Claws of Steel

  ‘When the order is given, you will drive forward with the greatest tank armies ever assembled in the history of warfare … crushing the life out of the Soviet serpent with two huge claws of steel.’ Adolf Hitler to his generals, May 1943.

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Epigraph

  A Short Glossary of Wotan Terms

  One: The Great Plan

  Section 1 One

  Section 1 Two

  Section 1 Three

  Section 1 Four

  Section 1 Five

  Section 1 Six

  Section 1 Seven

  Two: Operation Citadel

  Section 2 One

  Section 2 Two

  Section 2 Three

  Section 2 Four

  Section 2 Five

  Three: Clash at Kursk

  Section 3 One

  Section 3 Two

  Section 3 Three

  Four: The Yanks are Coming

  Section 4 One

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  A SHORT GLOSSARY OF WOTAN TERMS

  Asparagus Tarzan

  Weakling

  Golden Pheasant

  Nazi Party official

  Popov, lvan

  Russian soldier

  Spaghetti-eater, Macaroni

  Italian

  Greenbeak, wet-tail

  Raw Recruit

  Ami

  American

  Base Stallion

  Rear-area soldier, ‘base-wallah’

  Bone-mender

  Doctor

  Warm brother

  Homosexual

  Kitchen-bull

  Army cook

  Field-Mattress

  German Army female auxiliary

  Tin

  Decorations

  Throatache

  Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross

  Cancer stick

  Cigarette

  Dice-beakers

  Jackboots

  Marie, green-leaves

  Money, banknotes

  Wood in front of the door

  Big bosom

  Old Man

  Tinned meat

  Giddi-up soup

  Horsemeat soup

  Reeperbahn-equalizer

  Brass knuckles

  Stubble-hopper

  Infantryman

  ONE: THE GREAT PLAN

  ‘The whole of Germany’s tired. Heaven, arse and twine, we’re fighting half the world after all! And that’s exactly why we must be hard. The German soldier has to be so hard that he is the match for any two Tommies, Amis or Ivans – and the SS man has to be twice as hard as the ordinary Wehrmacht stubble-hopper!’ Major Geier, CO SS Assault Battalion WOTAN to Capt. v. Dodenburg, June 1943.

  ONE

  The Mercedes swung out of the Mauer Forest on to the road to Rastenburg. Immediately it picked up speed. On either side the spring gale was ripping at the branches of the ancient beeches and whipping up the surface of Lake Mauer into white caps.

  But the high ranking officers in the Mercedes, the sombre field-grey of their uniforms relieved only by the crimson stripe of the staff down the sides of their trousers, had no eyes for the East Prussian scenery this spring day. The situation at the Russian Front was too serious. Stalingrad had fallen and a quarter of a million German soldiers had shambled off into the Russian cages. Now they knew the Führer must make the right decision, because if he didn’t soon, the whole Eastern Front could well break under the tremendous weight the Red Army was bringing to bear on it.

  Colonel-General Model’s car stopped at Gate 1 to Special Area 1 of the ‘Wolf’s Lair’. The SS guards saluted rigidly. But even though the red-faced General with the monocle squeezed into his right eye was well known at the HQ, they insisted on seeing his identity card. With a muffled curse he passed it over to the massive Lieutenant in charge of the guard and stared straight ahead at the sombre headquarters hidden in the East Prussian Forest. What had General Jodl once called the place? Half monastery and half concentration camp? It damned well looked like it.

  Satisfied with his ID card, the massive SS officer clicked to attention once again and ordered the guard to lift the red-and-white striped pole. Colonel-General Model could pass through. One by one the grey camouflaged Mercedes followed. Drop a bomb on this road now, Model thought sourly as the convoy formed up again, and that would be end of German Army. For all its key leaders were present in the convoy – Manstein, Guderian, Hoth – summoned from all over the vast Eastern Front to hear what the former Corporal in the Bavarian Infantry had planned for them.

