Sir, The Men are Hungry...

Bundesarchiv - modified

So far, by Leutnant von Lüttwitz's reckoning, they had traveled around 65 kilometers in the last 24 hours. They'd been on the move from dusk until dawn, moving over the fields, following streams, and generally keeping as low a profile as possible. As the sun came up around 0615 (though it was getting later as each day passed, it was, after all, September), and went down after 1900, they only had around nine hours of useful darkness to travel in.

But the men were exhausted, they had no military rations now, even the small amount they had taken from the British maintenance depot had been consumed. Water was not a problem, but if they didn't keep their caloric intake up, they'd be reduced to ragamuffins¹ in no time at all.

"Herr Leutnant, we need food, we need it today. I've gone further on very little, but never with nothing at all to eat." Unteroffizier Schumacher said this as respectfully as he could, but in the past few days they'd been subsisting on British biscuits and water. Now all they had was water.

"I know Uwe, we could try raiding a farmhouse, but..."

"I'll do it, give me one man to act as a lookout. I'll get us food." Grenadier Sauer stated flatly. The entire group knew that Sauer would kill if he had to, civilian, military, it was all the same to him. Stand against his unit, you died, or he died trying to kill you. So far in this war, Sauer had done a lot of killing. It didn't bother him in the least.

The lieutenant took a long hard look at the man, "Manfred, take Dieter with you. He'll decide whether or not a farmhouse can be taken. We'll lay low tonight and you two can go out and try to get us something to eat. Nothing that requires cooking, obviously, we can't risk a fire."

Outside Tilloloy
(Source)

The men were happy to not be traveling that night, a full belly would be nice, but perhaps that might still happen if Pohl and Sauer were successful at finding something to eat. As the men discussed this in low voices, Grenadier Pfeiffer, of 1st Platoon, asked Grenadier Böhm, of 3rd platoon, about his platoon mate, Manfred Sauer.

"How does he find it so easy to kill?"

"We were in different squads in 3rd platoon, but a comrade of mine, Willi Sternberg, knew Sauer very well, they were from the same village outside Leipzig. Sauer was a swineherd before he was drafted. He's older than he looks, I think he's near 30 years old."

The lieutenant turned to look at the two men talking about Grenadier Sauer.

"What does being a swineherd have to do with anything?"

"Ah my dear Leutnant, you're from the city aren't you?" Grenadier Pfeiffer asked.

"Well, yes, Dresden. Why?"

"Swineherds raise pigs, for meat. To get meat you have to kill the pig and butcher it. Sauer has been doing that since he was a young boy, his father was also a swineherd, naturally enough. Pigs are rather intelligent, did you know that?" Pfeiffer considered himself an expert on pork, and other things as well for that matter.

"Pigs are intelligent?" The lieutenant asked.

"Jawohl Herr Leutnant. So you see, Sauer doesn't mind killing people because he used to kill pigs to make his living. As he seems to like pigs more than people, well..."

"I see." The lieutenant hadn't known that, hadn't really thought about where his food came from. His mother had prepared all his meals before he went into the army. Then, of course, the army had been responsible for feeding him. It wasn't something he spent a lot of time thinking about. He had the thought that he should talk to his men more often. Running his own platoon had given him little time to get to know the men under him, he knew his sergeants, which he figured was good enough.

"What do you think Sauer?" Feldwebel Pohl had been studying the small farmstead with the field glasses the lieutenant had loaned him before handing them to Grenadier Sauer.

Sauer studied the scene for a moment, then said, "I think I can get into that hen house with no problem. The man appears to live there alone. Do we go in tonight?" Sauer asked as he handed the glasses back to his sergeant.

"Yes. But I'm not sure about the farmer. While I don't see a dog, doesn't mean there isn't one."

"Herr Feldwebel, if the man had a dog, you'd see the dog. Mutts are like that, they like being with their humans."

"Have you ever had a dog Manfred?"

"Yes, of course, several. They help me with the pigs. Most farmers have dogs, they keep an eye on things, like having a permanent sentry. Why do you think the Army uses them?" Sauer couldn't believe Pohl didn't know all this. Men who worked the land and with animals assumed everyone knew these things.

"I'll take your word for it."

Pierre Aucoin finished the dregs of his wine. It had been another hard day. Since his wife had been killed by the Germans, his life hadn't been the same. He remembered, vaguely, being happy, each day a new adventure, a new joyful thing to savor and love. Then his wife had gone to Amiens with her sister to see the cathedral there.

A German officer had been assassinated by the Maquis while she and her sister were in the city. They had done nothing wrong, but the Germans had rounded up a hundred people, among them his wife and her sister, and shot them in retaliation for the killing of the officer. He had learned of it three days after it had happened. Friends in Amiens had got word to him and his brother-in-law that their wives had been killed, fusillé par les Allemands.²

He had had few sober nights since that day. What's more, his dog René had been run over and killed by an American truck just two weeks ago. He hated all soldiers, they had taken all the joy from his life. His brother-in-law had been arrested by the Germans not long before they had retreated with the Americans hot on their tails. From what he had been told, his brother-in-law had probably disappeared into a labor camp in Germany. If not just shot out of hand.

Now he worked his fields and tended his chickens, selling what he could, eating what he could not. Which took up all of his waking moments, but when night came he remembered things as they used to be, so he turned to the bottle. Wine usually, cognac when he could get it. It didn't make the pain go away, it just dulled it. He typically drank until he was incoherent. Only to awaken in the morning to do it all over again.

The two Germans watched the farmhouse from the nearby copse. Pohl whispered to Sauer, "The man is up rather late for a farmer isn't he?"

"He is, wait here." Without another word, Sauer disappeared into the darkness. As Pohl watched, he could see Sauer now in the minimal light coming from one of the farmhouse windows. He also saw Sauer gesture for him to come over.

Pohl looked through the window as Sauer had indicated he should, he saw the farmer and he saw the empty bottle of wine cradled to the man's chest. It all made sense now, the man was alone, in more ways than one.

"Follow me," Sauer whispered. Then "Wait here..."

Moments later Pohl heard chickens rustling around, but none made much noise. Apparently Sauer knew chickens as well as pigs. The man came out with his helmet loaded with straw. Nestled in the straw were a number of eggs. "Give me your bread bag." Again Sauer had whispered, though Pohl felt that they could have made a lot of noise and not awakened the farmer. Sauer may know pigs and chickens, Pohl thought, but I know drunks.

