did you work on, Mr. Reilly?”

  “On the design of Red Army tanks.”

  Rommel worked his lips but remained silent for several moments. “You worked on the design of Red Army tanks?”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  “The American government helped the Bolsheviks design tanks?” asked Rommel. “Why would the United States help Communists?”

  “I was not here as a representative of the United States government. I am civilian engineer, paid by the Russians for my design work.”

  “Does the American government know of your work?” questioned Rommel.

  Reilly hesitated, his answer had diplomatic and political repercussions he could not understand. He doubted the Germans would be enthusiastic about American assistance of any type to the despised Soviets. “My government knows that I am here but does not support my activities. They have prohibited export of tank technology to the Soviet Union.”

  “Then you are a Socialist.”

  Reilly chuckled. “No, I work for money and only for money. Those who pay me receive my expertise and I do not ask questions.”

  “A mercenary,” Rommel mused. “Tell me, do the Soviets have many more of these KV-1s?”

  “Only a handful. The KV-1 is still in proving trials and they believed, incorrectly, the tanks should be tested in battle conditions. Moscow underestimated -,” Reilly hesitated before continuing. “How bad their situation is at the front.”

  Rommel ignored him. “How thick is the KV-1’s frontal armor? What size is the main cannon?”

  Reilly cleared his throat and offered his most authoritative voice as if auditioning for his next job. “The Klimenti Voroshilov heavy tank or KV-1 has over 100 mm of frontal armor and a 76.2 mm main gun.”

  “Then we need to win this war quickly.”

  Reilly offered flattery to cement his position. “It appears you are well on your way to exactly that, Herr General. There is nothing but chaos in Moscow.”

  “You have been in Moscow?”

  “Briefly but the train system was barely functioning.”

  “Is there more you would like to add?”

  “The Soviets also have a main battle tank under development known as the T-34. It also has the 76.2 mm main cannon. Its frontal armor will be at least 80 mm thick. They intend to build it in astronomical numbers.”

  “Have you worked on the design of the KV-1 and the T-34?”

  “Absolutely, Herr General. I know these tanks better than any non-Russian.”

  Rommel spun, arms clasped behind his back, boots kicking up dirt, his weathered face curled into a scowl. “Mr. Reilly, I do not respect mercenaries but you have been most helpful. For your sake, I hope that you have been truthful. Army Intelligence will check your claims.”

  Reilly opened his mouth but thought better of it as the general raised his hand. “Major, transport the American to Army Group Headquarters.” The major motioned Reilly to a captured Russian truck. Reilly looked back at Rommel and caught the Major General’s eye. “Danke schoen, Herr General.”

  Rommel returned to Rudi. “Finish your account of the destruction of the KV-1.”

  Rudi described how the wooden crate from the rear deck of his Pzkpfw III was in the ditch and how he realized that one of the cans was intact and held petrol. Rommel listened patiently, bobbing his head with approval. When the tale was complete Rommel put his hand on Rudi’s shoulder and looked into his eyes.

  “Sergeant Kleime, the Fatherland is proud of your actions. I know that you lost your crew and unit but you avenged their sacrifice.”

  Rudi’s shoulders hunched and Rommel continued, “I will advise General Guderian of your actions. You will return to the Fatherland to recover from your wounds.”

  “Nein…” uttered Rudi. “I wish to return to my regiment.”

  Rommel eyes narrowed, unaccustomed to being challenged by a subordinate, his anger assuaged by the oldest sentiment of soldiers and the one most desired among leaders: remaining with his unit at all cost.

  Rommel reached over to Rudi. “You are in shock but I will have my surgeon look at your hand. If you can be treated and remain at the Front without risking your hand, you shall.”

  Rudi’s eyes lit up. “Herr General that is all I want to do. I don’t want a medal. Give medals to those who died today.”

  “The brave soldiers that died today deserve the medals but you will receive the Iron Cross nonetheless. I do not know whether your regiment will be withdrawn. Its losses were heavy.” Rudi strained to maintain composure. “Would you honor the 7th Panzer Division by joining it?”

  Rudi swallowed hard. An invitation from one of the most famous generals in the army threatened to close his throat. Breathing deeply to calm his nerves he saluted. “Herr General, if my regiment is withdrawn, it would be an honor to join the 7th Panzer.”

  II

  June 2, 1940

  Reilly rubbed his temples, palms burning, the heat and humidity in the room nearly unbearable. The conditions seemed to have little effect on the room’s other occupant. Captain Scheller of OKH Army Intelligence had questioned him for a day.

