Not unusual for a man who led a double life, Lehmann now had a number of courses of action open to him. If he could deliver a Tiger into Soviet hands, he might be allowed to interrogate the crew... and if one of those men just happened to be Hans von Schroif, life would be complete. It was all too obvious from the Wochenschau film report now playing in cinemas across Germany that one of the reasons for von Schroif’s success was his tight-knit and exceptionally talented crew. So, before the new tank was shipped to the front, one obvious option was to weaken the crew...
His first thought was of Knispel, but he was too much of a public hero, known for his boxing prowess, and his record was too clean...
But this Bavarian oaf, Otto Wohl... he seemed to be the easiest target. Nothing in particular, but there were certain anomalies in his records and a bit of hearsay about defeatist talk. Lehmann decided to send Bremer out in the field – Bremer, his shiny little Nazi – to pull him in for questioning. Hardly an end to the Tiger project, but it might disrupt the cohesion of von Schroif’s crew, and a weakened crew might just make a vital mistake at the front...
Then there was the Dane. An art teacher with a grudge, making tanks... There was something there, but that’s enough for one day... For now it was time for a drink, and some female company.
“Time to let off some steam,” said Lehmann to himself. Picking up his favourite riding crop, Lehmann set off on the familiar trail to the female cell block.
In the other ranks’ mess hall that evening sat four shattered men, but none more so than Otto Wohl. The morning had been mentally gruelling, and the training that afternoon equally so in terms of physical effort, but it was the humiliation in front of his fellows and the dread of mental toil that was to come which had so deflated Otto Wohl.
Hans von Schroif unexpectedly entered the room and the men sprang to attention. As he gestured for the assembled troops to sit down and pulled up a chair, he noticed the genuine turmoil written on Otto Wohl’s face and immediately felt sympathy for him. How many times had Wohl saved their lives, and how could you measure such indebtedness?
“Well, where do we go from here, Wohl?” asked von Schroif, more in sympathy than anything.
No one spoke. Everyone knew that the unschooled Wohl, for all his natural wit, was unlikely to suddenly shine in written exams. As the gloomy realisation that the team could be split apart dawned, the crew settled into a glum silence.
“If only the Tiger manuals were illustrated like Die Wundertüte, he might have a chance of getting through,” said Junge with obvious frustration.
“What is this damn Wundertüte anyway?” asked von Schroif.
“Here it is, Haupsturmführer,” said Wohl, producing the small magazine which now looked set to be his downfall. “When all this is over, I hope to work for them as a cartoonist.”
“Joke books are for kids... I’ll stick to Der Stürmer,” grumbled Knispel disdainfully.
“There are more jokes in that rag than in Die Wundertüte,” retorted Wohl.
“I won’t have that! It’s the Führer’s favourite,” retorted Knispel.
“Only when he has to wipe his arse!”
“Wohl! Enough,” snapped von Schroif, suddenly alert to the danger. “Walls have ears... unless you’d like to spend some time in Dachau.”
“My father died in Dachau...” said Wohl quietly.
The mood instantly grew even more sombre as each of the crew searched for the appropriate words. Since 1933, Dachau had been synonymous with the suppression of political enemies of the Nazi state. This was the place where social democrats, trade unionists, communists, anti-socials and intellectuals disappeared into nacht und nebel, or “night and fog”. The mere mention of Dachau spread terror throughout German society, but the epicentre was in Wohl’s native Bavaria. The place was only twenty kilometres from the rough streets of Munich, where Wohl had grown up.
For von Schroif there was a slightly different resonance; this was the place where he had suffered the ignominy of losing a battle between his much vaunted Freikorps and a rabble of communists – a painful and bitter memory.
There was a respectful silence while the crew digested the awful possibility of the fate that might have befallen Wohl’s father.
The silence was eventually broken only by the impeccable comic timing of Otto Wohl. “...he got drunk and fell out of his watch tower... broke his fucking neck!”
Even von Schroif could not contain a slight smile. The others gave a hearty belly laugh.