  But there was little chance of an enemy bomb hitting Adolf Hitler’s HQ, Model told himself, even if the Tommies had possessed a bomber capable of flying so far. The low concrete huts, their flat roofs turned into gardens, were perfectly hidden in the tall beeches. They’d be impossible to see from the air. And as for a land-based attack, the Wolf’s Lair was hermetically sealed off from the outer world by layer after layer of minefields and roadblocks, defended by the elite of the ‘Bodyguard Division’. Whatever else they said about the Führer, Model concluded, he was no fool when it came to looking after his own safety. The Ivans or the Tommies would need an army to break into this place.

  A few moments later the convoy of high-ranking officers swung by the last barrier, inside which the Farm’s own Alsatian bitch Blondi ran around freely, ready to go for the genitals of any unauthorised person, and halted outside the Leader’s own but in which today’s vital conference was to be held.

  Jodl, Hitler’s pale-faced clever Chief-of-Staff, received them at the door and ushered into the map room, where the top secret maps were already laid out on the big oak table.

  ‘You may be seated gentlemen,’ he said and indicated the high-legged wooden stools around the table. ‘Of course no smoking in the Führer’s presence. Remember that Guderian.’

  He looked at Colonel-General Guderian, the father of the ‘Blitzkrieg’, and the others laughed politely, for they knew the hot-tempered panzer leader liked his cheap ten pfennig cigars.

  ‘You may help yourself to soft drinks.’ He indicated the bottles on the table. ‘For those of you who are so inclined, the Führer’s barley water is over there. But there’ll be nothing strong, I’m afraid, until after the conference. However you can—’

  ‘Jodl,’ Model interrupted him in irritation, ‘we’ve heard all this before. Before the Führer comes, brief us quickly. Heaven, arse and twine, Jodl, you know we don’t want to be caught with our breeches down when he starts asking those awkward damned questions of his!’

  Jodl’s pale cunning eyes gleamed with unusual animation for him.

  ‘I can tell you this, Model. You and Hoth, and naturally you too, Field Marshall,’ he bowed his head politely in Manstein’s direction, ‘will be getting the biggest job of your whole careers. What the Führer is going to propose to you will be the most tremendous—’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Field Marshall Keitel’s harsh Prussian voice broke in to the discussion, ‘the Führer!’

  They stiffened to attention immediately like a bunch of young recruits meeting their drill sergeant for the first time. Keitel, as wooden-faced and impassively stupid as ever, had flung open the door to admit Adolf Hitler. He flashed a quick look at them and then barked, ‘Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ The handful of men, who had commanded Germany’s military destiny for the last three years, flung up their right arms in the Roman salute.

  Dramatically Adolf Hitler stood there and gave each one of them a long searching look with those hypnotic eyes of his, peering into their hard soldiers’ faces, as if he hoped to see something there, known only to himself. Manstein, clever and cynical, and probably half-Jewish1 for all he knew; Guderian,
awkward but brilliant, a general he’d already sacked once, whom he could not do without; Model, gross, a heavy drinker, but a lion in defence; and Hoth, grey-haired and quiet, but so good that he was going to entrust him with the greatest tank army ever assembled in the history of battle. Finally he broke off his scrutiny of their faces.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said quietly, ‘you may be seated.’

  He gave them a few moments to settle themselves on the hard wooden stools, then got down to business at once.

  ‘Gentlemen, I know what some of you are thinking. We have suffered a severe setback at Stalingrad, I must admit that. Some of you think therefore, that we should go over to the defensive.’

  He looked at them challengingly, as if he expected them to agree, but even Guderian managed to keep his mouth shut and fix his angry eyes on the maps in front of him.

  ‘But we will not go over to the defensive. That would be playing into the Bolsheviks’ hands, and I am not going to play any game prescribed for me by that Yiddish clique which rules Soviet Russia. No.’ He paused and thrust out his jaw aggressively, as if he were giving one of his great dramatic speeches at the annual Nuremburg Party Rally. ‘Gentlemen, I am proud to announce to you that National Socialist Germany will not just be content to hold what it has conquered in these last eighteen months in Russia. National Socialist Germany will go over to the attack.’ He brought his clenched fist down on the table hard. ‘In three months’ time, gentlemen, by the first of July 1943 at the latest, your armies will march east once again – and they will march to victory, final victory!’

