Fury of the Tiger, page 12
"He'll be expecting us," he grumbled.
"He's too busy fighting Major Morgan, and maybe our other Shermans. He won't have time to think about what we're doing. Get going."
Angel savagely jerked the tracks around, and they turned into yet another darkened street. Grant saw a line of Germans running in front of them, a half-dozen men. One carried a machine gun on his shoulder, another had belts of ammunition draped over his back, and the rest were armed with rifles. Obviously, they were moving to fight off the attack of the 29th.
Grant squeezed the trigger of his .50 caliber almost without thinking and scythed down the group of running men. The heavy slugs took a terrible toll. As they rolled past the bodies two seconds later, he saw the awful damage the heavy lead had wreaked on flesh and bone.
"Nice shooting," Solly told him happily.
"Yeah. Heads up, people, and watch out for that STUG. He may get the same idea and change position to ambush us."
"There could even be a Tiger around the corner," Vern warned.
No one replied. For a fleeting moment, Grant thought about that Tiger he'd seen on the hillside. That almost superstitious feeling that somehow they'd meet him in battle, and their war would come down to a one on one. Minnie Mouse versus the Tiger. A David and Goliath combat.
No, there won't be a Tiger around that corner. Not unless it's that Tiger, the one we're fated to meet. The encounter that will decide everything, one way or the other. Whether we live to go home, or rot forever in some forgotten, muddy French field.
Angel threaded the tank through the narrow streets. He scraped around a tight corner and took the corner off a big house. The roof almost collapsed and tilted at a crazy angle. He hoped it wasn't the Mayor's house, but they were close to the Kraut, he could almost smell him.
"Driver, ease back. Gunner, stand by. If he hasn't moved, we're almost on him."
The Sherman slowed to a crawl, and they saw the crossroads directly ahead of them. The roads weren't straight but wound in a series of tight curves, so they had no real idea of their exact position, only that somewhere ahead of them an enemy tank killer waited. As they neared the end of the street, Angel halted.
The crack of a gun sounded close, very close.
"He's still there, around the corner. Solly, stand by. Driver, advance."
They rounded the corner and there, right in front of them, laid out invitingly like a bride on her wedding night, was the STUG. Inside the enclosed casemate the crew was busy fighting off Morgan's Shermans, and they hadn't seen them yet. It was a golden opportunity, and he didn't need to give any order.
The main gun fired, and the 75mm AP shell sliced through the side armor of the STUG. They heard the warhead explode inside the hull, and the vehicle stopped moving.
"We got him!" Solly exalted, "Eat that, you fucking murderers."
"There could be someone alive inside the hull," Dale remarked, "Maybe we'd better check it out. We don't want Jerries running loose in our rear."
Grant knew it would be a gory task, but he wasn't prepared to delegate.
"You're right. Grab your carbine and come with me. The rest of you, stay sharp."
He cautiously opened the hatch and looked out. The streets were empty, and the only sounds were from the battle raging further to the northeast of the town. It meant the 29th Infantry was hitting the German defenders hard, fighting yard by yard, house by house, to dislodge them. He drew his Colt automatic, climbed down from the hull, and Dale dropped down alongside him. He carried an M1.
"It looks pretty quiet, Josh."
"Yeah. I'll jump up on top, open the turret, and take a look inside. Cover me."
"I'll be right with you."
The dead assault gun looked huge from close up. Mounted on a Panzer III chassis, the absence of a rotating turret allowed for the installation of a more powerful gun. It was a tank killer with a record unsurpassed on any front, something to beware of. The hatch had partially opened with the force of the explosion, and he was able to fully open it and look inside.
He nearly retched. The shell had disintegrated inside the hull and into splinters that spun around the interior. They’d showered the crew with shards of hot metal, as they were designed to do, and some of the crew looked as if they'd been dragged through a giant mincing machine. They were all dead, no question. In the distance, an explosion lit up the sky. It also bathed the interior with light, displaying the gory remains in sharp detail. He glanced at Dale, who had looked away.
"That's it. They're finished."
