The Colour of War

Chapter 23

Stefan, perched in his Panzer's command cupola, watched the French advance with a mixture of respect and pity. The enemy tanks churned forward, their engines belching smoke into the morning air, their movements disjointed and sluggish—like dancers unsure of the steps.

"Brave souls," he expressed under his breath, his eyes scanning the horizon through binoculars. "But bravery isn't enough."

As if on cue, the German tank force struck from the flank, a calculated blow that sent the French formations into disarray. Stefan's crew worked with the precision of a well-oiled machine, their efficiency a stark contrast to the floundering efforts of their adversaries. Communications crackled over the radio, coordinates and commands exchanged with an ease that underscored the technological edge they held.

"Target at two o'clock," his gunner called out, voice calm despite the ruction.

"Engage," Stefan replied curtly, his gaze never leaving the battlefield.

The boom of the main gun was almost satisfying as a French tank erupted in flames, another casualty in a graveyard of steel that grew by the minute. The wrecks of enemy machines soon dotted the landscape, smouldering monuments to the futility of their courage.

"Damned old birds," the loader grunted, gesturing skyward.

Stefan glanced up, noting the aircraft swooping in, their engines straining. They were outdated models, easy prey for the hungry antiaircraft guns. One after another, they fell, trailing plumes of smoke as they spiralled to earth.

"Let's finish this," Stefan said.

By nine, it was over. The French, their counterattack crumbled, retreated in disorder—the second group never even found its footing. Stefan watched, silent, as the Germans fortified their bridgehead, more tanks rolling relentlessly across the pontoon bridge.

"Easy pickings, those lines," Hans, his radioman, observed later that afternoon.

"Perhaps too easy," Stefan replied, his eyes narrowing as bombers droned overhead, a desperate tactic to stem the tide.

They flew straight into the waiting jaws of the XIX Panzer Corps' flak brigade, the sky erupting in a deadly ballet of tracer fire and explosions. Luftwaffe fighters darted among them, raptors amongst the flock. Many bombers plummeted, their sacrifices rendered moot against the iron wall of German defence.

"Such waste," Stefan declared.

"War is waste, Herr Kapitän," Hans replied sombrely.

Stefan merely nodded, turning his attention back to the fray. The lines held. The enemy faltered. And the march continued, one stringent step at a time.

Stefan peered through the binoculars. A dust cloud billowed in the distance, heralding the approach of the French XXI Corps.

"What's the status of the 10th Panzer Division?" Stefan's voice was taut with anticipation.

"Still struggling, sir," Henri reported, his brow furrowed. "The river's proving a stubborn obstacle; not all their tanks have crossed."

"Verdammt." Stefan's hand clenched into a fist. "We move without them. The 3rd Armoured and 3rd Motorised are pressing forward. We'll strike across the Ardennes canal. And the bridgehead?"

"Secure, Kapitän," Henri assured him. "Grossdeutschland Regiment is holding firm."

"Good. Keep me posted, Henri."

As the clock struck four, the earth trembled under the weight of German might advancing westward. The Grossdeutschland Regiment, entrenched and resolute, repelled the French assault aimed at their position.