Panzer Soldier

Casca: Panzer Soldier

by Barry Sadler

PROLOGUE

Berlin, an industrious modem city filled with busy laughing people, full of the good-natured German Gemutlichkeit They worked hard, sang songs and were proud of their city and its place in the world. Modern new buildings rose at every corner, but underneath the new hills that rose from the piled up rubble of WW II lay the ruins of an entire way of life, built on hate and fear.

The Germans he'd met here this day had little resemblance to those that had slaughtered millions in the name of racial purity. But in the back of his mind, he wondered how much of the beast still lay in the hearts of these happy hard working people. He had been at Auschwitz and had seen the death machine that had sent millions of Jews and others considered to be subhuman, to their deaths. The feeling still walked with him. It was hard to shake.

He was in Berlin for a medical seminar at the University. He felt a sense of regret for coming. He had thought he was too modern to hold grudges against a whole people for what had happened when he was a child living in another country across the ocean. He walked by the wall separating east from west. Guard towers were easily spotted along the wall, manned by men with machine guns. On one of the walls he saw scribbled the words 'Heil Hitler' in white paint. He felt an odd sense of satisfaction that there were still some Nazis around. Maybe it made the rest more believable. He sat at a table at a sidewalk restaurant and listened to the music from the stereo inside. He admired the well dressed women, with long legs and fair hair. Some of the most beautiful women in the world could be found here.

Still, it wasn't difficult to let his imagination run free and see the streets change to one filled with swastika flags, and ranks of marching jackbooted soldiers and SS passing in review, to the strains of the SS anthem, or Deutschland Uber Alles. The hammering of boots slamming down as thousands of people, eyes raised, arms in a salute, millions of them crowding the sidewalks, held back by members of the Sturm Abteilung detachments. Again and again he could hear them in his mind, crying out in impassioned voices, crying in cadence as their messiah passed by in a Mercedes Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler.

Goldman ran his hands over his face to wipe out the images. God, has it been such a short time since the madness? A waiter, smiling, interrupted his thoughts; had Goldman ordered a bottle of good German pilsner? Trying to collect himself back from a past he had never experienced, except through films and the words of others, was difficult. He was a Jew and here was the capitol city of a nation that had once dedicated itself to the destruction of his race and religion. A deep voice spoke at his shoulder in good German, 'Guten abend Hen Doktor; wie geht es ihnen?' Goldman froze. Turning slowly, he looked at his visitor. A scarred face smiled down at him. 'May I join you. Doctor?' Goldman merely nodded permission. His guest settled himself into the chair opposite and ordered a Steinhaer from the waiter. 'Well, Doctor, it seems that destiny has once again made our paths cross; what brings you to Berlin?'

Goldman explained the conference. His guest smiled, understanding.

'Yes, of course there is always that, but from the look on your face, when I saw you sitting here, I would guess there is another reason. It's a strange city isn't it, so full of life now, and gaiety. Ahhh, but you should have been here in '34 or '35, it was even more fascinating and beautiful than now.'

Goldman finally gained control. 'Casca, what are you doing here, did you follow me?'

The scar-faced man laughed. 'No, good doctor, our meeting was strictly coincidence, but I must admit, I have thought often of you since our last meeting at your lovely home in Boston. What was it? Two years ago? I lose track of time. ' He laughed at his own joke and repeated, more for himself than anyone else, 'Lose track of time.'

Goldman interrupted him and repeated his question, 'Why are you here?'

Casca answered slowly, 'First, call me Carl; Carl Langer. It's the name I have become used to while in Germany. I used it for a long time in the war years.'

Goldman hesitated before he spoke again. 'You mean you fought for the Nazis?'

Langer smiled gently. 'Don't get excited, Herr Doktor, it's not what you might think, and I'm here for the same reason you are, perhaps, though, in a slightly different way. I was here when it all ended; the Reich, I mean. It was a much different place than you see now. Would you like to hear the rest of the story of how I came to be in Berlin on April 30, 1945?'

Goldman looked at him questioningly and ran his fingers through his graying hair. 'That was the day Hitler committed suicide, wasn't it?'

Langer chuckled in a manner of his own. 'Come, let's walk.' Langer paid for the drinks and the two walked out on the streets. Langer kept up a running dialogue of the grace and beauty of the city before the war, the singing and the parties and a happy people full of life. A life that was soon to end in the greatest conflict the world had ever known.

As Goldman walked with Langer, he was caught up once again in whatever power this man had over him, to draw him back into the past, to actually be there, to feel what he felt and know the reality of another existence.

'You know. Doctor, the real war was fought on the Russian front. That's where the big battles were. Hitler always considered the Russians to be his greatest threat, and rightly so. You think you saw some horrible things when we were in Vietnam? What you experienced there was nothing to what took place on the eastern front.

The eastern front. He repeated the words over and over until he felt the sounds of trains rolling over the rails. 'Clack! clack! clack!' the city faded from his eyes. All he heard was the rattling of train wheels rolling through the night.

CHAPTER ONE

The smooth-cheeked young Vikings of the Greater German Reich raised their voices, full of life and eagerness for the great adventure they were fortunate enough to be taking part in.

'Die fahne hoch, die reihen jest geschlossen. . .' The 'Horst Wessel Leid,' the song of the Nazi Storm Troops, resounded throughout the smoky interior of the train. The rattling of the wheels became the timekeeper for the group of novices going to join the 1st SS Panzer Regiment being reoutfitted outside of Kharkov. The train began to pick up speed after they transferred over to captured Russian engines and cars in order to use the narrower, Soviet-gauge tracks.

Kharkov was still two days away. The mixed bag of Luftwaffe, Wehrmacht and SS men were having a good