Fury of the Tiger, page 20
His face struggled, and failed, to contain his pride. "We all fight for the Fuhrer and the Fatherland, individual scores make little difference. I understand you will be joining us. How many vehicles do you have in your Company?"
The Panzer ace spoke with a rolling Bavarian accent, sounding not unlike the Fuhrer who'd spent so much time in the region; especially before and after his service in the First World War, in the List Regiment. Although Wittmann was an officer in the Waffen-SS, everyone knew he'd begun his military career as an NCO. Just like the Fuhrer.
"I've no idea. We only just got in." He looked at Meyer. "Sir, what kind of strength do we have left?"
"A single Panzergrenadier battalion, and I believe the 12th SS can field at least seven Tigers."
"Seven! Is at all?"
"Between the barrages from the ships in the Channel, and attacks from enemy bombers and ground attack fighters as well as their Fireflies, we're lucky to have that many. Fuel is another problem."
"Fuel?"
"The Allies have hit our stocks hard. Every time we move our fuel dump to a secret location, they seem to locate it and send in squadrons of aircraft to destroy it. I believe we have enough for the coming action, and of course, if we are successful, we will be able to commandeer stocks of captured fuel."
And if we're not? What do we do, harness teams of horses to drag our Tigers into battle?
"We will be successful," Wittmann said firmly, "When the battle is over, we will have regained much of the territory we've lost over the past weeks." He grinned. "Who knows, in the next few weeks you could be the owner of one of these." He grinned as he held up his Knight's Cross, "Isn't that worth fighting and dying for?"
At that moment, Rolf realized he was a true believer, a Hitlerkind; one of the new breed of Germans who believed the myths the Nazis had spun about the Third Reich. He was about to reply when Meyer gave him a warning glance, and he kept silent.
When he didn't get a reply, Wittmann went on, "You haven't tangled with the Fireflies, Manhausen? We're bound to run into them sooner or later."
"Not yet. Anything I need to worry about?"
The Bavarian grimaced. "Just the main gun. It's a piece of heavy artillery; the British call it the 17-pounder. The shell is quite capable of penetrating the frontal armor of a Tiger. In fact, we've lost Panthers and even Tigers IIs to the Fireflies, and the damn Sherman hull makes them more maneuverable than our heavy tanks. In short, they're bastards. When I come across a Firefly, it's time to find a nice spot to go hull down and hit them when they're not expecting it."
"I'll keep in mind," he replied.
Something about Michael Wittmann left him less than impressed. It was whispered he'd left his own men in the lurch while he went looking for targets of opportunity. His loader, Siegfried Lenz, would undoubtedly hero-worship such a high-scoring ace, until a British shell blew his fool head off.
"I served in Russia, too," he pointed out to the tanker, "Like you, I learned a thing or two on the Eastern Front."
"We all did," Wittmann replied, "But this is different. The Americans and British are better armed and better equipped. Besides, their Air Force is deadly."
"I know. That's why the 12th SS is so short on Tigers. Most of them were lost to air attacks. Anything else?"
He thought for a few moments. "That about covers it. As if we haven't enough to worry about," he grinned, "There is something else, the Achilles. It's a tank destroyer. It carries a 17-pounder gun the same as they mount in the Firefly, but this one is configured as a tank destroyer. I tell you, if you see one of those long barreled guns in the vicinity, watch yourself."
He stared at Wittmann. "What do you do when you come up against these things?"
The reply was spoken in a voice that crackled with iron fanaticism. "Check the rings on my gun barrel, Manhausen. That's what I do, I kill the bastards."
He turned on his heel and returned to his crew. Meyer was about to say something when an SS Scharfuhrer rushed up to him.
"Sir, a message from intelligence. They say if we mount an attack as soon as the light starts to go, we will have the enemy at a disadvantage. If we do our job properly, a big push now could turn the tide of the war."
Rolf heard Meyer mutter, but not audible to the NCO, "We'd better inform both the Allies and the Russians of that interesting fact."
"Very well, Scharfuhrer. This is Obersturmfuhrer Manhausen, commander of one of the 12th SS Tigers. Manhausen, this is Scharfuhrer Bernd Bachmann, he served with me on the Eastern Front. Bernd is a Panzergrenadier attached to my headquarters.
