Bob Carruthers - Tiger Command!

In the meantime, it was certainly good to be back in Germany, away from the hell that was the Eastern Front, but Hans von Schroif never forgot for one moment that he was going to return there. Despite the moments of levity, this was no holiday, it was a mission. A mission to keen the eye, the hand, and the mind, to become one◦– yes, one!◦– with the awesome capabilities and technology of this fantastic new marvel, bestowed on them by the genius of German engineering. It was their job to become one with the machine…

Hans smiled when he thought of it this way… it sounded like a marriage! A marriage in which the bride was so powerful that, like a queen bee, she could call on five suitors, each of which would pledge themselves. Married to a tank! In a way, there was some truth to this.

“Truth be told,” Hans thought to himself with a smile, “she may be more faithful!”

However, he still had reservations: the blind spot, the turret speed, the preparations. At Paderborn, the preparations were not too difficult, but how would they be in the heat of battle? How would she perform in the mud, or in the freezing ice and snow of winter, or in the dusty furnace of summer? What would happen if the supply chain got disrupted and spares started to run out? What about the terrain and the distances?

“Yes, we’ve seen the tables for armour protection, but that was only theory. How would she respond in reality to being hit by Ivan’s shells?”

This led Hans on to a new line of thinking. Perhaps it was time to leave the warm bosom of Paderborn, and request that the tank and crew go east for further trials, trials which more ruthlessly exposed both man and machine to the extreme conditions of war on the Eastern Front. This, he believed, would provide a real test as to whether or not the Tiger was truly ready.

Before he could mention this to Major Rondorf, it was Rondorf who approached him.

“Well, von Schroif, I am afraid you have to leave this little idyll and head back to the front.”

“Strange, I was just going to talk to you about that. I agree, our time here should be over, but I was going to suggest further testing and training in conditions that more closely resemble the front.”

“I feel that your crew know their way around the Tiger now, but I am afraid further testing is out of the question,” said Rondorf.

“But she is still very much a prototype. I have written various reports…” replied von Schroif.

“Yes, the blind spot, turret speed, drive chain… Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do. These are manufacturing decisions. There will be factory modifications, but, for now, you must content yourself with what you have.”

“With great respect, I believe it to be premature to put this tank into action.”

“That may or may not be the case, Hauptsturmführer, but the order came from the Führer… or from someone close to him.”

“Don’t tell me… It’s Borgmann again, isn’t it? It’s almost as if he wants to throw this opportunity away. If one of these falls into Soviet hands, everything is compromised.” At which point von Schroif suddenly clammed up. He realised that he had crossed the line. There was no point in continuing his line of reasoning. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” replied Rondorf.

“How?”

“Pick up five new machines from the factory at Kassel tomorrow, then entrain for the front. The Führer wants to see the Tiger in action.”

“Then we must oblige,” said von Schroif, his mood changing. “It will be good to see the unit again. It’s great tank country, down in the southern sector.”

“Don’t plan on it,” said Rondorf curtly.

Later that night, Hans von Schroif gathered his crew and told them the news.

“I don’t think she’s ready,” said Bobby Junge, “she is still basically a prototype.”

“I know,” replied von Schroif, “we all have reservations.” But then, feeling he should engender a less anxious state of morale amongst his comrades, he decided to shift emphasis. “However, as far as the gun and the communications go, I don’t think any further improvements need be made. They are ready to go.”

“So is the loader, sir,” added Otto Wohl, “…he’s never been fitter!”

“Is it back to the Division…? Rostov?” asked Bobby Junge expectantly.

“I would imagine so… They’ve done well without us. Rostov is back in our hands. We’re missing the party. They’ll need us to help push on beyond. Rostov is great tank country, and we have to remember our mission. Rostov is where we suffered our first setback, so it is entirely fitting that we return and, with this great tank at our side, let Ivan know the reverse was only temporary. In fact, now that I think about it, this is where we could make our most valuable contribution! Now, let’s get some sleep.”

“Sir, has anyone ever loaded a section of these things on a train before?” asked Michael Knispel as the men readied to leave.

“I don’t know,” said von Schroif with a shrug.

“Me neither,” said Bobby Junge.

Junge, Knispel and Wohl stood up, then made their excuses and left. None of the men betrayed their true feelings over the matter. Soldiers very rarely did.

Staying behind, Wendorff sat without speaking, but had the look of a man beset by problems.

“Are you sure it’s Rostov, sir?” asked Karl Wendorff, finally breaking his long silence.

“No,” replied von Schroif truthfully, “…perhaps it was wishful thinking. We can only hope. We have to trust those above us.”

“Assuming that it isn’t… given the importance of this new weapon, surely you could make representations?”

“The order has come from the top, and we will follow it.”

Wendorff knew there was no point discussing it further. He rose and saluted. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Wendorff.”

Hans von Schroif sat looking out over the river, the fierce red heat of the sun fading into cooler night. In the distance he could see the cathedral and, without wishing it, couldn’t help thinking of Saint Liborius, the patron saint of a good death. It wasn’t a thought he wanted to have at that time, but once present in his mind he could not easily dismiss it… a good death… What was a good death?

“Elvira,” answered Karl Wendorff, “…Elvira Schorr, according to the programme notes, trained at the Staatsoper in Munich.”

“Hah! A Bavarian. I knew it… Does it give an address?” asked Wohl hopefully.

“It doesn’t reveal that kind of information, Wohl! I’m afraid you will have to do your own detective work.”

“Unless, of course, you have good contacts in the Gestapo,” suggested Knispel.

“Not my kind of people. Jumped-up cops, if you ask me,” replied Wohl. “…I just don’t want to forget her face.”

“I didn’t see you looking at her face,” said Junge.

Ignoring the barb, Otto Wohl glanced across to a mother with a young child sitting at the window on the other side of the railway carriage.

“Excuse me, Madam, may I borrow one of your son’s pencils?”

“Of course, sir. Heinrich, please give the soldier one of your pencils.”

The child obliged and Otto smiled at him. He then looked around for something to write on.

“Use this,” suggested Bobby Junge, offering a page from his Tiger manual. “It’s practically unreadable. Perhaps you can brighten it up!”

Wohl picked a page and started sketching Elvira from memory. Of course, his only memory was her performance as a Rhine maiden on stage in Paderborn. If the performance of Das Rheingold had appealed to Karl Wendorff’s ear, then the sight of Elvira on stage had appealed to Otto’s eyes, which widened as he sketched Elvira’s long blond hair and fulsome bosom! Of course, Otto Wohl, being Otto Wohl, the dress started to remove itself, and before too long poor Elvira was completely naked.