After fording the stream, the assault guns came to a barricade of tree trunks which obstructed the road leading up a slope in one of the southern spurs of the Ardennes Forest. However, Bobby Junge, at the controls of assault gun number 5, simply stepped on his accelerator, dashed against the obstacle, and opened the way upon emerging into the clearing. Here they were fired upon from the direction of Suxy and quickly came to a halt. Infantrymen streamed past the vehicle as the leading company deployed promptly and, supported by an anti-tank platoon, began to advance. The advance was short-lived however as the tack-tack-tack of a French machine gun sent four men tumbling to the ground. The landsers were now checked on the banks of the stream just west of the town. It was time for the StuGs to do their work. They were ordered up; tasks were assigned, and positions designated. As the heavy infantry weapons and armoured assault guns were heard approaching from the rear, the lead battalion commander, in a quick decision, signalled his advancing reserve company to turn off and attack in the new direction.
The new army was once again performing like a well-oiled machine, just as it had done in Poland. Von Schroif and the armoured assault artillery battery continued to the front to assist the leading rifle companies. The riflemen slowly worked their way ahead, pressing hard against the French forces, driving them off the high ground to the right front. Finally, one of the assault guns moved up on to this commanding terrain and quickly fired eleven rounds at a range of 800 metres into a battery of enemy horse artillery going into action. The assault gun itself, however, was then taken under fire by a French anti-tank battery.
In the meantime, more German artillery opened fire and the battalion began to advance across the Vierre River. As usual, all the bridges had been destroyed and all the trucks had to be left behind, although the water was no obstacle for the infantry and the armoured assault artillery. After crossing the river, the advance was checked again by resistance coming principally from a fortified house which stood along the route of advance. Assault gun number 5 went into action against this house. The first round hit the lower left window. The second entered the attic window. The third went over the house but, as von Schroif noted with satisfaction, exploded among some of the now retreating Frenchmen.
By 17:30 all resistance in this vicinity had been overcome. The French reconnaissance battalion, which had attempted to stop the regiment, was completely destroyed. Von Schroif recalled with satisfaction that the performance of the armoured assault artillery battery, in its initial engagements at Narbonne, had completely won the confidence of the infantrymen. In the top pocket of his battle tunic von Schroif still carried the after-action report which Voss had prepared. It had become his talisman and he knew the words by heart.
Von Schroif’s long reverie was interrupted by a short cough from Wohl and he was catapulted back into the present, a warm summer night in Poland with the stars shining through the canopy of trees, and he once again had to confront the uncomfortable fact that heroic events soon became faded by history. The events of the battle for France were irrelevant now, what mattered was the forthcoming battle for Russia.
“With machines like these, the fortress will again fall to us tomorrow. Mark my words, Wohl,” said von Schroif, beginning the conversation anew.
“I believe it will, Hauptsturmführer,” said Wohl, keen to re-engage the conversation and skip another boring circuit of the perimeter. “Was it a tough fight, last time?” asked Wohl, who had attended the briefing and, with a battle looming, for once had paid half attention to what was being said. Following his baptism of fire and the excitement of Greece, he was palpably aware that the next adventure might prove somewhat more challenging.
Despite his nervousness, Wohl took comfort from the fact that von Schroif radiated such genuine confidence. It was obvious that he felt confidence in the fact that he controlled the men and the machines for the job. He, and some of his crews, had literally been here before and he now gave vent to his frustrations.
“We were here in September ’39, not even two years ago,” said von Schroif, finally answering Wohl’s question. “We had next to no time to draw ammunition and supplies when we found ourselves seconded from the SS-VT to Guderian’s corps.”
Wohl was now genuinely interested and, faced with the prospect of a similar experience, he now wanted to know all the details. Like soldiers everywhere, von Schroif was only too willing to fill a few empty minutes with reminiscence for the benefit of eager ears.
“We quickly crammed into the old Sd.Kfz. 232… You know the type, the one with the heavy ‘bedstead’ type antenna over the body of the car, so everyone can see it for miles around?”
“Well, at least it gives the enemy something else to aim at, Hauptsturmführer,” said Wohl, always happy to lighten the mood. “We could have done with a few of them around us in Greece. Everyone in the Greek army seemed to be after me down there… and the Tommies too!”
“Don’t take it personally, Wohl. I don’t think you are on Herr Churchill’s hate list. I’m sure the Reds will have a welcoming bullet or two for you to remember them by.”
“I’m not so worried, as long as I’m burrowed down in the StuG. It’s the damn snipers I can’t stand.”
“I’m sure you’ll be alright, Wohl. You have a lucky face.”
“I intend to keep it that way. Was the armoured car a good fighting vehicle, Hauptsturmführer?”
“Good isn’t the first word that springs to mind. Artillery splinters shoot through them like a knife through paper. Anyway, that’s what we were issued with, so we clattered into Poland with Guderian and swept down on the old fortress over there,” said von Schroif, pointing towards the east. “It was known to the Poles as Brześć Litewski. We surprised them by arriving from the north-east. We call it the Battle of Brest-Litovsk. It was fought out just over there, between the 14th and 17th of September ‘39.”
As von Schroif recounted the events of the battle the pair were joined by driver Bobby Junge who clambered down from the driver’s hatch at the front of vehicle.
“Everything in order, Junge?” asked von Schroif, by way of welcome.
“I’ve checked everything I can think of, Hauptsturmführer. The bus is in great running order.”
The driver, SS-Kannonier Bobby Junge, from Heidelberg, served in number 1 gun of the first battery, commanded by SS-Obersturmführer Werfer. He was an absolute master of his craft; there really was no better driver. Junge liked the mechanical robustness of the Sturmgeschütz. He also liked its surprising turn of speed◦— and speed was something which Junge knew all about. In civilian life he was a professional race driver and his performances against Rudolf Caracciola and the tragic Bernd Rosemeyer at the Nürburgring before the war indicated a trajectory of great success. Now, in the last few moments before the world would change forever for better or worse, the talents of this remarkable son of Baden-Württemberg were put to work on the machine known as the StuG.
“Remember last time we were here, Junge?” asked von Schroif, inviting the driver into the discussion.
“I’ll never forget it, sir. This is where we lost Biermann, Oehler and Eggers.”
“Good comrades all,” replied von Schroif solemnly. “It certainly was a grind. Three days and nights of heavy fighting for the indestructible island stronghold surrounded by three heavily fortified islands, comrades falling around us… We win the battle, then we give the prize to the Ivans. They keep it for a couple of years, build up the fortifications, make the place even more impregnable. Then they order us to take it back!”