Casca 42: Barbarossa Read online

  Those within listening range, which Langer guessed might be within a fifty mile radius, chuckled and shook their heads in amazement. How Gus hadn’t been arrested for saying such outrageous things was a matter of wonder. Langer cautioned Gus. “Just watch it, Gus – I don’t want any fanatic Hitler supporter denouncing you. I need your skills to drive us safely throughout this war, and you can’t do that behind bars, can you?”

  Gus farted and spat onto the ground. “It’s a bad system that doesn’t allow anyone to say what they feel, Carl, but I hear you. Worry not my concerned friend, no die-hard Nazi party member would think of taking me away. I’m far too valuable out here in the battle against the reds. Besides,” he said, lying back down and staring up at the sky again, “who else could possibly guide you on this mystery tour to the mystic east?”

  Teacher suppressed a smile with difficulty. “I bet those who write about this war in the future won’t put down our thoughts and feelings.”

  “You’re the teacher, Teacher. What would you teach in the classroom?” Langer asked.

  Teacher sighed and nodded. “Not what I would like – the government wouldn’t allow it, saying it’s against society to corrupt the minds of their children with inappropriate and unnecessary opinions. Opinions! Since when has the truth been barred for political doctrine? Any country that does that is doomed, I tell you, Carl.”

  Langer nodded. “I won’t disagree with you, but you and I can hardly march up to the Reichstag and demand a change to the curriculum, can we? Best to keep quiet and retain your life. They don’t take kindly to anyone challenging their idea of how things should be run.”

  “So what is this all about, Carl?” Teacher waved his pipe around. “Are we justified in doing this? Are we justified in subjugating Poland, Holland, Norway and all the other countries? How will we be judged in the future?”

  “Depends if we win or lose, Teacher. If we win, we’re glorious warriors. If we lose, we’re damned and evil. Whoever wins will write the history and color generations of school kids with their opinion, no matter the rights or wrongs of everything. Now let’s forget all this bullshit and get down to something far more serious.” Langer ripped the magazine out of Steffan’s hands. “Put this in the tank, Steffan. You’ll go blind. Felix, clean your hands and get the pot on the boil. Gus, stop contemplating infinity and make yourself useful. We need to eat.”

  Gus sprang up off the tank, defying his size, and crashed to the ground. A cloud of dust billowed up from the arid soil, sending insects scurrying for safety within thirty yards. “Jawohl, Herr Feldwebel. This unworthy one shall liberate the rich of their evil-gotten gains and present it to the hard-working workers of the world. Up the Wehrmacht Soviet!” and he punched the air with his left fist and struck what he regarded as being a heroic pose.

  “Gus, I’d kick your ass but I’m too concerned that I’d lose my foot up there. Move it, you lump,” Langer said with a smile.

  Gus slapped Langer on the shoulder, almost knocking him to the ground, and wandered off, his hands in his pockets, whistling an unknown tune so badly it almost shattered the windshields of nearby staff cars.

  Steffan and Felix unstrapped from the rear part of the turret a fairly heavy iron pot, dented and scratched, but still intact. Gus had found it in Kobrin, a town they had passed through a few days back, and rigged up a set of brackets to hold it in place, stating it was best to have extra armor to block sneaky Russian attacks from the rear. Of course, they could then eat in luxury, or so he declared.

  Teacher poured in water from their cans and went off to find some replenishment. Langer gathered firewood, lying scattered about in the aftermath of an air strike and vehicles ripping through the area. In no time they had a small fire going and the iron pot suspended over it, the water heating up.

  Other crews were getting as much chow down their throats, too, and those nearby kept on looking over in envy at the enormous pot boiling away, sending wafts of aromatic meat and broth their way. “Hey, Langer, any chance of sharing some of that with us?” Schrader, the nearest commander, hollered out, a grin on his face.

  “Can’t see why not, Andreas. Take your place in the queue.” Langer knew it would put them in good stead with their comrades, so that should they need anything in future it would be provided, and the chances of someone complaining about Gus’ behaviour in particular would be reduced.