  Even their rigid military training could not prevent them gasping with surprise. Manstein’s habitual slightly bored look vanished from his long face, as if it had been wiped off by an invisible hand.

  Hitler smiled slightly, pleased with the effect his words had had. Then his face grew hard again.

  ‘Gentlemen, this summer two great German armies will go over to the offensive – an offensive of decisive importance. One which must end in swift and final success. Those armies will be given the best formations, the best weapons, the best ammunition National Socialist Germany can provide – and that means the best in the world.’ His dark eyes blazed with some inner fire. ‘Victory at Kursk will be a beacon for the whole world!’

  ‘Kursk,’ Model breathed to himself. So that was it!

  Hitler paused for breath before indicating they should come and look at the centre map There was a hasty scraping of stools as they followed his command.

  ‘You can see, gentlemen, that the Bolsheviks had cut a huge bulge into our front here around Kursk. That bulge presents a tremendous danger to our whole Eastern Front. It is from there that they will undoubtedly launch their own summer offensive which could well split our forces.’

  The generals, bent over the big map, nodded their heads in agreement. Although they’d disagreed with the former corporal about strategy often enough in the past, they knew he was completetly right about the overwhelming danger presented by the Kursk salient.

  ‘If we can attack first, gentlemen,’ Hitler continued, ‘not only will we be able to cripple the Bolsheviks’ offensive power and protect our own front, but we shall be able to crash right into their rear. After Stalingrad they will not be expecting us to take the offensive, believe you me, I feel it in my bones. We shall take them off their guard.’

  ‘But my Führer,’ Model said, before anyone else could protest, ‘where are we to get the men?’

  Hitler looked at the bemonocled general triumphantly. ‘I expected you to ask that question, Model.’ He turned to Jodl, his chief-of-staff. ‘Jodl perhaps you would be good enough to detail our resources in case there are others present who doubt our ability to carry out the new offensive.’

  Model flushed a deep red but did not say anything as all attention turned to Jodl.

  Jodl was in his element. He had never been happy at the front; his greatest love was the staff, where the human element was reduced to a series of numbers or a red line on a graph.

  ‘Gentlemen, since Stalingrad we have built up the greatest force assembled ever by the Wehmacht In the first line of attack we will have fifty divisions, sixteen of them panzer or motorised. Those divisions will contain nine hundred thousand men with ten thousand guns and three thousand tanks. They will be suported by 2,000 aircraft and a further twenty divisions in reserve, composed of—’ Without a single glance at the notes held in his slim, well-manicured fingers, he rattled off statistic after statistic, while his fellow general officers listened to his expose with ever-increasing awe. ‘In short, gentlemen,’ he concluded his brilliant summary of the forces available for the attack, ‘the workers and civilian authorities of National Socialist Germany are putting the most powerful weapon known to the world in your hands, knowing that the Greater General Staff of the German Reich will not fail them in its use.’

  He stopped and let the veiled threat sink in, but they overheard the threat; they were too bemused by the tremendous number of men and weapons that Hitler seemed to have conjured up from nowhere for this great new surprise summer offensive.

  ‘My God, Jodl,’ Model breathed, the monocle popping out of his right eye, the Führer’s presence completely forgotten with the shock of it all, ‘where in the devil’s name did you get such numbers from?’

  ‘I can tell you, Colonel-General!’ Hitler said, exuberantly. ‘From the sacrifice and will to victory of our German folk-comrades.2 They are prepared to toil for eighteen hours a day on pitiful rations, subjected as they are to the terror raids of those Anglo-American air gangsters – and send their seventeen-year-old sons to war too – so that the Greater German Reich may achieve its great victory. ‘Hitler’s voice rose, the lock of unruly black hair fell over his forehead and little flecks of foam had collected at the sides of his mouth. ‘For you, the Battle of Stalingrad was a defeat. But for me it was a kind of victory. Yes, a victory!’

