Chapter 4
"What the fuck."
Jonat stared in disbelief at the armoured column before him as it approached the threshold of 501st Battalion Headquarters. Driving two-abreast, the formation of ten uniformly camouflaged tanks in seemingly perfect condition were quite an imposing sight, especially given the somewhat humble nature of the command post itself. The three small sandstone and mud-brick buildings, one of which was half destroyed, were only complimented by a small selection of canvas tents and tarps. From here, the 55 tanks of the 501st Schwere Panzer-Abteilung were refuelled, rearmed, and repaired ready for frontline combat. Tanks were, for the most part, expected to sleep in dug-in hull-down positions with nothing more than their tarp for cover; but one small tent was set aside for the use of those recovering from serious injuries. Alongside that tent was the repair-bay, a slightly larger affair made of the same sand worn, desert brown material, and distinguishable only by its three-walled nature (The fourth wall was tied atop the tent, and the gap served as the entrance. The wall could be untied and pinned down in the event of a sandstorm). Several rows of ammunition boxes and fuel drums were behind here, covered by heavily camouflaged tarp, netting, and half buried in sand. Opposite lay the three buildings; one acted as the communications centre, the second was used to store the many barrels of water necessary for a desert fighting force, and the half collapsed third was useful only to shield one side of the command tent which stood next to it.
Lining the road, if the track-made pathway could be called such, that led to the command tent were a number of the 501st with barrels raised in salute. It was through this arch that the Oberst and his escort drove, past the Panzer II's and III's, and onto the Heavy tanks of the battalion. Here stood Fox, at the end of the line, flanked by Jonat and Haniah. Junker stopped before them, his honour-guard-resembling escort pulling up in perfect time, and accepted a salute from the three tanks to his front.
"What a beacon of civilisation," the officer looked around, barely attempting to disguise the disgust in his voice and in his physical expressions. After a brief pause, just long enough for the quiet to become uncomfortable and for the dust to settle, he spoke again."Well? Are you going to offer me a drink? Or have you become just as uncivilised as this wretched place?".
"Of course, Herr Oberst. I have brought together whatever High Octane Fuel I could find just for your arrival. This way, please." (*1) The Tiger's voice had a very slight quality to it, one of a faintly implied sarcasm, that was only noticed by the veterans of the 501st who were so used to their commanders mannerisms. Not that it was necessary to adopt any kind of tone of voice, the fact that he was being polite and proper at all radiated sarcasm in volumes, and caused more than a few smirks behind the Oberst's back. One of the Heavy Tanks even had to fake a short coughing fit to cover up the snicker he was barely able to contain. Fox grinded his treads, rotating on the spot to face the command tent behind him. He called over his shoulder before leading the Oberst onwards. "Rohr, escort the Oberst's men to the depot and see that they are well supplied. Allow them access to all that we can spare."
"Jawohl, Mein Kommandant!" came the reply. Fox's engine revved harshly, and the Tiger clawed its way forward with their esteemed guest in tow. Haniah, Jonat, and a third tank followed close behind.
"Take as much fuel and water as you need, you can set up camp anywhere around here. If you need repairs or parts come and find me, and i'll direct you to someone who can provide them. Questions? No? Good." Hauptmann Rohr held himself confidently in front of the peculiar array of mostly prototype tanks arranged in front of him, scanning his barrel across the line as his rough voice growled out the information.
"Who do you think we are, to talk to us in such a callous manner!?" spat one of the smaller tanks to his right, a medium tank that lurched forwards in a display of rage. Venomous words spewed forth as he vocally reprimanded the Heavy for lacking respect and dedication to protocol, his engine growling louder with each passing word. Rohr drove off mid-sentence without saying a word, his casual and self-assured mannerism pushing the medium even further into pure unchecked anger.
"Where do you think you're going? I demand you return at once! I'll have you court-martialed for this, you - you impotent wretch!" Rohr turned a corner and disappeared behind one of the canvas tents, and a silence briefly descended upon the line of tanks, the medium still fuming as his engine temperature rose unhealthily in the desert sun.
"I hate you," came the brittle voice from the larger tank to his left, who proceeded to kick up a large amount of sand before slowly moving off in the direction Rohr had taken. The offended medium looked around for support, and found it amongst his two similarly classed medium tanks. The rest of the column seemed indifferent, and they moved to the Supply dump to replenish the fuel and water used in their long desert trek. Rohr hadn't got far, and the tank who set off in pursuit didn't take long to catch up. The Tiger heard him coming, stopped, and turned to face the impressive vehicle in tow.
This was Hauptmann Zorner. Amongst the Oberst's Honour Guard he was an outcast; he cared little for protocol, he had vast battlefield experience, and he wasn't from a wealthy or aristocratic background. If anything, he fit in with the 501st and the frontline troops of Panzerarmee Afrika far better than he fit in with his current company. It was even noted that the Oberst cared little for his callous mannerisms, and was often quick to reprimand the appearance or conduct of the hulking medium tank. Yet still he remained in service, because there was not a tank alive that could match him toe-to-toe. Sure Zorner was a fine marksman; but his real talent, where he really showed his true colours, was in close combat. Up close and personal, he was nigh undefeatable. And it showed.
Where the other tanks that had arrived in the armoured column that afternoon were in pristine condition, flawless to the smallest detail and fanatical about remaining so, Zorner kept his battle scars. The E50 medium tank prototype was designed in response to the up-gunning of Soviet tanks on the eastern front, and was supposed to fill the gap left between the newly introduced Tiger II and Panther tanks. Weighing in at 60 tons, and larger than most Heavy tanks, it posed a formidable sight. The angle of the hull armour was steep, and a wedge of thick steel protruded like a blade from the front of the tank. Here large scars tore across the E50's frontal plate, trophies of tanks impaled and destroyed in a most violent fashion.
Zorner's hull was flame-licked and battered, the steel seeming to tear its way out from beneath the Panzer Grey and hastily applied Desert Brown paint as if it were alive. Short sanguine stripes were roughly painted in vertical lines over the front hull-edge, one for each foe dispatched by his 'blade', and white stripes circled his barrell for each kill at range. A white silhouette of an Antelope was painted on the left side of his turret just forward of the balkenkreuz, and the number "003" mirrored it on the right side. A canvas tarp was folded and tied to the rear of the sloped turret, and lengthy metal cables were bolted to the side of the hull. Aside from the scars emblazoned across the frontal hull armour of the German, marks from shell glances and shrapnel were abundant. Both exhaust pipes featured rough-torn holes as decoration, and there had clearly been multiple repairs of injuries sustained to the engine deck. Rumour had it that the heavily accented leviathan was immortal, and standing before him, you'd be hard pressed to disagree.
"Need something?" Rohr spoke with a hint of bored reluctance as he studied the tank before him, but it was mostly for show. The veteran Tiger was not intimidated easily, but Zorner unnerved him.
"I was hoping you'd be able to point me in the direction of something a bit more high-octane, travelling across a fucking desert with that lot for company has left me in need of a drink." The medium tank's voice was reassuringly humorous beneath the cloak of a Germanic-South African accent, and Rohr let out a small chuckle.
"As long as they aren't coming with you, right this way."
(*1) .