by Tom Zola
Engelmann was glad to have a crew that worked together so well in all areas, but as much as he’d like to, he couldn’t feel cheerful today. Again he had spent a day on the battlefield where he had been forced to kill other human beings. He, the bright graduate with a degree in German literature, should instead be in school now, teaching young students things – things with meanings. Here in the war, though, the only thing he taught his young men was how to eliminate lives even more effectively. Yet as a tank commander, his position in the war machine was rather merciful because most of the time he didn’t even come to see the consequences of his actions. Of course he did see the burning tanks, and naturally he could imagine what their crews went through. But he didn’t have to kill anyone face to face, didn’t have to watch how another human being’s eyes became lifeless when he slew a stranger at short distance or rammed a bayonet into his chest. Engelmann shook his head and hoped that his service to his country would end soon. After four years of war it had to end at some point, but he was sure about one thing: As long as the Reich ordered him to fight, he would be at its service. That was the schizophrenia of his life, and he was aware of it.
Again laughter rang out from under his tank. Engelmann envied his men for being able to be so cheerful despite the events of the past twelve hours and their overall situation. Certainly they had made some progress today, but as always in this war every success also had its dark sides: Today many good men had had to pay the price for Mission Citadel, good comrades … friends. Engelmann sighed once more. Then he decided to send a few more prayers to the Lord before going to sleep himself. With that intention he walked some steps away from his tank and disappeared behind an old broadleaf tree. He was aware of the fact that the number of atheists was growing steadily, and that especially the war was promoting such convictions; that was why he always prayed in solitude. After all, he didn’t want others to think he was crazy.
Dear God, he prayed in silence, again I can’t ask your forgiveness for the things I did today because I did them fully aware of their consequences. No matter what the military chaplains may say – I do know that my soul is condemned.
But I want to ask you once again to at least protect the innocent and to punish the guilty in this cruel war. Please hold your protective hand over those who are righteous men.
Engelmann was sure that no one could ask more from the Lord in a war. Yet he still had another request: Dear Lord, I also want to ask you to particularly watch over Elly and Gudrun. Elly is really a good person who deserves nothing bad and no war, either. Do with me as you think is right, but please protect my family.
Engelmann stepped back out from behind the tree and returned to his tank. While praying, he had neither folded his hands nor made the sign of the cross. In his opinion such rites and symbols that had been invented by institutionalized religions, weren’t necessary in order to talk to God.
The lieutenant stared at his tank, which shone in the moonlight. All the scars the last day had carved into it seemed to shine, too – for example the hit by the anti-tank guns from the previous morning had merely put some dents into the steel, discoloring it. Yet even this sight added to Engelmann’s worries. Again he sighed because he sensed how limited the resources of the Wehrmacht were. On this day alone the number of Tigers here in their section had been reduced by a quarter, while two Panzer III’s in his division had broken down, and the whole light platoon had stumbled into an ambush at the second defense belt and been destroyed. Those were casualties they would miss dearly tomorrow. Certainly they had also driven more than fifty Russian tanks to hell in this area alone, but tomorrow a hundred new tanks and the day after tomorrow one hundred fifty more would drive up, while the German Army would fix some of the battered tin cans the best they could. After all, soon the Russians would produce more tanks per month than the Reich in a whole year – and they even had enough military personnel to fill every single one of them. It really was a fucked-up situation.
Prokhorovka, Soviet Union, May 4th, 1943
Kursk Front – 85 kilometers south of Kursk
Konev was dead. Killed in action on the very morning of the attack, not suspecting a thing while inspecting a Katyusha regiment that had been surprised by German bomber aircraft.
And now the Stavka had assembled all armies in the Kursk salient under one front. In the morning they had made Colonel General Sidorenko the commander-in-chief. The Russian officer pored over the situation map while sipping his glass of wine. He had just sent his adjutant and the other officers outside because he needed a moment for himself. Sidorenko emptied the glass, raised it and looked at the curved glass. Overwhelmed by a sudden rage, he threw it into a corner where it broke, jangling.
Sidorenko knew exactly what the Stavka was up to. He had more enemies there than was good for him, and now that the high command of the Red Army had totally missed foreseeing the attack of the Germans in the Kursk salient, they wanted to blame him for the Germans’ victory after the fact! Then they would shuffle him off to some insignificant post, maybe as a Gulag commander in Siberia? Sidorenko snorted. Surely a triumph of the fascists in Kursk wouldn’t affect the overall Soviet victory. The Germans were simply not the equal of the superior Red Army. Here in the Kursk salient, however, things looked different. Sidorenko had no more than twelve armies in the salient, whereas the fascists apparently attacked with five armies – though covering just two sections of the front line while Sidorenko’s formations had to cover the whole salient, which of course was defended by additional Nazi armies on the other side as well. Four of his armies were Guards Armies, so they were better equipped and trained and therefore had considerably more combat strength, but all of the Guards formations were concentrated south of Kursk, and now, right in the middle of the battle, Sidorenko could hardly order major troop movements. The situation was totally fucked up. If only Konev had listened to him at the beginning of March, when he pointed out the risks the Kursk salient held! But it wasn’t until mid-April that the high command came up with the idea of reinforcing the front line here – much too late. Though two armies were moving in, the first soldiers wouldn’t arrive before next week.
