15 January 1943
...
To: 438th Mechanized Infantry Kampfgruppe Commandant, Obersturmbannführer Joachim Hoch
From: Army Group Afrika High Command, Cairo
Obersturmbannführer Hoch,
Standing orders have changed. Cease your advance to Algiers to support the Italian and French counterattack. At 16:00 hours yesterday, reports came in that Oran had fallen to the Central Task Force landed by the Allies in the invasion. This is an unpleasant development but was not unforeseen. At 18:00 hours the task force commander ordered a division-sized armour group to flank deep into the countryside to cut the Italian counterattack at Algiers. We have kept an eye on them carefully of course. As of 04:17 have reached the outskirts of Bouïra, an impressive feat even if it had not been unopposed. We believe that the attack will be swinging north, until they reach the coast, as stated before it appears they intend to cut the supply lines and force the Italian Army to surrender.
You are to take your forces to the westernmost edge of the Aguni Lahwa, two hundred kilometres south of your current position - The area is a plateau region, well suited to dig in, the area overlooks the town they are resting and refuelling in. From there, you must lure them into an attack. This commander or his higher-ups appear not well suited for combat if they are willing to over-extend their advance like this. I shall be sending you additional reinforcements in the form of an artillery section as well as 8.8-centimetre flak guns to bolster your strength against this superior force. Artillery could potentially be the lure, if not then prepare to send a reconnaissance to trick them into following.
Whatever the case, your orders are to cause maximum damage as possible and pull back to Bougie. You will assume command of the city, as you suggested to Guderian. This port city must remain in our hands for as long as possible. Protect the port city while Guderian organizes his forces to cross the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, I shall be marshalling my army by train to Constantine. Guderian will reach Bougie in three days; my force will arrive at Constantine in five, perhaps six days.
As to not arouse suspicion, I suggest you relay official requests through the traditional method. If there is anything in particular you need, speak to your quarian liaison, or contact me through these omni-tools. I cannot commit much in the way of fighter support to you. The RAF has built up tenfold since they based themselves in Hansa. Most American fighter support appears to not yet show up. I am pressuring the Luftwaffe to deploy what air assets they can to provide you cover, but consider yourself on your own. Deploy flak units accordingly, I will be directing the nearest Italian units to link up with you and provide additional fire support.
Good Hunting,
Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel.
Closing his omni-tool, Joachim checked his watch. The time was 08:41. Glancing at Hanala, whose head was buried against the side window. To say that Hanala was a strange woman would be understating it greatly. To be able to sleep so heavily as they sped towards a battle zone. Joachim would not disturb her for the moment.
Sighing as he went for his cigarettes, Joachim reached up and tapped his driver on the arm. The driver obliged the silent order, pulling over. Behind them, the Hanomag filled with his guard came to a grinding halt. Ignoring Hanala as she stirred, Joachim pulled his gloves back over his hands and stepped out into the dawning sun, allowing a Tiger to roar past him. Joachim would have been impressed by the sight, had he not heard the engine of the heavy panzerbloody stutter.
He turned back and wandered to the Hanomag, his driver behind him, an MP-40 in hand. From out of the Hanomag came the driver, Feldwebel Paul Fuhrmann. Forgetting his relationship with Hoch, Fuhrmann came to attention. It looked rather painful for him to do. It appeared that the injuries he received almost a year ago were still bothering him.
"Feldwebel, get me your signals team. I need a message out to the Kampfgruppe, "Hoch directed to Fuhrmann.
The order issued made Fuhrmann salute and nearly marched to the back of the Hanomag. Joachim frowned. Why hadn't Fuhrmann simply shouted at his men? That was what they were there for. Whatever the case for Fuhrmann's shy command, Fuhrmann came back with the two-man signals team, both men coming to attention. Joachim pulled the phone out of the lead signals man's hand.
"This is Hoch," he announced over the radio chatter, silencing them in a second. "We have been relayed new orders from command. Our new heading is southeast, with coordinates Latitude 36.466 and Longitude 4.235 on your region maps. The Americans have foolishly pushed past their air cover to relieve Algiers. We will make them pay for it."
Ignoring the collection of 'Jawol Herr Commandant' Joachim handed the phone back to the radio operators; he nodded to Paul briefly and stomped through the sand until he reached the car.
As he climbed in, he looked to find Hanala now awake, her fingers fixing her uniform. She appeared unaware that the driver, Rommel's former aid, Leutnant Alfred-Ingemar Berndt keeping his eyes on her in a less than professional nature. Joachim narrowed his eyes. He had known of the quarians for nearly as long as Rommel had.
"Eyes forward Leutnant," Hoch growled as he climbed into the car, slamming the door close behind him. The Leutnant snapped his head back around quickly. Glaring a hole in the back of Berndt's head, Joachim exhaled his cigarette and turned away. Paying faint attention as Hanala's thigh grazed against his.
With all the professionalism he could manage, Joachim decided against resting his hand on said quarian thigh.
"And what is happening now, Hoch?" Hanala mumbled, pulling herself back up taking the cigarette from his lips and inhaling carefully.
