by Tony Roberts
He got mute shakes of the head from the others.
“Because, my ignorant comrades, it allows the German army to march in the shade!” He chuckled at his own humor.
Teacher lay on the ground, his eyes closed. Langer came and sat next to him, his back against the huge wheels of the tank. “Won’t be long before we get going again against the Frogs.”
Teacher nodded. “I doubt they’ve got the forces to stop us, Carl. But what happens once we wrap this one up?”
“I don’t know, Teacher. Hitler won’t rest until he’s master of the entire continent. You heard the news that Italy’s joined in on our side?”
“They’re not worth much,” Teacher said dismissively. “That might be a bad move on Mussolini’s part.”
“True, but what else could he do? He’s fascist like Hitler, and he’s no doubt worried he’ll miss out on the peace talks once France is defeated unless he joins the party. Don’t think their army’s up to much, but they do have a big navy which’ll challenge the Brits in the Mediterranean.”
“You’ve got that right, Carl. You know, you come out with some really insightful stuff at times that constantly surprises me. I swear you’ve studied history at some point; you’ve got to have had.”
Langer smiled and closed his eyes. Teacher sighed and began excavating his pipe, knowing he wouldn’t get any further response from his enigmatic commander. They were all tired, but the few days’ rest from fighting had rejuvenated them, and their spirits were high. They had, after all, conquered two countries and had a third on the run, an opponent whom everyone had thought was better than them. They had caught them with a brilliantly executed plan and now were poised to breach the last French defensive line. Should this go, then there was little doubt the panzers would sweep all before them and France would be added to a growing list of nations that had been brought under Hitler’s heel.
Two days later the offensive began with the overture of artillery sending hundreds of projectiles over the river to fall into the enemy forward positions, their supply depots and their lines of communications, battering the already shaky French morale. Stukas, Heinkels and Dorniers flew overhead to deliver more hammer blows from the air, and then the first movement commenced with engineers throwing up dozens of metal bridges for the infantry to sweep across to clear the far bank of any resistance. Once this was achieved, Von Runstedt, commander of Army Group A, released the panzers.
Langer’s tank was one of the first to cross into enemy territory. The French soldiers scattered in panic, their artillery smashed. A few pockets stood for a while but the panzers were everywhere, wheeling, shooting, blasting. Their numbers seemed endless.
Langer directed Gus to pursue a fleeing French armored car. It had markings of a divisional commander on the sides, and to take him out would almost certainly cripple the ability of the French forces to co-ordinate any meaningful response to the breakthrough. The panzer was slower than the car, and it began to widen the gap. “Teacher, send an HE round at its ass.”
The 37mm spat vengefully, the shell narrowly missing the armored car and exploding against a tree which shattered into pieces, falling onto the road. The French vehicle swerved to avoid it and crashed blindly through a wooden fence into the countryside. Gus shouted in glee and plowed through the fence into the same field. The armored car weaved from side to side but on rough terrain the panzer had the edge and closed the distance. Now Teacher carefully zeroed in on the car and the next round smashed into the car and it exploded into pieces, the larger parts cartwheeling lazily through the air to fall dozens of yards apart.
“One commander you can strike off,” Langer said in satisfaction. “That’ll mess up their communications.”
“Somua!” Teacher announced excitedly. “Dead ahead!”
“I see it,” Langer said. “Gus, evasive action.”
The brown and green painted tank had emerged from behind a barn and was swinging its turret in their direction. This was farmland and the farmhouse complex stood to the right. Gus made for it, a large rectangular construction with two big buildings forming two sides and a long wall the other two.
Other panzers were converging on the buildings, eager to burst out of the bridgehead and the Somua was suddenly faced with six opponents. Three were Panzer IIs, two were IIIs and one a IV. Heidemann’s voice came over the radio into Langer’s ears. “Destroy that Somua and we’re through their defenses! Go, go!”
The Somua fired, the shell glancing off the turret, shaking Langer and giving him a nasty moment, then it began to turn and flee. Six to one wasn’t good odds, especially when one was a IV with a tank killing gun. Gus smashed into the long wall of the farmhouse, sending it caving in, and the tank rose up briefly before bouncing down and rumbled through the courtyard, sending chickens scattering in panic. A sheepdog whined and took cover under a water trough, its tail between its legs.