  After a filling meal, ten panzer crews lay comfortably on the ground, trying not to think about having to fit into their hatches. “I tell you, Langer,” another tank commander by the name of Baumgardt, a tall, aristocratic looking man, said. “Your crew ought to set up a catering business; they’d be far more useful to the Wehrmacht that way than by blowing up Ivans.”

  “The Ivans would agree with you, too, Peter,” Langer responded.

  “We could sell to the Ivans, too,” Gus seized on the subject. “At an inflated price, of course, a Communist Commission, to be waived if they came over to our side and revoked Bolshevism.”

  The men laughed. “Sort out the war without killing? Sounds good, my friend,” a gunner from a nearby tank agreed.

  “We could ask Fast Heinz to open negotiations with the Ivans, after of course, we shot the NKVD and Gestapo.” Gus grinned, daring anyone to argue with him. Nobody dared to, not even the officers listening in. They knew, to their cost, that they’d be blinded with bullshit and forever they’d find nasty insects in their clothing, turds in their food and a myriad of unexplained accidents happening to them. Nobody would see Gus anywhere near the incidents of course, but everyone knew he was behind the actions. It had happened in France after the surrender of that country when they’d briefly had a particularly nasty example of a Hitler fanatic in their unit.

  The captain concerned had been broken within two weeks and had been sent indefinitely to a hospital for the insane near Stettin.

  Captain Heidemann knew which side of his bread was buttered and he always kept on the right side of Gus, even though at times he let the tankman know of his displeasure. It only seemed to please the giant driver, though. Heidemann came ambling across now, his black tankman’s uniform shabby and covered in dust, not the image of the pristine heroic German soldier on posters. “Feldwebel Langer,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “Please direct your ape-like minion to reserve his private opinions,” and he leaned forward and directed his best baleful stare at Gus, “for his own company and not that of mine. I have no wish to be lined up against a wall and shot by the party for allowing anti-National Socialist sentiments to pervade throughout my command!”

  “Sir,” Langer climbed to his feet and saluted. “Gus, knock it off, the Gestapo are off-limits, officially,” he added with a grin.

  Gus shot to his feet and stamped a cloud of Russian dust skywards, briefly obscuring his frame from all. His arm shot out straight in the best Nazi salute anyone could muster. “Jawohl, Herr Feldwebel. Herr Kapitan, this unworthy untermensch humbly begs forgiveness for daring to suggest the Gestapo should rightly be shot.”

  Heidemann returned to his tank, shaking his head and muttering about insubordination and firing squads. Within moments he was listening into his headphones, head cocked as the ether crackled with the tinny voice from von Schweppenberg’s mobile headquarters, some ten miles to the rear. He acknowledged the orders that came through, flicked off the switch, then turned to the radio that linked his befehlspanzer, the command tank, to the rest of his unit.

  Langer heard his earphones crackle and athletically climbed up to the turret, grabbed his unit and clamped them over his head. He caught the end of the message and asked for a repeat. Heidemann repeated slowly, not only for his benefit, but for those who, like Langer, had been caught napping.

  “Right you lazy dogs!” Langer hollered, standing atop his panzer, “get your sorry asses into this machine. Orders have come through to head for the Dnieper. We’re to cut off the Soviet units around Rogachev. Get moving!”

  With a collection of groans and curses, t
he men heaved themselves up, kicked fires into extinction, stowed cooking utensils and almost flowed into their tanks. Engines caught and fired up, and exhaust fumes belched into the air, filling the senses with their smell. The support vehicles were also loading up and getting ready to follow, and the camp was cleared by the support staff, taking care to loot any items carelessly left behind, fuelling the black market.

  Langer waited till Teacher and Steffan had vanished down the hatch before slipping down to a position half in and half out of the ring. He spoke into his microphone, ordering Gus to get going, heading east.

