Bob Carruthers - Tiger Command!

“Two destroyed and four out of action. Not a bad night’s action. Shall we return to the workshop, Comrade Androv?”

Androv needed no second invitation. His fear had transformed him into a natural horseman and, jumping into the saddle, he cantered off in pursuit of Korsak.

All week they had been preparing for the moment of truth. Today was Hitler’s birthday and he had decreed that, on this day, he would choose between the two rival designs for a heavy tank; the long awaited Mark VI.

The Waffen SS crew led by von Schroif had been allocated to the Henschel prototype machine. Despite an infuriating series of breakdowns, they had successfully put the Henschel through its paces and had easily outscored the army team on the gunnery trials. For convenience, their machine was designated the Mark VI (H), while the rival design was the Mark VI (P). The Porsche prototype was crewed by an army outfit which had been fighting in the Northern sector, up by Leningrad, where, judging by their boasts, they were single-handedly fending off the entire Red Army.

“So we come to the trial at last, eh?” said von Schroif. “Two machines, but only one contract! The Waffen SS versus the Heer, no holds barred?”

“I’m afraid not,” replied Arnholdt. “I wish it were that simple, but there will actually be three panzers in the final trial.”

“Really…? Why three?” Hans had expected something out of the ordinary, but he was taken aback when the identity of the third competitor was revealed to him.

Just at that moment came the sound of a familiar engine being revved up and Arnholdt pointed towards a small garage-type structure, out of which trundled the familiar shape of the Krupp Panzer Mark IV, but now sporting the long-barrelled 75 mm high-velocity gun.

“Ah, this must be the much rumoured F2, but it’s a medium tank!” said von Schroif, with a tone of clear disappointment in his voice.

Knispel and Wohl immediately wandered over and admired the new version of the familiar machine, which now seemed like a stranger with its long-barrelled 75 mm gun. They were soon engaged in conversation with the army crew of the F2, all of whom were highly enthusiastic concerning the new machine.

“I don’t understand it, Kurt… what’s happening? I thought this was to be a straight trial◦– the Henschel versus the Porsche… best man wins.”

“It’s partly your fault, I’m afraid. Due to the number of breakdowns, the Führer is of a mind to cancel the Mark VI project. He feels both designs are still too unreliable.”

“My fault! Why my fault! You’re the damn engineer, not me!” exploded von Schroif in frustration.

“Apparently it’s got something to do with an action outside Rostov… On the strength of which, I am given to understand that a certain Hauptsturmführer von Schroif is to be awarded the Knight’s Cross today. He and his crew destroyed twenty Russian tanks in a Panzer IV. Naturally, the Führer is being guided towards the obvious conclusion that there is merit in up-gunning and continuing with the Krupp design. Even I have to admit that it’s probably a match for the T-34.”

“That’s madness! We don’t want to settle for parity! It’s a fight to the death out there… you want to outgun your opponent! Not match them!” As he spoke, von Schroif glanced around and noticed Knispel returning from his inspection. “Look… it’s like old Knispel here… as a boxer, you want to outreach your opponent. Why have a 75 mm gun when you can have the Acht-acht fitted in a panzer?”

“I agree with you.” Arnholdt turned and gestured towards the massive bulk of the Mark VI. “But this thing doesn’t come cheap. They’re going to cost 250,000 Reichmarks each! You can have two Mark IVs for the same price, and they require less labour, less raw materials… less time. There are a lot of factors weighing in against us, Hans… but let’s enjoy a moment of joy first, eh? Knights Crosses are not awarded every day. Your crew certainly deserves the recognition.”

“I don’t care if they awarded me a papal medal. We need this bus at the front! Just who are we fighting here?”

RSHA Kriminalassistent Walter Lehmann was another man weighing up the factors ranged against him. His situation was different to von Schroif. Walter Lehmann’s enemies actually thought they were his friends. Looking out from his office in Prinz-Albert Strasse, over the rooftops of Berlin on a wet but muggy summer’s day, he could not help but reflect on how he had got here, and how long he would last.

His stock had surely risen with the accuracy of the information he had provided in the past. He had given them absolute accuracy concerning Kampfgruppe von Schroif. As a source, he must have been vindicated. Surely he couldn’t be blamed by the failure to eliminate von Schroif. Surely that was someone else’s department. Stenner was the man on the ground, he would have to take the blame.

At first, duplicity had come easy to Lehmann, but now the different faces and fronts were becoming more difficult, as were the demands. The uncertainty of it all was beginning to wear down his resolve. Now there was the demand for information about this new heavy tank, and Beria had begun pressing him hard. This wasn’t the kind of information that came easily. He knew he could twist Borgmann round his finger, the poor deluded idiot thought he was doing his bit for the Reich, but collecting the information was one thing, fooling Borgmann into transmitting it from Rastenburg was an altogether more delicate undertaking.

Despite his increasing unease, he couldn’t help but allow himself a smile. Whatever happened, he, Walter Lehmann, son of the murdered Uwe Lehmann, the former communist street fighter, was now working for the Reich Main Security Office, with executive responsibility for preventing the Soviets spying on the German Armaments industry… The gamekeeper had certainly turned poacher! His late father would have loved the fact that he was now the prime source for the NKVD!

Yes, it could be funny, and it had its benefits, pecuniary as well as carnal, and he was a man of big appetites! But sometimes the tightrope was strung up so high between his different facades that walking between them gave him vertigo.

Carrying out the odd interrogation brought its own cathartic rewards. Torturing Nazis gave him a measure of revenge over the death of his father. One day soon he’d get even with the flash aristocratic bastard who had throttled him to death… but for now he was trapped, his daily wish that the Soviets would win this war and, as promised, make him mayor of Berlin. Then the bastards would definitely pay.

The brown folder bearing the name of von Schroif was so well thumbed that it stood out from the small pile on Lehmann’s desk, but he resisted the urge to flick through it once more. Lehmann hoped that his quarry would live to see the day of reckoning. There was still a chance that he might meet a soldier’s death, trapped in a burning tank, which would be just, but disappointing… Lehmann wanted him to survive, so that he could suffer an agony of medieval tortures.

The tide was certainly turning. Now that the stupid little corporal had declared war on the Americans, it was just a matter of time. What a dangerous little idiot! Dragging the biggest industrial nation into the war in order to pander to the yellow men◦– who then refused to attack Stalin! Priceless! Absolutely priceless! What a clown! Lehmann allowed himself a smile but wrenched himself back to the matter in hand. “This damned heavy tank? So, what does Moscow expect this time?”

Drawn up in parade order, von Schroif listened to the over-familiar strains of the marches and waltzes played by the Waffen SS military band. He waited impatiently for a sign of the Führer. As first thirty minutes then an hour passed, the bandsmen appeared to be nearing exhaustion when suddenly there was a flurry of activity and a cloud of staff officers emerged from the unprepossessing collection of huts which comprised the “Wolf’s Lair”. In their midst was the familiar figure of Adolf Hitler.