"Orders have changed, " Joachim grumbled as he leaned into his seat. "We're not getting Luftwaffe support in all likelihood. Of course, It's not like I know an Admiral who could give me air cover if she wasn't so content on letting us do all the heavy lifting..."
Opening his latest reports from his men, He did not notice that the tired expression on Hanala's face had contorted into a look of anger. She might have had her issues with her Father in recent months, but Joachim had forgotten the cardinal rule. Insulting Hanala's family without her expressed permission was something she tolerated.
"What is it with you these days? Where in the hell do you think you have the right to jump down my fucking throat?" Hanala suddenly snapped, nearly making Hoch jump in place. "Do you think I wouldn't if I could? I didn't write the fucking policy!"
Hearing Hanala use human curse words always sent a shiver up Hoch's spine. It always sounded so venomous, like she was spitting out poison at him. It probably also had a lot to do with her gender as well. Joachim had never before known a woman to use such language. He hadn't even heard it used in France. It gave the impression to Joachim that his preconceived notions about a relationship with a woman were not going to happen. She would not be at his beck and call as Lene was to Gerald, nor would she take unprovoked abuse like his Mother did.
No… In her mind's eyes, she was in control and, judging from her occasional condescending, he was to be submissive. Well, that simply wasn't going to happen. Not if he had a say in it.
"I do not know why I signed onto this..." Berndt spoke sarcastically, cutting through the beginning of the argument. "I was aware of the aliens, I was ready to even serve alongside them perhaps, What I was not expecting was having to listen to an all-but-married couple moan and go for each other's throats."
Hoch scrunched up his lips into a sneer. Hanala looked close to pulling a knife on the Leutnant. For his sake, Hoch decided to spare him from Hanala's rage being directed towards him.
"Leutnant, you're dismissed, get in Fuhrmann's Hanomag," he breathed, dismissing the man. Turning back to look at the expression offered by his boss, the Leutnant nodded curtly, leaving the two feuding people in the back seat by themselves.
With him gone, Hoch rounded back at Hanala.
"I have every right to speak ill of your Father when he and his fucking ilk has caused me nothing but trouble," Joachim snapped back, glaring right back at the quarian woman. "Perhaps if your fleet stopped being so goddamn half-hearted about everything and simply stop the war on their accord and then perhaps I would not have to jump down your throat."
Hanala's thin nostrils flared. Her eyes, shielded by her large aviators narrowed at him. Joachim held his glare. Joachim snorted and turned away, pulling up the door to step out. Most of his formation had turned around by now. It was time to start moving again.
Slamming the door behind him, Hanala pried open her door and climbed out, slamming her door as well.
"You know our reasons, Hoch, " she called to him.
Joachim rounded back at her.
"I know them and they are still fucked!" he immediately retorted.
Before he could climb into the driver seat, Hanala slammed the door shut, her hand gripping his arm as she stared up into his eyes.
"Tell me, Joachim, how is it going to look if we suddenly drop into orbit, bombard the hell out of something and inform your planet that we are ending this madness rather than give you the chance to do so?" she inquired, her voice growing louder as she lectured him. "We are nearly authoritarian as it is; we have to be to survive the exile with our dignity intact. But we are not idiots. We need a first impression to look good. That we come in peace."
Joachim was done buying this tired old line. It was an excuse and she knew it.
"A show of force is the only thing that will impress upon the Earth. You give us too much credit as a perfectly rational people!" He growled, his lips pulled up into a sneer. "Besides, that is what you want, right? Us to fight the war for you, kill the machines, right?"
Had it not been for the Hanomag filled with Fuhrmann's platoon watching this unfold from a distance and the armour and trucks passing by them, Hanala would have in all likelihood punched in his nose.
"Listen to you!" she hissed right back. "One moment you're tired of the war, the next, a savage."
Joachim rolled his eyes and turned to get into the car. Hanala reached out and yanked him back towards her. He found himself back underneath her intense scrutiny. It was odd considering she stood 5'1 to Joachim's 6'4. Though he knew he could probably shout at her into some sort of submissiveness, he decided not to. Instead, all Joachim did was cross his arms.
"I don't think you quite understand what uplifting does to the psyche of an immature species!" Hanala spoke, her voice a forced calm. "It completely shatters the natural progression of the race. It's direct interference. We have no idea of the fate the race is destined for, whether they should survive or not; it's not much different than injecting a shot of pure adrenaline into the collective species' heart and hoping for the best."
"The only race that was uplifted by council hands was the Krogans," she reminded him. "This was a race that multiplied quickly, was naturally aggressive and had harnessed the power of the atom. This species had initiated a nuclear war, twice, before the salarians showed up and approached the krogan as one would a rushed science experiment. They gave the krogans everything at once and showed them an enemy they could fight. It worked. They eradicated the aggressive species. The problem was, it worked so well, that krogan predictably turned and became aggressive against the rest of the Council races, They demanded just about everything one could ask. This tension lasted for three hundred years. In the end, these primitives armed with then modern weaponry turned against the galaxy they saved. Millions, billions died as the krogans pushed across the galaxy."
