Casca 40: Blitzkrieg

by Tony Roberts

  But mentally?

  He once had a conversation a long time ago with Shiu Lao Tze, that Chinese sage, about that very thing. Did he change with the ages? Did he continue to ‘grow’ and ‘develop’ with each new experience? To be sure, he was no longer the unthinking grunt he’d been when a legionary. He’d ended up commanding whole armies, and for a time, an entire nation. He’d run holds, castles, provinces and other forms of area in his life, and all of them had required an ability to administer, command, and delegate. Those attributes he certainly had not had when he’d been an ordinary Roman soldier. So had he changed? Nobody could tell him for all were dead who had known him before the crucifixion, and he made sure that nobody remained with him for any length of time for fear of being found out for what he was.

  He learned constantly, yes. He had to, in order to get along with an ever changing world. And it seemed these changes were gathering pace and speeding up. Could he keep pace with them? He didn’t know. It was a pain in the ass, to be frank.

  Fuck. Best concentrate on learning the idiosyncrasies of the Panzer III, for that was more important to him now. Time to think about other things when there was nothing happening.

  * * *

  Another who was doing some thinking was Erich Farben. The fascinating case of the scarred panzer soldier was occupying more and more of his time. His old case of the murder in the Berlin hotel of Gutierrez had been reopened and he’d been given authority to investigate it, but covertly. Where the order had come from he wasn’t entirely sure but he guessed his old friend Marks in the Gestapo was responsible.

  His chief, Schotten, had shrugged and given his assent. After all, it had been the Gestapo who had ordered it closed in the first place. As his boss had said to him, “Farben, it looks like the political part of it has been finished with, and we’re left with the old issue of a straightforward murder. Of course, as a foreign national is involved, it is a little complicated, but one can argue the dead man represents a government that no longer exists. Find this man, Romano or whatever his name is, and bring him to justice.”

  Farben now studied the papers on his desk, looking from the photographs of the dead man, Gutierrez, to the sketched impression of the man he was hunting. “Just who are you, Carlos Romano, Karl Linger or who?” He could contact the 3rd panzer division and request he see all scarred personnel but that would be a clumsy and obvious tactic which could well alert is quarry and Linger could vanish. Then how could he find him? He decided to write to the headquarters and request the medical file of Karl Linger. That would give him the opportunity to see whether this was the name he was serving under, or that he was using another alias.

  Already this man had changed from being a Spaniard, Romano, to that of a German, Linger. Farben drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He was an enemy of the communists, that was certain. He could have been killed in Poland, that was another possibility, since the 3rd had been part of the invasion.

  Verdammnt! It was bad enough in normal circumstances, but with a war on it was doubly difficult. He had heard of rumors that known criminals were being inducted into the armed forces as a means to get rid of them from Germany’s streets and prisons, and with the additional possible bonus of them being killed thus solving the problem what to do with them once the war ended. To Farben this was not the right way to administer justice, but under the National Socialists there was little one could do. He also knew that to complain was the swiftest way to receive a dismissal. It was a case of obeying one’s superior, no matter the moral correctness or not of what was being done. Follow orders and do not question anything. Long live the Fatherland!

  He reached for a clean sheet of headed paper and prepared his thoughts, ready to compose a letter to the 3rd division.

  * * *

  The training went on into the new year. The five man crew were getting a little bored with the repetition. They had mastered the mechanics of the new tank and gotten used to its idiosyncrasies. They had also learned how to advance and attack in the new massed wedges of armor the doctrines were insisting they used. Schwerpunkt was one term for it, Hard Point. The thinking behind this was to attack with a mass of tanks, punching through the enemy lines and pour through the breach, creating havoc in the rear areas, leaving the infantry to sort out the old front line behind them.