Once Pohl's bread bag was full of the purloined eggs, still surrounded by straw, Sauer motioned for him to wait outside the door. Pohl looked curious, but Sauer gestured again to wait.

Sauer entered the farmer's house, it wasn't very big, a kitchen, a sitting room, and a bedroom, the farmer was passed out in the sitting room. An oil lamp burned near where he slept. Sauer rummaged around a bit, then he heard the farmer stir. Quickly he drew his fighting knife and was standing over the farmer when that man opened his eyes.

Pierre thought it was a dream, why would a German be here, in his cottage, the Americans had chased all the Germans away hadn't they? He started to get up when he felt an icy hotness across his neck. He laid back down. He couldn't speak and breathing was becoming difficult as his throat filled with blood. For a moment he was in shock, then he realized he was dying. He smiled as he thought of his Jeannette.

When the man had begun to stir Sauer had hesitated, but only briefly. He used his fighting knife to cut the man's throat. As he held the man down, he was stunned when he saw him smile. He had never seen such a thing before, it was almost like the man had welcomed death.

Pohl came in immediately, "Are you insane Sauer? This man will be missed, they will start searching for whoever killed him as soon as they discover the body. Do you propose to carry him into the woods or something? We must be away from here, we can't wait until tomorrow, the lieutenant will be furious."

Pohl said all that in a barely audible hiss. He was outraged that Sauer was taking all this so calmly.

"Herr Feldwebel, the man was waking up, I had no choice. There is bread in that box over there. Grab it and wait for me outside please."

"What, what, are you mad? Why should I wait outside, we have to go, now..."

"Herr Feldwebel, the man was a drunk, no doubt everyone in that village across the field knows this. He drinks himself to sleep every night I'll wager. It's a simple problem really, we burn the farmhouse down. With the farmer in it. How many times did we see the SS do that in Russia? How many times did we do it ourselves?"

Pohl watched incredulously as Sauer emptied a spare reservoir for the oil lamp onto the dead farmer. Then he smashed the lamp on the floor. The flames caught almost immediately. With a grunt Sauer said, "You can stay here and mourn the dead Frenchie, or we can bring this food to our fellow soldiers, your choice. Herr Feldwebel."

Pohl followed Sauer back to the rest of the unit. When he told the lieutenant what had happened, he simply shrugged. "We burned people alive in Russia. This man was dead. I understand your shock Dieter, but what choice did you have?"

Pohl realized that the lieutenant was right, but he was going to keep an eye on Sauer, the man was too cold-blooded about killing, and it bothered him.

There were many things which were beginning to bother him about this filthy war...




¹ The German word is Vogelscheuche, which can also mean "scarecrow."
² Shot by the Germans, a common epitaph throughout Belgium and France in 1914-1918 and 1940-1944.

Pondering

 Well...Almost at the finish line.  The final portion of the construction phase should be started this morning.  That would be the Gate.  The fence was installed last week and it's ability to prevent canine escapes has been successfully ops checked.  

Felines being much more crafty escape artists will have to have some "special" treatment.  Here's one of them escaping from their last incarceration.

Sorry,  new Blogger format made the old video insert code not work. (As well as MGM banning viewing on any site other than TubeYou.)

No, Ve vill haf to be Much, Much More cunning!
Ve vill build a....Catio!  So much luxury, so much exploring, so much napping they won't even think to escape.

The Catio will be accessed through a cat door in that 2 foot section of wall between the 3 window wall (dining room) and the Single window wall, my office (it's easier to keep me in the dark with less light coming in).  It will extend toward the camera to the cedar post on the right of the porch then around to the right wall of my office, giving them about 30' wide and 6' deep.

So, Mrs J has spoken, so it shall be.  (You didn't think that was me talking in that horrible Jehman accent didja?)
Stay on target, juvat!
Mantente en el objetivo, sí, mi extremadamente viejo sargento de la Fuerza Aérea.
Anyhoo (which is Rhode Island-ese for Anyhow), after the gate is completed, the final paperwork is put together. The final payment is made to the various craftsmen involved in the project and a final signature on several million documents and we're done.
Well, except for that pesky monthly mortgage payment thingee.
The Little Juvat saga is finally over.  Got telephonic confirmation that he and LJW are NOT maintaining social distancing as enforced by the Federal Government.  So...They've got that going for them.  Maybe something else will come of this, say in the Junish timeframe?  One can only hope.
 Saturday we traveled to Cedar Park, a pretty nice suburb of Moscow on the Colorado.  Not quite far enough away to be completely free of moon battery, but close.  We were going there to visit my Niece, her husband and son and celebrate her daughter's 4th birthday.  
Off topic, but I had to do some research on what the proper name for her and my relationship. Well, according to this source she can be called either a grand niece or a great niece.  I, therefore, would be called a grand uncle or a great uncle.  I think she is, indeed, a grand niece.  I, however, am, without a shadow of a doubt, a Great! Uncle.  (Emphasis mine, your opinions may differ.  yada, yada, yada.) Mrs J and my sister opted for Grand Aunts, which if you look to the ancient roman roots of those words means "Old Bats".  
Ain't that right, Sarge, you linguistically talented scribe, you?
Anyhow, now that I've insured a night on the couch tonight, I expected a small gathering of her grandparents, us, Brother and Mom and Dad.
Not to be.  Dad has hero points from now till you know what freezes over.  He built a kiddie pool in the front yard complete with sand beach, about 18"deep, about 10' wide and about 15' long.  All the kids in the neighborhood were there.  Food was catered by chick-fil-a.  Bubble machines were bubbling, sno-cone machines were in full swing.  Dad asked me if he could use the tailgate of my truck as the Adult Recreational Beverage dispensing location.  Who was I to say no?
There must have been 30 +kids and about the same in adults.
So.  We had fun.  No Beans, I was the DD.  I had two bottles of water and two cans of sparkling water.  One was blackberry and not very good.  The other was "Cactus Flower and Cucumber".  All they had otherwise was blackberry and I wasn't going back.  So...I was pleasantly surprised.
But...it's getting dark and we've got about a two hour drive back home.  It's Saturday night and who knows what is on the roads.  So we leave just before sunset hoping to get home before too late.
We're exiting their housing area and I miss the light just prior to the freeway on ramp.  (I'm always bummed when I miss a light for some reason.)  The light changes and we're on the freeway.  We come up over an overpass and as I look out at the traffic situation, I see a couple of brake lights come on, then more, then more, then mine.  
And traffic comes to a complete stop.  After a couple of minutes I see folks ahead of me merging towards the lane I'm in and traffic starts moving slowly again.  I'm getting closer and can see it's obviously been an accident.  
People are squeeking through around it and I'm next in line, but I pause for a second as the guy to my right has been waiting for an opening for about 7 cars.  He pulls through and I see flashing lights coming up on the shoulders of both sides.  A police officer holds up a hand for me to stop. (There was a police car already at the scene directing traffic.)  I do so and wait for further direction.
So, I know this is bad.  Three fire engines and ambulance, another police car and three tow trucks arrive on the scene.  I pull the truck out of gear and tell the ladies to get comfortable, it's going to be a while.

