by Leo Kessler
‘What do you mean – counter-attack?’ Otto asked, surprised. He was angry with himself, the Count, the cheese heads, the whole war. It was hours now since they had spotted the plume of smoke that heralded German armoured spearheads crawling up the roads towards the bridge and he had felt his ordeal was over at last. He had thought that they would be relieved. But that wasn’t to be.
Just as the lead tank had commenced its drive up the bridge road, there had been a cry of warning from the air-lookout and four Dutch Fokkers fighters had dropped out of the morning air, their machine-guns blazing. Tracer had started to howl off the Mark III’s armour like ping-pong balls. But the tank driver had panicked. As the Fokkers had come howling in once more at tree-top height, MGs chattering furiously, he had swung his tank round and smashed head-on into the tank behind. In a flash the road had been blocked and with the armoured column’s petrol-bowsers suddenly burning furiously, the great drive had come to an abrupt halt, with badly shaken and wounded tankers hobbling for cover everywhere. That had been four hours ago, and now it seemed that they wouldn’t be relieved until after dark.
‘Of course, counter-attack,’ the Count snapped, still playing the role of leader-of-men. ‘It’s military SOP – standard-operating-procedure, you know,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘That’s what we old front-officers call it.’ He laughed lightly.
Otto groaned. Even now, with Hirsch's melodramatic demise, the lunatics of the Abwehr couldn’t face up to the reality of the battlefield and sudden death. God knows how Gertie, Maps, Brass Eggs and all the rest of the spy-school cretins were getting on in their allotted sectors!
‘Out there,’ the Count indicated the smoke-shrouded positions of the Queen’s Grenadiers, ‘they’re probably assembling their forces at this very moment. First there’ll be the Fokkers.’
‘Yes,’ Otto agreed dourly. ‘The Fokkers!’
‘Then the artillery bombardment to soften us up.’
‘We’re soft enough in this mob already.’
The Count didn’t seem to hear. ‘After that, there’ll be the tanks and finally when they judge we’re ripe for the killing –’ Otto winced at the word, but said nothing. ‘– they’ll put in their infantry. The jolly old bayonet attack,’ the Count said happily. ‘Cold steel and all that.’ He made a ripping sound, and Otto shuddered. ‘Now what are we going to do about it, eh?’
‘Surrender, perhaps,’ Otto suggested cautiously.
‘Nonsense, Otto!’ the Count snorted. ‘Shot and shell can’t do much harm to old soldiers like our brave chaps.’ He indicated the dusky South African who was busy digging into the side of his trench, looking for worms again. ‘See how they’re burrowing ever deeper like the veterans they are, Otto. No, my boy, once the hate is over, we’ll strike!’
‘What do you mean?’ Otto asked in spite of himself.
‘Catch them off guard!’ The Count smashed a fist into the palm of his left hand. ‘Punch them in the flank before they know what’s hit them!’ He laughed jovially, the complete mercenary now. ‘Catch them with their knickers down, what, Otto?’
‘The only person I’d like to catch with knickers down is that blonde I was seeing back in Düren,’ Otto said mournfully. And then, with regret, ‘Never did get her name.’
‘There’ll be plenty of time for that sort of thing later, Otto. There’ll be wine and women enough for my heroes, once this bloody business is over.’ He looked hard at Otto. ‘I know I’m asking a great deal, Otto. You’ve already done your share – and more. Never fear, there’ll be a medal in it for you.’ He cleared his throat, as if he were suddenly overcome with emotion, and Otto could have sworn there was a glint of tears in his sharp eyes at that moment. ‘Otto, I am asking you to lead that flank attack.’
Surprisingly enough Otto heard himself saying, as if someone else were using his voice, ‘Oh, all right, give up, I’ll go!’
‘Ah, good chap! You never know, they might even surrender!’
Otto replied without thinking. ‘The Queen’s Grenadiers never surrender.’
Five minutes later at the head of ten Brandenburgers, heavily laden with weapons and ammunition so that they plodded through the ploughed field to their front like weary farmhands, Otto was on his way. To the rear the Count was calling, ‘And remember, there’ll be a medal in this for you, Otto – a very good one.’
