“They both say the same, Wohl. One is in the language of mathematics and the other is pure Wundertüte,” said Wendorff, without a trace of sarcasm.
“Well, on behalf of the great unwashed and untutored, let’s say it in Die Wundertüte style, highly effective and absolutely deadly!”
“Well,” von Schroif said, “perhaps there should be an exception. I shall also stay up and tutor Knispel on the relatively unimportant role of the commander, perhaps the easiest of all the functions!”
So, while Bobby Junge and Karl Wendorff tried to get as much sleep as they could, Hans von Schroif and Michael Knispel went over diagrams, tactics, and the order to shoot.
“Motor cover closed, engage lock, Funker’s hatch closed, Fahrer’s hatch closed, lamps removed, track clear for shot,” Wohl read and then, exclaiming out loud, “Of course, why didn’t you just ask that!” However, as he read further, despite his tiredness, he now felt emboldened, his confidence growing. Despite all his enemies, he may just pass this exam after all!
The disconcerting news of the successful night attack outside Rostov had not yet reached von Schroif and his crew. They were still immersed in the anxiety-provoking business of passing examination papers and gave little thought to events on the now-distant front.
As the crew waited nervously for the results, there was a small crumb of comfort to be taken from the fact that Major Jurgen Rondorf appeared less stern than usual. Fortunately, he didn’t keep them waiting long before letting the anxious crew know the results.
The marks that day were not as high as the day before, with the exception of von Schroif, who had excelled in the gunnery paper, but which now appeared irrelevant against the welcome news that Otto Wohl had passed both papers. It had been a close run thing and, even with Wendorff’s help, the 51% pass mark seemed to stretch generosity to the limit.
Major Rondorf’s new-found praise and encouragement masked a little inner smile which indicated that he knew exactly what had been going on, especially in light of Wendorff’s lower than expected results, which were passable, but, in Rondorf’s opinion, not as high as one of his obvious intellectual abilities should have attained. The men were clearly dog-tired and Rondorf appreciated the effort. He had seen the lights burning long into the night. He could have called lights out, but he had been lenient. There were no points for camaraderie, but it was noticed and approved of.
Walter Lehmann did not take kindly to the new request. “Ensure Tigers diverted from Rostov to Leningrad? Did the Soviets have any idea how complicated and dangerous that would be?”
Hitler was taking a close personal interest in the subject. Every fool knew that the deployment of the Tiger would be his decision. How on earth was he supposed to influence Hitler’s thinking? The man was renowned for his tendency to meddle in the minutiae of operational affairs. Even his generals and the chiefs of staff found it impossible to bring him around to their way of thinking – and let’s give the monster some credit, his grasp, his research, his photographic memory and his ability to be ruthlessly decisive set him well apart from ordinary mortals – once his mind had been made up, God himself would have had difficulty persuading him to decide upon an alternative path.
The only possible way to get Hitler to change tack would be to introduce credible new information, but it would have to be compelling and significant. Hitler did have the ability to change his own mind on reacting to new operational information and that would be the key – not to have others change his mind for him, according to their own opinions, but to allow Hitler to believe that he had changed his own mind.
The Soviets had prepared for this with a new piece of misinformation regarding heavy tank build ups in the Leningrad area, but Lehmann knew this would never be enough. What he needed was a second bit of intelligence that was independent and that gave credence to the first. He could then forward this to i.G Borgmann, who could then pass it on to Hitler himself. That way, they may just have a chance of getting inside the mind of Hitler, allowing him to rearrange the old facts in accordance with the new.
But he was beginning to have doubts about Borgmann. Oberstleutnant i.G Borgmann was an army liaison officer attached to Hitler’s HQ at Rastenburg. Lehmann and Borgmann had been in the SS together. Lehmann had always had him in his pocket, so to speak, but since his move to Rastenburg, Borgmann did not seem as receptive to RHSA communications as he had been before. Perhaps it was the sway and pull of the Wehrmacht, perhaps because he was so close to Hitler, maybe even because he did not need Lehmann to advance his career any further. Whatever the reason, the centre of gravity in their relationship had changed. Getting to Hitler had never been a problem before, Borgmann being the perfect conduit for any information Lehmann needed to pass down the line, but that last link was not as strong as it had once been.