The three firemen in the middle are walking up to the car that hit the embankment.  The Firetruck on the left is blocking the second vehicle and the Jeep has a beat up front and is leaking fluid.

 Apparently there were three cars involved. One of the cars was pretty well smashed up against the concrete side of the overpass.  I couldn't see it very well, but it was a red sedan of some type.  I couldn't see the other one initially, but looked like a white minivan. It and the sedan had to be winched onto tow trucks, so my assumption was that was the first collision. The third, the Jeep, was driven on to the tow truck although it was leaking fluid mightily from the front.  I'm assuming he just couldn't get stopped quick enough and was in a latter part of the collision.
Took us about an hour before, the Police Officer came up to the window and said we could follow the fire trucks when they left. 
The kid in the jeep, walked to the ambulance, I didn't see the occupant of the car on the left, but they did gurney the person in the first car that had hit the concrete wall.  
The whole rest of the way home, all I could think about was how glad I was I'd missed that light, and how all the good things in life can change in the blink of an eye.  I said a few prayers for that blessing on the way home.

Please keep Shaun and his family in your prayers.


 

Travel Day

(Source)

Back to the north country, back to the homeland.

Don't want to leave, can't really stay.

Can't wait to get home, yet...

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

I'll be back by the Chesapeake before you know it.

(Next month to be precise.)

Read the folks on the sidebar, talk quietly among yourselves.

Juvat's here on the morrow, I'll be back on Tuesday.

I wonder if the Seven Men of Saxony will ever make it home.

We shall see.

Apropos of nothing at all, or maybe everything...

We're just ordinary people, you and me

Time will turn us into statues, eventually

Think about it.

262 Kilometers from Home

Bundesarchiv - modified

The truck's engine had been running rough for the last 20 kilometers, Voigt looked with concern at the instrument panel, the engine was running hot.

"Herr Leutnant, we need to stop. The engine doesn't sound good and it's overheating."

The lieutenant looked at his watch, it was nearly four o'clock in the morning. They had come about 60 kilometers from Vernon after crossing the Seine. They had seen some vehicular traffic along the way but it seemed as if the British rear area was nearly completely asleep.

"All right Günter, go ahead and pull over here." he said, gesturing to the right side of the road. According to his map they were just three kilometers short of Beauvais.

In reality, the lieutenant had known that the moment was coming that they would have to abandon the truck. Fuel would be a problem, as would trying to find places to hide during the day. The men themselves could vanish easily enough in the rolling farmland with its streams, gullies, and small woodlots. But the military truck would stand out like a colorful dog¹ in this area. The French would notice and the odds were that any passing British patrol would also notice.

Attracting attention to themselves would be very bad, the lieutenant reasoned, therefore, it was probably time to take to the cobbler's pony². He had to find out where the German lines were, he wasn't even sure if making it back was even possible at this point in time.

The rain was starting to ease up, which was good as now they would be walking, but was bad because they would leave tracks in the muddy ground. The trick was to leave the truck in one place and leave the paved road in another. No point in making things easy for whoever found the truck, which the lieutenant was convinced would happen sometime after sunrise.

"Time to start walking Günter, leave nothing behind."

The two men dismounted from the cab, at the back of the truck the lieutenant pulled the canvas cover aside and said, "All right boys, time to be infantry again, the truck is dying and we need to leave it behind anyway."

The men grumbled a bit as they dismounted. With the exception of Feldwebel Pohl, most of them had been sound asleep. Pohl handed the lieutenant's tunic and helmet over, as well as the officer's MP 40. Voigt collected his own gear from the back of the truck. It was time to kit up and move out.

"Boys, stick to the hard surface, there's a small copse of trees about 600 meters back the way we just came, we'll hide out there for the day and head out after sundown. We've a long walk ahead of us."

As the men headed back the way they'd came, two of the men armed with submachine guns walked out front, one covered the rear. If the Tommies were to come down the road, they would be ready. Leutnant von Lüttwitz wondered what they should be ready for, a firefight? Perhaps just giving up? He hoped that they'd make the woodlot before he had to make that choice.

Outside Aux-Marais, France
(Source)

François Delorts was very drunk, he was usually drunk. He had lost an arm at Verdun and had had very little success in life since being discharged from the army in 1917. He was 45 years old and lived with his sister and her husband on their farm just down the road from Aux-Marais. His brother-in-law's farm and the church were the only things on the road. Those two things and what appeared to be a parked truck.

François stopped and swayed a bit, he had had far too much cheap vin rouge that night. Like most nights some would say. He thought it odd that there was a truck parked by the road. A British Army truck from the look of it. Then he saw a small squad of men going down the road away from the truck. Tommies?

He couldn't tell until the moon broke through the thinning cloud. Though it was low in the west, it provided enough light for François to see that the men had to be German. There was no mistaking the shape of those helmets.

What to do? He really wanted to go home and sleep, he had been out all night and the sky was already lightening in the east. But those were Germans, they had to be. But what were Germans doing this far behind the lines? With a British truck? Perhaps it was some sort of drill, he remembered training drills from his days in the army.

François swayed once more and decided to sleep on it. He could go talk to the gendarmes in the morning. For now, he just wanted to sleep. He knew his sister would give him disapproving looks all day long, but her husband was more understanding, he too had served in the Great War, had even been awarded the Croix de Guerre for bravery in action. Tomorrow, actually today, could wait for him to sleep. He was tired and drunk.

Swaying slightly, he staggered around and headed towards home.

"I swear that that Froschfresser³ spotted us Herr Leutnant."

Grenadier Manfred Sauer was a cold one, he killed without thought, without mercy. He wanted to follow the Frenchman and leave him dead in the field by the road. He couldn't stand to let an enemy live, and if you weren't German, you were the enemy, at least in Sauer's mind.

