A number of sniggers came from the listeners, further proof that others listening could understand his words.
The die was cast.
Hamuda took a moment to calm himself.
“Very well. You leave me no choice.”
Moving off to one side, the tank Captain raised his voice, drawing all attention to himself.
“You men are been treated well and want for nothing. All we have asked is for your most work. Once we were Allies, but that has now changed.”
He sought eye contact with one of the senior NCO’s from the prisoners but the man refused it, dropping his eyes once more to the engine he was ‘servicing’.
“None the less, we has being decent to you all, and you repay us with your laziness and,” he turned to a grinning Bauer, “Your contempt.”
The grin seemed to sharpen further, becoming a full blown sneer.
“Enough. It stop now.”
He emphasised his point by slapping his cane against his boot, producing a sound not unlike a gun shot.
The German NCO looked up in time to witness the pre-planned act.
The slap was the signal that Hirohata had been waiting for, as well as an attempt to ensure everyone’s attention was fixed on what was about to happen.
Hirohata’s katana was out, flashed across the intervening space, and parted Bauer’s head from his shoulders in the blink of an eye.
The body dropped to the ground and the head, still bearing its sneer, rolled away, coming to rest in the middle of a group of mechanics that had been stripping down a dismantled engine.
Hamuda looked around for the surviving senior man and picked him out with a stab of his cane.
“Lieutenant, you is now responsible for my tanks,” and pointing at the headless corpse, he emphasised the point, “In the same way as he is responsible.”
He let that sink in before finishing up.
“Both of them will be back operational by tonight or I will return.”
Spinning on his heel, he nodded to Kagamutsu, who ordered his tough looking group to spread out into positions from where they could monitor the mechanics as they worked.
Hirohata wiped his blade and slid it back into the scabbard with more than usual ceremony, his face lacking any visible emotion, and he followed his commander away from the scene.
Both Panthers were ready for combat by 1800 hrs.
Now that the French officers from First Army had left, Uhlmann had taken the opportunity to report to Knocke on his unit’s readiness, and the two had enjoyed coffee together as they went over the details of the move and the recent ‘acquisition’ of the nineteen ex-Wehrmacht Panzer-Pionieres who had been willing to join ‘Camerone’.
The men, mainly ex-21st Panzer Division, had welcomed the opportunity to serve with the ex-SS, although Uhlmann later admitted to his commander that he had ‘forgotten’ to tell the men that they had a choice.
Most of the new arrivals already sported the insignia of the German Legion formation, a decision that had been taken by Knocke to encourage the ‘unit’ to take root in each man’s psyche as soon as possible.
Lavalle had promised that every member of the Corps would have their insignia before the end of the month and, from the consignment that had met them when they arrived at their present location, it appeared that he was holding to his word.
Both men had been up all night, and both were dead on their feet, in need of sleep.
By mutual agreement, the meeting drew to a close and Uhlmann departed, passing on Knocke’s request not to be disturbed for two hours.
He saluted to the Polish Officer who had been chatting to one of the Brigade’s staff officers, and left to find some rest in his own billet.
The staff officer knocked on the commander’s door and received permission to enter, the tone of the reply indicating that Knocke was clearly less than happy with the immediate failure to observe his wishes.
After a small exchange, the Staff Captain emerged and ushered the Polish Major in to see Knocke, closing the door behind him.
Salutes were exchanged, and Knocke motioned the new arrival towards the seat, still warm from Uhlmann’s occupation.
“Coffee, Herr Major?”
“Not for me thank you, Sir.”
A second’s hesitation before Knocke decided that more caffeine was probably a good idea, and so he poured himself one before sitting opposite Major Kowalski.
“Captain Weiss tells me that you wished to speak privately on an urgent personal matter.”
“Yes, that is true, Herr Standartenfuhrer.”
Knocke held his hand up immediately, failing to stop the word tumbling from Kowalski’s mouth.
“No longer of the SS, Major Kowalski. I am now Colonel of the Legion if you please. Now, what do you want of me?”
“Your compliance in a small operation that I am overseeing for my superiors.”
Alarm bells were ringing but no-one could hear them except Knocke, the tone and poise of the man opposite giving cause for immediate concern.
“But first, allow me to introduce myself. I am Sergey Andreyevich Kovelskin, Kapitan in Soviet Military Intelligence, and here to give you a message, Herr Standartenfuhrer.”
The Soviet agent sneered his way through Knocke’s former rank adding, “Oh yes I know, now a Foreign Legion Colonel. Well, not to me. Once an SS bastard, always an SS bastard as far as I am concerned.”
Kowalski/Kovelskin was holding a Walther PPK in his right hand, a fact that Knocke had only just become aware of.
“This is just to ensure that you listen to what I have to say, Knocke.”
His own Walther was still in its holster, attached to his belt, the same belt he had taken off a few minutes beforehand when he expected to get some rest. It sat in his line of sight immediately behind the Russian, taunting him with its nearness and yet infinite distance.
“You have my attention. Say your piece.”
Knocke’s mind was working hard, different parts looking at alternatives, planning and processing options.
As Kovelskin spoke, that all changed, every cell in his brain focussing on the simple statement that preceded the Russian’s business.
“Greta and your daughters say hello.”
Being able to see out of only one eye was an inconvenience at the best of times. A clod of earth and grass had been propelled by an artillery shell and hit him directly in the left eye. Marion Crisp was finding it hard going but there was nothing he or the medics could do to restore his sight at this time, so he bore it as best he could.
Anyway, it was the least of his problems, as the 101st US Airborne was bleeding out trying to stem the Soviet advance.
2nd Battalion, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, Crisp’s command, was still in reasonable shape, but other units throughout the division were shadows of their former selves.
In fact, the situation was so fluid that the division, indeed all the divisions in the area, had started to lose their cohesiveness, units out of place and fighting alongside comrades wearing different insignia and sometimes national uniform.
At the moment, Crisp was withdrawing from a perfectly good position at Baiswell, forced back to Eggenthal by Soviet advances to the north and south.
The handful of trucks he had remaining were loaded up with the wounded, and an advance guard briefed to start setting up a defensive perimeter at Eggenthal; all had set off an hour beforehand.
As Crisp pushed his men hard down the road, the grim wrecks of two of his trucks gave testament to the activities of Soviet ground attack aircraft, both vehicles’ passengers still aboard, having been either too wounded or too drugged up to be able to save themselves from the subsequent fires.