Bob Carruthers - Tiger Command!

Then there was the Dane. An art teacher with a grudge, making tanks… There was something there, but that’s enough for one day… For now it was time for a drink, and some female company.

“Time to let off some steam,” said Lehmann to himself. Picking up his favourite riding crop, Lehmann set off on the familiar trail to the female cell block.

In the other ranks’ mess hall that evening sat four shattered men, but none more so than Otto Wohl. The morning had been mentally gruelling, and the training that afternoon equally so in terms of physical effort, but it was the humiliation in front of his fellows and the dread of mental toil that was to come which had so deflated Otto Wohl.

Hans von Schroif unexpectedly entered the room and the men sprang to attention. As he gestured for the assembled troops to sit down and pulled up a chair, he noticed the genuine turmoil written on Otto Wohl’s face and immediately felt sympathy for him. How many times had Wohl saved their lives, and how could you measure such indebtedness?

“Well, where do we go from here, Wohl?” asked von Schroif, more in sympathy than anything.

No one spoke. Everyone knew that the unschooled Wohl, for all his natural wit, was unlikely to suddenly shine in written exams. As the gloomy realisation that the team could be split apart dawned, the crew settled into a glum silence.

“If only the Tiger manuals were illustrated like Die Wundertüte, he might have a chance of getting through,” said Junge with obvious frustration.

“What is this damn Wundertüte anyway?” asked von Schroif.

“Here it is, Haupsturmführer,” said Wohl, producing the small magazine which now looked set to be his downfall. “When all this is over, I hope to work for them as a cartoonist.”

“Joke books are for kids… I’ll stick to Der Stürmer,” grumbled Knispel disdainfully.

“There are more jokes in that rag than in Die Wundertüte,” retorted Wohl.

“I won’t have that! It’s the Führer’s favourite,” retorted Knispel.

“Only when he has to wipe his arse!”

“Wohl! Enough,” snapped von Schroif, suddenly alert to the danger. “Walls have ears… unless you’d like to spend some time in Dachau.”

“My father died in Dachau…” said Wohl quietly.

The mood instantly grew even more sombre as each of the crew searched for the appropriate words. Since 1933, Dachau had been synonymous with the suppression of political enemies of the Nazi state. This was the place where social democrats, trade unionists, communists, anti-socials and intellectuals disappeared into nacht und nebel, or “night and fog”. The mere mention of Dachau spread terror throughout German society, but the epicentre was in Wohl’s native Bavaria. The place was only twenty kilometres from the rough streets of Munich, where Wohl had grown up.

For von Schroif there was a slightly different resonance; this was the place where he had suffered the ignominy of losing a battle between his much vaunted Freikorps and a rabble of communists◦– a painful and bitter memory.

There was a respectful silence while the crew digested the awful possibility of the fate that might have befallen Wohl’s father.

The silence was eventually broken only by the impeccable comic timing of Otto Wohl. “…he got drunk and fell out of his watch tower… broke his fucking neck!”

Even von Schroif could not contain a slight smile. The others gave a hearty belly laugh.

As he returned to leafing through the jokes, von Schroif stopped at page 33 and even gave a small chuckle. “That’s a good one with the ghosts… not so bad being dead,” he said, handing the joke book to Junge.

The welcome spirit of levity was short-lived. Junge appreciatively glanced at a few more risqué illustrations, then handed the small publication back to Wohl, as a despondent silence descended once more.

Surprisingly, it was the taciturn Karl Wendorff who spoke next.

“If I may, sir?”

Hauptsturmführer von Schroif nodded his assent.

“Well, it’s just that, judging by today’s events, it looks like one can just about get away with presenting one less than perfect paper at the Paderborn Panzer examinations. Major Rondorf sounds like a fair man.”

“A total bastard, you mean,” thought Wohl, who for once had the good sense to keep his thoughts to himself.

“So, tonight I propose that I will forgo some of my planned preparation for the mechanical paper and instead help SS-Panzerschütze Otto Wohl with the mysterious and hitherto inexplicable behaviour of the radio wave and its relevance to Germany’s Panzerkampfwagen Mark VI. Furthermore, my fee for such a task shall be negligible…”

“I can’t give up my rations… I’m fading away already, Wendorff.”

“No, you can continue to pig out, Wohl. If you pass, and I’m sure that with my help you can, I would like you to finally give up your former life as a complete Philistine and agree to accompany me to the new production of Das Rheingold, which is being performed in Paderborn. There you shall hear the music of the master of Bayreuth, conducted by the great Fürtwangler, and learn the real possibility of what the human brain can achieve if one looks upwards and outwards, beyond the world of Die Wundertüte.”

Wendorff was a Wagner addict who could generally find something on the dial every time even a note of Wagner was broadcast from anywhere in Europe. Like his Führer, he loved Wagner to the exclusion of everything else, but he had been so far unsuccessful in his attempts to lure Wohl and his fellow crew members into the world of high culture.

“Look, I’m desperate, Wendorff… Wagner sounds more like a prison sentence to me, but, if you can keep me on the crew, I’ll do it…”

“Good man, Wendorff!” exclaimed von Schroif. “This is what a team is. Someone, and, as fate would have it, usually the right one, will step forward and offer himself when the team finds itself in trouble… And if Wohl has to suffer grand opera for his punishment, then so shall we all… I will take the extra pain and pay for the tickets.”

This was in reality no great concession from von Schroif. He had grown up on opera and loved nothing better than to attend, with its parade of attractive young women. The lure of the opening part of the Nibelungen saga was less apparent to the remaining members of the team.

“But, sir…!” began SS-Hauptscharführer Michael Knispel.

“You too, Knispel… and you, Junge,” added von Schroif, his voice full of mock sincerity.

Wendorff did not see anything to laugh about and seized his opportunity with both hands. “Thank you, Herr Haupsturmführer. I shall reserve the tickets.”

Wohl was still despondent. “I can’t see the point. I couldn’t ever pass an exam at school… all I could do was draw. How can I pass an exam? I’ll never understand this stuff. These manuals are as dry as dust… they mean nothing to me, just lists of numbers.” Turning to von Schroif, tears began to form in his eyes. “I just can’t do it, sir…”

Again Wendorff spoke. “But this time it’s different, Wohl… we’ll do the learning in Die Wundertüte style!”

Two days ago, under cover of darkness, Korsak’s tank unit had been surreptitiously ferried across the river and concealed in a grove. He had spent the following day in reconnaissance, coordination with Naminsky, and establishment of communications. From long experience he knew that the attack had to be made on a moonlit night, so that the infantry could orient itself and give his tanks the signals necessary for them to maintain direction. The tanks had to be used in echelons, keeping the movement to a comparatively narrow front, and creating an exaggerated idea as to the number of tanks in the battle. During the attack, Korsak knew that the tanks must under no circumstances be separated from the desyanti, the tank-riding infantry, as at night the tanks needed the help of the infantry even more than in the daytime.