"Let it be Sauer, if we start killing people, suspicions will be raised and the hunt will be on for us again. The man was obviously drunk. He's probably wondering if he saw anything at all. Now move, we need to get under cover. Dawn is coming soon." As the lieutenant said that he nodded towards the east, it was getting lighter out.

The sun rose over the fields south and east of Beauvais. François Delorts was snoring in his bed at his sister's home, all thoughts of Germans and British trucks gone from his mind. It was likely that he would forget all about that when he awakened. His brother-in-law was heading out to check on his cows, he shook his head sadly and murmured, "Sleep brother. You drink too much, but I would too if I had been at Verdun."

On the road to Aux-Marais from Saint-Martin-le-Nœud, the abandoned Bedford lorry had attracted the attention of a pair of British red caps, these military policemen were examining the truck and were puzzled. The vehicle had no papers and the markings indicated it was a vehicle from the supply depot at Évreux. What was it doing here?

Obergefreiter Günter Voigt and Grenadier Hans Pfeiffer were manning the MG 42, from their position they could see the truck they had ridden here. They were watching the two British soldiers intently, if they turned in this direction, they weren't sure of what to do. The distinctive sound of their machine gun would attract a great deal of attention in this quiet backwater of the war.

"Go away Tommy, I don't want to kill today," Voigt whispered. Pfeiffer looked at the man in surprise, Voigt normally had no reservations about killing, it was so impersonal from behind the machine gun, you were part of a machine, part of a crew. But Pfeiffer understood, the death of those two men would bring down Hell upon their own. He wondered how far they had to go.

Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz, leader of the 1st Platoon, 5th company, 2nd Battalion, 983rd Grenadier Regiment of the 275th Infantry Division put his map aside and rubbed his eyes. He needed to sleep, but he needed a plan first. At best the lines were not that far away, but the lack of the sounds of battle - artillery and small arms fire, especially artillery fire - made him think that they must be further behind the lines than he thought.

It was probably for the best that he didn't know that the closest point to the German lines from where they were was 262 kilometers. A hard march of three days in normal times, these were not normal times.

(Source)

Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz was facing some hard decisions in the next twenty-four hours, but for now he would get some sleep.

He, and his men, were going to need it.





¹ The German idiom for "stand out like a sore thumb" is "auffallen wie ein bunter Hund," literally "be noticed like a colorful dog."
² Another German idiom "auf Schusters Rappen," which has the same meaning as "shank's mare," i.e. walk, go by foot.
³ Frog eater.

The River

Imperial War Museum - modified

"That's a road?" Obergefreiter Voigt asked incredulously. "Reminds me of Russia, but it's actually on your map?"

"We've occupied the country for four years, I would hope we would have mapped it fairly thoroughly by now."

Leutnant von Lüttwitz went back to studying the map using the red lens on his issue pocket lamp¹, the area was crisscrossed with these farm tracks. He realized that they could avoid the larger roads almost entirely by following these tracks. It would be a rough ride but with a vehicle, fully fueled he had noted, they were within a 15 minute drive from the Seine. As they were behind enemy lines, in a captured truck, with the enemy now actively looking for them, it would take longer to get to the river. But they had a fighting chance now, far better odds than when they had been on foot.

Farm track to Villegats
(Source)

Feldwebel Pohl had suggested that both Voigt and the lieutenant shed their tunics as well as their helmets. In the dark a soldier in shirtsleeves and braces looked much the same in any army. While von Lüttwitz spoke fairly good English, Voigt spoke not a word, nor did any of the other men. Then Grenadier Hans Pfeiffer had had an idea...

"If we get stopped, tell the Tommies that you're Polish and that Voigt doesn't speak English. Unless the men who stop us speak Polish or German, your accent shouldn't give you away."

"What if I need to tell Voigt something? I can't do that in German, if we get stopped I doubt that the Tommies have men that are stupid enough not to recognize German." The lieutenant saw that as the only flaw in Pfeiffer's idea.

At that moment Grenadier Sauer spoke up, "Govorit' po russki."

Everyone turned to look at Sauer, then the lieutenant spoke, "Brilliant. We all speak enough Russian to get by. That might work., if we get stopped, which I'm hoping we won't."

With that the men piled back into the truck and Voigt put it in gear and headed over the fields to Villegats. He actually had hope that he might see his wife and two children again.

The church of Saint-Taurin in Hécourt
(Source)

Sgt Wallace wasn't all that surprised that nobody in his ad hoc party spoke any French. He also wasn't surprised that no one in the village of Hécourt spoke English. He had hoped that maybe the priest did, but he was away. He had tried to explain that he needed a telephone and was there one in the rectory. It took some time before the man he was speaking with, or attempting to speak with more properly, understood what Wallace wanted.

"Ah, un téléphone. Pas ici, peut-être à Pacy-sur-Eure?²" The man said this with a classic Gallic shrug of his shoulders, as if to say that it was beyond his powers to produce such a thing.

Sgt Wallace pulled his map out, when the man saw the name of the largest nearby village, Pacy-sur-Eure, he pointed at the map and said "yes" in French a number of times. The man was excited, whether it was from successfully communicating the lack of a telephone in Hécourt or in convincing these Englishmen that he couldn't help them and fobbing them off onto the larger town, Wallace couldn't be sure. For the moment he realized that all they could do was make the three mile hike to Pacy-sur-Eure and find a telephone. Better yet would be to flag down a passing vehicle and returning to the depot outside of Évreux and reporting the loss of their truck and four men.

Sgt Wallace was not looking forward to that. Especially as it was now dark, do they press on, or wait here until morning? The men were exhausted, he wasn't sure if he could push them to walk three miles in the dark, no doubt with thoughts of marauding SS men in the vicinity.

"All right lads, we're staying here tonight, we'll push on tomorrow. I want you," he said pointing at one of the men, whose name he did not know, which was true for most of them, "to take the first sentry duty. Post yourself outside next to the road. Perhaps we can build a small fire as well. Flag down the first vehicle you see and we'll see what happens next. After which, you, you, and you," again pointing to different soldiers, "will take one hour shifts each, then wake me up."

Much as he hated to end the chase here, Sgt Wallace really had no choice, he did not want to be wandering the countryside in the dark.

(Source)

Voigt drove carefully down the track, many of the fields had yet to be harvested so the track stood out in the waning moonlight. Across the fields he noticed that villages were now better lit than they had been before the invasion. Life for these French villagers was slowly returning to normal.