  The war machine lumbered on, aiming for the big river lying ahead of them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The command headquarters of what the Germans called the General Government was located in Krakow, in the center of the city. Huge buildings dominated the quarter, and one such construction, built around the turn of the century, was bedecked with the red flags with their swastikas in a central circle of white.

  Here Isabella was shown her office on her arrival. She was to type out lists of names and addresses from a roughly written draft and put them in a metal grill out tray, to be collected by another member of staff and passed to the filing clerks to place in whatever appropriate file existed, or to create a new one if necessary.

  The room, an oblong full of desks, chairs, filing cabinets and tables, had one wall full of large windows that overlooked the stone paved street that ran alongside the rear of the building. At least the view wasn’t that of the courtyard that stood a little way further along. Many of the secretaries – for that was what she was – were new arrivals, and the scene was one of chaos.

  Being among so many new arrivals was both good and bad. Good, because she would not stand out, and bad for the same reason. She needed to get into a position where she could access files pertaining to Wehrmacht personnel. She knew the unit Casca Rufio Longinus was in, and what his German name was. What she needed was to be in the section that was responsible for the search for Langer, not this one compiling lists of Jews in Warsaw. This was thoroughly distasteful to her. Those poor people would be herded into ghettos that were being formed and God knows what would happen thereafter. Her previous stint in Berlin had given her an inkling that Heydrich and Himmler had been setting up something too horrific to even think about.

  After a morning of mindless copying, and trying to decipher the script of whoever had been writing, she took a lunch break in the canteen provided, down on the ground floor. The basement would be for something else, the thugs of the Gestapo or SS would be at home down there.

  The canteen was airy, light and pleasant. The food was typical of the region, sausages, cabbage and dumplings. A poor quality coffee washed it down. The table she was at seated four and the three other women chatted mindlessly about the hot weather, their queuing for food, their children or husbands. Isabella had nothing in common with them. They were Germans who had been living in Poland, and were glad that they were now under a German administration.

  “Good day to you, Fraulein,” a deep masculine voice by her side startled her. She looked up and saw a tall, smiling figure in uniform close to her.

  “Good day,” she responded, a little nervously. One could never be sure whether the SS were going to be pleasant or obnoxious.

  “I wondered if you were new here,” the man said, looking briefly at the three other women, then dismissed them from his mind. “I have not seen you here before.”

  Isabella smiled and nodded. “I have started today. I arrived two days ago from Vienna,” she said, emphasising her Austrian accent to reinforce her tale, “and am living in a small flat not far from here.”

  The man nodded, pleased he had been right about the dazzlingly attractive woman he’d noticed from his place in the queue. His anticipated lunch of bratwurst could wait – the pretty woman was clearly a newcomer and no ring on her finger meant she was unattached. A suitable move was needed. “Hauptmann Fuessl,” he clicked his heels together and bowed, taking her hand and miming a kiss to the back of it.

  “Isabella Dankl,” she said, giving her new identity. “Lately of Vienna.”

  “Dankl? Any relative of the famed Hapsburg general in the last war?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, Herr Hauptmann.”

  “Oh please, Hans,” Fuessl insisted. “Is there a table we can continue this conversation further?”

  Isabella knew what he meant. To be honest, she was glad to be away from the goldfinches, chattering mindlessly without saying anything. There was a small table over by a wall and they sat at this. “Hans,” she said, settling herself comfortably. “Have you been in Krakow long?”

  “Ah, yes, for perhaps six months. It is not the most exciting of posts, regretfully, but if my superiors decide I am to serve the Reich here then so be it. Questioning people of dubious loyalty is boring, I can tell you. I might as well belong to the Blues.”

  “The Blues?”

  “Oh, forgive me, Fraulein. It is what we call the local police who have been subordinated to the General Government. Their officers and commanders were all replaced by Germans, of course, but the majority of them are still Poles.”

  He said the word as if it was distasteful, which, Isabella supposed, was to him. “Why is this not in Warsaw? I would have thought the main administration of Poland would be there.”

