The Jonkheer's Wife

The Panzer column rumbled on the high road.  The ground, the trees, the thatch-topped houses, the cattle and windmills no longer defensible ahead, seemed to shudder, like the roll of thunder between two bolts.  From the lead tank Colonel Erwin Schell, warlike as Hektor, lowered his binoculars. 

     Schrecklichkeit.  The word stayed in his mind, a lyric to the tread's metallic screech.  How long had he preached it?  If you fight at all, fight terrifyingly.  Fight with extreme violence.

     Blitzkrieg.  He rolled the “b” and the “l” in his lips, mouthing them till the word was his own.  He knew the British invented the word to mock his countrymen.  But lightning war described it perfectly: artillery, planes, tanks and infantry moving as one to sweep an opponent shockingly back.  So let them mock.  The British always mock what they fear.

     Germany was re-emerging as the greatest power on Earth.  His countrymen's tunics flapped in the sun, men of one soul, proud and alert in column: the idea of Nation made startlingly real.  History’s purpose unfolding. 

     Inside the turret, his feet balanced on the shaking rung.  He studied the roadside Netherlanders who had not evacuated, and drank vindication from their grudging surprise.  For four days his tanks had run wild in Brabant.  Today they crossed the great rivers to make a recruiting and training center north of the Rhine. 

     He wondered how many, how many, finish their years on Earth never tasting the fulfillment he knew at this moment, like a prism refracting the lights of History, Nation, and career. After Poland, Field Marshal Von Rundstedt had personally decorated him in Berlin.  Now further honors would come.  His Nation’s eyes were on him.

A lone doubt clouded his brilliant day: still no sign of Guse, Kessler, Zimmer, Strohn and Vogel. 

The clank of machine parts broke through the dimming engine hum.  Why was the column slowing?