‘Send it to my shitting next-of-kin!’ Otto told himself sourly, but to the Count he said nothing. He couldn’t, for his heart was too heavy with the realisation that he had been conned again.
Five minutes after that the onlookers lost sight of the little patrol as they disappeared into the firs to the right of the bridgehead.
‘I can hear men moving,’ the dusky South African hissed, raising his head from the ground.
‘Christ, and they talk about the white man’s burden!’ Otto groaned and wiped the sweat from his forehead, his nostrils full of the heavy cloying scent of resin. ‘I can’t hear a shitting thing.’
The dusky South African shrugged easily and taking a worm out of his pocket, said, ‘My iron ration,’ by way of explanation. He began to chew contentedly on the disgusting thing.
There was a pause in conversation. ‘What's your name?’ Otto asked finally. ‘I can't call you ‘that worm sucker’ to your face.’
The South African grinned. ‘I'm Kurt.’ The nine other Brandenburgers sniggered together, and then there was silence again.
Otto bit his bottom lip, face set in a worried frown. They had been hidden in the trees on the right flank for two hours now and none of the moves that the Count had predicted the Dutch would make had occurred. If he'd been anywhere else, sitting outside his latrine-cleaner's hut in the Eifel hills for example, he would have enjoyed this warm afternoon. There had been no fighter attack or artillery bombardment. Indeed the only noise was that of the bees buzzing around and the steady drip-drip of resin escaping from the trees. He wondered if the Dutch had decided to discontinue the war and had gone home to their fat cheese head wives and a plate of raw herrings.
‘What are we going to do – if he’s right?’ another of the South Africans asked, indicating Kurt busy with his worm. ‘Those Kaffirs know things we don’t know. Besides they are half animal as it is. They can see and hear as good as a springbok.’
He's easy with his racial slurs, thought Otto. Racist Pete, that's what I'll call him. But Kurt carried had a reply all ready.
‘As good as a springbok? Better,’ Kurt said, raising his head momentarily, in no way offended that he had been called a ‘Kaffir’. ‘They’re out there all right. And they’re not konijn.’
‘What?’
‘Rabbit,’ the other South African translated the Afrikaans word for him.
‘All right,’ Otto made his decision. ‘I’m gonna have a look. You lot of foreigners follow at fifty metres. Do as I do. And if I beat it, you do too. Cos in the mood I’m in at the moment, I’m not going to be sending out special invitations. And you,’ he hissed at Kurt. ‘Swallow that sodding worm! Quick! It’s giving me the shitting creeps!’
Obediently Kurt pursed his lips and sucked hard like an Italian swallowing spaghetti. The worm, its russet-brown tail still wagging valiantly, disappeared suddenly.
Otto shuddered.
‘All right, boss?’ Kurt said and belched pleasurably.
Otto shook his head and started to creep forward through the firs, machine-pistol at the ready, while the others followed, treading carefully, their weapons cocked. Otto said a quick prayer to heaven that there were no itchy trigger-fingers among them.
Time passed leadenly as the little group stole through the trees, placing their feet down with exaggerated caution, as if they were walking through land mine territory. Now Otto could hear the faint buzz of voices to their front. The worm-eater had been right. There were men out there – and they could only be Dutch. He held up his hand to indicate the others should halt. Slowly, very slowly, he crept forward, a nerve beginning to tic uncontrollably at hi
s left temple, the hand holding his Schmeisser abruptly wet with sweat; and he knew why. He was scared, shit scared. Christ, a little voice at the back of his head said, why don't you do a bunk while there's still time? Go on, pick your legs up under your arms. A bloke can get killed dead out here!
But Otto, at least the Otto moving so purposefully through the hot trees, did not seem to hear. He continued his cautious progress in the direction from which the voices came.
All right, the little voice sneered, be a shitting hero – and see where it gets you!
Next instant Otto had parted the sticky fir fronds and was staring at half a dozen fat Dutchmen, their faces red with the heat, tunics open as they sprawled on the grass in front of two small tanks, bottles of beer clutched in their hands, half-eaten tins of meat scattered before them, looking for all the world like a bunch of lazy afternoon picnickers.