They managed to avoid Villegats by sticking to the farm tracks. One wrong turn had forced them to pass through the town of Chaufour-lès-Bonnières. They had done so with no trouble at all. There were British soldiers in the town, but their minds were on other things than hunting Germans in the dark. Perhaps the word had not gotten this far yet.

The lieutenant was starting to think they might pull this off. Rather than strike for the small wooded valley leading down to the Seine, where there was no bridge, and hoping to find boats, von Lüttwitz decided to head for Vernon itself. There was at least one bridge there, probably in the Seine by now, but he was sure that the British had put in temporary bridges.

He was feeling lucky. "Obergefreiter, stick to the main road, we'll be passing through a very small village," peering at the map he found it, "of Blaru. From there we'll take a side road through a forest and enter Vernon. Hopefully we can then reconnoiter the river crossing and decide our next move from there."

"Jawohl Herr Leutnant. If we're going to stay on the main road, perhaps we should turn on the head lamps."

"Good idea, Günter. Do it."

Private Kenneth Sturgis thought he could hear a vehicle approaching from the south of the village. He stepped down the road, away from the fire, to see down the road better. There, there were a pair of dimmed head lamps. Had to be a lorry from the sounds of it.

As the vehicle got closer, it slowed as it entered the village. Sturgis could see that it was a Bedford, just like the one they'd lost. He stepped into the road and waved it down.

"What are you doing out here Private?" There was a captain next to the driver, he didn't look happy.

"Might I go get my sergeant sir? He can explain everything."

"Very well, quickly now!"

Moments later Sgt Wallace came out and explained the situation. The captain looked rather unhappy about the idea of armed Germans roaming about the rear areas of the British Army. In truth, there had been a lot of that recently. Lots of stragglers gave themselves up without much fuss. These sounded like combat soldiers trying to escape the collapse of the German Army in France.

"Sergeant, er, Wallace, wasn't it?"

"Yes sir, Wallace, 6th Battalion Royal Scots Fusiliers, temporarily detached to the rest camp near Évreux."

"Quite, how did you get tangled up in this?"

"They needed an NCO, sir. I was available."

"Bloody rear area fools. Keep your post here Sergeant Wallace, I'll send a lorry to collect you and take you all back to the rest camp. I'd take you with me now but the back is full of rations and equipment. You tried Sergeant, you tried. I'll take it from here."

"Yes sir, thank you sir!" Sgt Wallace snapped his best salute. He was relieved that the first vehicle to come by was from what he liked to call "the real Army." The truck had been marked with the wyvern of the 43rd Wessex Division, an excellent fighting division. That captain was no rear area sod.

"Perhaps I might keep my stripes after all." Wallace muttered.

"Sarge?" Private Sturgis swore he heard the sergeant say something.

"Nothing Private, just woolgathering."

Forest road to Vernon
(Source)

The Germans in their stolen truck followed the curve of the road into the forest. It was extremely dark now as the clouds had moved in and covered the waning gibbous moon. The lieutenant thought how nice it would be if it would start to rain. Sentries tried to stay under cover in the rain and tended to be a lot less vigilant. Rain might help them to get across the Seine.

But just in case they ran into trouble, he had reloaded both magazines of his pistol. At least it might give them a head start against a too inquisitive sentry. He rather hoped it wouldn't come to that.

As the truck rolled into Vernon, the rain started to pour down. What few soldiers there were out on the streets were heading for cover, Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz hadn't felt this lucky since the Soviet attack in the fall of 1942 to try and relieve Leningrad. His division had taken heavy casualties and he had nearly been killed himself on a number of occasions, but had escaped without a scratch.

They might just make it...

Bailey and Pontoon Bridges at Vernon, France
(Source)

There were two bridges over the Seine, a Bailey Bridge and a pontoon bridge. There were small sentry shacks next to each bridge, on both sides of the river. Lance Corporal Michael Jenkins was manning the shack on the south side of the pontoon bridge. It was well after midnight, the rain was pouring down, and the temperature was falling. He was cold, tired, and absolutely miserable. It must have been near 0130 in the morning when he saw a Bedford lorry approaching.

The lorry stopped about twenty yards from his position. That seemed rather odd. He straightened up and watched the vehicle. He saw the driver get out and climb halfway onto the bonnet, he seemed to be doing something with the windscreen. Perhaps the wipers were not working. He watched the man intently. After a few minutes the man climbed back into the lorry and it began moving forward again.

He stepped out and flagged the vehicle down. He noticed that the windscreen was very muddy, perhaps they had been trying to get some of the mud off. The lorry slowed and the driver was lowering his window.

"Bit of trouble with the wipers then?" Jenkins was a friendly sort, didn't like to make trouble, didn't seek trouble. The two men in the cab were in shirtsleeves, no caps, he thought that odd but he was no officer, he didn't really care. The driver just looked at him, the passenger spoke.

"Good evening. Are we on the right path to Beauvais?"

The man spoke with an odd accent. Jenkins was a bit suspicious but he also knew that the Army had all sorts of nationalities in it these days, Czechs, Poles, and other assorted foreigners who didn't speak English all that well.

"Where are you from? You don't sound English?"

"Ah no, we are Polish. Is there a problem?"

Leutnant von Lüttwitz was somewhat nervous, his pistol was ready to fire, all he had to do was point and pull the trigger and this somewhat friendly Tommy would be dead. But he was reluctant to kill the man just yet. Perhaps they could brazen this out yet.

"Ah, explains the funny accent that does. Poles? Never met any Poles, are you lads lost?"

The passenger explained that they had taken a wrong turn several miles back and had run off the edge of their map. A common occurrence during the rapid advances of the past month, even Jenkins knew that.

"Aye mate, ye're on the right road to Beauvais. Just follow the signs to corps headquarters, it's clearly marked. Good luck mate!" With that Jenkins slapped the driver's side door, which earned him an odd look from the driver. The man seemed annoyed for some reason.

As the truck left the pontoon bridge, von Lüttwitz breathed a sigh of relief, they were across the Seine. He had no idea where the German lines might be now, but he felt invigorated by the ease with which they had crossed the river. Now it was time to press on and find some place to go to ground. He was not going to press his luck by traveling during the day. The closer they got to home, the more circumspect they would have to be.

Jenkins watched the lorry disappear across the river and into the night. He shook his head and wondered what the world was coming to, he had no idea how close to eternity he had just been.

"Bloody foreigners."





¹ The German word for their military issue flashlight was Taschenlampe, pocket lamp.
² "Ah, a telephone. Not here, perhaps in Pacy-sur-Eure?"

