by Tony Roberts
“A big fight?” Steffan queried, leaning on his elbows on his bed.
Langer grinned, nodding. “It’s all down to who’s got the best tanks and planes.”
“Our tanks aren’t worth a shit,” Gus snapped. “At least the Is and IIs aren’t anyway. With more IIIs we might have a chance. But I hear those French tanks have 75s. Our IIIs have 37s. Only the IVs are equipped with 75s and Herr Schicklegruber has decreed they are to be used as support only! Put them in against the enemy tanks and that’ll sort them out!”
“What about our anti-tank guns?” one of the other crewmen asked from his bunk across the room. “Surely we’ll get better than the 37s our support infantry have got!”
“No chance,” Gus shook his head, “if we were going to get better, we would have been told. We’ll have to go into Belgium and France with those peashooters hoping to open up those Char B’s and Somuas. Pah! Old man Beidemann’s little boy is in danger of being molested big time.”
“What about going through the Maginot, then?” another asked. “They may not be expecting that!”
“That’s because only idiots would attack that. They have three lines of defense, so I’m told,” Gus growled, “and it runs from Switzerland all the way up to Sedan.”
“With a nice gap between that and the Channel,” one of the other tank commanders, a man called Andreas Schrader, sniggered. “Just made for our tanks.”
Gus snorted and threw himself back onto his bed. He’d said his bit and that was it. Only the high-ups could decide what was going to happen, and the tank regiments would have to follow their orders, whether it be madness or not.
The day they resumed training, Langer, Gus and Steffan were ordered to report to one of the long warehouses arranged down one side of the camp. They made their way there along with a few other crews who had lost their panzers. Clearly they were going to be given a tank, but would it be their old one, a like for like replacement or, as in the case of Langer and his crew, a better one?
The quartermaster was there, hands on hips, critically watching the arrival of the black-clad panzermen. “Hurry up, I haven’t all day!” he barked, scowling. “I want these vehicles out and being put through their paces to see if there’s anything wrong with them.”
“Fuck you,” Gus muttered and marched smartly up to him, stamped one foot into the ground, sending birds in the nearby trees squawking up in fright, and snapped off a salute that would have made regimental sergeant majors the world over faint in ecstasy. “Sir! Private Gustav Beidemann humbly begs to report his arrival at the warehouses!” The words echoed all over Zossen.
The quartermaster winced, wondering whether his eardrums had burst or not. He waved everyone to line up smartly, then nodded at the double doors of the warehouse. Some of his men pulled them apart and what was revealed were the gleaming hulls and turrets of Panzer IIIs. “Oh, wonderful!” Gus couldn’t contain himself, “a panzer with a gun bigger than my cock!”
“Beidemann, silence!” the quartermaster snarled.
Gus affected a hurt expression but stood rigidly to attention, a beatific smile transfixed on his face.
The quartermaster stopped on his route towards the warehouse and came slowly back to Gus, a frown on his face. “Is there something wrong, Beidemann?”
“No, sir, why do you ask?”
Langer rolled his eyes and looked skywards.
The quartermaster breathed in deeply through his nose. “Then why the silly smile?”
“Wind sir. Terrible affliction. I’m dying to fart but it won’t come out yet.”
“What? Are you mad?” The quartermaster’s attention was solely on the wide fixed toothy smile in front of him, and he didn’t see the collection of shaking shoulders all down the line.
“This wind is driving me mad, sir! The food in the canteen is terribly farty, sir. Got it so bad yesterday I thought I’d followed through at one stage. The smell was pretty bad, or at least my comrades thought so – I can only go by what they say, sir, since I think it’s somewhat aromatic.”
The quartermaster stared in disbelief at Gus. Was he really hearing what this fool was saying, or was he having a particularly vivid nightmare? What was the tank corps coming to if they recruited buffoons like this?
Langer came to the rescue, seeing that only no good could come of any further dialogue. “Sir, Private Beidemann is eager to get to grips with the mechanical complexities of the Pz III and sometimes his enthusiasm spills over into nervous energy. You’ll have to excuse him, sir.”
