Fury of the Tiger, page 18
"Gunner, he's behind us. Swing the turret around. He's right behind. Get..."
The second shot slammed into the side of the turret just as it had started to turn. The Tiger turret was slow to rotate, much too slow, but it took the explosion on the curved section where it was strongest. At the rear, where the horseshoe shaped thick steel plate welded to the rear section, it could probably penetrate.
He realized Franz had slowed.
"Keep moving. Keep moving. We're not out of trouble yet!"
"But Obersturmfuhrer..."
Lenz's sniveling voice, and another report for his cousin, the SD Standartenfuhrer.
"Shut up. Franz, get us out of here. He's too damn clever, that American. We'll pick him off when we can expose our frontal armor. Not before."
Another shell slammed into them. This time it hit them on the corner of their frontal armor, just over the drive wheels. He felt the slew as the heavy iron disks that propelled the tracks buckled under the force of the explosion. He was about to shout to Franz and ask him for a damage report, when the engine stuttered.
"Franz!"
"It's the damn valves. I keep telling you. They're crap, foreign labor, that's the problem."
"The problem is we'll be dead if you don't get us out of here. Move it, go as fast as you can."
"Sir, I have to stop, just for a moment. The valve timing, I need two seconds. I can reset it from here."
"Very well. Gunner, watch for the Sherman. And man the machine guns. We need to hold him off."
Shit! It’s all we need, a clever Ami in a Sherman that seems to have a charmed life, and we have mechanical problems.
He grasped the stock of the 7.92mm machine gun and looked forward for the enemy.
Nothing. Damn these vision slots! They’re useless.
The rain had started again, and he could hardly see more than fifty meters. There was no infantry around, as far as he knew, no snipers, so he flung the turret open and popped his head out. There he was, no more than five hundred meters away. He thumbed his mike.
"Heinrich, you see him? Shoot the bastard."
"I can't, Sir."
"You what! I don't give a shit for can't, get him."
"The turret's out, Sir. I can't bring the gun to bear, not until the engine starts."
"Franz, how long?"
"A couple of minutes, Sir. It's tricky. The adjuster broke off in my hand. Fucking foreign..."
"Shut up and fix it."
He knew it was too late. The Sherman was already reversing away, keeping their frontal armor toward the Tiger. They rounded a bend in the sunken lane, and then they disappeared. He knew they wouldn't find him, not again. That commander was clever. No, more than clever, he was cunning. He reminded Rolf of a friend of his who'd become a lawyer after attending university. They were keen swordsmen, and he had that same kind of cunning on the fencing mat. Just when you thought you were about to plunge your blade into the area of his heart, he seemed to shift his body slightly, and he was in another position, while his blade came from nowhere to deliver the coup-de-grace.
Is he a lawyer in civilian life, that Sherman commander? He acts like one. But we'll meet again, and next time, I'll be ready for you.
Chapter Seven
Gestapo Headquarters, Isigny, 21.40, July 2, 1944
"Where am I?"
She'd regained consciousness in a strange place, with the stink of disinfectant in her nostrils, as well as feces and decay.
Some kind of hospital, obviously.
Every bone in her body ached, and she knew instinctively she'd been out for some time, hours, maybe even an entire day. She looked for a window, but there was just a small barred opening high on the bare brick wall. It was like a prison cell, except for the pieces of rusting and dusty medical equipment littering the room. It was dark through the tiny window, which meant she'd been in this place for a whole day. A nun stood over her, looking down with a face that was both kindly and concerned.
"You are in the town of Isigny. Do you know what happened to you?"
She had to think hard. "I was caught up in an attack. The Nazis..."
The nun inclined her head, her expression said, ‘They killed many people. War is evil.’
"How long have I been unconscious? Has it been all day?"
The woman looked puzzled. "All day? My child, they brought you here almost three weeks ago. You have been unconscious ever since. We were concerned you would never awake. They called me in to look at you, and when I realized the severity of your injuries, I persuaded them to allow me to visit you each day."