‘Standard Operating Procedure!’ Otto whispered scornfully to himself, remembering the Count’s words. So this was the great counter-attack: a bunch of half-pissed cheese heads dodging the column in a nice quiet hideaway in the forest. He laughed bitterly. There was going to be no battle this particular afternoon. Slowly and carefully he began to close the bushes, prior to crawling away and leaving the cheese heads to their beer. It was too dangerous to play soldier any more.
But that wasn’t to be.
Across at the further tank, the radio began to crackle suddenly.
‘Groote Gott,’ a Dutchman with stars on his shoulders cursed. He stumbled to his feet and stalked over to the tank with the air of a man sorely tried on a hot day like this.
Otto hesitated. What's going on here?
The NCO swung himself heavily onto the turret of the tank and grabbing the earphones from within, slipped them over his shaven skull, while the others waited expectantly, some of them even forgetting to drink their beer.
Even though he did not understand a word of Dutch and was anyway unable to hear the message coming through the radio, Otto knew that authority was speaking – he could see it by the way the NCO’s face hardened and his shoulders straightened. His wild eyebrows knitted downwards into a frown. The orders that were winging their way along the airwaves were not to the NCO’s liking.
In the end the NCO saluted – hardly necessary – and dropped from the turret, pulling off the earphones with an angry gesture. Otto’s heart sank. He knew before the NCO spoke what his orders were: mount up and start the engines.
Slowly, as if in a trance, Otto raised his Schmeisser and aimed at the centre of the NCO’s well-filled tunic while he rapped out angry orders to his red-faced soldiers, now beginning to move to their feet reluctantly, but obediently.
He pressed the trigger. The Schmeisser screamed into high-pitched, hysterical life, sending the birds screeching from the trees.
The NCO looked down at the sudden line of red-flecked button holes stitched across the front of his tunic stupidly, then he gave a little leap and slammed’ against the side of the tank, his head lolling to one side, tongue hanging out of it, to remain standing thus like some village idiot overcome by the heat.
In an instant all was chaos and confusion.
The Dutch soldiers burst apart, running in all directions, Otto’s machine-pistol speeding them on their way, his bullets thrashing the foliage like heavy summer rain, while the Brandenburgers burst out of the trees, firing from the hip as they came, whooping hilariously at the fleeing enemy until in the end, Otto cried with all his strength, ‘Dammit boys, let ’em go … let them run! The way they've been stuffing their fat cheese head gutsy they'll have heart attacks anyway … Save your slugs!’
The Brandenburgers’ fire died away and then there was no noise at all, save the awed intake of their breath as they eyed their booty. One of the ten spoke.
‘We’ve captured their armour … Two tanks! Now what do you say to that?’
Disbelieving laughter welled up inside the soldiers. Here and there the South Africans shook hands triumphantly.
‘Knock it off!’ Otto said quickly, after a few of them started up a triumphant dance. ‘What good are tanks to us? Unless one of you geniuses can drive the tin cans?’
‘I know how to drive a tractor,’ Kurt volunteered, hopefully.
Otto eyed him carefully and then walked slowly around the two abandoned vehicles, regarding them curiously. It would be quite a triumph if they could manage to get them back to the bridgehead. It would convince the Count that he had done his duty to the best of his ability. And then maybe he could win that medal, retire to Munich and make a packet on the black market. His eyes lit up. They'd also increase his chances of surviving this mess, especially if the planes returned.
‘Good to have if the Fokkers come back,’ he said carefully.
‘Yes, the Fokkers,’ they agreed in unison.
‘Let me have a go,’ Kurt said, with more confidence. ‘I think I can get it started.’
‘What does a mealy Kaffir like you know about motors?’ Racist Pete asked scornfully. ‘Hell, the first’ time you wore britches was when you came to Germany!’
‘Your mother enjoys being shacked up with Cape baboons, does she,’ Kurt enquired mildly.
‘Why you black bastard – ’
Hastily Otto intervened between the two South Africans.