Rolf gave him a friendly nod, but the man merely scowled, his eyes displaying an inner brutality. He was young for the rank of Scharfuhrer, blonde hair and blue eyes. A Nazi icon, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen years old and already a natural born killer. He wondered what the NCO had done to gain promotion so early. Then again, on the Eastern Front, it was often just to slaughter enough Russians, civilians, or soldiers, it made little difference.
There was an embarrassing pause for a few seconds, and then Meyer sent the young Panzergrenadier on his way. He smiled at Rolf.
"You'd better make your vehicle ready. We will leave shortly, and when the battle is over, we shall be in a better position to give these invaders a bloody nose. We'll turn the tide, eh, Manhausen."
"Yes, Sir."
He walked away, thinking about the cockeyed world of the SS. The constant assertions from the Reichsfuhrer, Heinrich Himmler, that one more big battle would 'turn the tide.' He'd heard it all in Russia before almost every battle. The tide never turned, and the men at the front all knew it never would. Of one thing he was certain, he would stay the hell away from Michael Wittmann. If the man wanted fame and glory, good luck to him. All he wanted was to go home and get his crew back to their families. Give them a chance to grow up to be men, instead of the ferocious, juvenile killers the war and the SS had made them.
He reached his crew. "Men, we're going into battle tomorrow, with the rest of the 12th SS and the 101st Heavy Panzers."
Linz, the Nazi fanatic stared at him. "You mean Wittmann's unit?"
"The same. Refuel, replenish our ammunition, and make certain we're ready to move out. If fortune favors us, tomorrow we’ll see a great victory. We go to fight in the hedgerows. The Normandy bocage."
He'd intended his words to encourage them, but Linz leapt to attention, clicked his heels, raised his arm and shouted, "Heil Hitler!"
Most ignored him. Someone, he didn't see who, murmured, "Asshole."
"The battle of the hedgerows," Heinrich Boll commented to break the awkward silence, "it sounds like a child's game."
"Not a child's game, Heinrich. Tomorrow will be a bloody game of warriors. A tough and grueling test of strength."
"Can we win, Obersturmfuhrer?"
It was the driver, Franz Schelling, who asked the question.
Should I tell them the truth, these boys who are too young to have had a woman, even to grow a beard? No, let them enjoy their illusions for a little longer. Tomorrow will be terrible. At least give them the rest of today.
He smiled. "If we don't, I'll kick your ass, Franz. Especially if your fucking engine breaks down again, and a Firefly puts a 17-pounder shell in our bellies."
No one laughed.
Chapter Eight
SHAEF Headquarters, near London, England, 05.00, July 3, 1944
"It's time we made our move," Monty said, his face earnest, as if to convey the accuracy of his statement. Ike thought he made it sound like they were playing a game of chess, "We must take Caen. No question."
"Bradley wants Saint-Lo. I spoke to him on the radio yesterday; he said it's the only way out of the peninsula. Now that our campaign in the Cotentin is almost complete, it's time we looked to the future. We need maneuvering room, and that means a breakout into France. We can't stay in Normandy forever."
General Montgomery made a gesture with his hand, as if sweeping away Ike's statement. "And leave Caen in our rear, occupied by German units, including their heavy armor? No, it has to be Caen, General. No question."
He folded his arms to underline there was no point in continuing the discussion.
"May I interrupt?"
Both men looked at the rotund figure of Winston Churchill as he entered the room, wearing the one-piece siren suit that had become part of his public image. Like the large cigar and the booming voice, which always seemed to strike the right jingoistic note.
"Of course, Prime Minister," Ike acknowledged.
"Our campaign in Normandy has succeeded in most of our objectives, and we're in a strong position. You’re making telling points, and I believe you're both right. We should target both objectives. General Montgomery's forces can hit Caen like a sledgehammer and drive the wretched Germans out of that benighted city. He has the resources to deal with the kinds of heavy tanks we know the Germans have in the vicinity. At the same time, The American forces can take Saint-Lo and open up the gateway to the rest of France."
