by Tony Roberts
The morning broke and they were ordered to mount up. The ground was undulating gently, broken up by hedges and fencing that marked the separate fields of the farmland, and clumps of trees and bushes were dotted here and there. Roads criss-crossed the terrain and villages and small towns lay everywhere. The Belgians had fortified every village, or so it seemed, and Langer looked out over the land and had a brief feeling of nostalgia. He had been here before, as part of Marlborough’s British army, back in the good old 1700s, giving out a sound beating to the French at Ramilles, and the town of that name lay somewhere off to the left up ahead. He smiled in remembrance of that campaign and the willing flesh of the disguised female soldier Annie Bettany, who’d passed off as a man and had fought as well as anyone in that war. Langer had discovered her true identity and, as part of guaranteeing his silence, she’d willingly given herself to him. It had made the marching and camp life that much more bearable.
No such luck here. All those in the company were definitely men. Maybe they’d encounter a place where the locals would throw themselves at their German liberators. He grinned again. No chance of that ever happening. This time it was a serious slog-fest and the winner would be the one left standing after taking a series of vicious blows.
They sped down the dry dirt road westwards, bound for the village of Kertijs. Shots came out from the boundaries of the settlement, puffs of smoke from the defenders, and the tanks swerved aside, leaving the village to be taken by the infantry as ever following close behind. Beyond the village the land flattened out and they made for the next feature, a straight road running in true Roman fashion north-south.
More shots came at them, and a panzer two to the right erupted into smoke.
“Holy shit!” Gus exclaimed, slamming shut his hatch and peering through his slit. “That was Franckel!”
“Poor bastard,” Langer commented, peering through his periscope. “Where are the swine?” He swung the turret and caught sight of movement. “Gus, anti-tank guns on the road to the left. See them?”
“Yep. Franckel owed me at dice. I’ll teach those fuckers,” he muttered, wrenching on the levers.
“Steffan, HE. Teacher, send those gunners a present from Uncle Adolf.”
As the shell was slammed into the breech Teacher zeroed in on the gun crew, swinging the anti-tank weapon round to face them. The 37mm barked and a shot plowed into the ground by the side of the cannon. It shuddered sideways and one of the crew was sent flying back, his clothing shredded.
“Damn, off target,” Teacher snapped. “Steffan, another round! I’ll get them next time.”
Teacher was as good as his word. Before the remaining Belgian gunners could correct the gun, another shell from the tank had smashed into it, blowing it into pieces, sending shards of metal up into the air and the main gun and carriage piece hurtling backwards. Two men collapsed to the side, clutching their wounds.
More shots came at the panzers. One smashed into the ground nearby. “Gus, get us out of here. They’ve got a whole battery.” Langer had caught the sight of more guns on the far side of the slightly raised roadside. Trading shots with the covered anti-tank guns while in the open wasn’t a good idea.
Gus rammed the tank into reverse and they roared back to a slight dip in the ground. Another shell screamed at them and buffeted the tank as it passed overhead to smash into some distant object. “That was too close for comfort,” Teacher said, gripping the gun breech.
“Worry not, my petal,” Gus said cheerfully, “Mother Beidemann’s little boy won’t let your delicate skins be hurt by the nasty Belgians. We’re out of sight down here.”
“Not to the RAF,” Langer said and slipped open the hatch and peered skywards. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they paid us a visit once those gunners tell their HQ we’re here. Out, all of you.”
The crew piled out, gripping their weapons, and took cover on the lip of the rise. Ahead the air was wreathed in brownish-black smoke. Two tanks were burning up in the field and the infantry were deploying left and right, machine guns already peppering the tree-lined road ahead. Answering shots came back from the defenders’ support troops, and it was a stand-off.
Other tanks had retreated out of range of the guns and were scattered amongst the farm buildings and natural cover half a mile from the action. Langer, still by the tank, picked up Captain Heidemann’s snapped orders to attack. It seemed the Luftwaffe had other targets to attack and there would be none for them that day. “Oh well,” Langer said heavily, “it looks like we’re going to have to brave it against those guns. One mad charge should sort it out one way or the other. Keep an eye out for aircraft; if there are any up there it’s likely they’re the enemy.”