Flicking her cigarette out of the car window, she turned back to face Hoch, who stared wearily into her eyes. Briefly, they flickered up to Fuhrmann's Hanomag. Sighing, he pushed past her and opened the door of the car. This time she did not stop him. She rounded around the hood and climbed into the seat next to him. Her hand reached out and pulled him to her. She wasn't done yet.
"Can you guess what happened next?" she inquired, her voice much softer than it had been
Joachim did not reply.
"What happened is what usually happens when a primitive people with advanced technology goes all out against a prepared advanced species. Their offensive faltered, it ran out of steam. The turians then fully committed themselves, they simply dug their boots into the metaphorical dirt and pushed back, they smashed through fleets, and killed hundreds of millions, probably billions of krogans in the great crusade." She warned him, her expression empty as she regaled the story to him. "When they finally reached the homeworld, the salarians and the turians deployed the Genophage. They sterilized an entire race. It did not stop the war; it got worse until they realized their birthing had been compromised. Over a thousand years later, the krogans have since devolved into a shadow of their former selves."
Hanala unscrewed the lid of her water canister and took a drink. Joachim sat there in a state of stunned silence. They had sterilized an entire race? Good God. Joachim did his best not to think about the implications and just how close it had hit home to him. If they lost this war, could they expect a similar disastrous fate?
"Do you understand what I am trying to say?" Hanala pressed on, gulping down a mouthful of warm water. "The quarian people do not have the luxury of being a leading council species like the salarians. We cannot simply wash our hands if humanity fails like the krogan. If we screw you up, we will be quickly exterminated. Perhaps it will be at the hands of the geth, by the council, or… by you. The geth, as much as I hate them, are not a pressing concern at the moment like the old enemy was to the galaxy an aeon ago. We have time, as my Grandmother said. We have time to slowly adapt our race to our level of technology. Time to teach you about the way the galaxy works, so that we can integrate you the best we possibly can. If we simply shoot our way onto your planet and force the other nations into subservient, we invite a potential disaster. This process must be done with care."
"Most importantly you would want to one-up the salarians, right?" Hoch said, biting with dark sarcasm as he dug for his cigarettes "Show them the race they left to die could do a better job taming the savages?"
Hanala froze; she looked as though he had slapped her Joachim exhaled, both of his hands gripping the steering wheel of the Opel-Kadett Staff Car.
"I killed one of my Major yesterday," he said to her, staring ahead through the window shield. "He gunned down a civilian for back-talking me. I do not think I should have done that."
For a brief moment, Hanala's eyes widened.
"I do not mean to unleash my anger on you. It's simply an explanation. I am not apologizing for telling you the truth. This war needs to end, and it needs to end now..." he spoke again. "This front is virtually pointless, all those Jews in those camps, dying in droves. They can stop those deaths in a matter of minutes. But they do not. They wait. Goddamn your Admiralty Board for waiting. I understand the reasoning, but I cannot possibly agree with it. Not until something is done about that mess."
Hanala's expression of pointed defiance appeared to give way to an understanding. She turned away, her eyes staring at her lap. Slowly, she nodded her head.
"You're right… we need to do something soon about that… I try not to think about it..." she murmured to herself, slowly she looked up to him, adding. "Since when did you start caring about the Jewish people?"
Joachim huffed as he lit his cigarette. He did his best to push the thoughts of Great Rauch and his promise into the back of his mind. Hanala knew that he got Greta out of the Reich, she did not know about the other matter.
"I don't care about them. I want nothing to do with those cowards," Hoch muttered as he inhaled his new cigarette. "However, if they're not willing to stand and fight, then I suppose someone with a spine needs to get that mess cleaned up. When this war is over and they're out of those camps, I shall continue to want nothing to do with them."
Ignoring Hanala she curiously stared at him. He chose instead to start the staff car and turn the wheel as he slowly stamped on the accelerator, he followed the Panther column south to their new orders. Nothing more was said between the two of them. He had to think about what he could do to bloody the American juggernaut's nose. It was better thought than the unimaginable horrors they would soon have to handle.
…
…
A sudden weight being dropped into her lap woke Tatiyana Andrusiv from her state of semi-slumber. Looking down she found an MG-42 resting in her lap.
Frowning, the woman shifted the weapon to one side. She took in the sight of Christian Bohr bent over; a small crate between his feet had been open as his hands dug through what appeared to be spare parts for something. Perhaps the weapon he used. Tatiyana reached out and touched his shoulder, causing the Feldwebel to look up briefly before returning to the crate.
"What are you doing?" she inquired.
Closing the crate, long tubes now cradled in his hands, Christian pulled him up and offered her a mild smile. Tatiyana simply stared at him curiously, ignoring the faint daring building in the back of her mind. Yes, the thoughts that usually come when strong emotional connections are formed between two people. It had been years, longer since something like this had happened.
It was odd; By all accounts, she should not feel something for him. Whether she liked to admit it or not, whether she abhorred it or not, she was still a Soviet. She would still be a Soviet citizen until The Soviet Government was willing to officially surrender the Ukrainian SSR to the Germans; here she was… now thousands of kilometres away from the Homeland, rolling through North Africa of all places…
Pushing the foreign feelings out of herself, she watched idly as his hand reached over to pull the light machine gun off her.
