So....My Tank Corps in Prussia...

[Alex Coles]

I have this awful feeling Rösselsprung is trying too hard to restore order, and some crazy anarchy is going to begin and then the dudes going crazy are going to get gunned, and be known as the 'The greatest execution, least amount of executioners - Bad Frostberg'

[M.H.]

I just want my Happy End! I don't care how!!!

Even something like..."Arajs and Hansen lived happily after!"...or so...
*ducks and runs*

[Alex Coles]

*Teacher runs after you*

What did I tell you about using that bit at the end of your stories!

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Well, let's try to continue this....

Best,
~D,the EviL

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Rosselsprung weeded out the soldiers from the civilians--it was a simple matter once he had them all convinced that he had the power of life and death--even though he himself knew that this power was, in actuality, quickly passing over to the Soviets......

Bad Frostberg, being more a hope than a real salvaltion, became, in the absence of real authority, his to defend, his to lose or his to win.

To the South, Red Army tanks were already starting their motors and aiming at the town, while Red Army artillery was already starting to range in on it. Rosselsprung did not know of these events--he knew only that he and his men were stranded and abandoned by their superiors.

Indeed, he would not, in the future, recieve either a command or an order for the rest of the campaign from his civilian or milititary commanders. Thus he was left, on his own shoulders, the fate of his troops and that of the pitiable masses of civilians...

~D, the EviL

[Commissar D, the Evil]

"Phylo, your Panthers have to be in position on the South road"! Rosselsprung radioed. All of his angst added up to this transmission as he gathered the infantry together and flung them off from the rail station. Without tanks, he knew he couldn't hold the landsers together in a line. With Phylo's panzers, he hoped for an even chance of building a line between the trains and the Russians.

"We're moving off now!", Phylo replied, in clear, over the radio net. The truth was that he had only three Panthers, all low on ammunition and fuel and still licking their wounds form recent combat.

But Phylo had seen, for himself, the signs of panic and disintegration at the railway station and so he hurried himself and his wounded Panthers towards the most likely approach route of the enemy, intent upon bearing, in his gunsights, the consequences, rather than bear the sights of the Fall of a town in Prussia.

Best,
~D, the EviL

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Although they had lost "Papa" Brandt during their journey, Czsimir, Ursula and Anna sill managed to make it to his brother's house. It was, unfortunatley for them, an empty shell.

The windows had blown out and a fire had gutted it. Presumably, Papa Brandt's brother had used his superior contacts within the Nazi Party to evacuate his household before the destruction. For poor Anna and her compatriots, all that was left was half a slate roof, three red brick walls and some dubious but essential tins of food.

Ursula cooked these over an outside fire and made a hasty, inellegant dinner of them. Czsimir ate, she noticed, in undue haste, constantly looking around himself as if in mortal danger. Surely, Ursula told herself, he hadn't expected this. Czsimir had must have expected Herr Brandt's brother to be here with his house intact.

It was, to her, a puzzling thing, considering the destruction that she and the entire party had witnessed over the past few days. She had, indeed, placed her hopes for the future on the basic notion that nothing could really un-nerve Czsimir, but she saw in the shadows of his nervous movements about the ruined house, an uncertainty in him that unsettled those same hopes of that future.

[Tom Houlihan]

The Hero Tales roll onward.

All is once again right in the world.

[M.H.]

Oooooh...what a treat for us today...another tale...!

Thank you David!

*takes tale and hides with it under the blanket*

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Damn, the one thing I forgot about re-starting this is that I'd have to re-read it as well......

Well, hang on Heroes, it ain't over yet!

Best,
David

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Most of Lt. Savkin’s much-anticipated reinforcements–15 T-34's--did in fact arrive the next morning, but they were accompanied by a motorcycle dispatch rider, who sprang on to his tank’s back deck and thrust a leather case at him. Before opening it, Savkin unfolded his thin wire-rimmed spectacles and placed them on his nose.

The letter from the Commissar was brief, infuriating and crushing.

“Get on the radio”, Savkin yelled into the tank hatch. Find out where our scouts are and tell them to halt in place. I want their reports!”
Scowling at his orders, Savkin balled them up and thrust them into his pocket. “Why wasn’t I radioed this last night?” He shouted at the messenger.
“Commissar’s orders, I was to place it directly in your hand.” The motorcyclist slid off the tank and hopped back aboard his machine. “Any answer to the Commissar?”
“Tell him I’m awaiting orders!” Savkin yelled back as the messenger started his engine and placed his goggles over his eyes. Savkin gave him a last evil look and the rider saluted crisply before turning around.

Dangling his legs inside the hatch, Savkin folded his glasses and put them back in his breast pocket as he gave the matter some thought. Why would the Commissar reinforce him and halt him at the same time? Warily, he scanned the empty forests ahead, but the limbs of the pine trees were so weighted with snow that even without fresh snow falling it would have been impossible to see behind the white and green curtain they provided. Still, the road itself seemed clear ahead and somewhere up there was his small recce element.

