((Collaboration with Nelo, part 3))
The infantryman’s look of terror was infectious to the men. Waldemar stood in the cupola of the tank, staring down at him, trying not to let it get to him. Whatever he’d seen, Waldemar knew he’d seen much, much worse in his 400 or so years.
“Hold here,” he said into his radio, sending it to the members of his tank and those tanks in radio range. Tearing off the headphones and microphone, he vaulted out of the tank. “Whatever it is, Herr Soldat, it’s not as bad as some of the things I’ve seen.”
The men of the fourth batallion of the 90th Light Division held at Waldemar’s command, just south of Tobruk. He assumed from the soldier’s stuttered report that the man he had sent out into the trenches the night before did the work he was tasked with.
He glanced into one trench and stopped short. A body was torn in half at the waist. His arm was just outside the trench next to him. His partner fared no better, his throat torn out, his larynx snapped in half, and a huge gaping wound in the man’s chest, a layer of dirt already covering it.
Waldemar walked through, trench by trench, to see further and further examples of Tommies being torn to shreds, sometimes devoured, bones exposed and snapped as if they were matchsticks.
Even though that man – no, not a man, it was questionable now – even though that man was in the Heer, and supposedly fighting on their side, it still made him uneasy that such a weapon could be utilized. He turned and made a motion so that the 90th Light could proceed. As he waited for his tank to come up to him, he stared at the mixed bodies in the trench before him.
21 May 1941
1000 hours
Cruewell’s leg bounced uncontrollably as he looked up at the man before him. He wore the special insignia of a Reichsfuher, but it was on Army tropical colors. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his blond hair. He stated to Cruewell, “Rommel has asked me to represent him with the Ariete division, and I understand I’m working with you.”
Cruewell said nothing, staring at the map. “Fucking minefields,” he said, and finally looked up. “Who knows where they are over there.”
“It’s what we have sappers for,” Waldemar said, sitting in a chair across from him. “You know damn well I’d rather be with 90th Light than with these damn dagos.”
“The damn dagos listen to you,” Cruewell said, wiping his bald head with a handkercheif. “You speak Italian with Rommel’s tone.”
He chuckled. “I do. So we’re supposed to whip around here…” he leaned over the desk and pointed on the map.
“I was thinking of sending my wolf in to soften them up.”
“Your what?”
Cruewell looked up at him. “Remember the first entry into Tobruk? The horrorshow in the trenches?”
“Yes, I do.” Waldemar cast his eyes down on the map for a moment. “You’d send him to take that out?” he tapped the map, pointing out an area that the army was going to swing around and flank, Bir Hachiem, the most southern area of the map. “That’s a pretty big box.”
“He could soften them up. Ariete can do mopping up operations, cowards they are.”
“Oh, they’ll love that. How many troops are estimated in there? That’s a full town, at least a thousand men.”
“We don’t know what’s in there. I’m planning on checking myself.”
Waldemar sat back with a smirk. “Being the front line like Rommel is rubbing off on you?”
Cruewell chuckled. “I am not so risky.” He looked up. “You command the wolf this time around, since your division will be following up on him.”
Waldemar got up. “Why do you call him a wolf?”
“Why do they call you Jagermeister?”
“Because it’s what I am.”
Cruewell inclined his head. “There you go.”
2300 hrs
Waldemar turned around when someone called, “Reichsfuhrer.” He saw the scruffy man that he had sent into Tobruk’s trenches come jogging up to him. Waldemar had just gotten out of Rommel’s tent, hit with the most shocking news. The man again saluted sloppily and Waldemar was hardly pressed to not grab the man’s arm and snap it to make him salute better.
“Heil Hitler, what do you want.”
“Cruewell sai’ t’ repor’ t’ ya.” He slipped into Gaelic.
“Schiesse…” Waldemar kicked the ground. Of all the worst times…
“Aye. Come with me.”
The man followed to Waldemar’s tent. Waldemar could see well enough in the dim light, and, so could the man also. “What’s your name?” Waldemar asked, sitting on his cot, letting the man remain standing.
“Der Wulf.”
“Figures.” He started getting his boots off. “Your commanding officer was just captured by English troops.”
The man’s jaw moved, a small growl escaping him.
“You’re under my command now. I’m not officially Army – I’m Wehrmarcht, interchangable between all branches, including Waffen-SS. I can’t have you under my direct command for long.” He got one boot off, and worked on the other. “Rommel, I don’t think, would know what to do with you. And I’m not handing you over to those fucking Prussians.”
“Whaddaya want me ta do righ’ now?”
“There’s a town named Bir Hachiem to the far, far south. We want it taken out. I can’t tell you when the attack to relieve you would be, but it would be within a week. And I don’t know if you can really take out a whole town.”
“I c’n.”
“Even a wolf needs to rest.”
“I c’n take i’ out in a week.”
“Start whenever you’d like, then. Because we’ll be going down there in a week. We’re just hashing out who has what commands.”
“Don’ matter where I get me orders, so long’s I get ’em.”
“We’ll see.” He started undoing his tunic. “You’re dismissed. Heil Hitler.”
Again, another salute without the words uttered. Waldemar opened his mouth to call him on it, but closed it. The sooner I get rid of this live granade, the better.
((HISTORICAL NOTES: the Battle of Bir Hachiem Box was from 5/26/41 to 6/10/41. In the box were a contingent of Free French, and Indians on the outskirts, not Englishmen. Rommel whipped around them, and into an area between two boxes later known as “The Cauldron”. In an attempt to break out of the Cauldron on 5/30-6/1, he destroyed the Northumberland Division.
In this twist of history, the Bir Hachiem Box is again not taken because Nelo finds out that these are French, and not English.))
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