"You heard Hoch; we're going to be deployed soon," he spoke back to her. "I need someone to be my machine gun feeder. Think you could be up to the task? I'll teach you to properly operate and maintain the weapon."
Raising an eyebrow at the plan offered by Christian, Tatiyana shifted in place, undoubtedly curiously. Trained to operate this weapon? Would she not just do the hard work for him? Would she get to use it as well? She had already taken several lives during the attack on the Latvians that burnt down Azov. She might as well help fight these Americans as well.
Licking her dry lips, she reached out to tug on Christian's uniform. He looked up from inspecting his new MG-42 and over to Tatiyana.
"Will I be allowed to use it?" she asked, a little louder than she intended to ask him.
Opel truck filled with soldiers laughed at the question. She frowned, she was serious. She wanted to do something, anything to help. Thankfully the only one not laughing at her was Christian. Instead Christian smiled slightly at the request. Slowly he nodded.
"I suppose once I have the time to teach you to shoot," Christian spoke with a mild grin still. "We have to work like a sniper and a spotter, right Oster?"
Looked up carefully oiling his new rifle as he heard his name referenced. Johann Oster looked to the two of them and nodded his head, a ghost of a smile crossing the former Jäger's expression. Tatiyana did not like Oster. She also did not like the man sitting next to the Jäger, Keinhorst, whose hands were covering his face. He looked like he was only seconds from the breakdown.
Oster was a sniper. Snipers were disgusting beasts, in Tatiyana's opinion. She might have hated Russians, but to personalize death so willingly; It was one thing to fire wildly at men shooting back at you, it was quite another to line them up and minutes, hours perhaps stalking a man like an animal.
"Yes, there is a symbiotic nature to this sort of team. The same goes for artillery, radio operators and anti-tank guns. All members of the team have to know the job their team member does and must be prepared to do it if the circumstances fall to that. It's like marriage, only you replace the sex with killing…"
He trailed off. Slowly Oster cracked a mild grin as he watched Bohr pry open the MG-42.
"Or in your case, It's an unofficial marriage that features both sex and killing."
The Opel truck laughed once again as Tatiyana blushed for the first time in years.
…
…
Sneering as he looked through his binoculars, he could smell the Americans from here.
Well… perhaps that was an over-dramatic thing to think. From here he could not see anything, but there, the Americans were, fuelling and resting. So far it appeared as though they were blissfully unaware of the massing of armour and men gathered and waiting for orders.
Sure, he might have been numerically inferior, but between the rapid deployments, being outside of the operational range of the American and English air forces and the armour division far too busy and the significantly more experience his men had collected would even out the large amounts of men and material only a few miles away from them.
Inwardly, he didn't believe that… This was shaping up to be Moscow all over again, this time against soldiers who didn't want to die.
Joachim lowered his binoculars and turned back to look at the faces of his men. From what he could see, they had all turned stony faces. Not so much out of discipline. They had heard the rumours about what happened to the Major. They were scared of him. Good. Fear worked better to keep a bunch of psychological cases in check than affording great leniency. Keeping them distracted and busy left little time to focus on the hell they endured and on their comrades still trapped in that city.
Rubbing the shadow of a beard growing on his face, he stepped forward as he re-joined his officers and men, all of them still watching him wearily as he tucked his binoculars away. Hoch reached out and pulled a spade from out of a rather young-looking soldat's belt. He turned away and hit the dirt hard with the trench tool. The soil was looser than he had expected Algerian soil to be. That was good.
"I want a hundred-metre trench dug from where I stand now, fifty metres to my right, fifty metres to my left, one metre deep, three-fourths a metre wide," Joachim commanded of his infantry. "Command has a report that a division-sized armour force is stationed ten kilometres from us. Get to work; we have only a short window of time before they press their advance."
The men did not reply, they simply went to work, all of them retrieving their trench shovels, and lining up where Joachim had stood. Collectively they went to work as ordered, leaving his Peiper, his two majors and his Hauptmann's by his side. Quietly, he gestured for them to follow his lead. All of them except for Peiper and Welcker stayed a respectable distance away. It appeared as though the display the other day had scared them into respecting his command.
He was about to issue his orders when he glanced to the side as the roar of a Tiger approached him, followed closely by vehicles that were not a part of his Kampfgruppe. The battered Tiger came to a stop; the hatch flew open and out came Johann Reister, a large grin on his face as always. Was this man using Lithium perhaps?
"Apologies for my tardiness, Herr Hoch. Track problem arose, and next thing we knew these guys were flagging us down." Reister explained, gesturing to the panzers and trucks approaching. Joachim nodded and gestured for him to join the armour pool parked a ways off from the infantry and trucks.
Hoch turned from his collection of officers and focused on two dozen trucks and additional armour support following Reister's lead. Joachim frowned and pushed through the men. Waving his subordinates to go about their business, he wandered the way to the new arrivals. So his artillery support had been provided just as Rommel had informed him.