They piled back into the panzer and growled up the slope and onto the field, along with the other hundred tanks in the advance. The air was filled with Maybach exhaust sounds as the Is, IIs and IIIs plowed straight for the Belgians. The few IVs they had blasted away at the roadside, hoping to knock out as many of the guns as they could. The infantry ran to the panzers and huddled close behind, taking advantage of the armor to close in on the enemy positions.
Langer scanned the way ahead through the periscope. Dark armored shapes kept company to either side, each with its collection of soldiers in its take, like seabirds in the wake of trawlers at sea. “Bet we’ve got our own collection of soldiers behind us,” Steffan commented nervously.
“No farting then, Gus,” Felix sniggered. “We want our boys to survive the attack.”
“Fuck off,” Gus said calmly, concentrating on zig-zagging, hoping to put off the aim of the Belgians. “Or you’ll make me nervous, and when I get nervous I do fart.”
“Don’t want that to happen, at least not when we’re in here with you,” Felix said and returned his attention to the sight in front of him, gripping the machine gun.
Langer smiled briefly and then swung the turret left, then right. “Guns directly ahead.” A patter of hits briefly reverberated through the panzer as a machine gun peppered them. “Felix, take that MG out.”
As the gun chattered away, Langer caught sight of a gun crew swinging their weapon round to face them, seeing the danger. “Teacher!” he snapped.
“Got it,” the gunner said calmly. “HE, Steffan.”
The round clanged in, Teacher targeted the gun which was almost ready to shoot. The crew were putting their hands to their ears just as the shot spat out and took the gun on the shield, knocking it over and sending the crew falling like dominoes.
They reached the trees and roared over the road, attracting bullets from all round. The supporting infantry gunned the Belgians down and slid down the embankment on the other side of the road, leaving a few of their number lying on the road. The gunners were fleeing or surrendering, having been outflanked. Heidemann’s voice came through loud and clear; halt.
Langer did a complete sweep of 360 degrees and saw no threat. He opened the hatch and cautiously peered out. German soldiers were all round, escorting the surrendering Belgians back to the rear or digging in slightly ahead at the edge of the trees beyond the road. “Stay under the tree cover,” he said to Gus, “at least here we have some shelter from aircraft.”
He jumped out and came face to face with a dirty-faced feldwebel of the Schutzen. “Langer,” Langer nodded. “How are things?”
“Klein,” the feldwebel acknowledged. “Tough but we overran them. Lost a few. You panzer boys showed them! Smoke?”
Langer nodded gratefully and accepted a cigarette, bending forward to light it from Klein’s match. He dragged on it deeply in appreciation. “It’s getting late. Guess we’re here for the night.”
“Yes. Heard the French are just ahead. Arrived this afternoon and have dug in. It’ll be a bastard tomorrow.”
Langer grunted. Klein was a hard-bitten individual who spoke in staccato sentences. A steady type by the looks of things, good at following orders and passing them on. Looked as if he could take care of himself, just the type the army needed to fun
ction effectively.
“You’ll be up against their armor, then.”
“Yeah. That’ll sort the men from the boys, mm?” Langer grinned.
“Good luck – you’ll need it, Langer.” Klein moved off, checking on his men, and Langer looked around to see his crew had clambered out from the panzer and were already looking to set up a brew. Gus was wandering off along the road and Langer thought for a moment to ask him where he was going, but then decided against it. He’d get some long tale that made no sense and he’d only end up feeling confused. Best he let the big man go. Like a pet, he’d return when it was time.
“Strange man, isn’t he, Carl?” Teacher said, tapping the bowl of his pipe on the rigid hull of the tank. “Almost prehistoric. Living proof we came from the apes.”
“He’d regard that as a compliment, Teacher. Go carefully with Gus; your life may well depend on him.”