  Hans shook his head, smiling. He clicked his fingers at a passing waitress and ordered a coffee for two. “Warsaw is too unsettled and patriotic for us to safely go about our business. Let the army deal with them. We are much safer here. This region will eventually be Germanized and all native Poles either expelled or become Germans. I heard Herr Frank say as much last week. So, tell me, Fraulein, how is it you have come here from Vienna? Surely there are enough jobs to occupy a beautiful woman such as yourself!”

  She smiled appropriately. “I am escaping a broken relationship. My former fiancé is very possessive and I felt it necessary to leave Vienna for a while, and of course plenty of jobs were advertised here for Germans and German-speaking staff. It was easy to catch a train from Vienna to Prague, then from Prague to Krakow. A few letters and I found a place to rent easily enough.”

  “Oh yes you’ll be able to do that,” Hans agreed, “many people left after we took this region. They did not wish to remain under our control.”

  Isabella had no illusions as to the truth in that matter. Most had been arrested, for where could they go? People just didn’t simply move somewhere else without express permission of the General Government under Gauleiter Hans Frank. “May I ask what your duties are, or is that a secret?”

  Hans chuckled, his cheeks dimpling. He had short blond hair and a pair of very clear blue eyes. Very German. “Not at all, but in return for that, you must agree to dinner tonight with me.”

  Isabella nodded. Why not? She had to start somewhere, and an SS captain was as good a place to start as any. “I would be delighted – a new and unfamiliar place can be very lonely, Hans.”

  “Then that is decided!” he smiled, clapping his hands in pleasure. The waitress appeared and placed two coffees down and retreated. “Shall we say at seven, across the road outside the restaurant there?”

  “What, Der Schneewind? I could not possibly afford to eat there!”

  “Nonsense,” Hans smiled again. “I will be paying, my pleasure. At seven,” he repeated, eyeing her closely.

  After he had gone Isabella thought on how to proceed. Would she play the innocent, or the worldly-wise woman? The captain seemed to enjoy leading the conversation, and that would be probably down to his job as an officer in the SS. He would not be used to being the respondent. So she would play the submissive innocent, something no doubt he would prefer. Dinner sounded good, and having a potential guardian and associate in a reasonably powerful position could only be good for her.

  It would provide a sound foundation for her to worm her way into the correct department where they were looking into army records, and once she got there
she would have to find Langer’s records and destroy them – again.

  Luckily for her there had been two million troops on the territory of the General Government until a short while back and every one of them would now be subject to the search. No doubt the Brotherhood had directed other Gestapo sections to check on troops in their theatre of operations, and all soldiers in occupied Norway, Denmark, France, North Africa and everywhere else would currently be having their records checked.

  She just hoped she could find Langer’s papers first and get rid of them.

  Later that evening she was in her room in the apartment she rented, reflecting on the meal and what Hans Fuessl had told her about his job. She was thrilled at having struck it lucky with him; he was in the right directorate, the Gestapo and SS were collaborating here on the search for Langer simply because there were so many records to sift through. Hans had told her he had been originally assigned here to oversee the purge of the Polish police force, the demotion or getting rid of all Polish officers, and having them replaced by Germans or by Poles with German ancestry.

  Even though Polish was still the language of the majority here, the official language was now German and so those who spoke both languages would be invaluable, passing on the orders to the rank and file. After being part of this restructuring in May, when the final units were arriving in Poland, orders had come to begin collating all personnel files of all troops serving in the Wehrmacht on Polish soil and to sift through them.

  Although Hans had not given her the fine details, passing the exercise off as a boring and time consuming matter connected with seeking out criminals hiding in the army trying to avoid jail, Isabella wasn’t fooled. She knew, thanks to her time in Berlin, that the Reich was putting such social deviants as criminals along with dissidents and others into special ‘penal regiments’. Therefore hiding from jail was not a valid excuse. Clearly Hans Fuessl was one of those connected with the search.