The trucks came to a halt; the doors kicked open and out jumped dozens and dozens of men. Joachim frowned slightly as he took in the strange uniforms, encrusted with the insignia, informing him they belonged in the Service of the King of Italy and to Il Duce. They were the Regio Esercito, the Royal Italian Army. Joachim frowned, this was his reinforcements? The last time he had served with foreign troops they were simply unequipped to keep up with him.
Sighing, he decided to push his doubts aside. He could not be picky now, not with fresh American troops only kilometres away. Thankfully, it appeared that they outranged them for the time being. Very fortunate, he doubted he would have air support as well.
A half-tonne truck pulled up in front of the transport trucks. It came to a stop a few metres away from him. The door of the vehicle opened and out climbed an elaborate-looking mess. Looking a few years younger than him, the man featured the typical Italian features, olive skin, dark hair, brown eyes and a nose Joachim reckoned could be cut off and used as a bayonet. His eyes told him exactly what Hoch needed to know. They were too wide, vulnerable eyes.
Regardless, at least he had the good grace to come to strict attention, offering Hoch a funny little salute as well.
"Captaino Roberto Cutri, artillery section commander from the 133 Armoured Division," the officer spoke with only the faintest hint of an accent. "As of now, I and my men are now attached to your Kampfgruppe. We are ready for your orders Herr Obersturmbannführer."
With a quizzical look at the formality offered by the Captaino, Joachim clicked his boots together and simply nodded to the Italian.
"Just call me Hoch, welcome to the Kampfgruppe," Hoch returned, tilting his head slightly to scan the collection of trucks and armour. Pulling back, he added. "I do not intend to sound rude, but what have you brought me?"
"I am quite used to the blunt German nature by now," Cutri replied, his voice unbothered by the tone of the German. "I brought you flak cannons of the 20-millimetre to 8.8-centimetre variety, my Artillery is a mixture of Model 37, 105/38's and K-18's. I have three hundred and fifty men under personal command. I was issued ten Semovente tank destroyers as well as a dozen Fiat M14/41s to give to you as a welcoming gift from General Gervasio Bitossi."
Joachim glanced at the obsolete light tanks and the somewhat useful tank destroyers. He simply nodded. It was better than nothing at this point.
"Send him my regards," he said. "Tell me, are they talented?"
The Captaino appeared bothered by the blunt question. Joachim would have been as well, but frankly, Joachim and his men and the Heerin general simply did not have the track record that the Regio Esercito had. Setbacks, sure, but the Regio Esercito had incidents of sheer incompetency since they declared war on France back in 1940. Time and time again, Germans had to sacrifice their lives to bail the Italians out of their latest debacle. It was the reason why Hoch was in the desert in the first place. If the Army of Italy had the same sort of talented officers that the Navy had, then perhaps it would have been different.
"It will depend on the commandant in charge of them," Cutri replied, his voice remained respectful to him but had enough bite buried in his tone that told Hoch that he wasn't like the other Italians he ran into.
Hoch simply nodded and turned away from the Captaino, his hand reaching out to glide along the roughly painted Semovente. Riveted… of course, it was riveted, not only riveted but near box shape. He reckoned they simply did not have the time to properly build a tank chassis. This box shape and riveted plate armour technique was antiquated, he would have to be very careful with them…
"On a personal note, I would wish to extend my gratitude towards you, Herr Commandant," Roberto spoke up. "You may not be aware of it, but you saved my Brother's life."
Joachim turned away from inspecting the Semovente; He arched his brow at the Italian. He did not recall when he had the time to save an Italian. Perhaps the Captaino assumed one of the boys in the Leibstandarte Division had saved him in Malta. Before he knew it, an unwelcome hand fell onto his back, a hand that belonged to Cutri. It took all Hoch's power not to drop the man. Unless he had a personal friendship with another man, he simply did not condone men touching him.
"Last year, in Tripoli, an SS colonel helped repulse an English breakthrough at his defensive line," Roberto reminded him, taking his hand off Hoch. "I owe you a debt, for which I cannot repay, a debt owed by my entire family."
Joachim narrowed his eyes slightly.
"I wasn't aware that my trip here was public record."
The look of amusement offered by the Italian suddenly turned into a wide grin.
"When an SS man shows up uninvited to this front and acts in an admirable fashion that doesn't involve race war and baiting Jews, you will be spoken about," Cutri replied, watching Hoch involuntarily flinch.
Not having much to say back to the Italian, he simply nodded and allowed the Captaino to head down to his waiting artillery pieces. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he turned to find Hauptmann Welcker approaching him, his eyes following Cutri's departure before turning back to his friend, forcing his probably still wounded body to a state of attention.
"What was that about?" Welcker inquired, his hands behind his back as he watched the once again stare at the Italian who went to organize his artillery section. Joachim took the cigarette from his mouth and spat a mouthful of tobacco saliva.
"Italians…" He breathed as though it was poison. "You do one accidental good deed and they're slobbering all over you like a dog."
The question was directed to himself. Welcker being Welcker however was always the one willing to reply to it.