The Hunted

(Source)

After studying his map, and comparing it to a map which Unteroffizier Uwe Schumacher had found near the tank which the men they had attacked had been working on, Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz had decided that they would attempt to cross the Seine just south of the town of Vernon. There was a wooded valley with a dirt track running through it to the Seine. He hoped that they would find something to cross with, there was no way they would be able to swim the river without discarding their weapons and their gear. If they did that, they might as well surrender to the next British unit they encountered.

He was sure that the word was out concerning his small band. It was unlikely, he thought, that any of the Tommies would suspect anyone but Germans of destroying the small British maintenance team. He doubted that the Tommies would accept their surrender. The scene they had left behind was gruesome, the men they had attacked had all been killed in hand to hand combat. Truth be told, they had butchered the poor bastards rather than give themselves away with gunfire.

The area was also heavily wooded, the terrain was rather rugged, and it seemed unlikely that there would be any Allied troops in the area. There were no major roads going through the area as those went through Vernon to the north and to Bonnières-sur-Seine to the south. There were no river crossings between those two towns, so there was really no need for Allied troops to be there. They would, nevertheless, exercise caution. One could never be completely certain what the enemy might be doing. The maintenance depot they had almost stumbled into was a prime example of that.

It was the morning of the second day since they had left the British maintenance depot. The small group was in a heavily wooded area between the villages of Hécourt and Villegats. The forest was crisscrossed by a number of small roads which they had managed to mostly avoid as they went through. Fortunately the underbrush wasn't too bad and they made good time. They had had one close call when a pair of Frenchmen on a farm wagon had passed close by. Fortunately the Germans were well concealed and the Frenchmen were well-lubricated with whatever local beverage was available. The men still had fond memories of the applejack they had consumed in Normandy.

"How much further, Herr Leutnant?" Grenadier Peter Böhm was the youngest man of the seven. He had joined the 223rd shortly before the old division had been dissolved in November of 1943. He had been one of the first new recruits to join the division, before the Second Battle of Kiev which saw the unit nearly completely destroyed. He had been in Russia long enough to see some horrible things, but not long enough to be completely hardened by what he had seen.

"Do you have somewhere you need to be Peter? An assignation with some mademoiselle north of the Seine?" asked Feldwebel Pohl, who enjoyed picking on the young man.

"Nein, Herr Feldwebel, I'm just curious." Böhm actually enjoyed the needling, it made him feel more like a part of the group. He had noticed that the men were always chiding each other. It was mostly good-natured, though from time to time Grenadier Sauer seemed almost vicious in his jibes.

"Sixteen kilometers until we reach the river. Maybe tomorrow night as long as we don't run into any more Tommies." As the lieutenant said that, he folded his map away and patted his tunic pockets. He found what he was looking for and pulled it out, American chocolate. He'd been saving this for some time, now seemed the right time, the men were exhausted and their morale was starting to slip.

He had had the Amis' chocolate ration before, they didn't taste that bad, though they were not nearly as sweet as he expected them to be. A good way to get a quick boost of energy. If one didn't mind chewing rocks, the bars were fairly tough. He noted that they were labeled as "Ration D." He wondered what that meant.

He broke the bar into six pieces using the butt of his pistol and handed them out. Feldwebel Pohl immediately protested, "Herr Leutnant, you should keep a piece for yourself!"

"No, I'm fine Dieter. I have some hard cheese in my bread bag I'm saving for later. I'm not really hungry at the moment, just tired." The lieutenant hadn't been this tired since the battles outside of Leningrad in 1942. He had been a sergeant back then, having been in the army since 1938 and in the 223rd Division since it had been formed in August of 1939 in  Dresden, his home town.

"Sleep then Herr Leutnant, I'll take the first watch." Unteroffizier Uwe Schumacher was always volunteering for things, he felt that as a member of the company headquarters he needed to prove himself to these front line infantrymen. He had proven himself multiple times since the disaster of Falaise, but he still felt driven.

Pohl looked at his fellow NCO and nodded. For a headquarters man he was a pretty good soldier, not just a rear area slacker. So he pocketed the chocolate and found a spot to curl up and sleep, though his MP 40 never left his side, he'd learned that lesson the hard way in Russia.

The road to Villegats, east of Hécourt
(Source)

As the lorry rolled to a halt, the driver looked over at his front seat companion and said, "I'm not going in there Sergeant, we'd be blind not three feet from the road."

Sergeant Billy Wallace had been in the rear at a rest camp for a short stint away from the front. Though there wasn't much fighting at the moment, the constant stress of patrolling and sentry duty tended to take a toll on one's sanity. As a newly minted platoon sergeant with yet another second lieutenant to break in, he was near the end of his rope. His battalion commander had seen it and sent him back to grab what rest and relaxation he could. Which wasn't much.

The second day in the rest camp he and a group of other men had been scooped up by a major with an overactive sense of his own importance and been told off to hunt down "a marauding band of SS stragglers" said to be operating in the vicinity. Now this scratch team of ten men, all unknown to each other were in a Bedford lorry on the verge of a small forest. Local Frenchmen had reported a "company of Waffen SS" in the forest, waylaying all and sundry and murdering civilians in the villages.

Sgt Wallace figured it for nonsense as the SS men he'd encountered had either fought to the death or retreated in good order after their bloody defeat in the Falaise Pocket. But it was just his luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and to be put in charge of this ad hoc group. Of course the bloody-minded major couldn't be bothered to lead the men, "That's what bloody sergeants are for Wallace. Now off with you, draw weapons and ammunition over at the Quartermaster's tent and requisition a truck to take you to..."

The major had paused while he searched his map for the village he'd been old to start from, Wallace noticed that he was looking at the wrong map section.

"Here sir, allow me." He took the map, turned to the right section, located the rest camp's position and then handed the map back to the major. "We're right here. Sir."

"Quite! I know where we are sergeant, now take your men to Hécourt. The Jerries were allegedly seen in this wooded area to the northeast of the town. Root them out then report back here."

"Do we have any intelligence other than the report of two drunken farmers? Sir."

"How the bloody Hell should I know?! I'm just a supply officer, you're the combat veteran, you should go find out for yourself. Now run along, I must go see the colonel about an ammunition resupply for the 43rd Wessex."