He nodded. "Not a pleasant sight, even if they were Germans. You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"I have. Four of them."
"Payback for what they did to your brother? What the Germans did, I mean, not these particular guys."
He looked at Dale. "So why don't I feel good about it? How many do we have to kill to avenge the deaths of our loved ones, ten, a hundred, a thousand? Tell me, Dale, how many do we have to kill?"
He hadn't realized it, but in his passionate despair, he'd grabbed his friend's jacket and was pulling him closer, almost as if he was about to attack him. Dale stayed calm.
"Easy, Josh. You know I don't have those kinds of answers. Why don't you ask the Padre?"
"What for? What do you reckon the German Padres say to their own soldiers? Do they tell them killing Americans is God's will?"
Dale shrugged. "Beats me." He cocked his head, "Heads up, there's armor coming in."
Both men raced back to Minnie, and Grant slammed the hatch closed when they were inside. They waited tensely, but then the first vehicle nosed around the corner. It was Morgan. The Major popped his head out the turret and stared for a few moments at the wrecked STUG. Grant opened up the hatch, looked across at him, and waited.
"No prisoners?"
"No, Sir. All dead."
He grunted something inaudible, and then realizing it was hard to hear what they were saying, grabbed for his mike.
"Good work, Grant. We've got them on the run, no question. Battalion brought up some Company B reinforcements, and the Krauts are leaving town. Apart from a few infantry, probably Panzergrenadiers, the job's over."
"Did we lose any more vehicles, Sir?"
"We did not." He could hear the relief in his voice, "Company A still has a grand total of four Shermans. Lieutenant Bligh and Sergeant Kuruk are knocking out a machine gun nest in the southwest of the town. If we..."
He stopped as the sound of a burst of machine gunfire sounded a short distance away. Not an American weapon. It was the peculiar tearing sound of the MG42, like cloth ripping. The MG42 was the feared German machine gun that had cost so many Russian lives on the Eastern Front. Belt fed, with quick-change barrels to cope with overheating, the weapon could punch out lead at the incredible rate of fifteen hundred per minute. The weapon was only capable of automatic fire, and the effect on troops caught out in the open was devastating. While they were training in England, they'd even attended a lecture on how to deal with the damaging psychological effects of the Nazi super weapon.
Except the machine guns were of little use against armor.
"Nail the bastard," Morgan shouted.
He gripped the butt of the gun, sighted on the target, and sent a stream of bullets into the night. The MG42 kept firing, and then the main guns hurled out HE shells. Explosions lit up the sky, and when the darkness had returned, the machine gun was silent.
"Form on me," Morgan ordered over the radio net, "We'll link up with infantry, in case they need our support. Watch the ground when we get out of town; parts of it are a quagmire after the flooding. Stay on the marked roads if at all possible. And remember, there may still be snipers, so stay buttoned up."
His Sherman swerved away and headed back down the main street. Angel fell in behind, and a hundred yards to the southeast, Bligh's and Kuruk's vehicles appeared and joined the rear of the column. They halted close to the 29th Battalion command post and were told to wait, so they made camp while they awaited orders. By some miracle, Margot Caron arrived shortly after they got there. She'd acquired a vehicle, an old van with the name of a local baker on the side. In response to his question about where she'd obtained it, she replied, 'The Boche murdered him, so he won't need it anymore."
The vehicle was a Citroen HY, with the peculiar corrugated metal bodywork so beloved of the French. She got to work with her cooking while Grant drove Bligh in a borrowed a Willys Jeep to go in search of their Battalion HQ, the 745th. They found them only a few hundred yards north of Omaha Beach, but Bligh's request for supplies was met with hard stares.
"You guys want fuel? The whole fucking Army wants fuel, what do you think we're running here, a gas station?"
Bligh stared at the Quartermaster Sergeant, his expression turning angry. Grant decided to try another tack.
"We need shells, Sarge. My Sherman is down to the last couple of HEs for the 75mm. I guess the others are running low as well."
"Shells! Everybody wants shells, what do they think this is?"