The radio operator tugged at his foot. “I can’t raise the scouts, sir.”
Savkin added this to the equation. The scouts should have reported in hours ago. He looked at his watch–it was a fine gold wristwatch, personally taken by him off the arm of a dead German Major. The Commissar had promised an offensive by the entire Tank Corps this morning.
He calculated times and distances, hoping that his new orders might be rescinded before the main force of the Guards Tank corps caught up to his position. They might rob him of his well-deserved reward for pushing so far in front and the honors that would follow if he were–forgivably against orders, of course–to lead the first Red Army tank into Bad Frostberg.

Feldwebel Jan-Hendrik Reinhold was more than a little relieved when the last refugees trickled past his position and vanished northwards into the snowfall towards the as yet unseen town of Bad Frostberg.
It was bitterly cold inside the Jagdpanther. To conserve fuel, his crew had left the engines off all night. The snow had covered the entire vehicle, so it now resembled more an igloo than a modern fighting machine. Curled up on its lee side were Hansen, Arajs, a few Latvian S.S. and a handful of regular troopers. They were just beginning to stir when Jan-Hendrik checked on them. All bundled up in snow-covered blankets and leaning against each other in a tight knot against the cold, their white-painted helmets and frost covered faces emerged one by one from what could have well been mistaken to be a snowbank leaning against the Jagdpanther’s suspension. The freezing infantry stretched and stomped their feet to get their blood circulating again, but Jan-Hendrik firmly forbade them to start a fire.
This caused a minor argument that neither Arajs nor Hansen had the strength to stop. Hansen simply turned back over in his blanket and began to snore, while Arajs put a clump of snow into his mouth and sucked a little water from it.
Several of the German soldiers simply shouldered their weapons and began to stumble down the road towards the town, thinking to find fire and shelter elsewhere and also probably thinking that Jan-Hendrik’s panzerjager was the biggest target in the near vicinity and best left to its own devices.
For himself, Jan-Hendrik viewed their departure with mixed feelings. Infantry provided armored crewmen with a sense of protection against a variety of threat. That was doctrine. But one look at their faces that morning told him that these men were burned out and would break when things became critical. As for those who remained, well, time would tell if they remained out of weakness or strength......

[M.H.]

.... Hansen simply turned back over in his blanket and began to snore, while Arajs put a clump of snow into his mouth and sucked a little water from it.
......

Though guys I tell ya!

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Actually, Savkin had no reason to worry about his recce element by this time.

Tom's green Puma had destroyed one of his T-70s the day before, while saving a small party of German soldiers, and had eventually hunted the other one down during the night. The Russian mounted infantry, riding in lend-lease jeeps and moving rather leisurely through the unfamiliar woods, had, with greater slaughter, fallen prey to an ambush by Ulrich's lone 234/1.

These short, largely unseen, but intensely violent encounters were more or less, accidental, as both German armored cars were moving steadily South, away from Bad Frostberg while the Russian scouts had been North, towards the outskirts of the town.

Before dawn, Tom and Urich had met, coordinated their routes and parted company again, each to drive seperately on the hidden tracks snaking through the trees on either side of the frozen highway.

Tom's objective, which Ulrich had initially quarreled with (and still had his private doubts about) was to locate the enemy's main striking force. So, by the time Savkin was sulking over his new orders on top of his tank's turret, the two German vehicles had long since sniffed at his flanks, decided that he was a mere probe in manageable strength and bypassed him without so much as a rustle of tree branches.

[Commissar D, the Evil]

So, no one wonders about Rosellsprung and Dr, Krollsprill--no offence intended, but you may well miss the Best part of the Tale. All is not shooting..... or armored engagements.