Dressed for the part in immaculate double-breasted black wool jackets, matching trousers and boots, the five men strolled through the streets of Paderborn, catching the eye of every girl who passed.
Were they not warriors? Had they not lifted the veil of shame that hung over their countrymen since the Treaty of Versailles? Was Germany not now at ease with itself?
To von Schroif, the memory of his hard times in the Freikorps seemed distant – a torn and divided country – as did the times of economic hardship, but now look at it! The streets bustled under the warm May sky, shopkeepers busily selling their wares, children playing safely in the streets – this was what they were fighting for! They were fighting for peace! This glimpse – this was not just a snapshot of what Germany had become through its own striving, but what it would become – this was not just part of the present, this was a vision of the future!
The local cinema was screening the latest Wochenschau newsreel as the Tiger men called in and surreptitiously took their seats. Each feigned nonchalance, but each was secretly excited. After a well-cut sequence of tank combat, the narrator began his frantic commentary.
“The Eastern Front! Outside Rostov, a fierce tank battle results in the destruction of twenty Soviet tanks. These fearless fighters have become known as the Lions of Rostov. Their heroic deeds were recognised by the award of various decorations from the hand of the Führer himself.”
A wide shot of the five crewmen receiving their awards from Hitler filled the screen.
“Hey, it’s us!” gasped an excited Otto Wohl.
“And here are the heroic crewmen who crewed the panzer in combat against the red menace. Led by Haupsturmführer Hans von Schroif, the crew consists of just five men – a commander, a gunner, a loader, a driver, and a radio operator who is also the hull machine-gunner.”
A big close-up of a smiling von Schroif filled the screen.
Otto Wohl gave a whoop of delight. “Hurrah, it’s the boss!” He was quickly shushed by the others, who were eager to hear the commentary.
“The tank commander is responsible for the vehicle and the crew. He is the brains of the outfit and has many duties. He indicates targets to the gunner, gives fire orders, and observes the fall of shots. He keeps a constant lookout for the enemy, observes the zone for which he is responsible, and watches for any orders from his commander’s vehicle. In action, he gives his orders to the driver and radio operator by intercommunication telephone, and to the gunner and loader by touch signals or through a speaking tube. He receives orders by radio or flag, and reports to his commander by radio, signal pistol, or flag.”
What concerned von Schroif was the fact that, behind himself and the crew, the mantlet and 88 mm gun of the Tiger could be clearly seen. This was obviously a deliberate inclusion on the part of the propaganda ministry. Rumours were rife, and a glimpse of the new machine was no doubt intended to give substance to the rumours, and to help bolster morale. Given the choice, von Schroif would have preferred no information to leak out, but then he was not the expert and, if he was honest about it, he was rather proud of his new life in the spotlight.
There was a cut to a close-up of a smiling Michael Knispel. I
n his embarrassment, Knispel couldn’t help let slip, “God, it’s me! My mother always said I’d be a movie star!” As Knispel looked on in amazement, the narrator kept up his rapid delivery.
“The gunner is second in command. He fires the turret gun, the turret machine gun, or the machine carbine, as ordered by the tank commander. He assists the tank commander in observation. In the action at Rostov, the actions were carried out by Michael Knispel, the Berliner born in 1910, who has achieved greatness in the boxing ring and has beaten Max Diekmann, who himself has beaten the great Max Schmelling!”
There was a spontaneous ripple of applause in the cinema and Knispel slouched down in his seat to avoid recognition. As the camera cut to a close up of Wohl, gurning into the camera, the young man fell uncharacteristically silent as he drank in every moment of his short burst of fame.
“Otto Wohl, the laughing loader, is a young man from Munich who typifies all that is best from that proud area of the Reich. The loader loads and maintains the turret armament under the orders of the gunner. He is also responsible for the care of ammunition and, when the cupola is closed, gives any flag signals required. He deputises for the radio operator in an emergency.”