"A war zone?"
"Funnee. They ain't sending me anything across the Channel, so forget it. When I get what you want, you can have it. Until then, you'll have to manage. Go kill some Germans, take their gas."
Bligh fixed the Sergeant with a hard gaze. "If you don't have any stores, Sergeant, you'll be needed at the front. You can make yourself useful. There's no point in your being here with nothing to do. I'll give you a lift, and you can join up with the 29th. They're fighting a hard battle right now, and they've taken plenty of casualties. Come with me."
"Er, I, er..." They stared at each other for long moments. He knew he was beaten, and his shoulders slumped, "Look, I do have a few crates of shells. They told me to keep them in reserve. As for fuel," he sucked in his breath between his teeth, "How about four drums of gas. That's it. After that, the pump's dry."
Bligh gave him a curt nod. "You're all heart, Sergeant. We can't manage all that stuff in the Willys. You'll have to lend us a vehicle."
"Sure, sure. Anything."
Fifteen minutes later, they were driving back to Isigny. Behind them, a frightened PFC drove a Dodge Weapons Carrier, with the bed loaded with fuel drums and wooden crates of shells.
By the time they returned, Margot had a hot meal prepared. Grant sniffed at the stew streaming in the pot on the portable paraffin stove she'd found, enjoying the delicious odors that surrounded him.
She smiled when she saw him. "I kept some for you. Otherwise your men would have eaten the lot. Sit down, Sergeant Josh."
"Grant."
"Whatever." The mess table was a door ripped out of a destroyed building, supported on two piles of salvaged stone blocks. It wobbled, and it definitely stank of soot, gasoline, and smoke. It could have been a length of barbed wire for all they cared. The food was all that mattered. She served them the meal in aluminum mess tins filled with the stew, and they ate in silence, wolfing down the culinary miracle.
Margot sat on an upturned ammunition box and watched them eat, almost like a doting mother. Grant half expected her to chide him to finish up and clear the plate. When they were halfway through, she left them to brew fresh coffee. Bligh and Grant regarded each other, not quite certain what they'd done to warrant such wonders.
Bligh looked puzzled. "Didn't you destroy her farm?"
"That was the Jerries."
"Right. But it was your battle. Most people would have taken a shotgun to you."
He shrugged. "It's just my natural charm, Lt."
He grinned. "Sure it is. Tell me, why did you turn down a commission? You're a lawyer, and you have a college degree, so you could have done real well."
"They offered me JAG or nothing. I told them I wanted to fight, and when they dug their heels in, I enlisted. Simple as that."
"I see. And what about this French girl, Margot? She seems struck on you."
"I hadn't noticed."
"Hmm, is there anything going on there? I mean; I wouldn't want to tread on your toes, so to speak."
Grant was startled for a few moments. It hadn't occurred to him that they were anything more than two people who'd met in a war zone and quickly formed a friendship. He thought about her pretty face, her calm resolve, and her French confidence.
What do they call it? 'Sang froid.' A kind of poise and composure under strain, you don't get much more strain than armored units pounding each other to scrap inside your farmyard.
She was more than merely confident. Clever, tough, and not a little feisty, so what was she doing running a farm, apparently all on her own? There was a story there, and he made a decision to find out more when there was a lull in the fighting.
She was clearing away the remains of the meal, and as she leaned over his shoulder, she gave him a smile that was at once warm, friendly, saucy, and unless he misunderstood, inviting. All at once, he wanted her for himself. He looked back at Bligh, who was waiting for his reply.
"Lt, don't get this wrong, but I aim to get to know her a whole lot better."
Bligh nodded. "I don't blame you, Sergeant." He climbed to his feet, thanked Margot for the food, and announced he was about to hit the sack. "You, too, Sergeant Grant. You'll need a rest. Chances are we'll be back in action early tomorrow."
As if to illustrate the point, an artillery battery opened up several miles away, and the sky was lit up as they fired, and multiple flashes hitting whatever they were shooting at. Bligh had a point; they'd all need to get some rest, although he had something to attend to first. He went over to Margot, who was clearing away the pots and dishes. She stopped, looked at him, and waited as he approached.
