Casca 40: Blitzkrieg

by Tony Roberts

  Langer leaned forward and stuck his head down the turret. Natalia was smiling up at him and swallowing the last of his fluid, still holding onto his shrinking member. Steffan was standing across from the guns, staring at the hull while Gus was looking up at him quizzically. “We go?” he asked.

  Langer nodded, buttoning up his trousers. “And damn these Russians!”

  “You got it, my lucky lothario,” Gus snapped and flattened the pedal to the floor.

  The tank leaped forward, belching exhaust fumes, enveloping the captain who doubled over, coughing, waving his hands in a futile manner in an effort to disperse the stinking blueish cloud that covered him. The ranks of the peasant Russians parted like the biblical Red Sea in panic as the metal monster clattered at them. Natalia was sent staggering to the back and Steffan fell onto her, caught off guard. Langer couldn’t afford to check the tumbled mass of arms and legs below him, he was too busy checking the reaction of the reds as the panzer barreled through what had been a neat orderly line of men. Now they were pressed against the sides of the road, onto the pavement, many having thrown their rifles away in terror. The tank rumbled over the rifles, breaking many on the cobbles, and there were howls of outrage and dismay as they roared down the street, now free of the Soviets. Gus swung the vehicle to the left at the end and away towards the German forces massing for the final push south-west of Brest.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They finally stopped twenty miles outside the fortress town. Langer slid out of the tank and jumped down onto the dusty earth, peering around the flat countryside. It was empty of life, yet life he knew was there somewhere. To the west the sky was a mass of boiling grey smoke. Warsaw was getting a pasting. Steffan joined him, still wincing with the pain on his arm. “Get that seen to, Steffan,” Langer advised, eyeing him briefly.

  Gus emerged from the front hatch and stood before the tank, relieving himself in one long stream, sighing in pleasure. “Ahhh, nothing like an enormous piss to make the day feel much more pleasurable.”

  Natalia appeared, holding a scared Tobias. Langer helped her down and the girl stood looking around in relief. “Thanks for saving me, Carl,” she said. “I nearly wet myself back there when those Russians stopped us.”

  “Glad they did,” Langer grinned, looking her straight in the eye.

  She shrugged and pulled an expression that said what-else-could-I-do? “Thought it may stop you handing me over.”

  “I wouldn’t have, believe me. Glad you thought I might have, though. Still, what to do now? We can’t rejoin our unit with you and Tobias here. This is the German territory here. Back there a mile or so is where the Russian zone begins. Before long this place will be crawling with border troops and police. You can’t remain here.”

  “Can we go further south? I really ought to try to get to Romania. How far can this thing go?”

  “Gus?” Langer turned to the giant driver who had finished buttoning his trousers up and came up to them. “Fuel?”

  “Enough for another three hours, say about a hundred kilometers on the roads. Off road?” he shrugged, “forty if we don’t run into any shit.”

  “We need to refuel and that means going back to our unit. Nat, we can go perhaps an hour more before we must drop you off.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dog-eared map. “We could get as far as Lublin, but after that you’ll have to take your chances, Natalia. We’ll have to find our unit or be arrested.”

  He looked around three hundred and sixty degrees. Apart from off to the west there was no sign of any conflict. No planes could be seen, but those that were up in the air would be above Warsaw; the Polish air force was probably mostly destroyed by now. What Polish forces there were left fighting would be either in the cities or to the south. “I guess I’ll have to radio for directions; that way we’ll know where our forces are and make plans accordingly.”

  Natalia nodded. Langer got back up on the tank and flicked the switch on the radio. He called for his headquarters, giving the reason for their absence as having broken down outside Brest. He got a faint reply and was asked if they needed assistance but Langer said they’d fix it shortly and needed directions to report once they were back on the road. He jumped down after he finished and jabbed a finger into the map. Gus and Steffan leaned forward with interest. “The entire division seems to be moving south-west. The front line is around a place called Kock, way to the south. I doubt we’ll get there in time for what battle there’ll be. Lublin’s clear, so we’ll go there, drop Nat off and then swing west and rejoin our unit by nightfall.”