“Ah,” the quartermaster grasped at the lifeline being thrown him by the scarred feldwebel next to the giant. It offered him a face-saving solution to what was fast becoming a verbal elephant trap. “Good, you’ll find it a pleasant experience, I can tell you. Your vehicle is the second one in line. Please go to your new panzer.” He then turned to the next crew with some relief.
Langer nudged Gus on the way to the warehouse. “Go easy on the poor man, Gus, he’s a technician and hasn’t got the wits to wrestle with your sense of humor.”
“Humor?” Gus was indignant, or at least, that was how he appeared. “I was being serious!”
“That was what I was afraid of,” Langer muttered and looked up at their new tank, a gleaming beast of war, fresh off the Daimler-Benz production line. It was painted in a light field grey and the rugged, angular shape impressed them. The turret was much wider than that of the II, purely to accommodate the larger gun. Instead of a 20mm cannon this tank had a 37mm short barreled gun. Langer climbed up onto the turret and patted the gun. “At least we’ll be able to shoot back at proper tanks now. Although,” he added with a frown, “I’d’ve preferred a bigger gun than this 37. Not big enough to knock out the French heavies still, unless we get right up to them.”
Gus was leaning through the open hatch above the driver’s position on the left hand side of the main body. “Oh, that’s better! 30mm of armor. Thick enough for now to protect my delicate body. Let’s see what this bitch has for an engine,” and he swung round, dropped his feet into the hatch and slid into his seat, wriggling his ass to get comfortable.
Steffan got up on top and dropped into the turret, followed by Langer. The room in the turret surprised both and they grinned at each other. The larger gun mechanism took up some of the extra space but they could at least move about without bumping into each other. Langer’s eyes roved over the interior. There were two seats at the front, the second one to the right of Gus was where the radio operator and hull gunner would sit.
“Looks like you’ll stand more or less there, Steffan,” Langer nodded at the space the loader was standing, “while the gunner will be here. I’ll be up top or back there behind you in battle. Plenty of space. Nice.” He observed the three padded leather seats for all three of the crew who were to man the turret, and the side hatches in the turret walls for the gunner and loader to quickly bail out in case of emergency. Much better than the II.
“Let’s get this bitch out on the grass,” Gus said with enthusiasm. He pressed the starter and the Maybach engine roared into life, a throaty roar filling the warehouse. The smell of diesel filled the air. “Oh, she sounds so sexy!” Gus exclaimed. “Think I’m in love!”
“Careful, Gus, she’s a virgin,” Langer said, grinning at Steffan.
“All the more reason to love her!” Gus responded. “I do love a good deflowering!”
“Whoa!” Langer hastily grabbed the nearest support, the gun mechanism, as the tank leapt forward. Gus swung on the levers and spun the tank left and out of the dark warehouse into the dull grey of the mid-autumn day. It swung right, left and then stopped abruptly. “Italian mode!” Gus yelled and engaged reverse.
“Fuck!” Steffan exclaimed as the tank hurled itself backwards with a belch of smoke.
“Gus, enough!” Langer snapped. “We need this girl in one piece for the training camp! And, more to the point, we need to be in one piece!”
“Aw my delicate flowers, Uncle Gus being too hard on yo
u?” the giant grinned toothily, looking over his shoulder. He did, nevertheless, stop and wait with the engine idling.
Langer puffed out his cheeks and emerged out of the top hatch, a circular portal with a raised ring that sat on top of the turret towards the rear. Captain Heidemann was approaching, his expression strictly neutral. A haze of blue exhaust smoke rose from the tank and the grass around them had been chewed up. Langer saluted as Heidemann came close.
Heidemann returned the salute. “Langer, I see you’re making yourselves familiar with your new panzer.” He eyed a pleased looking Gus, his head and shoulders protruding up through the open driver’s hatch. “No need to test the limits of this machine quite yet, Beidemann. Now,” he looked back up at Langer, “your two new crewmen are on their way, along with the other new men. They’re a mixture of crews who fought in Poland and have lost their panzers or crew – or both – or new recruits. The training exercise is going to test out the new crews as well as to implement new tactics we think should be adopted. Clear?”
