by Gee, Colin
His life had been spent studying the Samurai Arts and preparing for the day that he would bring his warlike skills to the field, for the benefit of the Emperor.
2nd Lieutenant Mori Sazuki imagined himself at the head of an army, driving all enemies before him, the men behind him in awe of his valour, his Emperor’s eyes upon him as he swept the field.
His capabilities did not live up to his expectations, being only five foot four in his best boots, and wearing the trademark round glasses so beloved of his hero and mentor, General Tojo.
He was puny, even by Japanese standards, the rationing resulting from the American blockade imposing restrictions on his growing body that did not permit the proper development of muscle and fat.
None the less, he had made his way through the training process and now found himself entrusted with the responsibility of command, pushing his tank forward to support infantry units being penned back on Route 304, as Chinese Divisions rallied and fought back.
The advance divisions of His Imperial Majesty’s Armies had invested Guiping, only to be pushed out; the first reverses anywhere in China since the new conflict erupted.
It had been decided to push Rainbow into a defensive line, using their talisman status with the troops, as well as their firepower, to halt the counter-attack.
Sazuki’s Panther was an older model A, a tank that had seen active service in three armies to date, and taken lives with each.
The previous commander had fallen to enemy machine-guns, slain as he rose from the turret to get a better view. Traces of his blood could still be seen on close examination, or as Sazuki found out to his disgust, picked up by contact with various surfaces in the commander’s position.
His sponsorship by General Tojo ensured he was placed in one of the German tanks, his survivability increased by its thick armour, although other officers disputed the inexperienced soldier’s ability to handle and fight the prime vehicle.
Complimented by its own grape of infantry, riding high on the hull, the Panther named as ‘Zuikaku’ ploughed forward to its allotted position on the fringe of Highway 304.
It shared its name with an Imperial Japanese Navy Aircraft Carrier, the seaborne ‘Fortunate Crane’ proving less than fortunate, having been sunk during the Battle of Cape Engaño on 25th October 1944.
The dead officer’s brother had served aboard the carrier, surviving the sinking, but not the injuries he sustained.
Sudden firing ahead focussed the minds of the tankers and rider infantry, Sazuki directing his driver to slow down in order to orient himself with the situation.
He felt the elation of his first battle wash over him, and he automatically checked that his Senninbari was in place around his waist, picturing the proud Tiger stitched into the cloth of his ‘belt of a thousand stitches’, the traditional Shinto good luck symbol.
Familiar uniforms suddenly emerged from the surroundings, a party evacuating wounded, and a senior officer bearing down on ‘Zuikaku’ with undoubted purpose.
Sazuki dismounted and took his orders, the Major’s simple instructions being to move up to the road junction and hold it.
The senior man disappeared back into cover, quickly returning to where he was needed.
Climbing back aboard ‘Zuikaku’, Sazuki ordered the infantry group to dismount and deploy close behind, and pushed his tank forward again.
He ducked as one, and then two more bullets pinged off the armour in quick succession, strays not intended for him, but close enough for the first doubts to undermine his childish enthusiasm for the combat to come.
The tank emerged from the trees and bushes, sliding between two infantry positions with inches to spare.
At the road junction, there was a triangle where the three roads met, and the fallen trees upon it offered a reasonable firing position and lured Sazuki forward, ordering his driver to position behind the obstruction.
More bullets splattered on the armour, this time meant for ‘Zuikaku’, and a cry of pain indicated at least one of the infantry group behind had been struck.
The turret rotated and the gunner lashed out with his co-axial, putting down a group of Chinese soldiers huddled behind a bush.
Mori Sazuki was confused beyond words, his officer’s brain registering the fact that the crew were fighting without orders, the child’s brain wishing he were anywhere but where he was.
Raising his head above the hatch, he watched as more Chinese were chopped to pieces, a combination of the hull weapon and an infantry machine-gun ripping the bodies to pieces in front of his eyes.
‘Uncle Tojo lied. It’s horrible!’
To his front, a patch of the bushes grew darker and then disappeared as an enemy armoured vehicle worked its way forward into a firing position.
“Tank!”
His training forgotten, all he did was shout and point, attracting a swarm of bullets from vengeful enemy infantry.
The gunner, an experienced Corporal, caught the rough direction of his commander’s arm, rotated the turret and picked up the shape of the tank-destroyer.
He fired and missed, concentrating more as a squealing Sazuki dropped inside the turret clutching his ruined right hand, bullets having neatly separated the second and fourth fingers, as well as removing half the palm.
Despite the screaming in his ear, the corporal placed the next shot on target, knocking out the enemy Hellcat.
The fire fight around the junction was growing in intensity, and the tank crew knew they were in for the fight of their lives
All except Sazuki, who, having stopped screaming, seemed more interested in how he would now hold his sword than giving orders to his men.
As the loader laboured to serve the main gun, he stole swift glances at his officer trying to fit his wounded hand around the hilt of his sword, the face betraying the young man’s shock.