"Italians being flamboyantly dramatic, go figure. Come, Joachim, I thought such a fact would not be such a new concept," he said, earning a slight laugh from Hoch.
The laughter quickly subsided as his two majors half a dozen Hauptmann's approached him and Welcker. Hoch erased any good humour from his expression and turned to them, gesturing for them to form a circle around him. Stamping on his cigarette, he looked up and turned his attention to the newly appointed Major Brenner, a veteran of this front.
"We have to face the truth. We are severely outnumbered," Joachim addressed the gathering. "That said, I am confident we can cripple this division if we play smart. They have overextended themselves. If we can hurt them good… if we can cripple them, then it would be luck. If we destroy them… it would be a Godsend."
Hoch paused as he faced the newly promoted Major Brenner. He stood up straighter, a flash of almost fear spread across his face.
"Major Brenner, I want another line of trenches dug two hundred metres behind the first line, twice as long as the first." He ordered before he turned to Welcker, adding. "Welcker, I want you to find as much spare TNT as the engineers can spare and rig the first line to blow when we are forced to pull back. Take four one hundred litre gasoline drums, mix them with diesel, oil, or anything flammable and place them every twenty-five metres… "
Looking away from the nodding Welcker, Hoch turned and found Captaino Cutri returning to join his new contemporary. The gathering of German officers looked distastefully at the new arrival. To his credit, Cutri appeared unperturbed by their cold reception. Still, they had enough restraint to not voice any objection. Joachim's word was law. They and their men were frightened of him after what happened to one of their own.
"Gentlemen, this is Captaino Roberto Cutri of the 133 Armour Division. He's in charge of our Artillery," Hoch induced to them, hoping that they would at least offer him some ounce of respect. He turned back to Cutri, adding. "Herr Captaino, I want your men to switch uniforms with mine for the battle. I want your armour on the front line as well. Keep your artillery trucks nearby in case we have to flee. I want the artillery packed up and heading back to Bougie before I sound a general retreat."
Cutri's eyes widened at the sudden and strange request. He was not alone. The gathering murmured to each other.
"Uh… I understand, Herr Obersturmbannführer," was all the Italian could say.
From behind the gathered officers, laughter erupted. They turned and found Jochen Peiper approaching the group, a mild grin on his face as he peered through the men to focus on Hoch. Without waiting for the Heer officers to make room for him, he shoved through them and joined the younger Obersturmbannführer in the middle of the gathering.
"Booby traps, a smokescreen, uniform deception…" he listed off. "Diving back into academy training Herr Hoch? What do you have in mind?"
Hoch could only smirk as well. For a brief moment, the interaction reminded him of the old days, before the quarians destroyed his love for the SS. The two men, Peiper and Hoch were in a private club that the men of the Heer could barely grasp. The brotherhood in soldiering was simply different. Even if there had been a dislike on a personal level, they shared a common history that couldn't be ignored.
SS officer school had been next to useless in the early years. Many good friends died because they thought they were better commanders than their Heer counterparts. It was simply not the truth and many paid for it with their lives. Three years into the war, the survivors had adapted SS brotherhood and fanaticism to Heer discipline. It was a lethal combination.
The thing was, in the heat of combat, much of SS training was discarded in favour of Heer tactics. The SS were called upon to be suicidal brave, but most men wanted to live to see the next day, so for the most part, the call to arms was pushed to the side. Hoch however knew that he needed to revive this education. He was facing potentially a 10:1 in men and armour. Victory today required both intelligence and posturing. He needed to not just physically damage but he had to psychologically damage the Americans as well. It was their only hope.
Asking for a regional map, one of his Hauptmann's dropped it down in front of him. It wasn't very accurate but it would suffice. If only he could show off what his Spy drones could reveal to them.
"We force them into an uphill battle. We hold it with three hundred and fifty men dressed as Italians, with the Italian armour on the line." He explained, turning away from Peiper and back to his Wehrmacht subordinates, his finger touching against their position. "After offering them a token resistance, we let them take the first line; their infantry will in all likelihood take cover when they see what is up here. Once they're situated, we blow the line. The 8.8 centimetres will be held back behind the second line along with the rest of the Kampfgruppe. As the tanks come up, we hit them and create a wall of steel. The Panthers and the Panzer III's and IV's flank around the wall of steel and hit the armour, from there the infantry pushes forward."
No longer tracing the map with his digit, he looked up to scan his officer's expression. For the most part, they appeared almost eager.
"With any luck this succeeds, we continue the push carefully until we take the town of Bouïra…." He concluded, rolling the map up and handing it back to the Hauptmann.
Mann scratched his head, glancing briefly at his fellow officers before turning back to Hoch, who was gulping down a mouthful of water from his canteen. He hated this weather. He missed home, where it was pleasantly cold.
"Sabotaging our trench? Tricking a superior force into an unsuitable battlefield? With all due respect, Herr Hoch, you're a goddamn lunatic," he said, his voice biting with mild humour. "What makes you think it will work?"
Screwing the cap of his water canister, he looked up briefly to Welcker before running his hand through his patchy hair.