  The schutzen would remain in close support, ready to deal with any enemy soldiers who held up the tanks. The tanks were to utilize speed, maneuverability, and power to break up the enemy front line, reserve areas and their supplies, then to continue their advance swiftly, compelling the enemy to withdraw or risk being flanked. By using their tanks en masse, they hoped to create a new weapon of war, unstoppable through sheer weight of numbers at a place of their choosing. No matter the French had more tanks, it was known they scattered them evenly through their armies so that at any place the panzers were, they should outnumber the French.

  Langer attended the briefing in March at their new base near Aachen, close to the Belgian border. The plans to invade France were being fine-tuned and made ready for the spring and the better weather. The intelligence officer stood with his pointer before a large map of the region on the wall. “Gentlemen, we are part of Army Group B. Our task is simple; to tie down the best enemy forces in Belgium while the real attack goes in elsewhere. So, our task is to plunge through Belgium once their fort at Eben Emael is neutralized, and engage the enemy tank formations, preventing them from withdrawing south to take on our main attack through Sedan and northern France.”

  Langer eyed the map. He raised his arm, and was asked to speak. “Sir, any panzer force attacking Sedan would have to either enter France over the Rhine or come through Belgium.”

  “Not quite, Langer,” the intelligence officer smiled. “General Guderian has convinced Von Manstein that our panzers can go through the Ardennes Forest.” He tapped the green smudge on the map. “Generals Rommel and Guderian will command the main attack here, take Sedan and then strike for the Channel. Therefore, gentlemen,” and he rapped the map higher up, “it is our duty to hold the best equipped French army and the British who are in northern France at this moment and who, we are certain, will rush into Belgium once we attack. We are the decoy. We are to lure the enemy’s best troops north while the schicklesnitt cuts them off from France behind them.”

  Langer looked at the map. Schicklesnitt – the cut of the scythe. “Sir, that would be dangerous assuming the enemy will react the way we hope. What if they refuse to rise to the bait?”

  “No, Langer, they cannot stand idly by while we attack both Holland and Belgium. Also the French will not like the prospect of us invading them. They will wish to meet us as far into Belgium as possible. So they will come to their little friends’ aid, and fall into our trap.”

  Langer tapped his lip thoughtfully. A simple plan, but brilliant. “And we are to slug it out with the best equipped French formations, sir?”

  “Yes, what they call the DLMs, their Division Legere Mechanique.”

  “Mechanized Light Division,” Langer translated thoughtfully.

  “Ah, you understand French, Langer?”

  “Sir.” Amongst scores of others, but he wasn’t going to say.

  “Hmmm. As I was saying, the French will pit their DLMs against our forces. Our aim is to take the Gembloux Gap,” and he tapped a spot in central eastern Belgium, “which will enable us to move on to the rest of Belgium and even northern France from there. The enemy knows that should we take that Gap then their defensive plans will be in tatters. You will face two main types of tank, the Hotchkiss light tank which is not a threat to our medium tanks, and the Somua S36, which is. Fortunately we can concentrate our armor in any one spot, something our training has perfected, and our estimates are that the French will not have nearly enough tanks to stop us wherever we choose to attack.”

  “Sir, what of Holland?” another officer asked.

  “That is to be left to other forces,” the intelligence officer dismissed Holland contem
ptuously. “Our task is to push on as fast as we can to the Gembloux Gap and beyond. The aim is the destruction of the B.E.F. and the 1st French Army. Now, go to your units and wait for the word to go. Once spring comes I am certain it won’t be long.”

  Langer returned to the others and passed on what he’d learned. “It’s almost certain we’ll be in combat against French armor so we’d best hone our battle skills because we’re going to be outgunned for sure. Our best hope is to win by sheer weight of numbers.”

  “The weak point of the Somuas?” Teacher queried.

  “They have 47mm of armor,” Langer said darkly. “We’d have to get up close with our 37mm pop gun.”

  “And their main armament?” Felix asked.

  “47mm. More than enough to knock us out,” Langer replied.

