The second portion of the final of the story. When I'm uploading these, I find it irritating that the asterisks () nor the tilde () do not work.
Also, even though I have read the guidelines for submitting stories, the 'script' portion is essential to the story as background, and if this chapter shall receive criticism (or removed by admin action) only because of such usage, I, as a writer, will take great offense, as it is not upholding to(my) creative process, nor the supposed motto of this site ('Unleash your imagination and free your soul').
As said, enjoy this next chapter, and again, Give it your best shot (with critiques)!
Colonel Jason Barns: Please state your name, rank, and place of birth.
Sergeant Jonathan Miles (translator): Geben Sie bitte Ihren Name, Rank und Geburtsort an.
Herr Oberst: Herr Stephan Walter, Oberst, geboren 1905 zu Hans und zu Gertrude Walter in Frankfurt, Deutschland.
Sergeant Jonathan Miles: Mister Stephan Walter, Colonel, born in 1905 to Hans and Gertrude Walter in Frankfurt, Germany.
Colonel Jason Barns: Do you speak any English or French, and if so, where did you study?
Sergeant Jonathan Miles: Sprechen Sie irgendein Englisches oder Französisch, und wenn so, wo Sie studerten?
Oberst Stephan Walter: Ja Englisch, studiert 1925 at Oxford University in Oxford, England.
Sergeant Jonathan Miles: Yes English, studied in 1925 at Oxford University in Oxford, England.
Colonel Jason Barns: What was your duty in the German army until capture?
Oberst Stephan Walter: Simply put...to destroy the poor excuse that the United States and 'Great' Britain call armored vehicles.
Colonel Jason Barns:...Excuse me..?
Oberst Stephan Walter: Take your prized Sherman...We call it the "Tommy Cooker" for a reason.
Colonel Jason Barns: I ...see...
Oberst Stephan Walter: For battle against your armor, I was given command of a tank.
Colonel Jason Barns: ... Why were you given command of a tank?
Oberst Stephan Walter: After returning from Oxford, I took up my late father's business of fixing automobiles, as has been the family's business.
As such, the German High Command, not wanting to squander my skills with just any peashooter, transfers me to a newly-created Panzer division. My battlefields are in the forests surrounding and open field, or in a roadside clump of trees. But not with just any tank. No, I am given the pride of the German Wehrmacht: a Panzerkampfwagen VI Tiger I heavy battle tank. With an 88mm KwK L/56 main gun and two supporting 7.92 MG 34 machine guns, one of which is co-axial with the main armament, I felt that I could take on the world. And if it were not for the Maybach HL 230 P 45 ZV-12 water-cooled inline petrol engine being over-stressed with the 55,000 kg load, I could have. But, since the German High Command continued to deny my requests for a better engine, I was stuck here in Normandy, France, picking off the metal coffins the allied countries affectionately call 'armor'.
Colonel Jason Barns: Mhmm...Tell me...what happened on the 20th of June?
Oberst Stephen Walter: I'm sure that you already know what happened...The weather was fairly cloudy, a light breeze came from the north that day, about ten kilometers per hour..
"Herr Schaffer...who is that girl you keep looking at?" I say to my driver, looking down from my position in the commander's position of the Tiger I, the photo being that of a small, thin girl, about 20 years of age and swinging around a lamppost, all smiles as she looked at the photographer, probably Markus.
Markus turns and looks up at me, a small smile on his face, then turns back to the photograph. "She's my girl, Herr Oberst. We're getting married when the war ends. I promised her I would return to see her again upon our victory here."
"Ah...best put the photo away." He knows better...his hands are always greasy, being the mechanic for this beautiful piece of...wait a minute...I take out my field glasses from the compartment allotted to me, reaching up and working the lever for the commander's hatch.
"Ja, Herr..Oberst?" He replies as he looked up to the sound of metal scraping across metal as the commander's hatch was opened.
I raise my head above the cupola, the field binoculars now to my eyes as I scan as far down the nearby road and..."Tommies...10 o'clock." I duck back down into the turret and close the hatch, putting my eyes to the rangefinder of the main cannon, slowly traversing the turret by hand and bringing the cannon to bear on the three US Shermans coming up the road in single file from the shores of Normandy, buttoned up and scanning their surroundings with their main barrels. I slowly shake my head, watching them advance. Scanning as they were works, but using the telescope to check the surroundings hinders the eyesight just enough as to make spotting a man-made structure or vehicle very difficult.