Three weeks! Josh, where is he? Did he survive that terrible attack?
"The war, how does it go? Are we winning?"
The nun shrugged. "We get little news in here. If people know anything, they are afraid to say."
It was all hazy. She seemed to remember there was an attack, and Americans, but they were trying to rape her. It was hard to believe, but she was sure a German soldier rescued her.
How could that be? Everyone knows the Germans are evil.
"What is this place? I need to leave. I must go home."
The gentle smile faded. "Home? No one goes home from here."
"Why not? What kind of hospital is this?"
"Hospital? My dear, this is a prison, part of Gestapo Headquarters, Isigny."
She felt herself going dizzy. "The Gestapo?"
"This place serves the Gestapo and SS. A German brought you here, an Army captain; you'd been wounded. They put you down here in a basement storeroom that used to be an interrogation cell. Perhaps you would like to speak to Father Bouchet. He may be able to explain things better."
"Who is he, something to do with the Gestapo?"
The nun struggled to keep her expression neutral. "He is a prisoner like you, but he is also a doctor. Sometimes they use him to treat the prisoners. Their interrogation methods are..." she grimaced, "They are very harsh. I will call him, and you can speak to him yourself."
The nun left to find the priest, and Margot was left in turmoil.
Josh, is he alive or dead? Will this priest have any answers? How can a priest work in a Gestapo hospital?
The door opened, and she saw for the first time a sentry was standing outside the cell. He wore a steel helmet and held a machine pistol. So the nun spoke the truth, there would be no escape. A priest entered the room and greeted her with a kindly smile. She noted his face was covered in bruises, and one eye was almost shut. Even so, he looked cheerful enough. An Army captain followed him.
"My dear, I am Father Vincent Bouchet, the parish priest and doctor. I have been treating you since they brought you here. This is Captain Gunter Sturm."
She felt sick. "A Nazi! Get him out of here! Please!"
The priest looked embarrassed, but he nodded at the German who left. The priest was short and stocky, heavily muscled despite his obvious age. He had a straggling, gray beard and long, gray, hair that curled over his shoulders. His face was dominated by his remaining blue eye, which had the effect of seeming to look right through you. He wore a classic, long, ankle length black cassock with a tiny 'SJ' lapel pin, and on his head a black biretta, the square-sided hat favored by French priests. She afterward found out he was sixty years old, and before he joined the Society of Jesus, he was a soldier of the French Foreign Legion. She was immediately reassured by his presence.
"I...I'm not too sure. The Sister told me you might be able to help me fill in some of the gaps. Have you heard anything about the attack on Isigny?"
"Perhaps," he looked carefully around, "How may I help you?"
"I imagine some of those who died were Catholic, and you would have said the last rites over them."
"Last rites? You misunderstand; I fought in the battle, my dear. Some of those dead Germans were men I killed. A pity I couldn't kill any more. That's where they captured me. They were going to kill me straight away, but the officer in charge of the unit which captured me was a Catholic." He gave her an ironic smile, "In any case, when they found out I was also a doctor, they brought me here."
She was shocked by his vehemence. "But, you're a priest. How could you..."
"Kill Germans?" He shrugged, "They were killing Frenchmen, my parishioners. Was I supposed to stand by and do nothing while these thugs murdered my congregation?"
He waved a hand at the German sentry outside the door, and she saw to her horror the palm bore a huge, dark red wound. She grabbed for his other hand, and saw the twin of the wound, even worse than the first.
"Your legs, too?"
"Yes."
The Gestapo had crucified him. She slumped back on the bed, speechless. The priest left the room before she could question him more and returned a few minutes later. She almost fainted. He was with an armed German soldier, clutching his steel helmet and rifle. The soldier spoke to the sentry, who allowed them in, and Father Bouchet did the introductions.
"This is Captain Gunter Sturm. He is the man who brought you here."
The German nodded and smiled. "I'm pleased to see you looking better, Mam'selle."
He spoke French but with the thick guttural accent of a Berliner.