  Scheller began quietly. “We do not consider you a prisoner of war or a spy because the United States is not a combatant in our struggle against the Bolshevik menace.”

  Reilly peered over his hands at the middle aged captain carrying more weight than the typical soldier. Blond and blue eyed, he sported a weak chin with a second one under development. Reilly thought him a poster for what happens to the Ary
an super race after too much beer and schnitzel.

  “I do not know how other entities will view your status.”

  Reilly could not ignore the threat. He clutched his passport clutched returned after the Germans examined it. Nearly a decade in the Soviet Union had taught Reilly how to handle authority. “Captain Scheller, your English is impressive.”

  “Thank you Mr. Reilly. I lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin for several years in the twenties before returning to the Reich to serve the Fuhrer and the Fatherland.” He cocked his head, seemingly puzzled by Reilly’s reaction. “You are far better off with OKH Intelligence than with the Gestapo.”

  “I understand but I have been truthful and honest.”

  “Oh, I believe you have James. May I call you James? You may call me Karl”

  “Of course, Herr Captain.”

  Scheller leaned back in his chair and spread his arms. “The Army is interested in your knowledge of the KV-1 and -” Scheller fumbled through a small dossier on the table in front of him

  “The T-34?”

  Another smile. “My task is determining your authenticity. I cannot test the technical details. If your information is deemed authentic, you will be transported elsewhere for comprehensive de-briefing.”

  “Am I authentic?”

  “You tell me James.”

  “I have told you everything that is relevant,” Reilly paused and swept away a line of sweat as it dropped over his eye. “Could we move?”

  “Nein.” Scheller clapped his hands. “If we move you away from the areas controlled by the Army we may lose control. The closer we keep you to the front, the more we can protect you.” Scheller sniffed at typical American whining. “You have far better living quarters than the peasants Stalin throws senselessly into battle.”

  Scheller motioned toward the herds of Soviet prisoners milling about outside the window. Reilly rose to watch but Scheller did not move. The American was unlikely to attempt to escape as the closest city was Minsk 100 kilometers west. Reilly was not one to blend into the scenery.

  “What will happen to the Red Army prisoners?”

  “That is neither my or your concern. They will either march west or the SS will receive the camp keys.”

  “Somebody else’s problem?”

  “Ja, somebody else’s problem.” Scheller tilted his head. “In America they would say I am too low on the totem pole to know such things.”

  Reilly laughed, “More Indians. Why are you people obsessed with our Indians?”

  Furrows dotted Scheller’s brow, mouth pursed as he adopted the role of the humorless German. “Let us start again, James. Why do you have a tattoo of four playing cards on your shoulder? Why are they all nines?”

  0

  Reilly lost track of time, the sun disappeared behind the horizon as he was dragged to another small office. Two stray mats lay on the floor, a snoring prisoner occupied one; he resembled an obese mountain under a horse blanket. Reilly approached, the rise and fall of his breathing caused the blanket to slip and reveal the uniform of a Soviet Colonel.

  Reilly walked to the window; legs worn from sitting through the interrogation. The glass was cracked, pieces having fallen outside, the open space unblocked by bars offering an escape Reilly could not consider. His eyes adjusted to the moonlight and noticed thousands of dark figures spread as far as the eye could see. Barbed wire was visible around the perimeter, sagging and on occasion dipping toward the ground, beckoning escape for the desperate.

  A sudden burst of snoring drew Reilly to the fat colonel. The moonlight cast blue light onto his face, his blotched skin suggested an infection. The colonel slobbered and rolled over, the horse blanket sliding from his torso. Reilly tilted his head and squinted in the moonlight at his uniform insignia. The Colonel appeared to be part of the border infantry but lacked the markings of a political officer.

  Reilly caught sight of the Colonel’s face, then jumped.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Reilly struggled to recall a decade of Russian after a mere day of continuous German. “I was trying to see who you were,” he whispered.

  “What are you Norwegian?”

  “American, not Norwegian.” He tilted his head. “Norwegian?”

  “I once met a Norwegian in Minsk and he spoke with the same accent.”

  Tarkenov was rambling, Reilly losing interest. “You have better accommodations than your comrades in the field.”

  The Colonel showed no concern. “Why is an American in Belorussia in the middle of a war between the Red Army and the Germans?”

  Reilly smiled, in no mood to repeat the story he had told Scheller dozens of times.

  The colonel snatched at his blanket. “We can discuss it in the morning, if we are both still here.”

  Reilly nodded. “Tomorrow,” he tilted his head. “What is your name?”

  “Colonel Yevgeny Tarkenov of the 63rd Fortified Region, Sluts.” He turned and flipped the blanket over his head. “Sleep.”