As he returned to leafing through the jokes, von Schroif stopped at page 33 and even gave a small chuckle. “That’s a good one with the ghosts... not so bad being dead,” he said, handing the joke book to Junge.
The welcome spirit of levity was short-lived. Junge appreciatively glanced at a few more risqué illustrations, then handed the small publication back to Wohl, as a despondent silence descended once more.
Surprisingly, it was the taciturn Karl Wendorff who spoke next.
“If I may, sir?”
Hauptsturmführer von Schroif nodded his assent.
“Well, it’s just that, judging by today’s events, it looks like one can just about get away with presenting one less than perfect paper at the Paderborn Panzer examinations. Major Rondorf sounds like a fair man.”
“A total bastard, you mean,” thought Wohl, who for once had the good sense to keep his thoughts to himself.
“So, tonight I propose that I will forgo some of my planned preparation for the mechanical paper and instead help SS-Panzerschütze Otto Wohl with the mysterious and hitherto inexplicable behaviour of the radio wave and its relevance to Germany’s Panzerkampfwagen Mark VI. Furthermore, my fee for such a task shall be negligible...”
“I can’t give up my rations... I’m fading away already, Wendorff.”
“No, you can continue to pig out, Wohl. If you pass, and I’m sure that with my help you can, I would like you to finally give up your former life as a complete Philistine and agree to accompany me to the new production of Das Rheingold, which is being performed in Paderborn. There you shall hear the music of the master of Bayreuth, conducted by the great Fürtwangler, and learn the real possibility of what the human brain can achieve if one looks upwards and outwards, beyond the world of Die Wundertüte.”
Wendorff was a Wagner addict who could generally find something on the dial every time even a note of Wagner was broadcast from anywhere in Europe. Like his Führer, he loved Wagner to the exclusion of everything else, but he had been so far unsuccessful in his attempts to lure Wohl and his fellow crew members into the world of high culture.
“Look, I’m desperate, Wendorff... Wagner sounds more like a prison sentence to me, but, if you can keep me on the crew, I’ll do it...”
“Good man, Wendorff!” exclaimed von Schroif. “This is what a team is. Someone, and, as fate would have it, usually the right one, will step forward and offer himself when the team finds itself in trouble... And if Wohl has to suffer grand opera for his punishment, then so shall we all... I will take the extra pain and pay for the tickets.”
This was in reality no great concession from von Schroif. He had grown up on opera and loved nothing better than to attend, with its parade of attractive young women. The lure of the opening part of the Nibelungen saga was less apparent to the remaining members of the team.
“But, sir...!” began SS-Hauptscharführer Michael Knispel.
“You too, Knispel... and you, Junge,” added von Schroif, his voice full of mock sincerity.
Wendorff did not see anything to laugh about and seized his opportunity with both hands. “Thank you, Herr Haupsturmführer. I shall reserve the tickets.”
Wohl was still despondent. “I can’t see the point. I couldn’t ever pass an exam at school... all I could do was draw. How can I pass an exam? I’ll never understand this stuff. These manuals are as dry as dust... they mean nothing to me, just lists of numbers.” Turning to von Schroif, tears began to form in his eyes. “I just can’t do
it, sir...”
Again Wendorff spoke. “But this time it’s different, Wohl... we’ll do the learning in Die Wundertüte style!”
Two days ago, under cover of darkness, Korsak’s tank unit had been surreptitiously ferried across the river and concealed in a grove. He had spent the following day in reconnaissance, coordination with Naminsky, and establishment of communications. From long experience he knew that the attack had to be made on a moonlit night, so that the infantry could orient itself and give his tanks the signals necessary for them to maintain direction. The tanks had to be used in echelons, keeping the movement to a comparatively narrow front, and creating an exaggerated idea as to the number of tanks in the battle. During the attack, Korsak knew that the tanks must under no circumstances be separated from the desyanti, the tank-riding infantry, as at night the tanks needed the help of the infantry even more than in the daytime.