From my camouflaged position in a clump of trees overlooking the road, I traverse the turret to follow the group of Shermans, smiling widely as my blood starts to surge, the adrenaline jumping my heart rate. Keeping to my training, I wait until the perfect time, then pull the trigger, sending an armor-piercing round from our main gun into the lead Sherman's soft, thin side armor, killing the crew and immobilizing it. The other two American vehicles immediately bolt towards the nearest clump of trees next to the road. I am able to shoot another round at a Sherman, but they make it to the trees and I lose sight of them, unsure if I scored a hit or not. This is kind of unfortunate, because the main gun barrel really needed a couple more white bands around it.
I listen with satisfaction, knowing that the two Shermans are heading right into a trap of two 75mm Pak 40 anti-tank units, each of which can penetrate 90 degree, 132 mm of armor at 500 meters. I hear two loud 'thumps' as the Pak's fire, accompanied by the clatter of small arms fire as the Yank crews try to get out of their immobilized tanks, only to get cut down by the infantry supporting the anti-tank units.
I open the commander's hatch. "Alright, men…Keep watch over the road and ensure that no more Americans come down the road. I'm going to see what the American recruits brought us to use!" I smile wide, hearing the crew chuckle to themselves, their senses relaxing a bit. I reach back into the commander's compartment and grab my screwdriver in the hopes that the dead American tank's radio isn't welded in place.
I start to walk down the hill, wondering why here, of all places, the war has to ravage the beauty of this land. Gentle rolling hills, forests dotting the landscape, and the occasional farmhouse with surrounding fields separated by hedgerows were what once dominated the local scenery. But ,by now, most of the hills are pockmarked with shell blasts from the American and British warships in the waters, while the forests and the farms suffered a similar fate.
Making my way to the first Sherman, I notice the white stripe across the turret, which landed upright about two meters from the tank's hull, a location which happens to look very peculiar. I shrug it off, though, knowing what could very possibly be smeared around the inside of what was once the American tank's main armament.
I amble to the hull of the Sherman, but the fire licking the insides of it makes any scavenging attempts futile. I make my way over to the other two Shermans, noticing the various brown and red clumps surrounding each.
Putting first things first, I go over to meet my comrades on foot. They are led by Hans, an old classmate of mine. "It is always such a pity to win at matters like these, knowing that losing is quite fatal."
He frowns, expectedly. He never really was fond of my philosophical thinking. "You always seem to find one way make me think, don't you?" Quite simply, thinking wasn't really his strongest suit, though he could work up a plan of attack rather well.
I chuckle softly, gazing about myself and the near-perfect positioning of the equipment and men, most of them starting to wander up to the kill zone to scavenge for war prizes: a gun that they like, the medals that one of the dead might be wearing. "Me? Make you think? The thought is absurd, Hans," I exclaim with a grin.
Hans smiles, and then shakes his head and chuckles. "You and your word games. Anyways, what brings you out of your metal grave? I hear they now come in silk and velvet!"
I give a hearty laugh, showing him the screwdriver I had palmed on the way down from the hilltop. "To use what the Americans have so gratefully given to us."
He nods and smiles, looking out across the road, his rough face etched in thought, "Indeed…." He opens his mouth in an attempt to continue the idle chat, but he is interrupted by a commotion from one of the men who has climbed up onto the Sherman closest to us.
"An American! An American is still alive," comes the shout from the regular infantryman on the tank, his machine pistol drawn and at the ready, pointing inside the hull of the Sherman.
I quickly run over to the knocked-out tank, along with Hans and a few other soldiers, then peer in through a hole in the front of the tank, the fatal hole caused by the anti-tank round.
Sure enough, there is an unfortunate soul still alive in the hull, his clothes a mess of red and brown from the shrapnel of the round that is now in the engine block of his tank. All things considered, the driver (I assume, from the controls that are in front of him) is more or less alive, sitting up and grabbing his leg, which seems to be stuck between a piece of the hull and his seat. I get up on top of the hull, then enter the commander's cupola and move to the hull machine gunner's position – which the Americans call the "assistant driver's position," making it sound as if the drivers themselves are too incompetent for their job. I look around the hull, searching out any compartment that is still intact in case that there might be a weapon of some sort that he can grab, but I only find a Colt pistol in a compartment to the right of the gunner. I pick it up, eject the magazine and inspect the .45 caliber rounds inside, then hand the sidearm up to the various spectators outside of the tank hull.