“Sir,” Langer saluted again. Heidemann saluted back, grunted, and turned on his heel to go speak to the next crew who were waiting off to one side.
“So who are we getting to join our hallowed band?” Gus demanded, peering forward at a group of men marching towards them from the barracks. “Fuck me, they look like tin soldiers.”
“Go easy, Gus. One of them is going to be sat alongside you. Concentrate on driving; I’m the commander and getting you lot to act as one is my headache.”
“Zu befehl, Herr Feldwebel!” Gus smartly saluted, then farted mightily. “Gohhh, that’s the best part of me gone,” he commented.
Steffan looked horrified. “Sir, permission to open the hatch?”
Langer nodded quickly, not wishing Steffan to die of asphyxiation. He remained up on top, as much for self-preservation as to view who were breaking away from the group to come over to their tank, marked ‘231’ on the sides of the turret, denoting them as the first tank in the third platoon, second company of the 6th panzer regiment.
Two men approached, one was a squat, burly looking man with a plain looking face, brown hair poking out from underneath the band of his black beret and a long nose, while the other was older, taller, thinner and his eyes were a medium blue and intelligently looked at the tank, then both Gus and Langer as he came up to them.
“You the new gunner and radio op?” Langer demanded.
“Sir,” the thinner man saluted. “Pohlman. Gunner.”
Langer nodded and looked at the other man. “And you?”
“Radio operator Felix Bauer.”
“Very good. Pohlman, up here in the turret. Bauer, use the front hatch on the other side.”
The two newcomers got in and looked about with interest. Langer did the introductions and examined the tall gunner critically. “You’re a little old for this sort of thing. What’s your story?”
Pohlman grunted. “Until recently I was a teacher in Cologne. I made the mistake of questioning the new history being taught in the school and was offered to join the armed forces or risk being put in prison for – ah – unpatriotic tendencies.” He looked sadly at Langer who had slid down onto his seat behind the gun position.
“Teacher, eh?” Langer said with interest. “In history, you say?”
Pohlman shrugged. “Used to be, but not the new version being put through our schools. When history becomes politically altered to suit the ruling regime, is it history anymore?” He looked at Langer for a long moment, his eyes wary. Maybe he’d said something he shouldn’t.
Langer for his part merely grunted. “Well don’t go shouting that sort of thing too often, Pohlman. I don’t give a damn about political manipulation of facts, and neither do Gus or Steffan here. Your loyalty is to each of us here from now on, as is yours, Felix. We’re to work as a team, we’ve got to learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses, what makes each of us tick. Forget everything out there. What counts is in here, in this iron box.”
The former teacher nodded, relieved at Langer’s response. “I hear we’ll be training up to tackle the French. We really going to fight them again?”
“So it would seem,” Langer acknowledged, his arms on his knees, leaning forward. “So, Felix, what’s your story?”
“Sir, I’m from Berlin. Trained as an engineer in electronics but ah…..” he looked at each of the four others and leaned forward, his face dark with shame, “I got into financial difficulties and….took some money from the college funds. I got found out and only avoided prison by agreeing to join the anzerkorps as a radio operative.”
“Well you’ll fit in here, boy,” Gus said, “but don’t get any ideas about trying to steal from us.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t!” Felix said eagerly. “I lost my job, my girlfriend, everything. All I have now is what you see.”
“So we’re recruiting those the government see as criminals, eh?” Langer mused.
“It’s not the first time it’s been done, sir,” Pohlman said.
“No,” Langer agreed. He’d been around when the British had filled their armed forces with undesirables and had beaten everyone they’d come up against, French, Spanish, Danes, whoever.
“Well, Teacher,” Gus said with gusto, “perhaps today you’ll be the student. Live long enough with us and you’ll learn much more than you could in some stuffy classroom.”