Korsak had decided to send the tanks on a flanking movement from the south and the southwest, in order to give the enemy the impression that they were surrounded by a large force. The tanks were echeloned in depth. The heavy tanks were in the first echelon, the lighter tanks with desyanti tank riders were in the second echelon, and in the third echelon were tanks hauling guns. The shells for the gun were carried on the tanks.
Standing motionless in the commander’s position of his KV-1, lit by the faint glow of the moon, Korsak held his breath and looked at his watch. Naminsky had better not let him down.
For once, he was not disappointed. Twenty minutes before the attack, exactly as ordered, every available piece of artillery on the Soviet side began to rain down shells on the German front lines.
“Good, give those bastards hell,” thought Korsak to himself.
The artillery bombardment was fierce and brutal in its intensity, and for twenty nerve-rending minutes every gun was fired in a pitiless preparation on the front lines of the fascists. Exactly on cue, half of the barrels then shifted to the rear, concentrating on the possible avenues of retreat.
Zero hour was thirty minutes before dark. In these thirty minutes, Korsak’s tanks moved from the jump-off positions, reached the Soviet infantry positions, collected the designated desyanti, and moved out.
On the German side of the lines the ferocity of the artillery preparation came as a disconcerting surprise. Nonetheless, SS-Untersturmführer Brand and his men followed their customary practice and scuttled into cover in their dugouts on the rear slopes. As soon as the artillery fire was lifted to the rear firing points and the reserve positions, Brand realized that the attack was about to commence. He roused his unwilling men and began to move back towards the firing positions, but so heavy was the concentration of mortar and now machine gun fire on the forward firing points that the Germans were pinned down and unable to get back to their firing positions.
According to Korsak’s plan, the Soviet small-arms weapons were brought forward and proceeded to destroy the effectiveness of the few active forward firing points by direct fire at the embrasures. Meanwhile, the artillery and mortars kept up the neutralising fire on the rear firing points.
Attacking in formation, Naminsky was able to capture the enemy positions with mostly just the supporting artillery and machine-gun fire. The full moon aided observation and, soon after crossing the line of their own infantry, the Soviet tanks rolled to a halt and opened fire on the remaining points of resistance. The flashes of the few German guns firing in return and the constant stream of flares discharged by Soviet infantry aided fire direction.
From his position to the south, Korsak noted with grim satisfaction that the German artillery seemed to have been taken completely by surprise and was conducting un-aimed, disorderly fire, and often seemed to be shelling their own infantry positions. Pressed from both the flanks and the front, the will to fight suddenly evaporated, and SS-Untersturmführer Brand and his surviving men began a disorderly retreat.
Korsak realised that his tanks and infantry had taken full possession of the enemy strongpoint. He now charged after the fleeing survivors, grinding them under the tracks of the KV-1. He sensed that there was no time to rest. The tanks manoeuvred along the south and southwestern slopes of the hills, enabling Naminsky’s infantry to consolidate their positions. It soon became evident that the hills were securely occupied by Naminsky’s infantry, and Korsak gratefully ordered the tanks returned to the grove to refuel, take on more ammunition, and be inspected.
Only Korsak and his KV-1 remained on the field. The German dead, the equipment left on the field of battle, and the few dazed prisoners captured that night gave proof that the night attack was a complete surprise to the Germans. It felt good. The impression of complete encirclement was created, and enemy officers and men scattered in all directions.
During the night the enemy attempted a few desultory counterattacks, but they were effortlessly beaten back and, most importantly, resulted in no loss of Soviet tanks.
The mission was a complete success. The White Devil had restored his reputation. Now it was time to strike back.
CHAPTER 5
DIE WOCHENSCHAU
Far away from the thunder of the Eastern Front, von Schroif and his crew were experiencing a different kind of night. They worked together to get Wohl through the paper he needed to pass.