So he had to win this battle using the means available to him right here in the salient. He didn’t have a lot, but as of now Sidorenko made a decision: He wouldn’t yield, and he wouldn’t give up, either. He would win this battle – the battle of Kursk - even though the situation was difficult for the Russians: The German attack forces mobilized a concentration of troops at one location like had never been seen before. That impressed Sidorenko. He had calculated from the battle reports and the reports of the scouts that in the south alone thirty divisions had lined up on a front line that was only one hundred kilometers wide. If the scout reports were even roughly correct, then the fascists were mobilizing more tanks – and surely as many airplanes – for the attack at the Kursk salient than they had deployed for the attack against the whole motherland in 1941.
Sidorenko rubbed his eyes and yawned. It was already past midnight, and he had been up for more than twenty hours. Again the Russian officer closely inspected the situation map that his adjutant had just updated. It didn’t look good: Though Sidorenko had been able to stop the fascists’ front troops almost everywhere, the Germans would fall asleep with a smile on their faces if they knew the price he had paid. Sidorenko had been able to deal with the Nazis only by using massive artillery – especially his rocket launchers.
In the afternoon he also had instructed his artillery to fire their ammunition reserves, which could only be used if so ordered. He had done this because he hoped to nip the German attack in the bud that way. But the damn Nazis did not seem willing to give up yet. Now his batteries were down to fifteen percent ammunition in many places, in some parts of the North they were even down to five percent. Therefore he planned to re-arrange things tomorrow: He would take away large shares of ammunition supplies from the armies that were holding the western front line of the salient, and supply the batteries
in the North with those shells. At the same time he would concentrate his armored forces in the south where he intended to take the initiative, while up north he could only hope that well-aimed artillery blows against German attack attempts would remind the fascists of the hellfire of the first day, thus keeping them from advancing.
Disgusted, Sidorenko spat on the ground. He could puke when he thought of all the failures of his high command. The idiots in the Stavka had refused to listen to him, and instead had preferred to concentrate their forces in the north and south for the great summer offensive, as well as at the Kalinin Front west of Moscow, where the fascists were supposed to start a major attack operation under the codename Citadel. What was Kursk, a small town in the middle of nowhere, to the generals? All they thought about were the fronts! Now Sidorenko had to deal with a shortage of ammunition and bad equipment, just like in 1941. Of course fresh artillery ammo was on its way, but it was not here yet. The command kept rambling on about the Great Patriotic War of the socialist brothers, but here in the Kursk salient he felt more like a capitalist who had invested all his money in the wrong stock.
“Bah!” Sidorenko detested the Stavka’s incompetence but for the time being he had to make do with what he had. Again he looked at the situation map while exhaustion pressed against his eyelids. He knew that if the fascists continued with their attack at the break of dawn, they would march right through. He would be unable to shower them again with such a barrage. He also knew that he didn’t have enough qualified soldiers to brave both of the enemy’s wedge-shaped lines of attack. His idea for the battle was therefore to go for a decision in one single battle in the south, where he would crush the Nazis’ attack troops with massive tank forces. If he warded off one of the attacks, he would prevent the pincer movement of the Germans and therefore the encirclement of four Soviet armies. The Russian officer pondered this idea for a few moments. Then his mouth widened in a satisfied smile. He had found his location for the decisive confrontation: Prokhorovka!
Lucerne, Switzerland, May 4th, 1943
Sometimes the Brits were very fast, Taylor had to admit. The Russians, too. When the German attack on the Kursk salient had started yesterday morning, the “island monkeys” had understood quickly that the plans that had been leaked into their hands were fake. Or else the Russians had understood it. Thomas just had not expected them to be too cowardly to do the dirty work by themselves.
No, they actually sicced the police of Lucerne on Taylor! That was a clue that he was dealing with the Brits. After all, the Russians were still washing their dirty laundry themselves.
It’s almost embarrassing, Taylor thought, grinning, while he hastily pulled on his clothes. At least they still let me have fun!
The news that his cover had been blown had reached him a few moments after he had sent the whore packing - the slut had charged him one third of his monthly pay for a little sex.
Oh well, Switzerland is an expensive place! Thomas pushed the magazine into his P08, grabbed the knee joint and finished loading his weapon. At least MI is paying me for this crap!
The news had come via the telephone Military Intelligence had installed in the apartment before Taylor’s arrival. Again he had to acknowledge that the spies of the Reich had done a good job - for a change - this time. So there was an officer at the Federal Police Department in Bern who liked to fatten his mediocre paycheck. He had immediately tipped off MI about the request of the Swiss Federal Office to the police of Lucerne to provide them with personnel for the apprehension of a German spy.
Now Taylor had to disappear before the federal comrades in their democratic way could slap a death sentence on him. He pulled the ski mask he had knitted himself over his face so that only his eyes were still visible. The fewer people who saw him, i.e. could recognize him, the better! He checked his watch. Four minutes had passed since the phone call.