"Because whether or not we like to admit it, such things have worked against us in Poland, France, Greece and Russia," Joachim informed them all, earning a low mutter, most of them concur with his assessment. "Deception's single greatest quality is that it lures the enemy into false superiority. It makes it that much easier to slit their throats when they think they have no weaknesses. Between their arrogance in the rapid advance, inexperience, and the assumption we're not here… it will be a blood bath if we are lucky."
The gathering went silent as the words sunk in. Glancing at each of them for a few seconds he gestured to where the men were working.
"In any case, I wish you and your men good luck. We're all going to need it." Hoch concluded, pausing briefly before he awkwardly added. "You're dismissed."
The gathering of men dispersed, leaving Hoch standing alone. The only man who did not leave was Joachim Peiper. He stood there with his arms crossed, his eyes inspecting the younger Obersturmbannführer carefully. Deciding he wasn't going to put up with Peiper's shit anymore, Joachim was about to turn and tear into the man. What he had not expected was to find the former adjutant to Heinrich Himmler to appear somewhat impressed.
"You've inspired them. I think I might have been wrong about you. Perhaps education under Gerald Langer did not leave you completely mediocre. Tell me, what do you need of me?" Peiper inquired, his voice oddly respectful considering the disdain he had shown Hoch being in command.
Eye glancing between the Tigers now empty as the crews inspected the new Panthers for themselves, his eyes fell onto a ridge in the distance. It was a good eight hundred metres to the western side of where the second trench was to be dug, overlooking the entire planned battlefield. More importantly, it was overlooking the ridgeline where he would lure the American tankers into climbing over. He pointed his finger upwards. Peiper followed the directions.
"I want you to take our armour and put it on that ridge over there," Joachim informed his executive officer. "Get those Tigers and Panthers up there hitting from a distance, I want camouflage netting on. Inform Johann Reister he is in charge of the heavy panzer brigade. I want the tank destroyers and the Panzer II's, III's and IV's dug in behind the second line."
Acknowledging Hoch as he saluted, Peiper turned and left, leaving Hoch alone finally. Quietly he watched as the Kampfgruppe went to work fulfilling his many orders. Perhaps… perhaps maybe this would just work.
…
…
"With all due respect, he lost his goddamn mind! I can respect his drive, but he's overextended too far and too damn fast!"
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Omar Bradley wished he had half the patience that Eisenhower had when it came to dealing with the high-pitched shrieks belonging to that loudmouth Patton.
Bradley had great respect for General Eisenhower. He appeared to have a smooth ability to handle the dozens of egos thrown at him throughout his command. From Motormouth Patton to the overconfident Montgomery, from bitter the Leclerc to the political showdown between Giraud and de Gaulle and of Churchill and the President, who breathed down his neck for constant updates. How Eisenhower managed to duck and dodge through the bureaucratic mess that was having allies and a public that held him accountable, all the while commanding troops was impressive.
As good as he might have been, he was still human, and looking at Eisenhower now, sitting behind a desk, his hands in his head as General Kenneth Anderson informed him of the foul-up at Algiers. The French and the Italians were holding their ground impressively. The two divisions tasked with taking the city were in serious trouble now. The U-boats and the Italian navy had taken up positions in the waters, sinking any ship that got close. There simply wasn't a significant build-up of transportation planes to air supply the encircled Eastern task force just yet. It would take precious days, days that would strain terribly on the force.
All of this chaos was caused by limited German involvement. What was going to happen if the Krauts committed to defending the French soil the Allies had landed on? Between solid intelligence that the Waffen-SS had barged their way into the front, Hitler was paying a little attention to Rommel's unexpected success and the rumours that Heinz Guderian had his very own task force of his own, things were bound to get bloody.
Perhaps they should have listened to George Marshall. Stay in the Isles and prepare for an attack on the Atlantic Wall.
"I agree that Lloyd's advance has been rushed but with good reason; The Italians' focus has been centred on keeping Algiers from falling, or at the very least, make us pay inch for inch for that port city," Ike said as he pulled away from his hands to lean into his chair. "Thing is if we lose our eastern task force, we'll be in a world of trouble. Besides, our scouts and intelligence have reported the Germans are holding fast in Tunisia. They want our energy drained on the Italians and the French."
"It makes sense, sir. I just with Fredendall had informed us first," Omar spoke up, pushing his glasses up to meet his superior's gaze. "Sending the 1st Armour out with no air support… it makes me nervous."
A snort came from Patton, who pulled off his cap, banging it on the side of his knee as he paced back and forth.
"I hate to be the one to remind you, but what you're suggesting that men like Rommel and Guderian are going to sit around with their thumbs up their asses and let us secure a foothold?" Patton spoke, his voice disbelieving to what he was hearing. "These men perfected the combined arms doctrine and smashed through half a dozen countries already. Giving them the benefit of the doubt is reckless, bordering on stupid!"