  “Sounds good,” Gus said and farted.

  Steffan moved off hurriedly, holding his nose, and Natalia screwed her face up in disgust and stepped to one side, upwind. “I’m not going to share a place in there if he does that!” she said pointedly.

  Langer grunted. “Gus will behave once we’re on the move, won’t you?”

  “Oh, of course, my sweet,” Gus grinned toothily, “Uncle Gus is very well behaved at all times; it’s the others who just don’t understand me.”

  Natalia looked doubtful but Langer assured her all was well. The Polish girl made her mind up. “Very well. But first I’m going to show my appreciation to Carl here for what he’s done for me.” She popped Tobias on the tank and the cat looked unsure of what to do, then sat back and scratched his neck. The engine cover was warm and was reasonably comfortable. Natalia took Langer by the hand and led him round the back of the tank out of sight of the other two.

  Gus chuckled and put a fatherly arm round Steffan’s shoulders. “I think we should make ourselves busy away from the panzer for the next few minutes. Carl is going to receive an offensive he won’t mind taking.”

  Langer looked at Natalia who stood before him, then she undid her clothing. “Well, are you going to stand there or what?” she asked, smiling.

  Langer chuckled and slipped off his trousers and lay down on the clothing. Why not? In war this didn’t happen that often from a willing wench. Nat straddled him and showed Langer her gratitude to the full.

  * * *

  They rejoined their unit shortly before dusk, hailed by their comrades as lost sheep found. Gus grinned and made for the canteen, Steffan in his wake. Langer reported to Heidemann who looked doubtfully at Langer as the full explanation was given. “If you hadn’t shown such valor and courage already in this campaign, I’d be half persuaded to arrest you for shirking your duties. Broken down my ass. That tank looks perfectly fine to me.”

  “Honestly, Hauptmann, it took Gus an hour to fix. We had to loop round Lublin before reaching you.”

  “Hmm. Well I’ve got news. We’re to be rested. It seems the Poles are about to surrender and what’s left of their army that’s fighting on won’t do so much longer. We’re to be sent back to Germany for refitting and training.”

  Langer saluted. “What about getting a Panzer III?”

  “You and just about everyone else!”

  “Yes, sir, but the Is are useless and the IIs little better. If we’re going to fight the French with their Char Bs and Somuas, we won’t last long with those,” he jerked a thumb at his own tank, cooling down behind him. He briefly had a memory of Tobias stretched out on that very same spot of the tank while he and Natalia had made love on the ground below. He sincerely hoped the whore managed to get away to Romania with her cat, but he had his doubts. If she did make it she’d have a better chance of surviving than she would under either Stalin’s or Hitler’s regimes.

  Heidemann spat in the dirt. “I’m aware of the shortcomings of the light tanks. We’re learning some valuable lessons here, Langer, and we’ll apply them against the French if and when we attack there. Guderian has been kept fully up to date with the catalogue of failures and criticisms, as well as the successes and positives, and I’m willing to bet you and your crew will be sent on more training exercises to learn the new tactics before long.” The captain grinned, clapped Langer on the shoulder and moved off to speak to another tankman who was
gesticulating at his panzer.

  Langer rubbed a weary face before deciding to follow Gus and Steffan to the canteen. At least he’d get a full belly that evening, which was something he didn’t always get on campaign.

  * * *

  In Berlin SS Obergruppenfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich summoned Marks back to his office. He had before him the file on the communist cell that Frings and Rossler had been part of. It was closed now, but Heydrich had read each typed sheet thoroughly and knew all that was needed to know on the subject.

  “You wished to see me, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer?” Marks asked, standing smartly to attention.

  “Indeed, Marks. I am pleased at your work on the Frings Cell, and the capture and elimination of all of its members. I am happy to report that this matter is now closed.”

  Marks smiled briefly, then frowned. “Sir, what of the panzerman contact of Rossler’s?”

  “That no longer is your concern, Marks. The subject is at an end. You are to now look into a different matter,” and Heydrich passed his subordinate a new file, a much thinner one. “This will no doubt take up all of your time, so please do not waste time on idle speculation on matters that do not concern you. I trust you understand?”