With that the major was off, leaving Sgt Wallace standing there with little to no clue what he was up against. He hoped it was simply a case of German stragglers looking for a regular unit to surrender to and in the meantime were entertaining themselves by terrorizing the locals. He sincerely hoped it was not a group of fanatics looking to break out to their own lines. He doubted that they were SS, there would be a lot more dead bodies lying around.

"Sgt Wallace?"

Wallace turned to see a bespectacled corporal standing next to him, along with a group of other men to the number of ten all told, including himself.

"What can I do for you Corporal...?"

"Bendix, Sergeant, Corporal Bendix. I was told to report to you with these other men for special duties."

Two hours ago they had been in a Bedford OXD to the east of Hécourt, with a driver who insisted that he was not going to drive into a forest with Germans rampaging through the area.

"I'm sorry Sergeant, but my Sergeant Major told me to drop you off and return as soon as possible."

"The major assured me that I would have your lorry for the duration of this little mission." Wallace was starting to lose his patience with the rear area man. So he shifted in his seat so that the Sten gun he'd been issued was pointing in a rather "suggestive" fashion. Suggesting that he might shoot the recalcitrant driver if he chose to not follow the orders of the man on the spot and not some alleged sergeant major back at the camp.

The more he thought about it, the more reluctant he was to go into the wood with a truck. They'd be better off on foot, but he wasn't going to let the lorry leave without them. He looked at the driver and said, "You'll wait here with the lorry. The rest of us will go in and have a look about."

"All right lads, out with you." As he said this he walked to the lorry's bonnet and opened it. Reaching in he popped off the distributor cap and removed the rotor, then showed that to the driver. "You can walk back if you'd like, but I'm keeping the vehicle."

Moments later, the men moved into the wood in skirmish order. Sgt Wallace didn't like this at all, but orders were orders. He was looking forward to getting back to his own mates in the Fusiliers.

(Source)

The seven Germans were all fast asleep, they were exhausted from the hard hike across northern France. They had not had a decent meal in days, if not weeks.

With the possible exception of Grenadier Böhm, none of the men relished the thought of being a prisoner of war. Such a thing was unheard of in the East, they'd learned early on here in France that the Tommies and the Amis fought a more civilized form of war, but they were all on edge after the incident at the British supply depot.

Böhm was stirred from his sleep by a noise which was out of place. He'd been in combat long enough to know better than to just stick his head up and look. He heard it again, a metallic clink, it sounded like men moving as well. Slowly he raised his head close to the trunk of the tree he had been sleeping next to.

There, about twenty meters away, men in brown uniforms in flat helmets, Tommies! Böhm had no doubt that these troops were looking for them. He watched intently as the men paused, looked around, then began to move again. He could see three men but he sensed that they were part of a longer skirmish line, how many men, he had no idea. Fortunately they were moving away from their position. But what if there were more searching the wood?

As the last Tommie disappeared deeper into the wood, Böhm managed to awaken Feldwebel Pohl. Moving close to his sergeant, he whispered what he had seen. Within a few moments all of the men were awake and their lieutenant had them in a circle, all weapons facing out, the MG 42 placed to fire in the direction the British had gone.

Leutnant von Lüttwitz was sure that the British patrol was hunting for them. He had thought about waylaying the drunken French farmers last night, but he wasn't sure if they'd been spotted by the two Frenchmen or not. He wasn't going to start killing civilians if he could help it. Now they might be trapped, cut off from the Seine. They were close, but not close enough.

(Source)

The British patrol reached another road through the forest. It had not been an easy slog through the woods. Sgt Wallace was drenched in sweat and the men all looked as if they were on their last legs. Most of them had arrived in France only a week or so before, none of them were as yet hardened by active service.

Corporal Bendix came up to Wallace and announced, "I'm not sure the men can move another inch Sarn't, and we've still got to hike back to the truck." The man was nearly doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

Wallace checked his compass, then the map. "Corp, take two men with you and follow this road back to the truck. Have them drive in to get us, I don't think the Jerries are around, they've probably moved off by now. If they were ever here. Here, take this, you'll need it to start the truck." He handed over the rotor.

Corporal Bendix and two of the men moved off down the road, moving quicker on the paved road. Sgt Wallace felt a certain amount of unease, but he figured it was just nerves, he wasn't use to being behind the lines. Things were calmer back here. Wandering Germans indeed. Poor bastards just wanted to get away over the Seine. There was no way they would make it, the crossings were all guarded, and it was a very big river.

Leutnant von Lüttwitz had decided that where there were British troops, there must be British trucks. So he decided to move towards the road, then back towards the West. Maybe they could steal a truck!

They had met three men coming down the road, three British infantrymen, well they were dressed as infantrymen but it was obvious they were rookies. They were more concerned with getting down the road and not with watching for any potential threats. Bad for them, good for his men. The lieutenant gambled and stepped into the road after the three men had passed. Three quick bursts and all three men were down.

One was still alive and was struggling to bring his rifle to bear from his position on the ground. Grenadier Sauer kicked the man's rifle away, then bayoneted the prone man. The lieutenant noted absently that the man was a corporal, well, had been a corporal. They searched the men for anything useful, Grenadier Sauer found the rotor from the truck on the dead corporal, but he didn't know what it was, so he showed it to the lieutenant.

"An engine rotor ! I'm guessing that whoever is leading that British patrol didn't trust the locals to not steal his truck. Let's go lads, we need that truck!"

Setting a fast pace the seven Saxons went down the road, night was approaching fast. Little did they know that seven Englishmen were also trying to get back to the truck. But they really were inexperienced and unhardened troops. There was no way they would catch the seven Saxons.

They came out of the forest and there it was, the lieutenant thought is looked like a Bedford. There was a man sleeping in the truck's cabin, who was quickly dispatched by Pohl's fighting knife.

Obergefreiter Günter Voigt, who had driven trucks before the war figured out where the rotor should go, then he hopped in and started the vehicle. It started right up. The lieutenant got into the cab with Voigt and the others got in the back.

"Günter, head south, the Tommies might not expect that. We'll skirt the forest and try to bull our way through Villegats, in this truck we might just make it. Take off your helmet." the lieutenant said that as he shed his own helmet, the shape of that headgear was distinctive, even in the dark.

"Drive!"

As soon as they came out of the woods, Sgt Billy Wallace knew that he had made a mistake. The lorry was gone. They had found the bodies of Bendix and the other two men farther up the track, they had sprinted the rest of the way. To no avail, a quick search revealed the dead body of the recalcitrant lorry driver.