  With that piece of news to digest, they went over their tank with renewed attention to detail. It wasn’t long before news arrived of the war extending. It was Felix who came into the barracks, excitement written all over his face. “Hey! You’ll never guess what’s happened!” he said, his face shining with sweat. He must have run all the way to the barracks.

  “They’ve transferred a battalion of whores to this camp?” Gus replied, looking up in hope.

  “Nah!” Felix chuckled. “We’ve invaded Denmark and Norway!”

  “Eh?” Steffan asked. “Where are Denmark and Norway?”

  “Why Denmark and Norway, more to the point,” Teacher said softly.

  “Dunno, Teacher,” Felix shrugged. “Radio in the camp canteen blared it out. Goebbels is having a fit of pleasure over it.”

  “When?” Langer asked.

  By now everyone was crowding round, wanting to know more. “Are we going to be sent there?” someone called out.

  “Oh, maybe it’s a prelude to invading Sweden,” Gus purred. “I want to be in the forefront of that invasion. First crack at all that luscious Swedish skirt.”

  “Someone get a radio,” another voice was heard to say. “We all want to hear!”

  A radio was brought it and turned on. There was the agonizing wait while the tubes warmed up but finally the tinny voice of Joseph Goebbels came through, dramatically repeating the news. That morning Denmark had fallen, capitulating after a brief exchange of shots and the destruction of their tiny air force. Norway was being invaded even as the announcement was going on.

  “That’s our flank secured,” Langer said. “No point in having neutral land there that can be occupied by the British or French whenever they feel like it. Poor Denmark, getting it again.”

  “Again?” Teacher queried.

  “Nelson did it back in Napoleon’s day.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right. I thought you were referring to the Great War. Bismarck picked on them too back in the 1860s.”

  Langer nodded. Teacher appraised the scar-faced sergeant shrewdly. For someone who looked like a career soldier, he had an amazing range of knowledge and understanding of the world. Teacher was of the opinion that this strange man knew far more than he did, even with the benefit of being one who specialized in education. There was much more to him than met the eye.

  “Why Norway, then?” Felix demanded. “It’s far away across the sea.”

  “Maybe to take it before the enemy can,” Langer shrugged. “Seems to me Hitler is making sure our flanks are secured before we move on France and Britain. “It won’t be long now before our turn comes.”

  His words would come true within a month.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Erich Farben groaned and sat back in his chair, rubbing his aching temples. The dossiers and documents before him had his head spinning. Ever since he’d decided to take the step of requesting every man’s medical file from the 3rd Division’s headquarters in Zossen he and his three man team working on the Gutierrez murder had been full-on poring through the medical histories of each and every man in the unit.

  The trouble was that the files contained those who had fallen in Poland and a couple of leads had ended up in dead ends once they found the man they were enquiring over had been killed. It was all a damned waste of time and resources.

  The three of them were also working on more mundane cases of theft and forgery at the same time so they couldn’t pour into the murder case the time and effort Farben had wanted.

  Just when they were getting on top of the case numbers the damned fool Zossen administrators sent a second batch of folders to them, those of the people who had joined since the outbreak of war. Farben didn’t think their man was in this batch but nonetheless he didn’t want to leave any stone unturned and he directed one of his two assistants to go through these.

  Farben exercised his stiff neck and puffed out his cheeks. It was getting late. He was thinking perhaps it was time to call it a day and go home to Famke, his wife, and their three children, when the other assistant, the one still working on the original batch of folders, called him over.

  Sighing, Farben heaved himself out of the chair and walked stiffly over to the man. On his desk were the same mess and mass of papers, folders and other such office props. One folder rested on top, the neatly typed sheets alongside a small photograph with the inked Nazi watermark across the top right hand corner, the eagle with the swastika in its claws.

  Farben looked at the papers. Carl Langer. Feldwebel. Joined 1939. Distinguishing marks, scar down the right hand side of his face. Other scars etc etc. “Hmm, this is interesting,” he said, picking up the sheet. “Berliner.” He shrugged indifferently. “Means nothing.” He looked at the assistant. “Conduct enquiries as to his origins in his home city.”

