Fury of the Tiger, page 22
"Sherman!"
* * *
Three miles North of Saint-Lo, 17.55, July 3, 1944
"Driver, back up, back up!"
Angel stopped the heavy vehicle so quickly he was thrown forward in the turret. The huge 88mm shell intended for them whistled across their front. A second later they were hurtling back through the hedgerow. The Tiger fired again, and the shell was so close Grant felt the passage of air as it sped past them, to land in the field several hundred yards away. Then they were out of sight. Out of sight until the German heavy tank punched through the hedgerow to find them. He searched for a way out and saw the gap made by the now-destroyed STUG crew for their retreat.
"Angel, three o'clock, the gap next to the wrecked STUG. Take it!"
"I'm on it."
He gritted his teeth as they bumped over the muddy, rutted field. At any second, the Tiger would come through that hedgerow, and they'd be dead meat. Vernon was as ecstatic about being proved right, as he was terrified.
"I told you! A fucking Tiger, I knew it. A Tiger!"
"Shut up, Vern," they all chorused.
Their turret was pointed backward as they watched for the enemy tank. Their 75mm gun presented little danger to the Germans, unless they got lucky. Minnie entered the field the other side.
"Jesus Christ," Solly exclaimed, "It's like a fucking car park."
"A tank park," Angel breathed.
"A German tank park," Vern corrected him, "Fuck me! Tigers!"
There were more than Tigers in the swathe of ground that stretched ahead of them, Panthers, Panzer IVs, and something else. The new, much vaunted Tiger IIs, a pair of them; sloped armor, huge, and menacing, their 88mm guns and massive armor able to dominate any armored confrontation. There had to be at least thirty tanks inside of a single square mile. He wanted to shout to Angel, 'Get us out of here.' Except behind them that Tiger was coming up fast.
The 745th Independent Tank Battalion resolved the dilemma for them. For once, Lindbergh came through.
"I'll be damned," he shouted to no one in particular. A company of Shermans broke through the hedgerow, and then another company, and another; until the entire Battalion was charging down the formidable German armored force. Lindbergh's M4 was in the lead, guidons streaming from the radio aerials. The turrets of the German armor begin rotating to face the enemy, and he held his breath, waiting for the inevitable slaughter of the 745th.
The next few minutes were a wild blur of movement, smoke and flame, and ear-shattering noise. The Panthers opened fire first. They were nearest to the 745th, and within seconds, three Shermans of Lindbergh's Battalion were destroyed. The American tanks returned fire, but there was no evidence to suggest they'd scored any substantial hits. Grant was mentally shouting at the Americans, "Pull back, pull back. Get out of there!"
Maybe Lindbergh was lucky, or maybe he'd arranged it in advance. It was probably the former. The fighters swooped, squadron after squadron of RAF Typhoons. One second, they'd faced devastating defeat, the next, it all changed. The German armor saw the threat and panicked. The menacing rows of heavy guns aimed at Lindbergh's Battalion swung away as the Panzers pedaled the gas. They didn't all make it.
"Angel, tuck her in close to the hedgerow. We'll stay here and watch in case they need us."
They hid in a patch of shade beneath the overhanging branches of a tree that grew right through the hedge. He opened the turret hatch and popped his head out. Solly emerged to join him. More rockets slammed into the retreating tanks, and the field was covered in roiling black smoke as they exploded, first a Panther, then two Panzer IVs. A Tiger vaporized as the gas tank exploded, and then more Typhoons attacked with cannons hammering to mop up the survivors.
"Most of 'em are getting away," Solly shouted, venting his anger that the hated Jew murderers may escape justice.
"Not all of them. The flyboys will be back with reinforcements. The heavy Panzers don't normally come out in the day, and when they do, they're juicy targets. Wait and watch."
They came over a minute later; first, eight Republic P-47 Thunderbolts, the big, heavy United States Army Air Force fighter bombers that had proved effective in a variety of roles. These P-47s were loaded with bombs, each aircraft capable of carrying more than a ton of ordnance. They rained on the Panzers, who by now were funneling through a gap in the hedgerow almost a mile away. The bocage, so impenetrable at ground level, was no obstacle in the air. The first bomb dropped, missed, and exploded close to a racing Panther. The pilot roared away to go around for a second attack, and the Thunderbolt behind him dropped another load. This time he scored a direct hit on the German, the gas tank exploded almost instantly, and searing flames swept through the vehicle.
"Fucking A," Solly cheered, "Another Kraut ain't gonna bother us, a Tiger, too. Vern will be happy about that one."
Grant didn't feel like exulting. He'd watched for the crew to bail out, but no one escaped the burning Tiger. He tried to envisage the unimaginable hell they must have gone through when the gas tank exploded.
If this is war, it's time mankind thought out a different way to resolve their differences.
The Thunderbolts were coming in one by one, dropping their bombs and zooming back up into the sky. The field was littered with burning armor, and then the bombers arrived to finish the job. Mitchells, B-25s, twin engine aircraft in RAF livery. More bombs dropped around the fleeing Germans, and five more smoking hulls blazed amongst the devastation.
Lindbergh's Company commanders recovered fast from the shock of the encounter. The Colonel was left floundering as they took the opportunity and charged in. The Shermans started to dish out some hurt to the retreating Germans. Solly chuckled in glee as a 75mm shell smashed into the rear of a Panther, and it came to a stop with smoke pouring from the engine compartment.
"Someone ought to tell those boys about turning and running from a Sherman. It's all we need to roast their asses."
"Yeah," Grant nodded, but something was nagging at his mind. It came to him in a flash. The Tiger, the reason they'd come through here in the first place. If he were running, they'd have a shot at his engine compartment.