Montgomery pursed his lips. "We should consolidate our resources on Caen. It's vital we make sure we have no serious German resistance left in our rear. Especially the Tigers and Panthers."
Ike, forever the diplomat, smiled and put his hand on his arm, a gesture of affection. "You're absolutely right, General. You have the men and the equipment, so go to it."
The Brit General looked surprised. "So you'll concentrate all our forces on Caen?"
"Absolutely, all our British and Canadian forces. The American Army will strike out for Saint-Lo."
Churchill did his best to hide a grin. Eisenhower had outmaneuvered the prickly British General, and he had to hand it to him, he'd done a neat job. All that remained now was to fight the battles. And win. He'd visited the area of Saint-Lo on a painting vacation and produced a couple of pleasant watercolors, which still hung in his home.
An image flashed through his mind, and his mood darkened. The high and impenetrable Normandy hedges before Saint-Lo were a gift to the defenders.
Enough for them to win the battle and defeat the Americans? Maybe Monty’s right, except the Germans are reeling from the overwhelming Allied forces. It’s time to hit them hard, a devastating and final blow from which they'll never recover. If it works, the path to the River Rhine will be wide open to us. If it works!
* * *
Four miles North of Isigny, 09.20, July 3, 1944
They thundered along the narrow French farm tracks chewing up the soggy ground, a vast armada of armor, mostly Shermans, company after company, tank after tank. Many showed the scars of the recent fighting, with patches hastily welded over battle damage and painted in varying shades of drab green. Behind them, the support vehicles, M10 tank destroyers, equipped with a 3-inch gun in a sloped, circular open-topped turret. Unpopular with their crews because the gun was less than effective against its prey, the heavy Panzers which they would face. Equally, the open gun platforms left them vulnerable to high explosive shellfire and mortars.
In the rear, a multitude of support vehicles followed. An engineer company, with their winch-equipped armored recovery vehicles, a host of armored trucks carrying spares, and the headquarters support company. Some of the vehicles towed fuel bowsers, enough to make the crews nervous of enemy attacks.
They passed lines and lines of troops, most from the 29th Infantry Division, who'd pushed up to within only two miles of the town. A heavy weapons company carried 81mm mortars to give them more powerful, longer range hitting power. At every junction, even at every farm gate, MPs directed the solid mass of traffic, all of it heading in one direction, southeast toward Saint-Lo.
At the head of the 745th, Colonel Martin Lindbergh III cut a dashing figure, standing in the turret so most of his trim figure was on view to the men. His Sherman was festooned with aerials, some with gaudy pennants on them, just in case anyone had any doubt about the importance of the man in charge. A long way back, eating the dust of the Battalion, Grant rode in the turret of Minnie Mouse. He'd been assigned the position of back marker. Ahead of him Daniel Kuruk's Cochise spat dust and pebbles into his face so that he needed to wear goggles.
In front of Cochise rode Major Grenville Morgan. At least he'd greeted them with some warmth when they rejoined the unit, in contrast to the chilly greeting from Lindbergh. Grant grinned to himself as he recalled the irate Colonel.
"Where the fuck have you been, Sergeant? Your orders were to stay close to the Battalion."
Grant sighed inwardly. After fighting across Normandy, they now had to endure this asshole, the Battalion commander, Colonel Martin Lindbergh III. Grant started to explain, but the dapper, gung-ho Colonel was in no mood to listen.
"In case you don't know, Sergeant, we've been fighting a war while you sauntered around the countryside. What were you looking for, French girls or French wine? No, don't answer that. I suspect you've been cowering in some ditch while we've been doing all the fighting. Dammit, I can't abide that kind of behavior. You're already under open arrest, and I intend to add this to the charges."
He stared the elegant officer in the eye.
"What exactly is the charge, Colonel? Killing the enemy?"
"Damn you, Grant, I'm talking about a court martial here. The charge will be cowardice, or maybe desertion in the face of the enemy. I'll let you know when I've made my decision. Clear?"
Grant stared at the angry officer for a few seconds, and then gave him a curt nod. "Oh, yeah, it's very clear, Sir."