‘All right, all right. Start your own war in your own free time,’ he said. ‘Officially, remember, we’re fighting the cheese heads.’ He turned to Kurt. ‘Go on then, if you think you can do it.’
‘Yes Baas.’
He disappeared inside and Otto waited tensely with the others, telling himself that the Dutch who had fled might well have contacted the main body of their troops by now, while Kurt fumbled with the wheels and levers within the captured tank.
Suddenly the tank’s engine began to whine like an asthmatic in extremis. Thick blue diesel smoke started to flood out of its exhaust. It coughed a couple of times and then the motor burst into ear-splitting noise. A lurch and it started to creak backwards.
Hurriedly the spectators scattered out of its path, all save contemptuous Pete. The track passed right over his foot and stalled, leaving him trapped there, his eyes rolling, screaming frantically, ‘Get it off … get if off, for Chrissake!’
Happily, dusky Kurt popped his head out of the turret, apparently not seeing his trapped, screaming comrade, and said, ‘It’s very easy to control. There are just two handles. The one brakes the right track, the other the left. That’s the way you turn. Push them both straight ahead – ’
‘Just move it a bit, will you?’ Otto interrupted his explanation. ‘This chap here,’ he indicated the trapped South African whose face had turned crimson and who was making little strangled noises, jerking his head from side to side as if he were choking, ‘seems to be having some trouble.’
‘Oh him,’ the dusky one said, as if noticing Pete for the first time. ‘Hang on!’
He disappeared inside, started the motor once more and creaked forward a few paces, freeing the trapped man.
‘Thank God,’ he cried, hopping around on one foot, hugging the other tenderly. ‘I swear that bastard would have had the flipper off me in another minute! Wait till I’m – ’
The thick crump of a heavy cannon close behind drowned the rest of his threat. With a tremendous roar like that of an express train howling through a tunnel at high speed, the first shell tore the afternoon stillness apart.
‘Holy strawsack!’ Otto yelled, a cold fear swiftly covering his body. ‘The cheese heads!’
Led by a tank, a group of cautious Dutch infantry, bodies bent as if against heavy rain, was advancing towards them along what must've been the track the two tanks had used to get to the clearing. Right in the middle of them stalked the same officer who had shot the fat Dutchman that morning, waving his sword at them in encouragement.
The South Africans panicked.
‘What are we going to do?’ someone screamed in terror, while others started to throw down their weapons.
‘Run like hell!’ Otto cried above the thunder of the enemy tank’s gun, not mindful of voicing his inner cowardice in such dire circumstances. He ducked hastily as a shell exploded against a the base of a tree just twenty metres away, showering his helmet with soil and gravel and opening up a great steaming brown pit that looked like the work of a gigantic mole. He was feeling light-headed again. Where was all that blood going to? ‘Come on, get that tank moving!’
Kurt dropped inside. Madly the South Africans scrambled onto the deck, crouching down behind the protection of the turret.
Another shell roared through the air. Next to them the other tank reeled like a ship at sea struck by a sudden hurricane. An instant later it exploded in a blinding flash of violent flame. Tracer ammunition began crazily zig-zagging upwards into the burning sky and what looked like a football sailed by Otto’s ducked head and disappeared into the bushes. In passing he recognised it as that of Racist Pete.
‘Served him right I suppose,’ he commented. And then with a quick glance upwards, ‘Honestly, Lord, Otto ain't a racist. He's just a simple black market magician.’ Then he was scuttling for cover inside the intact turret while below a rattled Kurt fumbled with frantic fingers, trying to get the tank started again.
Otto's belt caught on a lever. Cursing and sweating with fearful rage, he tugged himself free. At that moment the gun at his side exploded. The breech slid back and a gleaming brass shell-case tumbled to the floor.
Coughing and spluttering in the acrid smoke which had flooded the compartment from the open breech, Otto fumbled his trousers back up over the bulging result of his spinelessness before Kurt could look up. Tightening his belt, he peered through the little periscope and gasped with shock. Was he hallucinating? To his front the Dutch tank was burning furiously, while the infantry milled around, splashing its steel sides with the contents of their water-bottles, while the ugly officer waved his sword at them in impotent fury.