Gus wrestled with the levers and crashed into the wall where there was a gap in between the farmhouse and the barn. The panzer emerged like a beast from hell from the exploding wall, thirty yards behind the Somua. Teacher demanded an AP shell and Steffan slammed it home. The shot from the 37 struck square on the Somua’s turret but failed to penetrate. “Damn it to hell!” Langer snapped, “we’ve got to get better guns than this!”
The Somua’s turret began turning behind it as it carried on fleeing. “Oh shit,” Gus said and swung the panzer left and right, hoping to put it off.
“Teacher, keep shooting!” Langer said desperately.
Teacher’s second shot hit the turret at the base but again failed to do any damage. As the 47mm locked onto them the IV opened up, the 75 smashing into its hull and punching a hole into the main body. The Somua shuddered, swung to the left and came to a halt, smoke pouring out of the hole and the hatches as they were flung open.
“Now that’s what we need!” Gus slapped his thigh. “A proper gun, not something like I had pre-puberty!”
“Agreed,” Langer said. “Right, Gus, get onto the road and make for Chalons. That’s our objective!”
“You got it, my darling!” Gus shouted in relief and swung the III towards the road, passing the burning Somua, followed by the other panzers. Now there was nothing to stop their progress south.
* * *
The announcer in the Berlin Anhalter Banhof called passengers to board the train standing at platform 3 to Vienna. The platform was transformed into a hive of activity as people made for the carriages and its open doors. Patiently passengers waited their turn to climb up into the train and find their seats.
Smoke puffed up lazily from the locomotive as it waited for the command to get going on its long journey south to Frankfurt, Munich and then Vienna. One seat in the second carriage was taken by a particularly pretty female who was dressed in a stylish beige jacket and black skirt, and wore a small beret pinned to her hair at a rakish angle.
Isabella Longini opened the copy of the Volkischer Beobachter newspaper she had purchased at the station and began scanning the pages for a particular story. On page four she found it; an article concerning the rise of crime in Berlin and recent murders in particular. The article mentioned the death, last night, of Gestapo agent Ferdinand Marks, found dead with his throat cut in a seedy hotel. The journalist demanded the police agencies track down the perpetrators, undoubtedly Jewish criminals, and bring them to justice.
Isabella permitted herself a brief smile, then dismissed the story and returned to page one which was full of the news of the war. France was crumbling and defeat was certain now, especially with Italy in the war on Germany’s side. The unexpected collapse of France now meant that Hitler’s attention was turning towards Britain. Could the Third Reich succeed where Napoleon had failed?
She sucked on her lower lip. She did not wish for the Nazis to win, and hoped that someone somewhere could find the strength to stand up to Hitler and defeat him. But who? Stalin? Would he be preferred to Hitler, or was he as bad? Or worse? Then there was the fact her id
ol was fighting for the Wehrmacht. While she knew he couldn’t die, there was a part of her that wished he would do well and not end up broken by defeat.
What would her family say? She would discuss that with them in Davos, Switzerland, when she got there.
The train set off and the hypnotic clickety-clack of the wheels began to eat into her mind and she put the paper down and gazed out of the window over the buildings that passed by, but she was not seeing them, rather she was imagining the rumbling panzers on their inexorable march across the countryside and the scarred, blue-eyed man she had briefly loved in that Amiens hotel standing in his turret, dressed in black.
Casca Rufio Longinus.
EPILOGUE
The sound of wheels faded and the world of the 21st century returned to the ears and eyes of Danny Landries and Julius Goldman. Danny rubbed his eyes, clearing the last of the traces of the induced hypnotic tale from his mind, then turned to see how Goldman was coping.
As usual, the elderly man was having trouble. The older he got, the worse the effects of being put under Carlos’ spell. Goldman was shaking , his head low. “You okay, Uncle Jules?” he asked, concerned.
“Yeah, yeah,” Goldman nodded after a few moments. He wiped saliva from his lips, not wanting to dribble. God, getting old was inevitable but he hoped to do it with some dignity! “These tales take a hell of a toll on me, Danny, but I just can’t resist it when I get the chance of listening to them first hand. Hearing them on a CD or whatever is not the same, you understand?”
Danny agreed. He looked at Carlos, sat with his eyes shut at the end of the bench. He looked drained, too, as he always tended to be after telling one of his stories. The giving was as exhausting as the taking, so it seemed. “And you, Carlos? Coping with not being a Nazi?”