The Germans had been in the forest, the drunken farmers had not been hallucinating, now the Germans had escaped. He had to get the word out, with a lorry, they would reach the Seine in less than an hour. They might even be able to cross without challenge. The front was now well beyond the Seine, somewhere in Belgium last he had heard. He was scheduled to return to his battalion in two days. He wondered if they'd let him return now.

The hunters had failed.

Sieben Männer von Sachsen*

Bundesarchiv

They were all that was left of the 5th company, 2nd Battalion, 983rd Grenadier Regiment of the 275th Infantry Division. Seven men: a lieutenant, two sergeants, one corporal, and three privates. In command was Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz, who had been the platoon leader of 1st Platoon. From which only Grenadier Hans Pfeiffer had survived besides von Lüttwitz. Feldwebel Dieter Pohl along with Obergefreiter Günter Voigt were the sole survivors of the 2nd Platoon. The 3rd platoon was represented by Grenadiers Manfred Sauer and Peter Böhm. One man from company headquarters survived, Unteroffizier Uwe Schumacher.

The seven men were fairly well armed, three Mp 40 submachine guns, an MG42 machine gun, two P38 pistols, and three K98k rifles. The problem though was that they were getting low on ammunition. They were down to 384 rounds of 9 mm ammunition, in twelve 32-round magazines, and 573 rounds of 7.92 mm ammunition. Both von Lüttwitz and Voigt had emptied their pistols of ammo to make up the twelfth magazine. They kept their pistols out of force of habit, and it was an item of issue which they might have to account for. Provided they made it home!

The three riflemen were down to 30 rounds each, the remainder of the 7.92 mm ammunition was reserved for the MG 42, their most potent weapon. Though Leutnant von Lüttwitz's main concern at this point was getting what was left of the company across the Seine, not getting into a firefight with the Tommies.

Rations were also becoming a problem. Though there were numerous French villages along their route, they were trying to avoid those. Just four days before they had raided a French farm for food, enough to last several days, but the Maquis¹ had discovered their depredations and had ambushed them two days ago, lowering their numbers from ten men down to their present strength of seven. The small German band had wiped out the small band of French resistance fighters. Whose attack, though fierce, was clumsy and tactically inept. But now they were on the run as British patrols had been tipped off to their presence by that attack.

"Can you discern our position Herr Leutnant?" Feldwebel Pohl was watching the near horizon as he asked that question. They were in more open country now and were very wary of Allied aircraft. Truth was though, that they were far enough behind Allied lines that air patrols were less frequent than they had been when they were fleeing the Falaise Cauldron.

"Ja Dieter, we should reach the river tonight." von Lüttwitz answered as he returned the map to his case.

"The Seine?" Feldwebel Pohl didn't realize that they were that close. The lieutenant figured that the Allies were not that far beyond the river. So if they could get across, their chance of survival should increase dramatically. But as they got nearer to the river, the concentration of Allied rear area units was increasing. They had to be careful not to stumble into one, though they weren't combat troops, the small band couldn't afford to get into any sort of fight, even with rear echelon troops.

"Hey Corp, could ye hand me that spanner?"

"Wot, did Jerry cut your arms off or sumfin?"

"Come on Corp, I need to hang on here or start all over again."

"All right, all right Belville, quit yer whinging, here's your bloody spanner."

The British maintenance men were so involved with installing the new engine in the Sherman V that they didn't notice that they had company. Company which meant them harm.

It was a small maintenance depot, no more than fifty men, most of whom were out in the field recovering broken down vehicles, mostly tanks. They were five miles south of the Seine River and as far as they knew, all of the Germans were on the other side of that river. They had no idea that many stragglers from the 7th Army and Panzer Group West were still making their way to their own lines. Many would surrender to the first formed Allied unit they encountered. But not these men. They were veterans of the Eastern Front.

Though he didn't really want to attack the British, there were only a few of them and retracing their steps would take too much time, time they were running out of. With the ease of combat veterans, the small group positioned themselves to attack.

Leutnant von Lüttwitz nodded at his two NCOs and in a rush the seven survivors of the 5th Company were on the four British soldiers before any of them knew what was happening. They all died in an instant by bayonet and entrenching tool. The Germans hadn't noticed Private Belville up on the rear deck of the Sherman.

Belville made himself very small. Situated as he was on the engine deck, surrounded by crates of parts and a toolbox or two, the Germans hadn't noticed him. He had heard a grunt from one of his mates and had looked up in time to see his corporal go down hard, his head nearly severed by a German entrenching tool.

He nearly cried out then realized that that would have meant instant death. He couldn't believe that there were Germans about, they were in the rear for God's sake, he wasn't a fighting man, he was just a mechanic. A terrified mechanic.

"Grab any rations you can find, make it quick we need to be moving. I'm sure there are other Tommies about, we got lucky." von Lüttwitz was nervous, and rightly so. This close to the Seine they had to be careful, soon they'd be among the British fighting troops.

"Herr Leutnant! We're in luck, the Tommies actually have a crate of our ammunition here!" Feldwebel Pohl couldn't believe his eyes. There, amidst a pile of German cast-offs and equipment, was a crate of 7.92 ammunition. It wasn't full, but there had to be at least 300 rounds, all belted and ready for use. Pohl couldn't believe their luck.

Belville tried to slide over nearer to the turret, darkness was fast approaching, if he could just hide himself a bit better, then he might survive this encounter with the enemy. As he slowly moved, the spanner he had been handed by his corporal fell into the tank's engine compartment. He froze.

"Was war das?" Feldwebel Pohl whispered. Everyone stopped what they were doing as they heard what sounded like a substantial piece of metal bang down into the open engine compartment of the tank that the dead Tommies had been working on.

Grenadier Sauer was closest to the tank, on the side away from his comrades, he'd been rummaging through a tent, looking for anything which could be of use to them. While he had found nothing, he had heard the noise and seen something on the tank's engine deck which looked out of place. So he probed it with his bayonet.

Private Jimmy Belville gasped as the German bayonet went into his thigh. It was the most painful thing he had ever experienced. He wanted to surrender, before he could, the German thrust his bayonet at the terrified mechanic once more. That thrust killed Belville. But only after he had screamed so loudly that anyone within a mile must have heard him.

"Scheiße!" von Lüttwitz hissed. "Grab whatever you can, we've got to get out of here. Fast."

With that the small band of German infantrymen disappeared into the gathering darkness.

* Seven Men of Saxony - With apologies to R. F. Delderfeld.
¹ The French resistance movement during the German occupation from 1940 to 1945.