SS-Panzeroberschütze Karl Wendorff had assembled a crude kindergarten facsimile of a radio transmitter and receiver using boxes, tins, buttons and laces. Patiently, and in the most graphic style possible, he taught Otto Wohl about the right wavelengths and volumes. He encouraged Wohl to draw the positions so that he became familiar with the need to check that all the switches were in the “off” position when not in use, and also to check the connections from the battery over box 23 in the base plate. He made a checklist of the adjustments for locking the frequency and switching to keyed mode. Then he turned to instruction on the intercom and illustrated the use of buttons for speaking and listening... and then they went back to the radio... and then returned to the intercom.
When he was satisfied that Wohl had a firm grasp of the procedures and the thinking behind them, he at last moved onto the bow machine gun. This was easier, as SS-Panzerschütze Wohl had enacted this role in real life and in the heat of battle too. The job in hand, however, was now to turn that instinctive knowledge into something that might pass muster on an exam paper.
“Jamming?”
“Remove foot from trigger. On right, move cocking slide back. Check position of lock, check what is being ejected, anything in the way of the lock?”
“Lock is in almost forward position. What is ejected?”
“Cartridge...”
“Intact. What jams?”
“Locking catch.”
“Remedy?”
“Exchange barrel.”
“Lock is in the centre position. Barrel free. What jams?”
“Ejector rod.”
“Remedy?”
“Exchange lock. Lock does not stay in place, if it is to stop hold belt, wear on trigger, use other machine gun.”
Still he went on, memorising the chart, saying it out loud until Wohl could answer each of Wendorff’s questions.
With the other three men independently studying their own allocated tasks, the little hut was a hive of mental activity, the bright light of dedicated application shining all night and into the small hours as the Tigermen prepared for the day that lay ahead.
At three o’clock, Schroif decided that they should all rest, except for Otto Wohl, who had to go back and restudy the role of the loader, a subject in which he would ordinarily be an instructor.
The next set of exercises involved the complicated physics that governed the survivability of a hit and the angle at which the tank should be set in front of a target. To help Wohl, it was explained that it was basically like a clock, with 12 o’clock facing straight ahead. Given that the enemy’s shells had more metal to penetrate if they hit the tank at an angle rather than straight on, it was a golden rule to maintain the tank at
an angle to its opponent.
For shorthand reasons, Wendorff developed a quick explanation. The safest angles could be equated to certain “meal times”. For example, given that the best angles to position the tank at had clock designations of 10.30, 1.30, 4.30 and 7.30, these angles and the corresponding times were labelled for the ever hungry Wohl as “Breakfast”, “Lunch”, “Coffee” and “Supper”.
The Cloverleaf was a simple way of representing the areas and distances in which the Tiger was safe from enemy anti-tank fire. For example, knowing the distance at which a shell from a T-34 could penetrate the Tiger’s armour, and also knowing the advantage that the angle of the tank could confer, Wendorff prepared a simple diagram which resembled the leaves of a clover. This simple aide-mémoire would ensure that even the slower members of the crew could quickly calculate whether they were in danger or not.
Wendorff explained that to be inside the cloverleaf was to be safe. If any enemy tank managed to get himself within the imaginary outline, then you most certainly were not safe, and it was time to turn the vehicle quickly to one of the meal times!
The “Goetz theory” was another expression developed by Wendorff for Wohl’s benefit. It was a straightforward bit of arithmetic for Wendorff, but a difficult concept for Wohl, which was made clear by a comparison involving the popular fictional knight, Goetz, and his mighty reach.
“Look,” said Wendorff, patiently poring over the diagram, “the Goetz reach lies between your cloverleaf and your maximum range. So, for example, if you are facing a T-34 at 12 o’clock, you know that your cloverleaf extends to 500 metres – you are safe within this distance. But you also know that, like Goetz, you can kill him at 800 metres. Therefore, the Anti-Goetz is between 500 metres and 800 metres. This is the key, the decisive factor, you see?”
“Ah, I get it! That’s simple. So, if he comes at you from 12 o’clock, turn the tank towards lunch so that he stays within the cloverleaf, then hit him before he reaches 500 metres! Easy! Why didn’t you say so earlier, instead of all that angle stuff?”
Tiger Command! Page 10