"In that case, you can report to Major Morgan. Now you've finally decided to return, he'll have a grand total of three tanks, until he's careless enough to lose another. Jesus Christ, who the fuck are they? What the hell are they doing in my headquarters?"
The Russian SS men had lagged behind, and Dale had shepherded them along with an M1 carbine to cover them. Not that they had any interest in escape. They staggered into camp in a long, straggling bunch, looking around curiously, probably for something to eat. All of them were covered in mud, dirt, dust, and everything else the Normandy countryside could throw at them. But they were still SS, no question.
He explained how they'd surrendered to Minnie. Lindbergh snorted.
"Surrendered, this pathetic bunch? I thought for a moment they were SS."
"They are SS, Sir."
He regarded the prisoners more closely, seeing the twin lightning flashes on the collar tabs. "Damn, so they are. What's the story? They don't exactly look like Hitler's elite stormtroopers."
He explained how the surrender had come about, and Lindbergh looked thoughtful.
"Russians, uh? Still, they're SS, no matter where they were born. This'll look good when I report it to HQ, Sergeant, real good."
Good for Martin Lindbergh III is what he means.
He examined them for a few minutes, as if he was looking for something more.
Horns growing out of their heads, maybe, Grant thought.
Finally, he nodded in satisfaction.
"Ike may hear of this, a whole unit of SS prisoners. Pass them over to the MPs. Don't forget, you're still under open arrest. If you think bringing in this sorry lot is going to save your ass, you can forget it. When you've done some real fighting, maybe you can call yourself a soldier. In the meantime, watch your step, Sergeant, and don't go wandering off again. Don't fuck with me, Sergeant. You savvy?"
"Yes, Sir."
He saluted and climbed back aboard Minnie Mouse, while Dale pushed the SS men toward the MPs tent. Major Morgan at least gave Grant's crew something of a welcome, his relief they were still alive was heartening after Lindbergh's bitter recriminations. The news of his bitter diatribe spread like wildfire, even in the few minutes it took them to reach Morgan's depleted Company.
"Is it true? You just had another dust up with the CO?" he asked.
"Kind of."
"I'll try and take care of it, Sergeant. It's absurd. I guess you know why he's doing it?"
"No, Sir."
"There's been a blast from Ike. Apparently, he's not happy with the performance of the Battalion, or of Lindbergh himself. He wants an example made, so the Colonel hit on blaming you to demonstrate it's not his fault." He sighed, "Leave it with me. What have you been up to?"
Grant gave him a rundown of their movements and put the question for which they all wanted the answer.
"Where do we go next, Sir? Unless you think they'll stand us down for a few days for R&R."
Morgan chuckled. "You're kidding me, Sergeant. We're getting ready to kick open the door to the rest of France."
"Saint-Lo?"
He nodded. "Saint-Lo. We attack tomorrow morning, so get yourself some chow, and make sure your vehicle is fuel and armed. I don't suppose there's any sign of that French girl who cooked for us?"
"No, Sir." He was silent for a few moments, and his expression was bleak, "She disappeared when the Germans counterattacked. I believe she's dead."
He recognized Grant's grief. "I remember now, I'm sorry, real sorry. She seemed a nice girl."
"She was."
"I'm afraid it's back to K Rations. Some of the men came down with dysentery. I'm not sure how they got it, but I'd go easy on the Army chow."
Grant smiled. "Maybe we should shoot the K rations at the Krauts. That'd be enough to send them packing."
"Too true."
They were interrupted by a shout, and a corporal was walking through the assembly area, carrying a leather satchel. "Mail! I'm looking for Company A."
"That's us, Corporal," Morgan smiled, "Don't that beat all! Mail in this place."
There was only one letter, for the Major. He casually opened it while they swapped jokes about inedible rations. He stood to one side and read it through, and then he read it again, and again. He looked like a man who'd seen the writing on his tomb.
The sight of a farm half a mile away jerked him back to the present and made him think of the feisty French girl, Margot Caron. He felt a deep sadness he would never see her again. In the short time he'd known her, something had changed inside him, and now he recognized what it had been. After he met her, he no longer wanted the war to continue until he'd wreaked his vengeance on the Germans. Instead, he wanted it to end, so he could work things out with her.