"We have to face facts, The central task force Is just lucky to get their supplies, The eastern task force is going to run out of supplies soon enough." Bradley returned. "We have to prepare for the remote possibility that they will have to capitulate. Fredendall has to take this risk to create a lifeline. He has to cut the Axis troops off for a short while and push his task force straight up against Algiers to break through. Listen George, Rommel and Guderian are not the same men who you think you're going to fight. Montgomery's exile across the Suez can attest to that."
Patton, however, was not willing to listen to reason, laughing gaily, Patton allowed a condescending grin to cross his expression.
"Dear old Montgomery is an idiot who lost an entire army and did not have the balls to cut through the line and evacuate them, Brad," he said, his tone filled with disgust. "He let the infinitely more talented Alexander fall on his sword in his place. No... all Montgomery does is look for easy victories or prolong the fight to justify his existence!"
Eisenhower looked up, his expression a look of warning for the excitable Patton.
"George, watch your tone."
Omar watched as Patton swallowed his pride as Eisenhower stared impassively at the glory hound. Satisfied he was back on the leash; Eisenhower leaned backwards into his seat.
"Monty's questionable leadership decisions aside, he has been right so far about his profile on Rommel," the head of the operation spoke again. "He's not taking risks for daring gambits against the enemy. He has evolved, everything is thought out and deliberate. For him now Algeria and Morocco are lost causes. Surely he knows that, surely he's told the Italians to pull back by now. He will make his stand in Tunisia. He has many miles of desert to make us pay for our advance."
Quietly Bradley sat there, still marvelling at how patient Eisenhower was being with the war hawk. It was times like these that Omar wished Eisenhower would take a page out of the English, or even the German books and properly discipline the loudmouth.
"That's an optimistic assumption and you know it!" Patton pressed on fuming furiously. "With all due respect, sir you just don't understand that man like I do. Everything is ego-based for men like Rommel. Maybe if Guderian was his superior and in charge of the theatre, then perhaps Rommel wouldn't move, but he's in charge and to him an invasion of his turf is an insult to his name. He wants to keep the fight in Algeria, he needs to keep the fight here and because the fight is here, he'll join it. He's not going to sit on his ass and let us buzz around him!"
Bradley arched his brow.
"Even if his higher-ups say no?" he shot back. "Do you think Hitler is going to allow this? He's a newly commissioned Field Marshal. He has a reputation for upkeep. The old Prussian guard is watching him closely. Rundstedt is gambling his reputation on a Swabian bumpkin."
"General... Field Marshal, since when has that tricky son of a bitch ever listened to a goddamn thing that little Bohemian incest case said?" Patton exclaimed as though he could not comprehend why the younger General doubted him. "Hitler said stay and support the Italians. Instead, Rommel reached out, grabbed the English by the nose and popped those sons of bitches for everything they were worth. Out-manned and outgunned until recently. Sure, he may lick boots when he's at home, but hell we all lick boots at home. However, in the field, he is his own master. A politician who is a thousand miles away from his fight and focused square on the Russian communists isn't going to give a serious damn if Rommel bends and breaks his directives."
Patton took a deep breath.
"As for his blue-blood contemporaries, it's simple jealousy. They have hundreds of years of military tradition, and Rommel didn't," Patton explained the Junker's jealousy away. "The only one that is close to his natural skill is Manstein. His manoeuvres relieve the Stalingrad pocket for a few hours... Goddammit if it wasn't the finest rescue operation since Dunkirk. Probably even better."
Bradley could not believe he was hearing this. Insulting allies, praising the Germans, was this man mentally sick? Rommel wasn't a hero in any sense of the word. He was pushing an aggressive war across lands that had no business being in German hands! The man should be hung.
"George, it's one thing to not underestimate the enemy," He said to the tanker, his voice weak with disbelief. "It's quite another thing to respect."
Patton however would hear none of that.
"Why not? It's better to respect your adversary than to make assumptions and dismiss his actions in the past so flippantly. So yes I will respect him. Mark my word, Brad, when this war is over and he's in my custody, I'm going to make sure Roosevelt hands him a goddamn unit citation or something along those lines. It's the least he deserves."
Silence befell the room. Both Omar and Eisenhower stared at George, who cleared his throat. It was almost as though he had realized what he had said aloud.
"Now if you'll excuse me, Sir. I'll make my leave."
Nodding to Eisenhower who had remained stone-faced, Patton left, leaving Bradley and the Commander of the Operation in the room alone. Bradley turned back. He wanted to shout and rant about the display. One look from Eisenhower changed his mind. It was clear Ike was stressed out. So instead of spitting and hissing about that lunatic egomaniac, Bradley swallowed his anger, he would deal with Patton later.
"I know he's a friend, sir, I just hope you can muzzle him," Omar spoke with the most polite tone he could muster. "The press back home will have a field day if they hear that sort of talk. Medals to Germans... with all due respect, I think he's lost it already."
Eisenhower simply nodded.
"I know he seems brash, but don't worry, I'll see to him," he reassured the junior general. "In the meantime find McNaughton and Cunningham and bring them to me. It's time to push forward. God help us, if Patton is right, then we need to be swinging the momentum in our favour."
Omar nodded, leaving Eisenhower to brood over what Patton had forced into his already overtaxed mind.
...
...