  “Yes, sir. Tomorrow?”

  “What? Oh, yes. It’ll be too late now. First thing tomorrow. Hopefully this will be much better than the dead-ends we’ve had so far. Alright you two, time to get out of here. I want you both fresh-eyed tomorrow.”

  After both had gone, discussing the delights of a coffee shop along the street, Farben remained in his office alone for thirty minutes, staring at the photograph of Langer and examining his thin dossier. Nothing much there for a man like Langer, which was curious. His professional instincts were aroused and he felt deep down in his guts that Langer was his man. Carlos Romano, Karl Linger, Carl Langer. Stupid to keep a similar first name. For the first time in a few months, Farben felt a weight lift off his shoulders.

  He smiled.

  * * *

  The day slowly broke, promising to be bright and clear. The panzers were silent, standing in ranks west of the town of Aachen, a dark, threatening line of armored leviathans like some scene from millions of years before. Langer sat in the turret of his tank and looked left and right. The other commanders were waiting expectantly as the day brightened. Behind them were the trucks and horse-drawn wagons of the supporting units, the schutzen in the trucks, the equipment in the wagons.

  In his commander’s tank, Heidemann sat with his head bent forward, listening into his headphones, tuned in to headquarters which had been moved to Aachen. The order to move would come any moment. All along the Dutch and Belgian border the German war machine trembled, waiting to be let off the leash.

  Langer looked down into the turret. Teacher was relaxed, leaning on the gun breech, lecturing Steffan on the history of Belgium, created in 1839 and its neutrality guaranteed by the great powers. Steffan listened with half an ear. He was ready to pick up any of the 99 shells the tank had on command. He knew where each and every one was, either the armor piercing or high explosive type.

  Felix was fine-tuning the radio equipment around him; as radio operator and mechanic, his tasks were mostly support and away from the actual fighting, unless he was called upon to use the hull mounted machine gun. Gus was still and relaxed, his eyes shut. Langer thought he heard the giant humming a tune but wasn’t sure. His ears, covered by the earphones of his set, were straining to listen for the command to advance.

  A short while back a flight of aircraft had flown overhead, Junker 52s, their tri-engine sound distinctive. It had been too
dark to spot them but they had all been told to listen out for the sound and not to worry; it was the start of the invasion. Paratroops possibly, or so the theory went.

  Langer checked his watch in the growing light; 4.29am. Any time now.

  The headphones crackled into life. He listened intently, and a cold squeezing feeling ran from his guts up his spine. He tapped his microphone. “Alright, Gus, let’s go. We’re on our way.”

  All over the flat plainland west of Aachen the air was rent by the snarling of scores of engines bursting into life. The panzers rolled forward, plunging towards the frontier, a few miles distant. All around them vehicles made their way across country or along the roads westwards. Langer scanned the horizon, watching for signs of movement. The Belgians wouldn’t have been unaware of the build-up on the border, but they were still neutral – or they had been up to now. It was now a race for the panzers to get as deep as they could into the little country before the French and British met them.

  “I hope those paras have taken that fort and the bridges,” Felix stated nervously, peering through his narrow observation slit.

  “So do we all, Felix,” Langer said, his face expressing no emotion. Ahead, the river Meuse lay, a wide barrier to their progress. There were three bridges that had to be crossed and the paratroops had been tasked with taking them before the Belgians could blow them up, and also to neutralize the mighty fort of Eban Emael that stood in their path. Armed with 75mm and 105mm guns, the fort could cause havoc to the armored column if it were still in operation.

  They rolled along the hard packed earthen road and approached a barrier across their route, reinforced with a fence and two guard huts. The leading tank machine-gunned the structure and smashed through the flimsy wooden pole, sending it cart-wheeling into the ditch on one side.

  “Who-hoo, Belgium!” Gus hollered in delight. “Next stop a bakery in Brussels!”