I finally manage to look at the face of the driver, who is staring at my overcoat, looking at the medals as they move from my torso's actions. He then looks up at me, and I look back at him. I blink, and then start to pat him down, searching for any other weapons that he might have hidden on himself. My hand passes over a hard spot on his right hip, so I reach into his pocket and take out his wallet, which he oddly (or wisely) still has with him.
I open the wallet, it being of a fairly good quality leather, simple fashion and well worn from use, and notice a photograph, hidden in the back, of a beautiful young lady sitting on a bar stool in front of a window. I remove the photo and show it to him, my index finger tapping the front of it.
"My...wife." He takes the photograph in his hands and holds it, most likely traveling back in his memory to the last time he saw her, wishing her a silent farewell as he comprehends, and accepts, the worst.
I look around the hull again, thinking for a little bit as I absent-mindedly put his wallet in my pocket, weighing the pros and cons of my actions. With a sigh, I make a decision, then raise his arms out the hatch above him and inspect his leg. There is moderate bleeding where the hull cuts into his leg, but, other than that, he will be fine. I put my finger on the wound, thinking that his leg could dislodge from the tight position he is in with the right amount of force.
"Knife." I say simply, reaching my hand up towards the commander's cupola, looking up a few moments later, those that were watching finally moving.
"Here, Herr Oberst," Comes the reply from a small man- no, a teenager- as a rather long knife is handed down into the tank.
I inspect it, identifying it as a Hitler Youth knife. Shrugging, silently wishing the youth the best, I bend down and place the blade between the American's leg and the hull of the Sherman, then gently pull back on the knifed handle, but my attempt results in the American groaning while only gaining a little space between his leg and the hull. I look, prying his leg away once more, though this time I gain purchase on his leg, at the expense of more blood.
"Hans…could I have the pistol to use….and your handkerchief?" I look up, putting the knife away for the moment. Moments later, I receive the pistol and the handkerchief. I quickly tie the slip of cloth tightly around the leg of the American, getting a soft moan and the attention from everyone around the Sherman. After ensuring that the handkerchief is secure, I stand up as best I can in the tank, inspecting the pistol once again in my hands. "Gute Nacht, Amerikanisch." I calmly say to the American, then I quickly bring the butt of the pistol to meet his temple before he can react, knocking him out instantly. With a sigh, I once again place the blade of the knife between the Sherman and the flesh of the leg of the American and apply pressure, increasing pressure on the hilt until the piece of the hull finally emerges from his leg, blood once again leaking from the open wound, though not as rapidly due to the tourniquet in place. "Hans, if you would be so kind as to get the medic, I would greatly appreciate that. As for the rest of you, please pull this American out of the Sherman."
With that, the American driver is quickly lifted out of the driver's position without incident as I keep the leg from catching on the metal as the body is removed from the hull of the Sherman and carried back to the infantry camp, where the medic is preparing his tools.
I look around the Hull of the Sherman, listening to the men carry the American off and sigh, my mind working over the Sherman tank as compared to my Tiger I, and I draw a blank as to the validity of sending decidedly weak armor to war.
After a brief rest, I gather the knife and the Colt pistol, then climb out through the commander's cupola and back onto solid earth, slowly walking towards the camp and to the watering station, dropping off the Hitler Youth knife to the cook as I pass by his station while putting the Colt in the waistband of my trousers, smelling the bland scent of tasteless chicken and vegetables, remnants of one of the nearby farms.
I quickly wash my hands in the cold water from the watering station, then slowly walk back out of the camp and head back up to the Tiger 1, putting my hands in my pockets, feeling the screwdriver and remembering what I originally wanted to do. I turn and head to the pair of Sherman tanks. I make it to a Sherman, and I open the commander's hatch and slide in to inspect what is left of the engine and the radio.
The engine is, of course, completely shot; the only thing on the tank's chassis that could possibly be used is the muffler, which is probably worthless for the Tiger anyway. But the SCR528 push-button, FM, voice-operated radio is in fairly good condition, considering what a literal hell it went through and how it could have been hit with shrapnel. I smile, testing the button a few times, then take out my screwdriver and begin to remove the screws holding the radio in place.
Hans comes up to the tank after a bit and peers in, watching me work for a bit before he speaks. "Any particular reason why you are playing hero all of the sudden?"
