No. 711 Panzer IV Ausf. D at Stonne: The Fallen Iron and Forgotten Graves of May 1940

On a sunlit slope near the tiny French village of Stonne, the twisted wreckage of German Panzer IV No. 711 glints in the spring light of May 1940. Its dark hulk, scarred by fire and pierced by French shells, tells a silent tale of abrupt destruction. Just beside the vehicle’s charred remains, a makeshift mound marked with simple German helmets serves as a forlorn tomb for its crew—four young men who met their fate in the fury of the Battle of Stonne.

Here, amidst the rolling fields and shattered trees, the collision of steel and courage reached a fever pitch. The story of No. 711 is not just the tale of one tank’s destruction, but a microcosm of the carnage and heroism that defined the opening weeks of World War II in the West.

Panzerkampfwagen IV: Spearhead of the Blitzkrieg

The Panzer IV Ausf. D rolled off Germany’s assembly lines in early 1940, a symbol of Hitler’s rearmed might. Its short-barreled 75mm KwK 37 L/24 gun was originally intended for infantry support, perfect for blasting bunkers and strongpoints as Wehrmacht units punched through enemy lines. With its squat, angular turret and sloped armor, the Panzer IV was the heaviest tank in widespread German service at the time—a “battle tank” rather than just a cavalry raider like the smaller Panzer IIIs and IIs.

Tactical doctrine demanded that the Panzer IV support more lightly armed tanks as they advanced, smashing through resistance and exploiting any gap. Little did the crews know that in tiny, forgotten places like Stonne, the ideal of Blitzkrieg would face its most bitter trial.

The Battle of Stonne: France’s “Verdun of 1940”

In May 1940, as Guderian’s panzers raced through the Ardennes, the sleepy village of Stonne lay near the Meuse River—a strategic point on the road to Sedan. Determined French units, desperate to slow the German onslaught, fortified the high ground around Stonne and braced for the storm.

What followed became legendary—a brutal, close-quarters struggle that saw the village change hands seventeen times in three days. French Char B1 bis tanks, armored monsters bristling with cannons and machine guns, clashed with the lighter, more nimble Panzer IIIs and IVs. Both sides suffered appalling losses.

Fury at Point Blank: The Fall of No. 711

It was here, amid the hedgerows and shattered buildings, that Panzer IV No. 711 met its doom. The morning of May 16th saw German and French armor locked almost wheel-to-wheel in swirling duels—some at distances so close that crewmen swore they could see the faces of their enemy through the periscopes.

No. 711, likely part of the 8th Panzer Regiment, went forward as part of an armored thrust aimed at breaking the French grip on Stonne. The tank’s commander, radioman, gunner, and driver—all young, all trained in Germany’s new doctrine of rapid, combined arms warfare—knew the odds.

Suddenly, from a patch of woods or behind a smoking wall, the silhouette of a Char B1 bis loomed. The French vehicle’s 47mm anti-tank gun spat fire, its high-velocity shell finding the Panzer’s thinner side armor. Flames erupted as ammunition cooked off and fuel ignited. The crew tried desperately to escape, but the inferno was too fierce. No. 711 was left a burning carcass—iron coffin for its brave, unlucky men.

The Crew’s Tomb: Grief on the Battlefield

Photos taken in the days after the village’s capture show the aftermath: No. 711 lies ruined, smoke still drifting from the hatches. Erected alongside it is a humble grave—earth mounded up, marked with the men’s own helmets and a crude wooden cross. Fragments of uniform and spent rounds scatter the dirt.

Such field burials were all too common in 1940. The pace of the campaign left little time for ceremony—a hurried, reverent pause while battle still raged just over the next ridge. Sometimes, the fallen’s names would be scrawled on the cross, sometimes not. For those who survived, these makeshift graves were grim reminders: glory in battle was often paid with the cruelest coin.

Echoes and Legacy

No. 711’s fate was shared by dozens of other machines on both sides during the Stonne fighting. Char B1 bis No. 337 “Eure,” commanded by the legendary Captain Pierre Billotte, claimed over a dozen German tanks in a single engagement before limping away, battered but alive. Yet for every hero, there were countless young men—French and German—whose war ended in a burst of flame and a hurried grave beside their wrecked steel.

After the war, many of these impromptu tombs were exhumed, the dead re-interred in official cemeteries. Sometimes, nothing remained but rusted hulls slowly consumed by weeds and seasons. Villagers recalled the day when the hills shook and fields burned, but time gradually folded their memories into the earth.

The Meaning Behind the Metal

In military museums today, surviving Panzer IVs are polished, painted, and photographed—engineering marvels from an age of total war. Yet, as the image of No. 711 at Stonne reminds us, the story of a tank is never just about steel, rivets, or ballistics. It is also about the men inside: their fear, resolve, and ultimate sacrifice.

The Battle of Stonne stands as a symbol of resistance, ferocity, and the tragic cost of armored warfare. For families back home, the news came as a terse letter. For the men of Stonne, it was written in fire, earth, and the silent vigil of helmets atop a humble grave.

Today, when the wind stirs the grass near Stonne, it passes over the sites where giants clashed, over mounds that once marked comrades’ resting places. The iron may rust and the names fade, but the memory of No. 711 Panzer IV D—and the crew who became both warriors and mourners in one doomed moment—endures as a testament to an age, a battle, and the enduring bond between men and the iron machines they rode into legend.