Before anyone could react, a second shell struck the Panther on the left sprocket, causing catastrophic damage to the drive train and track.
Knocke could see two more white streaks on their way across the battlefield and, although they both missed, he knew the Panther’s luck was out.
“Driver, can we move?”
“No sir. It’s totally fucked.”
“Crew, bale out.”
The radio operator and Knocke gathered up the sensitive documents and exited the vehicle.
Dropping off the rear of the disabled command tank, the burning Stug almost taunted him, declaring its part in the loss of his vehicle.
‘Schiesse.’
He pointed at one of the American scout cars and issued orders to the tank crew.
“Once the fire’s out, get Zeppelin up here to fix my tank,” Zeppelin was Camerone’s Werkstatt unit, “But stay away from it ‘til it’s not silhouetted by the fire. That’s how the Reds saw us.”
The tankers looked at where their leader was pointing, more than one curse illustrating their understanding of the bad luck that could have ended their lives.
“I have to be in there,” he pointed at the growing battle at the river, “So, I’ll exercise my rank and kick someone out of their cosy vehicle. I’ll send them to you, so keep your eyes open. Alles klar?”
The four men nodded, suddenly aware that their talisman was leaving them.
“Take care, Kameraden. Turnips down ‘til I get back. Now, raus.”
The tank Knocke had set his sights on moved position, labouring by the sound of its engine, and dropped in behind a small but thick stand of trees.
Selecting his moment, he pushed himself out from behind the disabled command tank and started on the three hundred metre journey, hugging a low line of hedgerow.
Knocke had heard correctly. The tank had mechanical problems and two of its crew were already on the repair.
“So, can you fix it or fucking not?”
The flashlight moved around the V12 engine compartment, indicating concentration.
“Only if you shut the fuck up and let me get on with it.”
The two men were head down in the engine bay, having pulled up two of the gratings.
“Fucking oil everywhere. Have we still got any with us?”
The junior man, the tank’s driver and mechanic, hummed a response and then managed a single word.
“Bin.”
The senior man, his American tanker’s tunic sporting the odd combination of Legion eagle, Tannenberg armband, German Cross in silver, Iron Cross First and Second class, Black wound badge, and a much newer Croix de Guerre, moved to the back of the turret to check in the crew bin.
Finding three five-litre containers, he dropped back down behind the cover offered by the turret and lit a cigarette.
“Fifteen litres s’all we’ve got, Klaus.”
“That’s all I could lift from the spanner grenadieres.”
Taking a deep draw on his cigarette, Sergeant Köster, formerly known as SS-Scharfuhrer Köster of the 503rd SS Schwere Panzer Abteilung, spoke to the turret crew, making sure he and his glowing cigarette end stayed firmly behind cover.
“How’s his shitty hand?”
The gunner popped his head out of the hatch.
“Broken two fingers at least, Rudi. Nasty tear. Dislocated the other two, possibly even sprained his wrist. He’s not loading the fucking gun any time soon, that’s for sure!”
“Great,” which it obviously wasn’t, “Get it bandaged up and I’ll decide what we’re going to do.”
The gunner dropped back inside to finish bandaging the loader’s mangled hand.
When the tank had dropped into a gully obscured by snowfall, the loader had put his hand out to steady himself and inadvertently slipped it into the locking mechanism of the rear hatch.
Momentum did the rest, as his weight ripped the webbing between middle and fourth finger, the two smaller fingers snapping with gunshot sounds that even Meier the driver had heard.
Working the problem, Köster noted the approaching figure, and found himself sniggering at the man’s strange crouching run.
Amusement turned into curiosity.
Curiosity turned to concern, and he pulled out his Browning Hi-Power 640b.
He would have no hesitation in letting the strange man have all thirteen rounds if he had to.
Concern turned into relief as the uniform identified the man as a friend.
Relief turned into disbelief, and quickly turned into incredulity as the indistinct figure materialised into ‘The Legend’.
He dismounted and shot to attention.
“Zu befehl, Oberfuhrer. One tank, five men present, one wounded. Vehicle is presently disabled by a mechanical problem. My driver is assessing the issue now, Sir.”
Knocke had no time to reply as another voice stole the opportunity from him.
“Oh do shut the fuck up, Rudi. This is no time for your fucking games, you idiot! Now, get me the tool kit. I need a fucking wrench. Something not right here.”
Knocke nodded, and Köster disappeared to get the tools.
When he returned, he found his General head down in the engine compartment and in conversation with the driver.
“I went from Panzer IV’s to Panthers, so this beast is a mystery to me. But surely that much oil didn’t come from just that loose joint?”
Meier considered his reply.
“We had a sudden loss of oil pressure. A big near miss… must have shook the shitty thing loose… enough pressure to bollock it out, kamerad. But… maybe you’re right. Hang on.”
He slid further down.
“Fuck it. Here, hang on to that and point it down here.”
The oily torch was thrust into Knocke’s left hand.
Köster considered the moment, feeling a growing despair, and then offered up the wrench to his commander’s free hand.
Knocke took it, the light of battle sufficient for his wink to be noticed.
“Here, Klaus, the wrench.”
A dirty hand reached up and took the tool, managing to transfer a considerable amount of the sticky black fluid onto his unknown helper.
Knocke’s mind clicked, recalling a document he had seen over two years before.
“Bolts, Klaus? I remember there was often an issue with them. Bolts de-threading under pressure, sub-standard workmanship caused by the Allied bombing as I recall. De-threaded by your near miss possibly?”
From below came the sounds of a man thinking aloud.
“Hmm. Come to think of it… hang on.”
The wrench worked away, metal tapping on metal as the handle moved within the comfines of the compartment.
“Yes indeed, Kamerad. Nice spot. You’ll go far in this man’s army with a brain like that.”
The wrench attacked bolt after bolt, the exertions starting to tell on the tank driver.
“Seen much action, kamer… can’t… keep… calling… you… kamerad…” each individual effort on the wrench gave him a natural pause in his speech.
"What’s your name, son?"
Köster almost passed out on the spot.
"Call me Ernst… for now."
Knocke played the game, mainly because he wanted the man to complete his work, not suddenly come apart because his commander was present, but the humour of the situation wasn’t wasted on him and he was perfectly prepared to momentarily become the prankster he had once been known as.