"I wanted to thank you for the food. It was wonderful."
She gave a small nod. "You are more than welcome, Sergeant Grant."
"Josh."
She grinned. "You looked so serious and warlike. Not at all like a Josh. Is it true what I overheard, you were a lawyer before all this?"
She waved her hand around, indicating the tank park, the jeeps, the guns, the ammo and stores, the bustle of soldiers preparing for a coming battle.
"I'm afraid so."
She looked puzzled. "Is that not a good thing in America, being a lawyer?"
He grimaced. "Some think so. Others would like to see us all rounded up and shot."
She giggled, and he was enchanted by the musical tinkle of her voice. "I think they do not appreciate you, Josh. And here you are, fighting to free us French from the Boche." Her dark brown eyes shone, "You are my white knight, come to France to save me from the evil Nazis."
"It's not just you. I mean, I'm sorry about your farm, Margot. You see, if you..."
Her smile was huge as she listened to his faltering protest. She put a finger to his lips to silence him, "I know the reasons, Josh."
She put her face to his and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I don't care about why you came. You're here, and I care about you. And that's my way of saying thank you."
She skipped away, leaving him feeling like a love-struck twelve-year-old standing in the school playground. He was still standing on the same spot when Solly arrived.
"Major Morgan wants a word, Sarge. And we all need some sack time. It's been rough today, and it looks like we'll need to do it all again tomorrow."
"I'll be right there."
He followed the gunner, aware his legs felt like rubber after the encounter with Margot. He stumbled once, and Solly grabbed him to prevent him falling.
"You okay? Did you take a bump to your head or something?"
He found his footing again. "I'm okay. I must have banged it on something hard."
* * *
Three kilometers outside Caen, France, June 9, 1944
It took them the rest of the night and part of the next day to arrive at their destination. The constant threat of aerial attacks forced them to thread their way through thick woods and endless bocage. When they sighted aircraft in the vicinity, they sought the nearest cover and hid from the menace of the fighters until they'd disappeared. Finally, they rejoined their unit, the 12th SS Hitler Jugend.
There were Panzers from other units gathered in the assembly area, Panzer Vs, known as Panthers, further Tiger Is, and a couple of the new, much vaunted Tiger IIs. There was also a motley selection of lesser armor, including a battalion of the useful Panzer IVs from the 21st Panzer Division. Even a squadron of French Renaults made an appearance, little more than cannon fodder against the armored might pouring ashore. Also present was Standartenfuhrer Meyer.
"The Reich is faced with its biggest crisis, Manhausen, and you go waltzing around the French countryside looking for God knows what. Were you drunk, or was it a woman?"
He patiently explained about the mechanical problems, but Meyer was unimpressed.
"I don't give a shit about your excuses. I needed you here, not playing touchy feely with some fucking American Sherman. The Allies are building up their forces for an attack on the city of Caen. Our orders are to make sure it doesn't succeed. I've received word the enemy has taken the village of Rots, so our first task is to throw them out. Clear?"
"Jawohl, Standartenfuhrer. I take it you mean a night attack?"
"Yes. At night we are able to maneuver without interference from enemy aircraft. We leave shortly. Make sure your vehicle is ready for battle. "
With what? We're low on gasoline, low on shells, and low on spare parts. What does he expect, a miracle? He probably does.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. See to it."
He saluted and returned to his tank. Another officer was chatting to his crew, an SS Obersturmfuhrer like himself. The man turned, and Rolf felt a lurch in his guts. He'd seen the man before in Russia, on the Eastern Front, where this tanker was something of a legend. A Knight's Cross with oak leaves testified to his prowess on the battlefield. He held out a hand.
"Michael Wittmann, Obersturmfuhrer. 101st SS Heavy Panzer Battalion."
They shook, and he introduced himself. "Manhausen, 12th SS Hitler Jugend. You don't need any introduction, Michael. I was in Russia, too."
