Bob Carruthers - Tiger Command!

“Takt 3,” continued Arnholdt, “is mainly concerned with fixing the turret, as you can determine by the presence of that lathe. Which leads us, gentlemen, out of this shop and on to the next where, and I am sure this is the part of the process which will interest young Herr Junge, the Maybach engine makes its first appearance!”

As they left takt 3 and headed on to takt 4, Hans turned round to check if they were still being followed by their friends from the Gestapo. Sure enough, the little gang was still on their trail.

“Shouldn’t they be out catching traitors and subversives?” thought von Schroif.

Just then he saw one of the workers dart out of shop 3 and head diagonally across in front of them. Then he heard Otto Wohl call out. “Herr Jensen! Herr Jensen!”

The man looked startled and, for a moment, embarrassed, as if for some reason he did not want to recognise Otto.

“Herr Jensen! It’s me, Otto… Otto Wohl!”

Finally the man turned and smiled and walked towards Wohl, but in a hurried, almost nervous, limping manner.

Otto then turned excitedly to von Schroif and said, “Boss, this is Peter Jensen, my old art teacher. Any worth I have in drawing came from the encouragement of this one man!”

Otto’s initial excitement paled as the man came closer. Otto recalled that he had once been a burly athletic type◦– they had played in the school football team together◦– but now he looked emaciated and haggard, a gaunt spectral reflection of the hale figure he had once been.

“What are you doing here?” asked Otto.

The man looked furtively about, as if assessing whether he could be truthful in his answer. Seeing the others walking off toward shop 4, he must have judged the company of Otto Wohl to be less threatening. He spoke with a whispering, halting voice.

“When the war broke out, because I was a Danish national, I was stripped of my papers and found myself to be stateless, unable to keep my job at our old school, or to find a new job. I was sent here. Conditions here are not good, Otto. I do not know how much longer I have left, or how much I can tell… but you are looking well. Hopefully, when this is all over, we may meet again. It is a great and natural talent you have. I have to go now, but please give me your word you will not tell anyone you have seen me like this. Forgive me.” And with that he was gone, leaving Otto pale and shocked.

Hans von Schroif knew that Otto’s childhood had been less than stable, he even referred to him on occasion as ‘the little urchin’, but this man, this Peter Jensen, had perhaps been the sole guiding light in Otto’s troubled younger years. It must be a cruel blow, seeing someone he had held in such high esteem so humbled and so broken.

On entering shop 4, Hans von Schroif struggled to regain full concentration, so affected had he been by Otto Wohl’s encounter. It was terrible to observe someone so full of spirits having those bright feelings dashed. However, von Schroif was the only witness, and the tour of the factory was about to continue.

“To our engine, gentlemen, the Maybach HL 210,” announced Arnholdt, raising his arm and pointing at the twelve-cylinder behemoth that was being swung into place over the empty engine compartment by a giant overhead crane.

Through his left ear von Schroif could hear Bobby Junge exhale in wonderment, but then something else, another sound, something altogether more ominous, crept into his range of hearing. A tearing sound, tearing metal, and then the shout of the crane driver.

Von Schroif looked up and saw the engine list suddenly and hang for a moment. Without even thinking, he shouted, “Look out!”

The huge engine came crashing down onto the side of the hull and careered off towards them, bouncing and skidding along the ground.

Hans picked himself up off the shop floor. To his great relief, he saw Bobby Junge, Michael Knispel, Karl Wendorff and Kurt Arnholdt all do the same◦– but where was Otto Wohl?”

“Oh no,” thought Hans, “please God, no,” as he turned and looked in the direction of the now-stationary engine and saw blood spurting from underneath it. Then he heard the unmistakeable sound of Otto’s voice.

“Boss! Boss! Help! Help! It’s the major!”

The men rushed round the back of the engine and were greeted with a sight too awful to properly relay◦– poor Otto, on his knees, with blood running through his hands, cradling the crushed remains of Major Jurgen Rondorf.

Although von Schroif’s first impression was that there was no possible help that could be directed at the situation, his instinct forced him to seek aid◦– a crane perhaps to lift the engine from the crushed body◦– and so he turned his eyes upward and just then saw the figure of a man, high up in the building, running behind the crane.

Even at that distance, there was no mistaking the outline. It was Peter Jensen, the former art teacher, but, before he could assimilate this knowledge, he heard a barking voice from behind him.

“Halt! You there, halt!” It was Heinrich Bremer. “Halt, or I will shoot!”

Peter Jensen did not heed the warning and carried on running. Hans heard the crack of a pistol shot, then another, and Otto’s former mentor staggered, slumped, and fell from the roof, the only noise a crumpled thud as his body fell fifty metres onto a stack of ring gears before landing on the factory floor.

“No, No! You bastard! You murdering bastard!” shouted Otto Wohl.

Von Schroif immediately motioned to Knispel to restrain him. The former boxer struggled to hold Otto Wohl as the loader directed his rage at the Gestapo man.

Hans was operating in survival mode now. They had lost Major Rondorf. The last thing they wanted now was to lose Otto Wohl. What had happened here? Had the art teacher sabotaged the crane? Is that what he meant when he said to Otto, “Forgive me”?

Hans felt the anger rise in himself too, but he didn’t yet have the facts. If that bastard art teacher had sabotaged the crane, Hans would have willingly torn him limb from limb himself. But had he? And why? However, he understood Otto’s rage, and the last thing he needed was for Wohl to get in trouble with◦– or even, God forbid, be shot by◦– some trigger-happy, faceless Gestapo man.

“Arrest that man!” Bremer shouted to his colleagues, who ran towards Otto, reaching for their guns.

“Wohl!” shouted von Schroif with all the force and authority he could muster. “Leave this to me!”

This was crucial. If Otto Wohl heeded his plea, von Schroif was sure he could defuse this already-worsening situation. If not, and Wohl continued to struggle, then his life was in danger. There must be no escalation.

Fortunately, in one of those moments in which a soldier’s absolute faith and trust in his commander can mean the difference between life and death, Wohl heeded the call and slowly stopped struggling.

Hans von Schroif immediately put himself between Otto Wohl and the onrushing Gestapo men.

“Halt!” he shouted. “I am SS-Haupsturmführer Hans von Schroif, of the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler, veteran of the Freikorps, and holder of the Knights Cross. In the name of the Führer, I order you to halt.”

Hans’s upright posture and the tone of his order quickly succeeded in stopping the Gestapo men in their tracks. Like all true underlings, they now adopted the only course possible; they looked back to their leader for guidance.

“SS-Hauptsturmführer, this matter is no concern of yours. My authority comes from the highest levels of the Reich Main Security Office. My quarrel is not with you, it is with that man there, SS-Schütze Otto Wohl,” shouted Bremer.

“Good,” thought von Schroif to himself, “he is backing off. Now is the time to raise the stakes.”