The Legion advance continued and, for the second time, units of Camerone entered Mittelschaeffolsheim.
Braun surveyed the scene.
He and his running mate, another Panther, had dropped into position on the junction of Routes 30 and 228, Braun covering north-eastwards, and the other tank watching the south-east approaches.
Legionnaires from the 1st RDM were pushing up through the wrecked buildings, steadily ensuring each building was clear before progressing onwards.
The retaking of Mittelscaeffolsheim had been a brief affair, but not without cost.
The first attack had cost the tank unit two precious vehicles, both Panzer IV’s. In the second sortie, one of the Panthers had spectacularly succumbed to a direct artillery strike, and with it, another group of Kameraden from the old days had perished in the blink of an eye.
The 1st RDM put in a ferocious assault and the Russians defences melted away.
Braun, leading the tank’s point unit, had seen no reason to believe that all the enemy had gone and, until Speer got his act organised, Corps standing orders were that Panthers were far too precious to be risked up front in town fighting, unless an extraordinary situation existed.
The barrel of Braun’s Panther moved gently from side to side, the gunner following each surge of infantry, moving from cover to cover.
There was no firing, no resistance.
Nothing.
The 1st’s legionnaires started to move more quickly, and a feeling of relaxation spread throughout the assault force.
After briefing his crew, Braun emerged from the Panther’s turret, dropping to the ground at the front of the tank. He quickly moved off to the left to consult with the 2nd Company commander, Capitaine Durand.
After his excellent conduct in the assault on the ‘Leningrad’ position, during the relief of Stuttgart, Durand had been fully accepted by the ex-Waffen-SS soldiers, and he had done nothing but reinforce their high opinion of him since.
He greeted Braun with a smile and the offer of a cigarette.
“Danke, Capitaine. I take it we are clear? Your men seem to think so.”
He gestured up the road at what had been a relaxed scene.
It was now anything but.
A group of men had gathered outside a large building, and they were clearly extremely agitated.
The radio crackled into life and Durand took a report in total silence, the words spoken by the officer up the road burning into the hearts of everyone present in an instant.
“I’m coming up. Out.”
In a controlled fashion, Durand placed the handset down on the low brick wall.
He braced himself against the brickwork, screwing his eyes tight in an effort to compose himself.
Durand turned to Braun, his voice failing to disguise both the horror and the anger that had started to burn his insides.
“You don’t have to come, Major…” somehow, the RSM rank did not seem appropriate in the circumstances. He placed a hand on the tanker’s shoulder.
“Johannes, don’t come.”
“But I must.”
Signalling for his tank to move up the road behind them, Braun and Durand took the short walk to the place where an old comrade and friend had met his end.
Most of the men who were stood around the awful apparition had seen service on the Eastern Front, and should have been used to the excesses that often marked that awful campaign.
Despite that, more than one was in tears, and more than one had spilled the contents of his stomach.
All had approached and exceeded the normal extremes of anger.
The small body had experienced the very highest levels of pain and suffering; that was wholly obvious to the eye. The pieces that had been removed lay around the site of what could only be described as a place of sadistic torture.
Cyrille Jaoa da Silva Vernais, Legion RSM, veteran of countless battles, and credited by Knocke with much of the responsibility for the successful integration of Legionnaires and ex-SS, was very messily dead.
Even the inexperienced eye could detect that he had died in the extremes of pain, his face still holding an expression of a man fighting back his surrender to the awfulness that had been visited upon him.
His tunic had been ripped open and his chest and stomach skin had been cut off, as had his fingers.
His ears and his nose had also been taken and they were pinned or nailed to the wood around his head, as in some macabre joke.
Braun, his eyes full of tears, could detect that nails had been driven through legs and arms, pinning Vernais to the wooden door of the Mairie, which, in themselves, must have caused the most excruciating pain.
The senior NCO’s trousers had been removed and his manhood had suffered a few thrusts from a knife or bayonet but was, perhaps surprisingly, still attached.
Beneath his feet, a small fire still smouldered. It had probably not amounted to much at its peak, but had been more than sufficient to roast the Legionnaire past the ankles.
A piece of paper was sticking from Vernais’ mouth but the onlookers had not removed it. One of the German legionnaires sought silent permission from Durand and removed it with reverence.
“It’s in German… well… sort of.”
He looked at it, and then passed it on to the next man.
The note finally reached Durand, who shared the text with Braun.
‘Your friend die crying like a baby. So will die all you SS bastards!’
Braun looked back at the corpse of the man he considered a good friend, and wished that the old NCO had stayed behind in camp. Vernais had returned from Sassy only a week beforehand, bringing new men with him. He had sought out a return to Camerone, and to the 1st RDM, and they had welcomed him with open arms.
Clearly, he had somehow got detached when the withdrawal had happened.
The rest was evident.
Durand took a deep breath and spoke softly, and with genuine affection.
“My Legionnaires… now… let’s get our old comrade down eh?”
One of Vernais’ old soldiers from Syria produced a groundsheet and everyone worked silently and with the great estrespect, slowly removing their old comrade from the door, moving the tortured body to the sheet and wrapping it, hiding the horrors from further examination.
Canteens containing non-regulation liquids appeared and the men consumed freely, both drinking the health of the dead Vernais and seeking to find the solace that only alcohol can offer.
Durand and Braun moved quickly amongst the men, restrainin their consumption, reminding them of the fights to come and the need to remain alert.
Braun retained his focus and spoke the men.
“Kameraden, there’ll be time for us to mourn, but it is not now.”
The angry rumblings were not directed at Braun, but the men needed something to focus on and, for the moment, he was it.
“We must go on and do our jobs… and you know that he wouldn’t have it any other way, eh?”
That drew more than a few positive responses.
“So… let’s honour him by being the best that we can be and, I promise you, when we can, we’ll all come together and drink to his memory!”
He pointed up the road, Route 30, which led to Brumath.
“Now… let’s remember we’re legionnaires and honour his memory by doing what legionnaires do.”
Braun’s voice increased in volume and his anger bubbled over.
“The enemy… the shitty bastards that did this,” he pointed at the wrapped form, “They’re that fucking way,” his finger moved back to the road, stabbing violently in the direction of the front line, “And you and I have a urgent fucking appointment with the swine!”