“Oh, I know that all too well,” the gunner said, nodding. “War isn’t really for the likes of me. I’m more at home in the classroom or sitting in a comfortable library. For the likes of him, though, yes, war is second nature.” He stared at Langer for a moment. “And, so I believe, it’s the same for you. You’re different, but I get the feeling war is a way of life for you. You don’t seem the fanatical type, or one who looks forward to fighting, yet all this fits you like a glove.”
Langer gazed into the middle distance, not really seeing the man before him. Roman legions marched before his eyes, then Persian cataphracts, followed by axe-wielding Vikings, club carrying Teotecs, mounted archers of the Huns, Mongol lancers, smoke-wreathed walls of Constantinople, brilliantly dressed winged Hussars of Poland and a host of other warriors from the ages. “Let’s say I’ve been around a fair bit, Teacher, and leave it at that?”
The gunner nodded slowly. “As you wish, Carl. I won’t pry. You’re just an enigma to me, unlike him,” he grinned, jabbing a thumb behind him. “So, what now?”
“Go help the other two with setting up a camp. I’m going to find out what our orders are for the morrow. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be thrown right into it.”
He made his way through the groups of resting men and tanks. They had won that day, but a bigger test was coming and he knew it all too well.
* * *
Farben threw the dossier onto the desk top. There was now no doubt in his mind that Carl Langer was the same as Carlos Romano. The grainy photograph was good enough for him, and the report from his assistant from the Berlin records more or less confirmed his suspicions. The Carl Langer in question had died some years ago and had been buried in this very city. Therefore the identity of the man in the 3rd Division was bogus. Fake. That in itself was a criminal offense and perhaps borderline espionage. Was he a Spanish spy? Was Gutierrez really a communist, or had he really been one of Franco’s agents sent to kill a communist in hiding? Was Langer-Romano really a red? There was this connection with the now destroyed communist cell in Zossen. It made sense to him.
He stared at his telephone, indecisive. Would he contact his old friend Marks in the Gestapo? He decided he ought to, since the order to continue the investigation had been covertly passed to him. It smelt of Gestapo machinations, and who knows, Marks might even have more information on this man. He picked up the receiver and dialed for the switchboard.
“Put me through to Gestapo Headquarters.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The day began brightly. The tankmen ate a quick breakfast just as dawn was breaking, then piled into their machines once more. Orders had come that they were to attack the French before them that day. The Belgians had melted away, leaving their new allies to stop the Wehrmacht since they had failed.
Langer glanced at the map on his lap as he sat on his chair in the turret. Their task that day was to take the town of Hannut. The trouble was that the French were there already and dug in ahead of it. They would have to slug their way through the hard way. He shrugged mentally. Oh well, nothing is ever easy in war. He just hoped nothing went awry and they ended up on the wrong end of a beating.
Gus raised a problem just as they got ready; their fuel was very low and no supplies had reached them as yet. “We’ve got enough for a couple of hours fighting but after that we’re dry. I hope they get that gas to us by noon or we might as well get out and beat the French with shovels.”
Langer grimaced; fuel would always be a problem for Germany, not being able to produce any themselves. The nearest producer was Romania. Maybe they could do a trade deal with the Third Reich? That was down to the politicians and leaders, all Langer and his men could do was to keep on fighting and advancing. Overrunning the enemy fuel depots was another way of getting restocked.
Hannut was to the south on the road they had taken the previous day. The 4th Panzer Division was down there encountering stiff resistance. Orders came from the Colonel above Heidemann to speed to their assistance. Hannut had to fall. They drove in a single line south east away from the front line. Most of the division moved on ahead but Langer’s regiment had been detached to help the 4th at Hannut. They crossed a river, bridged by waving engineers, and they swung to the west once more, heading for a pall of smoke. Hannut.
Earphones crackled. Langer bent his head to listen to the regimental orders. Spread out and hit the front hard. The French were offering their flank in an effort to hold back the 4th division. The 4th were attacking from the east, while Langer’s unit was bearing down from the north-east.