I sigh, taking off my commander's hat and looking at the emblem on the front, thinking my answer through before I start to speak. "Hans…..That man has a wife….as do I…I, for one, would like to see her again in this lifetime after the war."
He sighs and shakes his head in disgust, "And what of the Fatherland, hmm? A soldier's duty is to his Fuehrer and to his home country, not to some broad back home." He practically spits the words out in disgust.
I sigh once more, eyeing the screwdriver in my hands, then shake my head. Even though the idea IS appealing, one simply doesn't attack one's friends. Besides, there are witnesses in the form of underlings. I shrug it off and continue to work on the radio, smiling as the last screw drops to the floor, and then I tilt the radio forward, looking for the battery. I sigh as I see a cord running from the back of the radio to the engine. "Great, just what I needed, an extra battery to carry around... Oh well, a little less space won't hurt…." I unhook the radio from the battery, heft it to the commander's seat, and start to push it out the commander's hatch when my eye spots the manual for the radio. I figure, "What the heck," and grab that, too. I get out through the driver's door, reach up, and grab the radio, lifting it up and carrying it to the Tiger, being careful not to drop it, when I pass by the medic as he stands and talks to one of his friends, the two of them having been in the same part of town, I assume. I inquire, "How is the American?"
The medic sighs and turns to me, "He will live, if that is what you are asking. Though there was some lead in the leg muscle that needed to be removed. As of a few moments ago, he is in our camp and recovering."
I smile. "Thank you. I'll see to it that you are recognized for your actions," Then with a nod, I continue on my way, carrying the radio back to the Tiger. When I finally reach it, there is a clothesline strung up behind the tank between two lone trees. The hull gunner is in his seat, reading a letter from his girl, the driver is in the commander's chair looking through the telescope, and the other two are on their cots outside playing a game of cards. Home sweet home.
I set down the radio behind the tank and start to walk off, before I hear the radioman cough. I turn to him, an eyebrow raised. "Yes?"
"I see you brought me a present," he smiles, laying his poker hand face-down on the cot.
I chuckle and nod, "Indeed I did. I would be much obliged if you could get it working for us so we have an idea of what the Americans are throwing at us," I tell him, then toss the manual onto the box.
Looking out over the kill zone once more from my vantage point, my eyes rest upon the three Sherman tanks once more. I listen as best I can, trying to hear any other intruders who come from the beaches. For a long time I simply stand there, until my eyes come to rest on the turret of the Sherman that had dislocated itself from the tank, my imagination slowly starting to work. I chuckle to myself, toying with the idea of the turret becoming its own defense against the Allied forces. I sigh softly, then shrug it off, knowing that the Allies should be planning a counter-attack against this position in a hurry.
I sigh softly, retiring to the commander's position of the Tiger to draw out my idea with a fountain pen, the sky turning to beautiful shades of orange and purple as the sun sets, night quickly approaching as the various elements of the German War Machine starts to prepare for night watch. Naturally, I will allow the others to rest their minds before I take my turn. I stand and allow myself to look out into the distance towards the shores of Normandy, wondering how well the other elements are holding up against the quantitative might of the Allied war machine.
I blink my eyes open slowly, the morning sunlight streaming in from the opening between the tree line's canopy and the turret of the Tiger, perfectly framing my body as I start to return from my deep sleep. I softly curse, the sun always rousing me from sleep with its warm rays in my eyes. I slowly rise from my grass bed, brushing the debris from my coat briefly before I make my rounds, awakening my crew one by one with a nice, gentle "Good morning" kick to the ribs, smirking as they curse my name as they join the land of the living, also.
After ensuring that all my men are awake and beginning to pack up their sleeping equipment, I gather the aspects of my uniform: the hat, the Luger and holster, as well as the Colt, then slowly start to walk back to the small forest of trees by the road and into the camp of the supporting infantry, noting with pleasure that a few of them are wide awake already and talking amongst themselves. "Hans…..where is the prisoner," I ask aloud, wondering where he is.
"Oh, he's at the back of the camp," replies the ever-awake Hans, sitting behind a tent and whittling on a stick with his knife, pausing long enough to point me in the right direction
"Ah, thank you, Hans," I nod, heading off in the direction he pointed me.