  Reilly curled up on his straw mattress. Sleep avoided him, scared away by the loudly snoring Tarkenov and the livestock smell that wafted from his “bed.” He laid and stared up at the ceiling until the effects of his interrogation sent him tumbling into sleep.

  0

  Once again Reilly awoke in Russia, puzzled by his surroundings while fighting the previous day’s memories. Many mornings he had awakened thinking of Natasha, then the cold, the tank plants and rotating crew of dangerous men. Awakening with the sun in his eyes, snoring tearing at his ears, heat singeing his skin, Reilly experienced a rush of events: German tanks, German soldiers and the odd Russian behemoth.

  Reilly faced an urge and spotted a bucket in the corner. He approached warily, relieved at the lack of an odor; then he positioned his body at the window while he filled the metal container and watched the activity twenty meters from him. He counted at least thirty prisoners digging a massive pit. Not far away others were dragging prone figures to the edge of the pit. They swung the limp pieces of flesh into the rapidly filling hole. Inside the fence the Germans were prodding a larger group into the semblance of a marching formation. Cursing sounded, the guards struggling to make the Russians move.

  Reilly turned his attention back to the bucket and the missing colonel, who was being treated with the same deference as an American noncombatant. While the Germans might fear mistreating him, they showed no fear in herding their Russian captives into a mass grave. Time passed, the mass grave filled. Reilly was interrupted from watching the macabre show, lunch delivered in a small mess tin holding a slight portion of potato soup. He forced it down, taste buds revolting even as his stomach welcomed the slop.

  The door opened and Tarkenov waddled into the room. “How is the American today?”

  Reilly shrugged then pointed at the red blotches, raw and oozing on Tarkenov’s face. “Have they been beating you?”

  Tarkenov laughed. “This is nothing, I have had this for this, and it requires cream every few days, but-.” He held out is hands in seeming surrender. “Without it the rash reappears.”

  “You could be out there with them.” Reilly motioned to the window. “Why aren’t you with the others?”

  “The Germans have other uses for me.”

  Reilly stared at the smirking fat colonel then took the bait. “The Germans don’t seem interested in the well-being of your men. What do you have for them?”

  “They are moving me to the west to meet with representatives of the Foreign Ministry.”

  “Foreign ministry? Why would they want to talk to you?”

  Tarkenov shrugged. “There are many high ranking officers dissatisfied with the Communist leadership. There may be places for us after the war, important positions in a new government.”

  “Your family,” Reilly gulped. “If the government discovers you are collaborating they will,” Reilly slid his finger in a cutting motion across his neck.

  “Da, but who knows if they are even alive. I left them in Min
sk and that is controlled by the Germans. “The Communists are, as my new German friends say, kaput.”

  Reilly shook his head, knowing the slightest suggestion of disloyalty to Stalin invariably led to death or the gulag.

  Tarkenov put his hand on Reilly’s soldier. “We have time to talk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They haven’t told you.”

  Reilly coughed, leaned over and spit into the pool of urine in the bucket. The heat brought thirst which he put aside, waiting for Tarkenov to reveal his secrets.

  “They are sending us to Poland. I heard Scheller talk about his transport. We will be flying in a German plane in two days. I have never flown in an airplane.”

  “Where are they taking us?”

  “I does not matter, we are alive. If they intended to shoot us they would do it here.”

  Reilly watched the prisoners marching out of the gate; he breathed easier when they walked past the pit. An older soldier stumbled and fell, drawing a German and his club. Reilly winced when the old man’s head flopped to one side then he lay motionless as the German gestured for a pair of prisoners to drag him to the pit. Suddenly, a one way flight to Poland was appealing.

  III

  June 5, 1940

  Velikiye Luki. The name meant nothing to Colonel Reichenau even as his assignment was all too familiar. Velikiye Luki was a crossroads for those traveling between Leningrad and Smolensk, and the 300 kilometers from Moscow to the Baltic States. Army Group North had roared out of Latvia toward the town, one panzer army and the Sixteenth infantry army under General Busch. There had been little resistance until the tanks, two days ahead of the slow marching infantry, came upon Velikiye Luki.

  The town had become a collection point for border troops fleeing from the Baltic borders and for thousands of Red Army soldiers who tried to evade the NKVD roadblocks around Smolensk and Moscow. A new front, the northwest, was formed to counterattack the German troops moving east. It was at Velikiye Luki where the Fourth Panzer Group battled its first T-34 tank; the monster machine bested by the thin skinned PzKpfw Is and PzKpfw IIs around Smolensk.