  He looked at them challengingly. ‘For Stalingrad rallied this nation. Just as Dunkirk put the decadent English behind that drunken Jewish sot Churchill, Stalingrad has placed Germany behind me. Now the German Folk know it is march or croak as we used to say in the infantry in the old war. Now it is prepared to devote its very last bit of energy – its very life blood – into this fight for survival. My folk comrades know what victory at Kursk must mean for National Socialist Germany.’

  He struck his padded chest almost angrily, his guttural Austrian voice rising even more hysterically, as he cried to his awed generals:

  ‘Our armour will be concentrated in two great armies on either side of the salient. You, Model, will get the Ninth Army in the north. You, Hoth, the Fourth Panzer Army in the south. And know this, Hoth, I’m entrusting you with my elite, my SS panzer divisions.’ His eyes bored into those of the white-haired tank commander.

  ‘I’m very appreciative of the honour, my Führer,’ Hoth stammered hastily. ‘I am sure that I shall—’

  His words faltered into nothing. Hitler was not listening. His hands held wide apart, he roared at them.

  ‘When the order is given, you, Model, and you, Hoth, will drive forward with the greatest tank armies ever assembled in the history of warfare. You will take the Bolsheviks by complete surprise, smashing into them with your armour,’ he brought his hands together abruptly, ‘crushing the life out of the Soviet serpent with … with,’ almost desperately he sought for the right words, ‘with two huge claws of steel …’

  Notes

  1. Manstein’s real name was von Lewinski, supposedly a Jewish name (transl.)

  2. National Socialist term for the ordinary citizens of the Third Reich (transl.)

  TWO

  Sergeant Schulze of the SS Battalion Wotan1 gave one of his celebrated farts. It was long-drawn out, and not unmusical. But the other NCOs of the First Company, stretched out in the long grass around him listening to Captain von Dodenburgh’s lecture on the new Tiger tank, were obviously feeling as lazy as he was. They contented themselves with a poli
te titter at the burly Hamburger’s attemps to amuse them on this hot June day.

  The First Company’s comedian was not offended. As he sat there with the flies buzzing around lazily in the heat, he felt happy with the world. The Battalion had not been in action for three months now; County Leader Schmeer’s wife Waltraut cooked the best Schnitzel in the whole of Westphalia – though unfortunately she demanded a bit of meat from him in return; and her maid Heidi had the biggest pair of lungs it had ever been his good fortune to fondle – and he’d fondled plenty of big knockers in his twenty-seven years. He yawned mightily and tried to concentrate on the Company Commander’s lecture about the Tiger.

  ‘Those of you who were fortunate to serve with the Battalion in Russia,’ he nodded to Sergeant Metzger, the Battalion’s senior NCO, seated next to him, ‘will remember that our Mark IVs armed with the short 75mm was not much of a match for the Popov’s T-34.2 The shells bounced off the damned thing’s glacis plate like golf balls.’ Von Dodenburg wiped the sweat off his bronzed face and frowned at the memory. ‘But it’s going to be different with this baby.’ He tapped the sectional drawing of the Tiger pinned on the blackboard behind him. ‘The Mark VI’s 88 is the best gun in the world and the Tiger will carry enough ammo to see off a whole Popov tank brigade – 92 rounds of 88 and 5,700 for the two m.g.s. Here in the turret-co-axial of course – and down here next to the driver.’

  He paused and pushing back his cap with its death’s head insignia to reveal hair bleached to tow by the sun. ‘In due course, you’ll all be able to see for yourselves when the factories start delivery. For the time being, however, do you know what—’

  ‘I do, sir,’ Schulze interrupted him, knowing that his special position in the Battalion as its comedian and only non-commissioned holder of the Knight’s Cross enabled him to take liberties. He grinned.