I arrive at the edge of the camp, and I see that the hapless American is partially chained to a tree with one lone guard watching him, the prisoner's eyes slowly blinking open as he starts to rouse from sleep, also. I sigh and shake my head, wondering what era we truly are in. Surely we aren't in the middle ages.
"You may leave, comrade, I want to interrogate this prisoner," I say to the sentry, sitting on a log across from the American.
The guard smiles, then stands up and heads off, "Yes, Commander, thank you." He then hands me the keys before he heads off towards their 'mess hall' to grab a bite to eat.
I look into the American's blue eyes, the eyes that any sane woman would adore. I get lost in those eyes, having wished many times I had his eyes, but my wife disagrees. When I was still in Germany, I remember asking my wife about my eyes…
She had laughed softly, then had rested her arm on my shoulder, "Oh, Darling, you always did worry about such little things. You should know by now that blue eyes don't go well with your brown, curly hair." She said that with a smile, her hand lightly tracing my cheek.
I gave a sigh of defeat, "Oh how is it that women have such a feel for these things? I usually don't give it a second thought unless I have to meet an important person or make an appearance."
She chuckled softly, leaning to give me a soft, light kiss like she always does. "Oh, Hon, we girls have to have a fashion sense. We need to make up for man's decided lack of it," she stated with a grin.
I had chuckled softly, then kissed her lightly. "You always know how to make me smile…" I said with a sigh, pulling her close, my hand slipping under her chin and pushed up on it, looking into her eyes. I slowly closed my eyes and leaned in to give her a deeper kiss, but her face became distant and that of a man as she coughed, pulling me away from my daydream.
I blink my eyes a few times, then look –no, glare- at the American sternly, unhappy that I am kept from my memories, and that's when I notice him squirm softly, his hands between his legs. I look back up into his eyes, and his look says it all. I sigh heavily, knowing all of the dangers associated with freeing a prisoner from his confines just so that he can "relieve himself," though it is a request that cannot be denied.
I nod slowly to him, then sigh softly, getting up and slowly walking backwards until I am close to a tent –an A-frame design, my luck- that is in use by a private. Quickly, I remove the support holding up the tent, making the tent collapse onto him, eliciting a shout from the private as he is awaken abruptly. I hand the Yank the newly acquired cane he is to use, then step back, drawing the Colt, my face turned to that of stone as I toss him the keys to the locks, motioning towards the forest with the pistol. Thankfully, he gets the idea, quickly unlocking himself from his bindings. Again, I motion towards the forest with the pistol, and I watch as he braces himself on his cane and stands up, then turns to hobble into the forest. I give him a second before I follow, my finger light on the trigger of the pistol.
Amidst dodging tree roots and at least one instance where I think the American is trying to get close, I stop at a tree and wait, the American turning and looking to me a short while later, then nodding slowly, hobbling over to another tree, then proceeding to do his business. After finishing, he (presumably) re-aligned himself comfortably, then turned to face me, only to find that I have his own weapon pointed to his forehead.
He waits, his eyes opening wide.
I wait, improving my stance to ensure accuracy.
As I look in his eyes, I can see that he once-again starts to meet his demons, noting with acceptance that my face remains emotionless, my hand steadily pointing the Colt at his head. The American sighs, then closes his eyes, giving me the opportunity I need for best effect.
I slowly squeeze the trigger of the Colt, starting a series of events that can never be changed, the pistol firing the round in the chamber into the tree above him, debris falling all over his head as he flinches from the shot. He takes a moment or two before he opens his eyes again, sighing heavily as he looks at me, and I return the look, dropping my shooting arm to my side. He tilts his head to the side, wondering why I just saved his life.
"I…have a wife, American. As do you, from looking at your photograph," I say using the clearest English I can remember, ejecting the magazine of the Colt into my hand as I slowly walk towards him. "As such... I hope you return to her safely." I take hold of his hand when I get close enough, then give him the Colt magazine, holding the pistol out to him as well.
He continues to look at me, not completely understanding the situation, nor the motive, but he nods slowly, his hand traveling to pat at his hip, where his wallet was, but is no longer.
I sigh, remembering his property, then reach into my own pocket and return his wallet to him, looking over him once more. "Now, go….the beaches are a few miles away, and you do not have much time." With that said, I slowly turn and walk towards the camp, stopping after a few paces to turn my head and look at the soldier, his head bowed in thought as he most likely thought about his wife, probably thanking his god for my mercy. I smile, and then continue on my way, my stomach grumbling in protest of not being full.