“If Knispel farts and he has to bail out, you mean!” quipped an excited Otto Wohl, who was quickly silenced by a look from von Schroif.
Bobby Junge’s beaming face now filled the screen.
“The driver is SS-Panzerschütze Bobby Junge from Heidelberg. Junge is renowned for his pre-war performances against Rudolf Caracciola and the tragic Bernd Rosemeyer at the Nurburgring, which indicated a trajectory of great success. Once the war is won, we hope that racing will once again be a part of the young man’s life. He operates the vehicle under the orders of the tank commander, or in accordance with orders received by radio from the commander’s vehicle. He also assists in observation, reporting over the intercommunication telephone the presence of the enemy, or of any obstacles in the path of the tank. He watches the fuel consumption and is responsible to the tank commander for the care and maintenance of the vehicle.”
Last but not least came a close-up of an embarrassed Karl Wendorff. Unlike the others, Wendorff didn’t smile or mug for the camera. He squirmed in his seat as the narrator turned his attention to the radio operator’s role.
“Finally we have the Funkmeister, SS-Panzeroberschütze Karl Wendorff, the quiet philosopher, who turns his abilities to the practical duties of a panzermann. The Funker operates the radio set under the orders of the tank commander. In action, when not actually transmitting, he always keeps the radio set at ‘receive.’ He operates the intercommunication telephone and writes down any radio messages not sent or received by the tank commander. He fires the machine gun mounted in the front of the tank. He takes over the duties of the loader if the latter is wounded. These then are the lions of Rostov, five very different men, and now these great talents and personalities are combined, working together as one, for the glory of the Reich!”
The newsreel moved on to the subject of folk dancing in the Danzig region and von Schroif nodded to his crew. As a man they left the cinema and, as they moved through the afternoon crowds, the Tiger men knew the reason for the smiles and pointing fingers. For this week at least, they were movie stars. This unsettling fact was confirmed when a small group of workers stopped to applaud.
The only slight cloud on the horizon was the prospect of an evening spent listening to Wagner’s Rheingold. Wendorff, of course, could barely contain his enthusiasm, but the others were less than thrilled at the prospect.
Sensing the mood, von Schroif knew it was time to ply his team with some pre-theatre anaesthetic. Settling down at a garden table in the Brauhaus, von Schroif noted that he and his crew were the centre of attention. At the next table, a four-man Sturmgeschütz team in their grey uniforms gave their undivided attention to the Tiger men.
“Hail the Rostov heroes!” They raised their glasses.
They permitted themselves a beer, which the host kindly donated. This gift was soon followed by flowers from two groups of girls who passed, giggling and smiling. This was almost peacetime, von Schroif reiterated to himself. This was contentment, this was to be treasured...
Suddenly they were interrupted by a very pretty girl whose face suggested that she was less than appreciative of the efforts of the Tiger men. She marched straight up to Wohl, arms folded, and with an obvious sense of purpose.
“So, here you are again!”
“Magda! What a surprise,” spluttered Wohl.
“Not as much of a surprise as when I found out you were romancing half of Paderborn! You two-timing little runt.”
“Look, that’s not true.”
“Yes, it is, and you know it.”
Magdalena Klinsman had clearly been waiting for her moment and she was not about to let it go. “I should have listened to my father. Damn Bavarians!”
“Look, Magda, don’t be too harsh.”
“Harsh? You don’t know the meaning of the word. Harsh is sending the same letter to two girls who work in the same factory. You’re an untrustworthy pig. Never trust a Catholic, Dad says, and he couldn’t be more right.”
“Too true, young lady!” interjected Michael Knispel, clearly relishing the fun. “I don’t trust them either... especially this one.”
“No one asked you to speak, Mr. Ugly!” With that, she nimbly grabbed the beer mug from in front of Knispel and emptied it over the unsuspecting head of Otto Wohl before storming off into the early evening light.
A ragged cheer rose from the Sturmgeschütz crew.
