"Drive! Schnell! This way damn you!" Screamed Vogel, as another shell erupted from the muzzle of the Quick Firing 6 pounder mounted in the turret of the Crusader that had crested the steep sided ridgeline to his right. The high velocity round buried itself in the sand three feet to the left of Ehrlichmann's hull, and he swerved steeply in the opposite direction in response.
*Crack*
Another shot screamed towards the fleeing recruit, as he yet again steered his tank in
desperate evasive manuevers, all the while heading for Vogel's Luchs and the relative safety of the small rocky outcrop that the desert veteran was now using as cover.
*Crack* Barked Vogel's 5cm in return, the light tank's round flying harmlessly past the cruiser on the high ground, and broadcasting his previously inconspicuous position in a loud, and somewhat noticeable fashion. The return shell had certainly got the British tanks attention, as he now trained his main gun on the turret poking above a portion of the small sandstone formation. Ehrlichmann continued his flight, but his driving became far less erratic now that he wasn't the target of any incoming fire.
"Break right, kid. I've got his attention, just get yourself on the other side of that dune and wait for my instructions," came Vogel's voice calmly over the short range radio, just before another round from the Crusader slammed into the rocks and put an abrupt halt to the conversation.
*Crack* Came the retaliatory shot once again, this time striking the soft sand below and to the right of the Crusader. Seeming somewhat conscious of his noticeably exposed position, the Crusader rotated his tracks to angle what armour he had against the source of fire.
*Crack*
The Cruiser fired another, this time glancing an Armour Piercing round off the side of Vogel's turret, leaving a scar across his cheek, and resulting in a torrent of abusive language to get fired in return alongside the 5cm shell.
"I'm behind the dune! What now?" called out Ehrlichmann over the radio, as his light tank slid to a halt now out of the Crusader's line of sight.
"Now, my dear child, you watch and you learn," came the reply. "Now come here you no-good mother-fuckin' piece of limey Britischer sheisse," he muttered, albeit not softly, under his breath. There was a loud thud of rock on metal as another 6 pounder shell struck the outcrop, showering the Luchs in rough chunks of beige coloured stone and dust. The dirt cloud cleared just enough for the Light tank to reacquire his target, and his muzzle flashed bright white and burnt orange as it catapulted the next round towards the Desert Rat.
The response was a muffled boom as the High Explosive round buried itself in the soft sand beneath the Cruiser and detonated, sending him crashing and tumbling forward down the ridge he had so recently occupied. The onlooking Germans soon lost sight of their foe beneath the falling dust, and they approached cautiously with Vogel leading; an armour piercing round chambered, and his barrel trained on the settling cloud of sand. There was nothing left. The desert became his tomb.
Jonat was pursued all morning by an inescapable feeling of irritation. He felt as if he were in the middle of a sandstorm, rendered useless by the elements, forced to wait for its far too distant passing. The sandstorm was, of course, the meeting that would take place that very afternoon. The howling, screeching wind was Oberst Junker. He drove into the spacious command tent with a bitter look emblazoned across his mantlet, kicking up as much dust as he felt he could get away with, and came to an abrupt halt next to the map table that dominated the centre of the canvas room. He said nothing.
"Oh stop sulking you miserable fucker, it's one afternoon. You know that I'll do everything in my power to make his visit as brief as possible." Fox's comment did nothing to alleviate the overt misery that emanated from every inch of the medium tank. Turning his attention away from Jonat, Fox went back to studying the map spread before him. The two passed several minutes in silence, both lost in their thoughts, both trying to ignore the hellish afternoon set before them, before another tank entered the tent.
"Morning patrols all just radioed in, only one contact so far, everyone else called in clear. Vogel and Ehrlichmann, no casualties, one Crusader knocked out. 6 pounder gun this time, their upgrades must have come in this last week, would explain the increase in supply trucks. Unrecoverable, so he says."
The Luchs that sat now in the entranceway to the command tent was Stabsfeldwebel Hania, a veteran of the Desert theatre, and one of the finest marksmen markswomen in the Battalion (A peculiar accolade, considering her use of a 3cm autocannon, and the prevalence of longer barrelled armaments amongst the medium and heavy tanks in the 501st). It was unusual for her to appear alone - she and Vogel were almost inseparable both on and off the battlefield - though that was Fox's doing. Vogel was not a patient man, and Fox didn't want any conflict arising between the Stabsfeldwebel and their esteemed guest.
Compared to the two tanks stood before her, Haniah appeared to be in better than factory condition. Her desert brown and dark grey camouflage scheme was almost perfect, complemented by a light sheen of sand that seemed to perpetually coat her. The sandstorm tarp, made of canvas and matching in colour, was tied tightly just to the rear of the engine deck, so it didn't exaggerate her silhouette, nor block the traverse of her turret. Camouflage netting, typically draped across every armoured surface for combat ops, was tied in thin bundles at the top of every metal plate that compromised her hull so that it was barely noticeable. She could find spare parts in a sea full of sand; anything that broke, she fixed, anything useful, she took. She was at once an eagle and a vulture, ruthless and cunning, and the desert was her feeding ground. Fox liked having her around.
"Any word on the Oberst?" came Fox's voice.
"Still on track for 1300, just about an hour out according to the last report." The Tiger turned his turret from the tent entrance to the medium tank situated to his left as she finished speaking.
"Jonat, call all patrols back to base. I want static scouts in entrenched positions along gridline three, with support from the 39th Panzerjager Battalion along grids one and two. Composition as they see fit," the Heavy tank spoke whilst motioning to various positions on the map spread out before him and his companions.
"We going dark for a while? I don't much enjoy the idea of being blind." Jonat spoke with a hint of caution, experience had taught him the value of good reconnaissance and intelligence, and his reluctance to poke out their eyes and cover their ears visibly displayed itself in the uncomfortable posture he adopted.
"I don't relish the idea either, but I don't want to get drawn out into an open skirmish with Junker around to pull rank and endanger my men. I'd much rather have him dictate a static defense, should he choose to take command." Jonat relaxed slightly. The order made sense, but even so he spent the next few moments thinking it over to ensure there were no obvious flaws, other than the risks inherent in fighting an unknown enemy, in unknown quantities, from a static position.
"What about rapid response teams?" enquired Jonat.
"Have 5th Panzer Regiment take both flanks, we'll take the centre. Choose four Tigers, send two to each reaction group."
"They're still spread thin."
"There's enough for a mobile defence. I'd be more worried about us in the middle with the Oberst if I were you," the Heavy tank spoke, with a faint grin.
"Ahh who knows, maybe he'll have acquired himself an honour guard by now. We could be sitting pretty with his help." Jonat spoke with a growing smirk, and he was almost chuckling to himself as he put his engine into gear and headed for the exit of the tent. Haniah traversed her tracks and moved backwards to allow the Major to pass, and re-entered once he had gone. It was almost time.