Pohlman looked at Gus with a thoughtful expression. Felix grinned and waggled the handgrip of the 7.92mm machine gun in front of him. “I’ll learn how to shoot with this. Looks like you’ve got a much more difficult one to learn, Teacher.”
Pohlman grunted. “So that’s my nickname is it? Teacher?”
Langer clapped the tall man on the shoulder. “Looks like it, Teacher.”
Teacher smiled wryly. “Then don’t be surprised if I try to teach you australopithicines something.
“What’s an australopithicine?” Gus demanded, frowning.
“A hardy, independent being,” Teacher grinned.
“That’s me!” Gus announced.
Langer decided enough was enough. “So, Teacher, you know how to use this thing?” he pointed at the 37mm.
Teacher examined it for a moment. The place to load was obvious enough, in the center of the mechanism. Steffan would place the next round into it. There was an eyepiece to the left and above this, surrounded by black rubber shaped to accept a forehead. Teacher experimentally put his face against it and found it was a sight, a dial superimposed on the view he had outside. Numbers were at top and bottom, one marked ‘3.7cm’ and the other ‘MG’. The numbers by the 3.7cm designation went up in 2s from 0 to 20, denoting distance in hundreds of meters.
He looked at the firing mechanism below him to the right and nodded. “Looks simple enough. One way of finding out if I can use it. Being taught it in the classroom is different when one applies it in practice, eh?” he said to Gus.
The giant driver sniffed thoughtfully. “Oh yes, like being told shagging a woman is fun but nothing like actually doing it yourself!”
“Alright Gus, calm it.” Langer didn’t want any unnecessary needle creeping in. “Felix, you check the radio equipment; make yourself familiar with it and let me know if there’s something there you don’t know how to operate. Steffan, I think we’re supposed to carry around a hundred rounds of the 37. I assume we’ll get some at training camp, but I want to make sure we’ve got the right storage space. Teacher, anything you’re not happy with, let me know.”
That done Langer levered himself up top and slid the earphones on and flicked the mike. Now he could concentrate on merely commanding the crew and not be distracted by the need to operate the main armament. That should give them a huge advantage in local tactical adjustments over those tanks that had one-man turrets, like the Char Bs the French had. What Belgium possessed he didn’t know, but the small nation wouldn’t have a great deal, that was for sure; they would rely on France and Britain to provide support, like they had in 1914. No doubt
they hoped to contain any advance, both by blocking any move into France from Germany with the Maginot Line, and by flooding troops into Belgium and building trenches and fortifications before too many German troops arrived.
The difference now was that the German army had rapid mobility.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The winter came, and it proved to be an endless sequence of training camps and classroom lectures. For Langer and his four crew, it provided a useful period in which to mold together into a decent team. Langer found the outgoing and loud Gus a foil for the quieter and taciturn Teacher, while Felix was a more relaxed figure than Steffan; nothing seemed to perturb Felix and he had the same indifferent attitude to everything. It wasn’t that he was lazy, he was efficient enough, but he constantly needed telling. Once told to do something he would, but he wouldn’t then go do the next logical thing to continue an action.
Steffan did his job competently enough, knowing what was expected of him. He always seemed a little nervous though, especially around Gus, who seemed to delight in telling him about the more outrageous tales of his life. Langer wondered whether they were just fiction designed to impress the wide-eyed boy. With Gus, you never knew.
Teacher was intelligent and took to his task like a duck to water. He sailed through the theory and after a couple of teething issues with the cannon, settled down into a more than competent gunner. Langer was very satisfied with him. His was quiet, but when he spoke everyone, even Gus, listened. Langer was amused that they all saw Teacher as the senior citizen of the crew, for at nineteen and a half centuries, Langer outdid all of them by far. It was the man’s appearance and habits that marked him as the ‘older’ man. At that Langer wondered for a while. He’d lived since roughly the beginning of the Christian period, so that now it was 1940 and that was roughly how old he was, give or take a year or two. He’d been around thirty when the Jew’s blood had turned him immortal, and therefore physically that was how old he appeared to all.