"You're German."
"I am."
"But why?"
"Why did I rescue you from those thugs? Why are you a prisoner? Or why did we imprison and crucify a priest?"
She shook her head in confusion. "All of the above."
"I rescued you, Mam'selle, because you were a lady in trouble. Even Germans have a sense of honor."
"But, you're a Nazi."
"I am no Nazi."
"So you're a deserter?"
He looked amused. "In a way. I prefer to say objector to the whole, sick Nazi apparatus. To the murders committed in the name of the German people. I object to the Nazis and the SS, because I've seen their cruelty and had enough."
"I owe you my thanks for saving me from those men."
He shrugged. "It is not necessary."
There was an awkward silence, and Bouchet began to fill in the gaps.
"Gunter is a Wehrmacht liaison officer attached to an SS unit outside Caen. The local SS commander, Kurt Meyer, established his headquarters in the Ardenne Abbey. During the fighting, the SS took a number of Canadians as prisoners. I believe it was twenty in all. When they decided the prisoners were an inconvenience to them, they put them against a wall and shot them. Executed them. Of course, Gunter protested to the squad leader, Scharfuhrer Bernd Bachmann, and told him it was a war crime. To no avail, the SS are a law unto themselves. He saw those men shot down in cold blood."
She closed her eyes, thinking of the cruelty of the Nazis in executing those men.
"As for why you are a prisoner," the priest went on, "you were seen aiding the enemy."
"I cooked some hot food, that's all!" she objected.
"Whatever. It seems what you did is a capital crime in the Third Reich."
"A capital crime?" she whispered, "You mean..."
"You are under sentence of death, Mam'selle Caron. The trial was held while you were unconscious." He glanced at the priest, "They sentenced Father Bouchet to death as well."
"How..."
"Both sentences are due to be carried out in two days’ time, a firing squad. At dawn."
She closed her eyes as she felt herself falling into a deep fog, but she opened them again when she heard a commotion outside her room.
My room? My cell.
A man swept into the room, an SS officer. No, there was something different; his cuff band carried the initials SD.
What does that mean?
A soldier came in behind him, with the twin lightnings of the SS on his collar, and she shuddered when she saw his face. Some men are cruel but manage to look innocent. This was not one of those men. His face was twisted in a cruel parody of a smile, like a hungry predator about to devour its prey.
The SD officer snapped at Sturm and Father Bouchet to get out of his way, and stood over her bed. He stared at her for a few moments, and then opened his rattrap of a mouth.
"I am SD Standartenfuhrer Schulz. I am here to ask you some questions. Tell the truth, and it will be quick and painless. Otherwise, I will be forced to use," he paused, and gave a significant look at the Scharfuhrer. Bachmann’s crazed, brutal stare gazed at her and lingered on her body. "Different methods. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. You were seen sheltering the enemy on your farm. Who are you spying for, Caron?"
She looked back at him in bewilderment. "On my farm? I'm sorry, I..."
His hand flashed out and slapped her hard on the face. "I warned you to tell the truth. Who do you work for?"
She saw stars for several seconds, and when she recovered, the German Captain was holding her head in his hands. She realized he was speaking to her.
"Are you okay?"
She touched her face and knew there would be a severe bruise, maybe even permanent damage. The SD officer hovered over her.
"I can manage."
The man nodded and turned to stare at the SD man. "You cannot treat her like this. She is wounded already. It is inhumane."
"Is that so? Get out, Captain. This is Sicherheitsdienst business, Gestapo business. State Security. Leave, before I have you arrested."
Sturm hesitated but finally turned on his heel and left. Schulz nodded.
"Excellent. Now, who do you work for?"
"I don't..."
The hand snaked out and collided with the other side of her face. She felt something break.
"Last time, and then I hand you over to the Scharfuhrer here. Who do you work for?"
"Standartenfuhrer, please." The priest interrupted. For his pains, Scharfuhrer Bachmann smashed the butt of his machine pistol on his head, and he collapsed in a heap. Schulz looked at the unconscious body for a few moments, and then turned back to Margot.