The infantry grape had been decimated as the Chinese stepped up their attack, not put off by the presence of the powerful tank.
The infantry company had suffered badly too, and the Major chose to withdraw further, sending a runner to the tank with the order.
The runner took a rifle bullet in the thigh before he relayed the instructions, bleeding out from his destroyed artery before he could take his own life with a grenade.
It was the driver who first spotted the danger.
“Enemy infantry in close! Left side!”
The gunner screamed at his officer.
“Keep them off the tank!”
Sazuki, strangely comprehending the man’s words, extended his head out of the turret, noting men in close.
The turret crew heard him shout at the figures scaling the side, ordering them off his tank like they were soldiers caught on a prank.
His brain seemed to comprehend what was happening, and the loader saw the ruined hand trying to free his Nambu pistol.
A dull thud overcame the other sounds of battle, and the young officer dropped back into the tank, his nose and jaw broken, front teeth removed by the powerful swipe of a rifle butt.
The loader had his own pistol out, shooting the first Chinese face that peered down the hatch.
“Move the tank!” He shouted, wondering why it hadn’t already reversed away.
The driver was already dead, shot in the face at point blank range.
In an attempt to swat the unwanted passengers off, the gunner traversed the main gun.
A disembodied Thompson sub-machine gun hovered over the hatch, discharging two bursts of bullets.
The turret stopped turning, the hull machine-gun stopped firing.
Only Sazuki remained alive, unharmed by the bullets that claimed the other three crew members.
An accented voice spoke in Japanese.
“Come out now or you die. Speak.”
Mori pulled himself upright as best he could but, his face swollen from the blow, was unable to speak.
His silence condemned him.
Rain descended through the hatch, falling on top of him and
the dead loader.
He raised his face, appreciating its freshness, before realising that it was not rain and that death was about to visit him.
“Mother!”
A burning rag was dropped through the hatch and the inside of ‘Zuikaku’ became an instant and deadly inferno.
The betrayal of trust carries a heavy taboo.
Aldrich Ames.
Chapter 75 – THE TRAITOR?
1157 hrs, Sunday, 2nd September 1945, Legion Corps Headquarters, Hotel Stephanie, Baden-Baden, Germany.
The efforts outside Stuttgart had salvaged the Algerian Division, but only that, Soviet forces continuing their advances elsewhere and forcing back most of the French First Army.
De Lattre was already well into the process of moving headquarters, quitting the quaint town of Baden-Baden for the baronial surroundings of the Château de Craon, often referred to as the Palais d’Haroué. The relocation back to the Nancy area was considered appropriate by some, excessive by others.
However, for the Headquarters of the Legion Corps, it meant that buildings fit for purpose were becoming available and legionnaires now started to occupy rooms as the First Army personnel departed Baden-Baden.
‘Camerone’ had been pulled back, now floating around behind the front line ready to act as a fire brigade, should there be an issue. Its commander, Ernst-August Knocke, was also using the time to integrate the new units allocated to him according to the new order of battle, the former Alma unit. The 5th RdM was now permanently a part of ‘Camerone’, bringing it up to divisional strength.
‘Alma’ and ‘Amilakvari were in the front line, but remained untested as yet. ‘Tannenberg’, the motorised-infantry brigade, had given up some of its armour and equipment to reconstitute Knocke’s unit, so remained in the Rastatt area, its own headquarters now inhabiting those buildings in Waldprechtsweier previously used by ‘Camerone’.
A further Legion brigade and division were in the making at Sassy, although heavy equipment was becoming scarcer to find. Ex-Wehrmacht engineers and civilian personnel were presently inspecting factories in the Ruhr area in order to see what production could be accomplished, and some vehicles had been constructed by Allied military engineers already, although they were swallowed up by Guderian’s larger force already in the Ruhr.
Rumours of Speer’s efforts abounded, but Knocke preferred to see hard evidence.
In the main operations room, Lavalle and Bittrich discussed the military situation over coffee.
Knocke arrived at the front entrance and was immediately taken aside by Colonel Paul Desmarais, commander of ‘Tannenberg’, desperate to retain as much of his own resources as possible.
Knocke, sympathetic to the man’s woes, listened with good grace, although his own unit had needs and was prioritised over ‘Tannenberg’.
Two vehicles drew up together at the front of Hotel Stephanie, attracting the attention of the two Legion officers.
One was a military beast, muddy and bent, a kubelwagen that had seen better days. In the front seat was Lange, the newly appointed commander of ‘Alma’. On seeing Knocke, he smiled widely, but the smile was heavily laced with the pain of his ankle injury. He gingerly slid out of the passenger seat of the battered staff car before attempting the two steps to the main entrance.
Both Knocke and Desmarais offered their hands by way of assistance, and Lange accepted thankfully.
The kerfuffle behind drew all three’s attention.
The other vehicle was the first of six, all relatively pristine, as were the officers who dismounted from them. Some tugged tunics in place, others rushed to open doors, so that more important personages could dismount.
Knocke and Desmarais shook hands with Lange, none of the three taking their eyes off the growing sea of gold braid.