  “Yes sir!” Marks clicked his heels together noisily.

  “Very good. You may go. I shall mention your dedicated work in my report to the Reichs Chancellery.”

  “Thank you sir! Heil Hitler!” Marks shot out his arm straight in the classic Nazi salute.

  Heydrich nodded in acknowledgement and bent to write on a clean sheet of paper. Marks, realizing he’d been dismissed, turned about smartly on the close-woven red and black carpet and marched to the door which was opened for him by a black-garbed SS guard.

  Back in his office Marks was plagued with doubts as to the panzer crewman. Something bothered him. Heydrich had clearly cut him off in asking about this man, the mysterious possible contact of ossler’s. He’d been given no doubt whatsoever that he was not to pursue this man any more, but it was a loose end he wasn’t happy about. Perhaps his old friend Erich Farben in the politzei kommissariat could dig round. That would solve any issue he, Marks, would have with his superior. If Farben messed up then it was Farben’s problem. Marks would impress on Farben the need for utmost secrecy. He knew his old friend was one of the best detectives around, and if anyone could come up with something in this case it was Farben. Marks had best not get seen with his old friend; he’d send a message and details by courier.

  That settled in his mind he turned his attention to the new folder in front of him. He broke the paper seal across the front of the file and opened it. Inside was a new directive, one to look into the possibility of using lorries converted to gas chambers. Gas chambers? That was a thought-provoking matter. He wondered why. No matter, he would get hold of some mechanics and chemists and find out.

  He reached for his telephone. The message to Farben would have to wait until later.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The division rattled their way west back into Germany. To Langer’s chagrin, and Gus’s too, the panzer broke down outside Landsberg. Gus leaped out of the vehicle as it clattered to a halt, belching black smoke from the engine, and cursed it up hill and down dale. “Stupid verdammt piece of scheiss!” he raged, kicking the front sprocket in frustration as the other tanks and trucks of the unit swerved past, their occupants whistling and cheering ironically at the stranded crew.

  Langer sat on the edge of the turret, basking in the autumn sunlight. It was October and soon the rains would come, and the cold of winter. He scraped dirt from under his fingernails as Steffan and Gus peered unenthusiastically at the engine cover. “Well, that’s fucked,” Gus announced, his hands on his hips. “Herr Feldwebel, darling, do we have the means to get to camp, or has the almighty Adolf Schicklegruber neglected to provide us with a breakdown truck? Should we telephone the nearest garage?”

  Langer grinned. Another nail in the coffin of the Panzer II as far as he was concerned. The vehicle has not been up to the task of driving through Poland and back into Germany. All too often the tanks broke down and the mechanics were overworked in keeping the division supplied with working panzers. “We’ll be picked up in time, Gus, don’t worry. Wait till these have passed, then there’ll be a recovery vehicle. I can’t see Guderian or von Schweppenburg allowing this chunk of metal remaining here, can you? Too valuable.”

  “Like how?” Gus retorted, squinting up at Langer. “It’s shit. Armor as thick as my jacket, I’ve seen bigger cocks on goats than the armament it’s got up there, and it can’t shoot further than I can piss. What do you think will happen when we move on France with their fucking great monsters. It won’t be like Poland, I can tell you!”

  Langer shrugged. “You’d like a Pz III; so would I! But that’s down to higher authority, not to you or I. If they don’t build them fast enough we won’t have anything better.”

  “Balls. Even those Czech tanks we’ve stolen are better than these toys. Can’t Guderian order the supply of more of the III’s? Get almighty Adolf to shoot a couple of slackers at Daimler-Benz! That’ll get the rest of the cock-sucking lazy bastards to build them! It’s not them who are going to come up against those French Char B’s and Somuas! Old man Beidemann’s little boy doesn’t want to be molested by those garlic-munching Poilous!”

  “I’ll see what I can fix,” Langer said, his attention distracted by the sight of Heidemann’s Panzer III gently nosing up to them from behind. He got up, sighing, jumped down, straightened his black uniform, and marched up to the front of the III, saluting smartly.