Von Schroif did not like the look in the eye of Michael Knispel, who had lost half a litre of precious Weiss bier. “Right boys,” said von Schroif, “time to go home and get Wohl cleaned up.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Karl Wendorff’s face drop. Von Schroif knew exactly why, but he was only fooling. “But first... let’s sample a little Wagner!”
Karl Wendorff’s beaming face was a joy to behold! And so all five men strode through the streets to the theatre for a performance of the first part of Wagner’s great ring cycle.
The best seats had been reserved for the new national heroes and the five Tiger men were ushered in by a grateful staff and applauded to their seats in the third row. To add to the honour, Furtwängler himself, the greatest conductor in Germany, came on stage and made their presence known to the rest of the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Lions of Rostov!”
Von Schroif and his crew rose uneasily to their feet and stood uncomfortably receiving the applause which came thundering down in gratitude from all three tiers of the packed opera house. Finally, much to their relief, because too much adulation does not go down well with dedicated soldiers, the conductor finally reappeared in the pit and turned and tapped his baton. The long drone of the orchestral prelude began to pick up pace and they were transported to another world, one with passion and drama so intense that it made the cares of this world seem almost insignificant.
Even for Otto Wohl, time seemed to pass quickly as the orchestra sawed away for a while on a strange but pleasant tune which whirled and danced like the river itself. Then he realised to his astonishment that the first bit of singing was to be performed by three young ladies of very pleasing appearance. So these were the famous Rhine maidens! Things were looking up! He could have done without the tall bloke pretending to be a dwarf, but the girl on the left... “Wow! What a figure... and she can sing as well!”
Otto Wohl realised in a moment that he had been wrong about Magda, or whatever her name was. She was just a silly factory girl after all. The real love of his life had been revealed, and she was a Rheintöchter in a low-cut mermaid’s dress that threatened to reveal her ample bosom at any moment.
To Wohl’s surprise, the story began to take shape. He snatched the programme from Wendorff’s surprised grasp and quickly scanned the cast list. Flosshilde... Stella Huehn... Mezzo soprano... “Ah, Stella... Stella! What a beautiful name! Just like it�
��s owner.” How had he missed this all his life? He resolved to ask the boss at the very next opportunity if they could name their Tiger Stella, after his new love. As his adoring gaze followed Stella’s every move while she teased and taunted the lecherous Alberich, Wohl soon realised how strongly he identified with this unfeasibly tall dwarf in his frustrated attempts to attain the seemingly unattainable.
Wohl’s fluttering heart sank back to his boots when the scene ended, to be replaced by some rubbish about giants and a bill for building a castle, with no Rhine maidens in sight.
“It’s just a glorified building dispute...” thought Wohl. “For God’s sake, Wotan, tell the missus to pipe down and bring back the girls...”
With the Rhine maidens seemingly gone for good, the production began to wane for Wohl, but then something magical happened. Onto the stage came the young Elvira Schorr, perfectly cast in the role of Fricka’s sister, Freia, the goddess of youth, beauty and feminine love. Not only was she absolutely beautiful, she sang in a wonderful soprano voice that nobody who heard it could ever forget. Wohl now realised he had been rash to fall for Stella. The real love of his life had been waiting in the wings all along. Elvira... Ah, this was the real thing. “Look how her chest rises and falls as she sings... What fine lungs, what an adorable face... Whoa, what a cleavage!”
As the evening raced by, von Schroif found himself enjoying the performance, as he knew he would. Even Knispel and Junge seemed content. Wendorff, of course, appeared transfixed, but what amazed him most was the rapt look of attention on the face of Otto Wohl. “Well, miracles do happen,” thought von Schroif, “Wohl, wrapped up in Wagner... Who would have thought it?”
Wohl was indeed wrapped up, and von Schroif would not have been the least bit surprised to learn his thoughts. He was so engrossed in the performance that, internally, he had in fact become a confused mixture of a dwarf and two giants. “Beautiful, beautiful... No wonder everybody’s after her... Elvira Schorr, my only true love... I wonder what she looks like naked?”
Tiger Command! Page 11
