Yes, the Wehrmacht was more democratic now. Still, a private couldn't explain the facts of life to an officer. Not even Corporal Baatz could. A grizzled Feldwebel might have done it. But Sergeant Pieck was wounded, too, and hadn't been replaced. Krantz would have to learn on his own-if he lasted.
As if to show the platoon commander he wasn't ready for General Staff Lampassen on the outer seams of his trouser legs, the French put in a counterattack later that afternoon. Whether Krantz had or not, Willi'd been fearing one. He was no General Staff officer, either, but he could see what a long southern flank the Germans held. The Wehrmacht had gone around the Maginot Line to the north, not through it. Evidently, the generals had counted on keeping the enemy too busy up there to worry about down here. Unfortunately, what you counted on wasn't always what you got.
By the time the 75s started whistling in, Willi already had himself a foxhole. It had belonged to a poilu, who'd dug himself a cave in the northern wall to protect himself from German shells coming in from that direction. Willi hacked and scraped at the nearly frozen dirt in the southern wall of the hole with his entrenching tool to try to make himself the same kind of shelter from French artillery.
No splinters flayed his flesh or broke his bones, so he supposed he'd done well enough. No shells burst especially close to him, so he couldn't prove a thing. But proof didn't matter. All that mattered was, he didn't get hurt.
He wasn't sorry to let the Frenchmen come at him for a change. Sometimes-mostly when there were panzers around-attackers had the edge. More often, defenders crouched in the best shelter they could find or make and tried to murder the fellows coming at them.
His mouth went dry. He recognized that creaking, clanking rumble. As far as he knew, the Germans didn't have any panzers in the neighborhood. If the French did, it wasn't such a good day to crouch in a foxhole.
Boom! The report behind him was one of the sweetest sounds he'd ever heard. A split second later, he heard another one. That unmusical Clang! was an antitank round slamming into a French panzer. And the smaller pops and blams that followed marked ammunition cooking off inside the stricken machine. Willi wouldn't have wanted to be a French panzer crewman, not right then, not for anything.
He stood up and fired at the foot soldiers loping along with the hastily whitewashed French panzers. The poilus threw themselves flat and shot back at him. Boom! The 37mm antitank gun had found another target-found it and missed it. Behind their steel shield, the German artillerymen frantically reaimed and reloaded. Meanwhile, the French panzer's turret swung inexorably toward them.
Both guns spoke together, as near as made no difference. The enemy panzer slewed sideways and stopped with a track shot off. But its highexplosive shell ruined the German gunners. Their shield did some good against small-arms fire. If a shell burst behind it…well, tough luck.
But then another antitank gun off to the left fired two quick rounds. The crippled French panzer started to burn in earnest. Behind the line, German artillery woke up. Shells started raining down on the ground south of Hary. Willi ducked back into his hole. Some of those shells would fall short. Your own side could kill you, too-one more lesson he wondered whether Lieutenant Krantz had learned.
Before long, the French attack petered out. The froggies didn't seem to have had their hearts in it, not that that helped the crew of the antitank gun. Willi knew more than a little sympathy for the sorry bastards in Adrian helmets and worn khaki uniforms. Like him, they were at the mercy of officers who sent them forward and hoped something grand would come of it.
He lit a cigarette and stuck his head out for another look around. The two killed French panzers in front of him would burn for a long time. A few khaki-clad bodies lay on the snow-streaked ground. A raven glided down out of the sky and pecked at one. Scavengers never waited long.
And there was Lieutenant Krantz, peeking out of his own hole in the ground like a Feldgrau marmot. He'd come through another scrap. A few more and he'd start having an idea of what was going on out here. As much as I do, anyway, Willi thought. As much as anybody does. He took another drag and blew out a long, happy plume of smoke. He'd made it again. THEO HOSSBACH WAS MESSING WITH the Panzer II's radio set again, methodically taking out one tube after another, replacing each with a fresh one, and trying the radio again. "How's it going?" Ludwig Rothe asked him.
Since Theo was wearing earphones, it wasn't surprising that he didn't follow. It also wasn't surprising that he didn't take them off so he could. Ludwig had often thought that Theo cared more about the radio than about either of his crewmates.
Direct action, then. Ludwig yanked the earphones off Theo's head. The radio operator gave him a wounded look. "What did you go and do that for?" he asked.
"So I could talk to you?" Ludwig suggested.
By the way Theo blinked, that hadn't occurred to him. "Are you a goddamn blackshirt, so you have to interrogate me right this fucking minute?"
"Gott im Himmel!" Ludwig's head might have been on a swivel as he looked around the panzer park. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to his panzer, for which he was duly grateful. "Are you out of your mind, Theo? Do you want them to haul you away?"
"Nah. If I did, I would've-" But even Theo stopped short, swallowing whatever he'd been about to come out with. He was definitely an idiot, but maybe-just maybe-he wasn't quite an imbecile.
Would've done what? Ludwig wondered. The first thing that sprang to mind was would've plugged the Fuhrer when I had the chance. Ludwig didn't ask him if that was what he meant. For one thing, he feared Theo would say yes. For another, letting Theo know such a thought had crossed his own mind would give the radioman a hold on him.
And so Ludwig pointed to the set Theo was working on and asked his original question over again: "How's it going?"
"Haven't found the new bad tube yet." As Theo spoke, he extracted another one. "They give out faster when we bang all over the landscape, you know."
"Sure, but what am I supposed to do about it? Keep working. We're as deaf as the damned Frenchmen till you do." Ludwig had examined quite a few knocked-out French panzers. Most of them had no radios at all. French panzer leaders signaled their subordinates with wigwag disks. The Germans carried them, too, but only for emergencies. They worked well enough on the practice field. In real combat, with dust and dirt flying, they were much harder to make out. And, of course, a panzer commander who stood up in the cupola to semaphore with wigwag disks was as likely to get shot as any other suicidal damn fool.
Theo grunted and forgot about Ludwig. He put the earphones back on. After a moment, he nodded, not to Rothe but to the radio set. "You finally find the dead one?" Ludwig asked hopefully.
A moment later, he remembered Theo couldn't hear him any more. He didn't want to tear the earphones off the radioman's head again; that was pushing things, even for a sergeant.
For a wonder, Hossbach doffed the earphones of his own accord. "We're back in business," he reported.
"Outstanding!" Because Ludwig had given him a hard time before, he made himself sound enthusiastic now. Yes, Theo lived in his old little world and visited the real one as seldom as he could get away with, but he did his job pretty well anyhow. Ludwig had heard plenty of other panzer commanders bitch about their radiomen and drivers in terms that horrified him. All in all, he was more lucky than not.