  Heidemann’s weary face poked up from the turret. “Don’t tell me,” he said heavily, “you’ve broken down.”

  “Absolutely, sir. Engine.”

  “Beidemann been cooking cows on it, by any chance?”

  “Not this time, Herr Hauptmann. Seems the thing’s shot. Oil leak or something. It’s going nowhere, sir.”

  The captain shook his head sadly. “Very well, Langer. You and your crew get up on my tank. We’ll give you a lift back to camp. Your panzer will be picked up by the breakdown crews. I suspect it’ll be sent to a training battalion; any Panzer II that breaks down is not going to be fixed up and returned to us, so I understand. You may be getting your wish after all, and be issued with a III.”

  Gus brightened at hearing that. “Oh, fantastic! I can pick up girls for sure now, Herr Haupmann! They’re impressed by the size of a bigger gun, you see.”

  “Langer, keep your driver under control, can you?”

  “Knock it off, Gus. Best behavior or you might be asked to walk behind the tank.”

  Gus snapped smartly to attention. “Sir! Driver Beidemann humbly begs permission to climb aboard the Reich’s glorious panzer!”

  Heidemann wearily beckoned him up and lowered himself into the tank, clanging the lid shut. Langer swore he heard the captain muttering something about insubordination before it closed fully. Steffan clambered up on the other side of the turret and clung on as the panzer rumbled out and around the stricken II before rolling in the wake of a fleet of trucks carrying support staff, spares and equipment. One truck had pulled in by this time and its occupants, mechanics, had spilled out and were going to inspect the broken down vehicle.

  Gus lit up a cigar and sat stride the gun barrel, lording it as they drove along the country road westwards, alternatively farting and giving Nazi salutes as they entered each town or village. Langer sat and faced the other way, not wishing to be part of what could well end up as folklore in years to come amongst the surprised people.

  Camp was unchanged, except it looked a little shabby, having been unoccupied for two months or more, except for a small number of administrative staff. Now those who had survived the Polish campaign were returning, transforming the quiet barracks into a mass of noise, movement and confusion. Sergeants bellowed orders, trying to get some order, berating the slowest of their units to get into line. Langer took Gus and Steffan to their old quarters and
gratefully flung themselves onto their bunks. There were no blankets or pillows but that didn’t matter. Others, too, came in and did likewise. No doubt the blankets and so on would be supplied in due course.

  A few bunks were empty and eyes sadly looked at them for a moment. War was like that. Talk was mostly of other things. The fight in Poland had come and gone, and they had done what they had done and there was no changing that. They had survived and were now looking forward to other things. Drink, women, gambling, visiting Berlin, France. They did criticize the shortcomings of their tanks or the slowness of the Luftwaffe or support infantry to help, but these were normal grumblings of men in wartime.

  After a day or so things got organized. Training was the order of the day, and the lessons that had been learned on the campaign would have to be applied now. They were still at war with the French and British Empires and would have to eventually settle their differences. Langer couldn’t understand why the French hadn’t attacked while the majority of the German forces had been fighting Poland. To him the larger French army ought to have marched into the Rhineland and forced Hitler to see sense. Apart from some half-hearted advance a few miles up to the Siegfried Line, they’d done nothing. It seemed the French commander, Gamelin, was relying on the Maginot Line to keep the Wehrmacht out and waiting to see what happened.

  He’d had a conversation with Gus on that subject the day before. He’d pointed out to the giant driver that in the Great War the Germans had gone through Belgium to attack France, and all they had to do to avoid the Maginot was to do the same. No matter Belgium was ‘neutral’, it was in the way, so to speak.

  “So we ride through Belgium,” Gus said with a shrug, “but we’ll have to come up against the French sometime. You really expect us to happily career all the way to Paris and their brothels? No, my strategically challenged friend, you mark my words, they’ll go into Belgium too and fight us there; they won’t want us humping their mademoiselles and stealing their cows and sheep, and they have more tanks and planes than we have. And you know what that means, don’t you, my friend?”