Time to get going! he told himself as he glanced out the window one more time. Down on the street he saw Swiss police officers in their dark uniforms with the strange-looking caps gathering under the light of a lantern.
“Fuck!” he groaned in English; just another term he had learned from his father. Then he opened the door to the apartment and stormed outside onto the stairway with his pistol drawn. Two police officers downstairs already expected him; they were apparently waiting for their colleagues. Without hesitating, Taylor pulled the trigger of his Luger twice and gunned down the Swiss officers.
Two guys less that can stand in our way when we march in, he reflected; and ran down the long hallway towards the back door. It was still dark but it wouldn’t be long before the first sunbeams gleamed down on the roofs of the city.
Shouts and barked orders mixed with the moans of the two dying men as more police officers came charging through the entrance. Sirens began to wail and engines revved up. Taylor, however, had received the information soon enough that he was out before the police had been able to surround the building. He pushed the back door open with all his strength and ran out into the darkness. He had checked out potential escape routes hundreds of times before, and knew the system of narrow alleys twisting between the medieval buildings like the back of his hand. Taylor unhesitatingly bolted across the street and disappeared in a tiny alley; hectic yelling behind him while boots ran over cobblestones. Now the police officers approached the building from all sides and surrounded it, but Taylor was long gone. He squeezed himself through narrow alleys and only crossed the main streets sprinting, where it couldn’t be avoided. After three minutes of running and side-stepping he had gained enough distance from his former apartment. Finally he stopped between some tin garbage cans next to a closed restaurant, an old building with thick stone walls. He lingered for a few moments, caught his breath, and rubbed his armpits that were dripping with so much sweat that puddles had formed beneath them. But he was in good enough shape that a little chase like this one didn’t really put a strain on his body. Yet now that he finally had the time for it, he gave in to the adrenaline that was flooding through his body. What a great feeling it was when the sensations were heightened and fear drove his body to a top performance! Taylor did his job just for moments like this one! Just for these moments!
He turned around and then went through his mental archives of the city. He was good at remembering whole maps and city structures down to the smallest details; sometimes all he had to do was take a quick look at the place in question. He immediately knew how to proceed. He only had to walk a quarter of a mile through an extended alley that ran behind a row of businesses; then he would come to the park and, after that, to the cemetery where he had set up a campsite. Yes, Taylor had taken precautions precisely for a situation like this one. He ran this route quickly, crossed the narrow park that was currently used for growing potatoes thanks to the “Plan Wahlen” developed for agriculture and nutrition in Switzerland. Finally he reached the Friedental Cemetery, a large, eerie churchyard with silhouettes of countless gravestones that rose up from the ground like anti-tank barriers. A light breeze blew across the terrain, and made Taylor shiver because he was soaked in sweat. For one quick moment, for just a second, he paused to catch his breath. Then he marched purposefully to the northeastern end of the cemetery, stepping on flowers and stomping on graves until he reached an old crypt overgrown with shrubs. Dawn was breaking while sirens howled in the distant city. He had to hurry because after his bloody deed the federal blokes were certain to block the roads and search every corner of Lucerne to find him. Taylor left the crypt behind and instead scrambled into the bramble bushes just to be embraced by their thorny arms.
“Bloody fuckers ...” he cursed when the thorns penetrated his pants, but in the end he found what he had been looking for: a small wooden box he had hidden in this spot more than a week ago. Taylor pulled the box out of the shrubs and took out its contents: a fresh set of clothes, a scarf and a hat, Swiss chocolates, and another clip for his gun. He changed quickly before returning the box with his old set of clothes to its
hiding place. Without wasting any time, Taylor hit the road. His destination was an MI safe house north of Remigen in the Canton of Aargau, which bordered the German Reich. He wanted to - and had to - put the distance of over thirty miles behind him as fast as possible.
*
The sun was already settling in the West when Taylor, who once again had managed to obtain a bicycle and had cycled the whole distance without a break, reached a small wooden cottage nestled deep in the woods. He immediately recognized the building made of lateral braces, from a photo he had once seen. Thomas was dripping with sweat and hungry, too, because the chocolates hadn’t done much to fill his stomach. And the last mile or so on the rough and bumpy forest terrain had been an agonizing ordeal. Now he hurled the bike on the ground in front of the cottage and fished the key, which he had gotten in Stuttgart way back when, out of his wallet.
He immediately stuck the key into the lock on the door, which let him in while he tucked a cigarette between his lips – his last cigarette, he noticed with chagrin.
The interior of the cottage was furnished sparingly; a table and two chairs made of dark wood, as well as a cot, were everything his accommodations had to offer. Naturally no weapons or anything else were stored here that could alert anyone who might search the cottage.
Instead Thomas merely found an envelope with a handwritten note inside. He glanced at the few lines. Though any layman would only see a love letter from a certain Juan to his sweetheart Luise in the document, Thomas recognized the real meaning of the words contained in the note. Instead of being sent back home, he had received his next order, which would lead him to Bern.