Eventually, the leader stepped forward, followed in order of seniority by the entourage.
The three Legion officers saluted as the unknown three-star General swept past; or rather tried to.
The two legionnaires on duty at the entrance challenged him immediately, barring the way, requesting his identification.
“Idiots! Step aside and let me pass. I am ...”
Both legionnaires were from ‘Tannenberg’, and both were old desert hands.
Neither intended to budge an inch.
The senior, a Caporal, took the lead and interrupted the bluster.
“Sir, my standing orders do not permit me to allow you entry without identification. Now, your papers please, sir.”
“I will not give you my papers but you will give me your name, rank and number,” the furious General eyed the obviously younger man, “And you too!”
The Caporal stood his ground.
“Sir, first I must request of you that you permit me to inspect your papers. Please, sir.”
The crowd of French officers behind the General smiled openly, having witnessed their man destroy lesser beasts at will over the last few years.
The General’s moustache trembled, either in his anger or in delicious anticipation of what was to come.
“Stand aside now, or I will have you both court-martialled and shot for interfering with my duties!”
Another man stepped forward and both sentries snapped to attention in deference, but remained placed so as to obstruct the General’s progress.
“Sir, Colonel Knocke, Camerone Brigade.”
The salute was magnificent, as was the figure that now made the human barricade into a strength of three.
The General touched his cane to his cap, angry and curious in equal measure, the more so as the figure in front of him sported more medals than an army, and medals of the enemy to boot.
“Order these men to remove themselves ‘Colonel’, or I shall be forced to act.”
The emphasis on Knocke’s rank was not wasted on anyone present.
“Sir, I regret, but I cannot.”
The General grew red-faced immediately and went to speak.
Knocke cut him off in an instant.
“In the event that they permitted you to enter, in contravention of Corps standing orders, I would have no choice but to shoot them myself for dereliction of duty.”
The General’s eyes widened, and he wondered if the SS bastard would do it. Knocke could not see the two sentries behind him wondering the exact same thing.
An oppressive silence followed, during which the General stared into the eyes of the man in front of him, seeing there the character and resolve others had seen so often before.
Both Lange and Demarais spoke of it in hushed tones later, describing as best they could the silent battle of personalities, and trying hard to properly relate the discernable moment when the Frenchman knew he had been found wanting.
Knocke also relaxed, and gave the General a reasonable option.
“If I might offer an alternative, Sir? You were not to know of this standing order within the Corps. Perhaps Colonel Desmarais could examine your papers on their behalf, and then honour of both sides will be satisfied when they pass scrutiny?”
Colonel Paul Desmarais did not welcome being pulled into the confrontation but, in the spirit of the Legion, rallied to his comrade’s side.
The General, to everyone’s surprise, even his own, extracted his papers and passed them to Desmarais without a word, focussing his attention on Knocke.
“And what do these men know of honour, Colonel?”
The words could not have held more contempt.
Theatrically, Knocke turned abruptly to the sentries, who involuntarily stiffened, still expecting some sort of rebuke.
After spending a few moments examining each man in turn, exaggerating his close inspection of them from head to toe, he turned back and answered very deliberately.
“Sir, these men are legionnaires, and therefore they know more of honour than any fighting man in service today.”
The whole situation was surreal to the General, defied by private soldiers, aided and abetted by a senior officer, a Germa
n, and ex-SS as well.
‘I will shake these pigs up and make them into soldiers or my name isn’t Molyneux!’
His thoughts would have moved to revenge but for the interruption from Desmarais, returning his papers with due formality.
“All in order, Mon Général.”
The sentries snapped aside like hinged doors, presenting arms in the time honoured manner.
“You have not heard the last of this, Colonel Knocke, oh no.”
The General swept forward, acknowledging the presented arms with another wave of his cane, penetrating deep into the Hotel Stephanie in search of Lavalle.
Lange and Desmarais looked at Knocke as a butcher looks at the likely turkey on Christmas Eve.
“You know how to make friends don’t you!”
Desmarais’ face didn’t wholly convey the humour he intended, for Generals made terrible enemies.
The two sentries had recovered their stance and were motionless statues, mentally replaying the events that had tested them.
Knocke stood in thought before turning to his fellow officers.
“I think we are about to see a change around here, and not one for the better.”
Neither man could disagree as they entered the headquarters, ushered in by Knocke who remained at the back.
The Caporal clicked into the general salute position, closely followed by the younger legionnaire, the two paying a soldier’s homage to the man who had intervened on their behalf.
Demarais and Lange heard the movement and turned, witnessing an honour not normally afforded Colonels, but now being freely given by soldiers to one they held in high esteem.
Knocke was actually taken aback and stopped dead, examining each man in turn before his face split with a genuine smile.
He nodded, savouring the moment and made to enter, but again stopped.
His mind practised the words before he spoke them.
“Legio Patria Nostra, Kameraden,” the Legion motto slipping uneasily off his tongue, the German sentiment at the end forgivable in his concentration.