"Now, you were telling me who you work for."
She shook her head. "I cooked food for a few soldiers, that's all."
He was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he glanced at Bachmann. "I will leave it to you, Scharf. I want a result. We need to know what she's up to, what the Allies are planning. Don't kill her. In fact, I don't want anything broken. Apart from that, do anything you like. Just find out what she knows."
"Yes, Sir. And the priest?"
"Leave him on the floor. When he comes round, you may be able to use him to gain some leverage. You know how it goes, torture one to get the other to see what will happen to them if they fail to cooperate."
The noncom grinned, showing a row of blackened teeth. Schulz winced as he caught a whiff of the man's breath. "I know how it goes, Sir. Leave it to me."
"Excellent. I have business elsewhere. I will return tomorrow."
The Scharfuhrer saluted, and Schulz left. Margot had listened to the exchange, and her heart sank as the door slammed shut. Bachmann advanced on her.
"Now, my little French flower. Let's have a pleasant conversation."
He reached up and ripped of her blouse to expose her bra. Another wrench, and it came off. He reached for her nipple, gripped it hard, squeezed and twisted. She couldn't help the scream that erupted from her mouth.
"Who do you work for?"
He squeezed and twisted even harder, and white-hot pain engulfed her entire body. She passed out.
* * *
Five miles Northwest of Isigny, 21.50, July 2, 1944
Josh waited a few more minutes, and then he began to understand the other commander had outwitted him. He wasn't about to fall for it, so he climbed back out and surveyed the surrounding countryside. The ground seemed to have swallowed up the German heavy tank.
Shit!
Solly was standing on the hull looking around for his hated foe, but eventually he had to admit he'd gone.
"We had him, bang to rights," he snarled, "Maybe if we'd..."
"If we'd done anything different, we'd have been dead."
"We have to go after him."
"A fucking Tiger? Are you out of your mind?"
Vern climbed out of the hatch to stretch his muscles, and he overheard the last comment.
"Course he's out of his mind. You want to tangle with a Tiger; you deserve everything you get. What've you Jews got inside your heads, shit for brains?"
Solly stared at him for a long moment, and Grant could see he was struggling to control himself. After several seconds, he seemed to calm, and he smiled at Vern.
"Not shit for brains, no. We have real brains. Shit for brains is what you get when cracker men screw their sisters, and they give birth to imbeciles. Like you."
"You motherfucker, I'll break your fucking neck!" he roared as he charged forward, his hands reaching for Solly.
He almost missed him, although he'd been waiting for something like it. He stepped between the two men, but Vern twisted around him and kept going. He was within inches of Solly when Grant connected with a hard, left hook. He felt the power of the blow jar all the way up his arm, and he knew he'd suffer for it later. But it was enough. Vern went down like a sack of potatoes and lay stunned on the steel deck of the Sherman.
"You hit him!" Solly was incredulous.
"Damn right I hit him. What else am I supposed to do? He was about to start a brawl. I warned him."
"I could have handled him, Sarge."
"No one brawls on my tank. Not Vern, not you, not anyone. When he wakes up, I'm going to tell him he's gone too far. I'll file a report when we get back to the Battalion. He's been spoiling for that ever since he joined the crew of Minnie Mouse. Help me get him inside the hull. We've been here too long. It's time we headed north and found our own people."
They maneuvered the unconscious man inside, and Dale helped to put him on the co-driver's seat. Angel stared at his unconscious co-driver, but said nothing. Dale fastened spare webbing around him, to stop him falling out of the seat. When Grant was satisfied, he made sure Angel could manage without Vern.
"Sure, Sarge, no problem. He was getting on my nerves anyway. Always complaining about blacks, Jews, Hispanics, you name it. I mean; we're a mixed crew. He should knuckle under and get on with fighting the war. I was finding it hard to concentrate with all the carping and whining. You gonna transfer him out?"