Carlos opened his eyes and seemed to sag slightly. “I was never a Nazi, neither were nearly all those who fought for Germany in the Wehrmacht. Only the leaders and the SS and organizations like that were Nazis. Calling all of those who fought for Germany Nazis is an insult to them. It’d be like calling all the American soldiers fighting in any conflict today, Democrats. You think they’d all appreciate that?”
“Uhh, no!” Danny grinned. “I see your point.”
Carlos nodded and yawned. “I guess I need a sleep. These recollections tire me out, guys. You going to be okay, Doctor? You look shattered.”
Goldman nodded. “I just need to stand up a minute.” He got up with Danny’s help. “That’s better. Heard your first tale of World War Two years ago in Berlin. Thought you’d fill in all the gaps, not leave one in the middle. That’s unfair of you.” He smiled, robbing any possible offense from his words.
“Oh, yes, ’41 to the beginning of ’43. Ahh, so much happened in those years it was hard to put it all in the same session. I’ll tell you about them another time.”
“For God’s sake make it soon; I don’t know if I have the time left if you leave it as long this time round!”
Carlos chuckled, then his face went serious. In a way, Goldman was as close a friend as he’d had in all his time, with the possible exception of Glam Tyrsbjorn or Gus. Goldman was old now, and Carlos had known him for over forty years. Maybe, if Goldman was lucky, he’d ten or fifteen left, but that was it. “Well, we’d best get you back home, Doctor.”
“I’ll take him, Carlos,” Danny said. “I need to speak to you about what you need from the new company. You got the time today?”
“Sure; I’m not doing anything this week. Sort of vacation for me. I’m in between jobs, and I’m getting tired of living out of cheap hotels. I need a new base somewhere.”
They began retracing their steps towards the Metro. Carlos went over in his head of possible locations. “Owned by the company, of course. Maintained like any corporate building.”
“Any place in mind?”
“Some,” Carlos grinned and threw up a few suggestions. The three walked back slowly across the Common, talking not of the past for a change, but the future.
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 41 The Longbowman
Casca steals a Southampton criminal's girl and escapes retribution by joining King Henry V's army assembling nearby for a campaign to France. Disguising the girl as one of their band, Casca and his new comrades are soon embroiled in a lengthy siege where the fighting bogs down amongst the fortifications. Casca soon learns that the French are not his only opponents, for the criminal has sent an assassin after him and the girl as punishment for their actions.
As the rains of autumn arrive, the English army embarks on a long trek to safety, harassed by converging French armies, and the eternal mercenary must use his centuries of combat and survival skills to protect the girl from the danger closing in on them.
Riddled with disease, the English realise they will have to turn and fight for their lives even though they are outnumbered and without food, but Casca and his comrades have the one weapon the French rightly fear, the longbow, and on a rain-sodden field in northern France they will take part in one of the battles that will echo down the ages in folklore.
For more information on the entire Casca series see www.casca.net
The Barry Sadler website www.barrysadler.com
THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS
By Barry Sadler
Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary
Casca 2: God of Death
Casca 3: The Warlord
Casca 4: Panzer Soldier
Casca 5: The Barbarian
Casca 6: The Persian
Casca 7: The Damned
Casca 8: Soldier of Fortune
Casca 9: The Sentinel
Casca 10: The Conquistador
Casca 11: The Legionnaire
Casca 12: The African Mercenary
Casca 13: The Assassin
Casca 14: The Phoenix
Casca 15: The Pirate
Casca 16: Desert Mercenary
Casca 17: The Warrior
Casca 18: The Cursed
Casca 19: The Samurai
Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon
Casca 21: The Trench Soldier
Casca 22: The Mongol
By Tony Roberts
Casca 25: Halls of Montezuma
Casca 26: Johnny Reb
Casca 27: The Confederate
Casca 28: The Avenger
Casca 30: Napoleon’s Soldier
Casca 31: The Conqueror
Casca 32: The Anzac
Casca 34: Devil’s Horseman
Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood
Casca 36: The Minuteman
Casca 37: Roman Mercenary
Casca 38: The Continental
Casca 39: The Crusader
Casca 40: Blitzkrieg
Casca 41: The Longbowman