Very Best,
~D, the EviL

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Bad Frostberg proved to be in better shape than Rosselsprung expected: the electricity was still on, the taps still ran and he was pleased to gradually learn that fewer of the ordinary working people had fled than might be expected.
The arrival by train, earlier in the day of the 95th S.S. Polizei Regiment restored order to such an extent that even a few shops re-opened. Just as helpful were the three staff cars containing Heer staff and field officers and a very well received Funkraftwagen that parked before noon in the city square.
Rosselsprung set up his headquarters in City Hall. He would have taken the former Gestapo headquarters, as City Hall seemed to obvious a target, but City Hall had—incongruously and much to his amusement--the luxury of a wine cellar, and he didn’t want to know what lurked in the cellars of Gestapo Headquarters.
His task was to bring the civil and military reins of authority into his hands, as quickly as possible. To that end, his Chief of Staff, Gruber and several of the other officers were scouring the town and its outskirts, gathering up stragglers, meeting with more or less intact units and generally trying to get a handle on the military resources immediately at hand.
While this was being done, other officers attempted to catalogue the storehouses and shops around town to determine Bad Frostberg’s fuel and food supplies and keep essential services running.
So the town hummed with activity, even as the Southern and Northern roads were closed off by increasingly vigilant S.S. roadblocks. Fewer and fewer refugees appeared from the South and fewer and fewer townsfolk attempted the trek to the North. Of course. The weather, Rosselsprung knew, helped matters. Few people really wanted to venture forth on icy roads in a snowstorm and Russian air reconnaissance was practically nil.
The Mayor’s office was indeed comfortable. Rosselsprung took off his hat, leather gloves and coat and looked around. One wall was simply tier after tier of bookshelves. The Mayor’s desk was made of mahogany, with intricately carved legs and behind it sate the most outlandishly plush red leather chair he had seen in many years.
Rosselsprung tossed his sealed orders on the desk and plopped down into the chair, which comfortable engulfed him. He stretched forward, reached into the cigar box—made of mahogany to match the desk—and pulled out a cigar. He sniffed it and, finding it quite acceptable, bit off the end and lit it. So, there he was, snug and at ease in within his cloud of smoke and the aroma of leather from the chair. Across from the desk, an over-sized bust of Adolf Hitler stared at him from its fluted white pedestal.
He picked up the sealed orders, opened them with the Mayor’s letter-opener. The orders came as no surprise to him. He poured himself a brandy and re-read them calmly.
As he contemplated them, someone knocked on the door. A corporal entered, saluted and said, “Sir, Herr Strictler and another Gestapo agent are in the anteroom, they say the have a present for you.”
Rosselsprung lifted his glass of brandy and went back into his thoughts.
The two black leather jacketed Gestapo men appeared, pulling between them a short, pudgy, bald man.
“Herr Colonel”, Herr Strictler said, “Meet the current Mayor of Bad Frostberg. We caught up with his car on the road to Danzig. Name’s Knopf, Hermann Knopf.”
With that introduction, they virtually threw the man to the floor in front of the desk.
Sometimes, the Gestapo really had no manners whatsoever, Rosselsprung thought.
“Thank you gentlemen”, Risselsprung replied, standing to peer down at the Mayor. He stepped over to the window and opened a curtain. Parked below was a green Mercedes town car, with suitcases strapped to its fenders and bags piled on its roof.
“I think the Mayor will be my guest for a while.”
He sat back in the chair and smiled broadly. The two agents nodded and left. Knopf got to his feet, his knees quaking and his hands shaking.
Rosselsprung took a swig of the brandy and puffed on the cigar before he said, mockingly, “Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste. I’ve been around since the war began, I hope you don’t mind my taking your place. Pleased to meet you, did they tell you my name?”
“Yes’, Knopf said, a stricken look on his face.
Colonel Rosselsprung felt somewhat lighthearted. He said, “But what’s puzzling you Is the nature of my game.”
The frightened Mayor nodded vigorously.
“I nearly made it to St. Petersberg, when I saw it was a time for a change. I rode a tank, held a Captain’s rank when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank. Pleased to meet you, I know they told you my name…”
He fixed Knopf in a shotgun stare, a sneer crossing his face. “I could have you shot for deserting you post in wartime. I may have you shot. So say something that makes you of value to me.”
Knopf saw the evil intent in his eyes and straightened himself up, smotthing out the winkles in his suit. “The Gauleiter for this district went to Danzig--for his health--so I am, most humbly, the civilian authority here.”
“Civilian authority?” Rosselsprung laughed. “Now what use is that to me?”
Rosselsprung’s menacing attitude and arrogant manner inspired a wave of anger in the Mayor’s face. It was the anger of the condemned, the anger of those who fall from high places in the span of a day. “Some folks are born to wave the flag, oh they’re red, white and black. And when the band plays, Deutschland uber Alles, oh they point the cannon at you! It isn’t me, it isn’t me, I’m not a Party hack. It isn’t me, it isn’t me, I’m not a fortunate one!”
Slightly impressed by this small defiance, Rosselsprung smiled cynically, which infuriated Herr Knopf even more.
Knopf continued, “ Some folks inherit Swastika eyes, oh they send you down to war. And when you ask them, “How much should we give?” Oh they only answer More! More! More! It isn’t me, it isn’t me—I’m not a fortunate son!”
Rosselsprung chuckled. “So, within all that wartime fat, there does still beat a heart? You do, after all have a backbone, yes?”
Before the Mayor could answer, Rosselsprung walked in front of the desk and pushed a small hard wood chair towards Knopf. He motioned for the Mayor to sit, which the man did, reluctantly as Rosselsprung sat on the desk top.
“I do have duties for you and orders for you to follow.”
Knopf stared at him, sitting on his own desk, drinking his brandy and smoking his cigar. “I don’t think you, sir, have the authority under the law, to order me around like some stooge. I’m still the elected Mayor!”
Rosselsprung waved a finger in his face, indicating to Knopf that his newly-found courage would not be allowed to cross the boundaries Rosselsprung set.
“Ah, civilian, military, that’s all changed now.” Rosselsprung handed his orders to Knopf, who broke out in a red-faced sweat as he read them.