Hannut appeared ahead. Barbed wire was strung across the road and sandbags denoted machine gun emplacements. “Independent action. Good luck,” Heidemann said.
“Right, Gus,” Langer barked into his mouthpiece, “head for those sandbags. Teacher, give them HE for breakfast.”
The 37mm spat at the French, sending sandbags out in an expanding ball of flame. Screams came to them from the defenders. A shot glanced off their hull and screamed into infinity behind them. “What was that?” Steffan asked, shaking his head. The impact had been close to his head.
“Anti-tank, in between two houses behind the MG emplacements. Got it, Teacher?” Langer said calmly. His eyes were constantly roving across the scene before him, watching the movement of enemy soldiers.
“Yep, zeroing in now.” The shot smashed straight into the gun, blowing it apart. A couple of shredded bodies flew backwards from the explosion.
“Good shot,” Langer said. “Go Gus, straight down the road.”
The panzer rattled over the remnants of the sandbags, squashing them down along with a crawling French Poilou, reducing his torso to the thickness of his arm. He had no chance to scream as oblivion descended upon him. A soldier shot two rounds from his rifle at them as they passed, then span in agony as a burst from a supporting schutzen gefreiter’s MP38 shredded his uniform to bloody ribbons.
The panzer roared into Hannut. Suddenly a big solid shape rolled out from a side street. “Shit!” Gus exclaimed, slamming on the brakes.
“Somua!” Langer exclaimed. “Teacher, Steffan, AP! Now!”
The Somua stopped, flank-on, and its turret swung in their direction with its evil 47mm cannon. Steffan slammed the round home and Teacher fixed the sights on the tank’s turret. The range was no more than thirty meters. Teacher fired, the shot slamming into the turret, the impact shuddering the Somua. A hole appeared in the turret. At that range even the 37mm could do damage. The French tank paused, the turret pointing right at the panzer, then suddenly reversed, smoke belching from its engine casing.
“He didn’t like that!” Felix exclaimed.
“Probably killed the commander. He’s the only one in the turret,” Langer suggested. “Gus, chase that tank. Steffan, another AP. Teacher, aim for the body, the driver.”
“I’d hate to face you in battle,” Gus said but did as ordered, swinging the panzer left in hot pursuit. The street was strewn with fallen masonry and a few bricks, and doorways were shut and blocked with sandbags. A couple of soldiers appeared in front of the still retreatin
g Somua, rifles raised, and they fired a couple of shots before diving off the street into an alleyway. The panzer passed them by contemptuously. The supporting schutzen would deal with them.
The Somua began weaving from side to side desperately but Teacher zeroed in, sending a round into the main body, penetrating the frontal armor and exploding inside the vehicle. The tank clattered to a halt and smoke began pouring from it. Nobody got out.
“What now?” Gus demanded. The street was blocked. Langer swung the turret and looked behind. Soldiers were zig-zagging along it, attracting sniper fire from the surrounding buildings. One, a warehouse to the right, had a couple of machine guns blasting away from the upper area.
“Go into that warehouse, drive through it! Felix, Teacher, machine-guns.”
The panzer swung sharply and bored into the brick wall which caved in under the power of the vehicle. Shedding bricks like a prehistoric amphibian emerging from water, it charged through the cavernous interior, smashing aside packages of something which had been stacked there. Shots rained down on the armored beast from all round but the bullets bounced off harmlessly.
“Watch for grenades,” Langer said sharply, his eyes roving constantly, his forehead glued to the rubber surround of the sight.
Felix sent a chattering burst from the hull MG into a knot of French soldiers trying to open a wide door on the far side, hoping to escape, and they toppled like an old rotten fence in a heap.
“Look out,” Teacher snapped, spotting one man pulling the pin from a grenade to the left. “Left! Grenade!”
Gus span the tank and Felix’s burst exploded across the man’s chest, catapulting him backwards, the live grenade spinning lazily upwards, and it exploded still in mid-air, sending shrapnel rattling against the panzer.