"Driver, take us back through that gap in the hedge. Solly, get downstairs. We're about to see if we can put a shell up that Kraut's backside."
"You got it."
"Heads up, guys. We only get one chance at this, so make sure when we come up behind him, we hit him hard and fast before he gets in the first shot."
"Load AP," Solly intoned.
"AP loaded," Dale confirmed.
"A fucking Tiger! Damn, that's something to tell the grandkids," Vern shouted in glee.
"We haven't got him yet. Shut up and concentrate on fighting this tank."
Angel smashed through the thick bocage, but it was an anti-climax.
"Where is he?" Solly sounded puzzled, "Sarge, he must have hightailed it."
"Wouldn't you, with half the American and British Air Force dropping bombs and rocks on his head."
"I guess."
"Target, twelve o'clock." It was Angel who saw him first, "It's a Tiger. He's disappearing through the hedgerow."
At first he couldn't see him, but Grant took out his binoculars, and sure enough, he was there and running, with his ass toward them.
"Well spotted, Angel. Full speed, let's nail this bastard."
"He could put a shell into us before we get close. There could be a better way."
It was Dale who made the observation.
"I'm listening."
"We stalk him, and stay well back where he can't see us, until we can creep up on him. Then we let him have it. Injun style, that's what Dan Kuruk would have done."
He smiled. The implication Kuruk was an Indian bushwhacker didn't mean it wasn't a good plan.
"Angel, follow him, but stay well back. If he spots us, we're toast."
"Yeah, I kinda get that."
They plunged on across the field, slowing at the gap in the next hedgerow, and then stopping while Grant climbed down to check on the progress of their target. Each time they were a few hundred yards away. He remounted Minnie, and Angel eased through the gap and waited until the Tiger was again out of sight. A mile away, the battle still raged as Lindbergh's Shermans chased down the surviving heavy armor. He had a few misgivings about whether he was doing the right thing. The Colonel was clear after the arrest. Stick with the Battalion.
Except this is THE Tiger.
He knew it, was convinced of it. For him, the Battle for Normandy had condensed into this single tussle between two metal machines. It was as if the Gods of War had decreed the war would be decided between these two tanks.
A stupid thought, he chided himself. Or is it? What soldier doesn't have some kind of weird superstition on the eve of battle? Men carry a rabbit’s foot, St Christopher medallions, even a pair of the girlfriend's panties. I know of one guy who carried around a tame spider called Alex in a glass jar. He said it brought him luck.
"I lost him," Angel interrupted his thoughts. He slowed to a crawl.
Grant realized he'd been daydreaming about the Tiger, about the fate that had pulled them together from the first day they landed on Omaha. He jerked back to the present, to reality.
"What do you mean, you lost him?"
"I mean he's just not here. He's gone."
Grant surveyed the area around them with his binoculars. Angel was right. He'd gone. The entire region was a wilderness of high hedgerows, sunken roads, enough to lose a division of Panzers. No place to play touchy feely with a Tiger. Besides, he could hear the battle raging less than a mile away. Hammering machine guns, the crack of infantry rifles, and the bellow of tank guns and artillery. There'd be time to meet Mr. Tiger later.
"Swing her around. We'll rejoin the Battalion."
"You got it."
As they drove toward the crescendo of the battle that raged for Saint-Lo, he kept looking around.
He was HERE. I can feel him out there. Somewhere.
* * *
1 kilometer Southwest of Saint-Lo, 17.55, July 3, 1944
They sheltered in the sunken lane, and they'd been lucky to find it. He'd wanted to turn and finish the impudent Sherman that had bugged them for so long. Until Schelling, the driver, called him.
"I'm sorry, Obersturmfuhrer. It's the engine again.
"What now, Franz?"
"It's running too hot, Sir. If we keep going, it could seize the pistons. We have to stop and let her cool."
He felt his anger mount. They nearly had him, that damned grinning mouse painted on the side of the hull. He could even see it, blasted by an 88mm shell.
"For Christ's sake, when are you going to fix it?"
"We need a new engine, Sir. I keep telling you, this one is kaput."
"We don't have a new engine, Franz. You know why."
A silence. It was frustrating; while the Reich produced new, sophisticated weapons like the V1 and V2 rockets, they couldn't send replacement engines and other vital spares to their heavy Panzers in the field. He looked around, then looked down and spotted the sunken road. It was almost impossible to see unless you were virtually next to it, like now. He pointed it out to Franz.
"Very well, take us down there, and we'll let her cool for an hour. The rest of you stay sharp. If that Sherman finds, us, we'll need to open fire before he runs rings around us."
Franz eased the big tank into the narrow, sunken lane. It was only when they were out sight he realized the sides of the gully were so high they blocked the ability of the main gun to traverse.
If the American finds us now, God help us.
* * *
Gestapo Headquarters, Isigny, 18.35, July 3, 1944
Her body was a mass of pain. Every limb, every bone ached after the sadistic SS man Bachmann had finished beating her. He was an expert, and although she'd tried to endure the blows in silence, she soon reached a point where she had no alternative but to cry out. She screamed in agony. It was like a fire burning inside her. There was no respite; she was bound to a long, steel table, and he used a rubber truncheon mercilessly.
When she refused to cooperate, he injected something into her leg, and if she thought the pain had been bad, she knew it was nothing compared to what burned inside her.
"What information did you give to the enemy?" he intoned, for the tenth time. "Who are you reporting to? When will the Americans attack?"
"I don't know. I only cooked some food, no more."
"Where will the attack come? Do they have a date?"
"I don't know..."
Deep down, she suspected Bachmann was aware she had no information to give. But as long as she refused to answer his questions, it gave him the excuse, if one were needed, to torture her. She jerked as she felt his hand reaching inside her panties and groping her vagina.
"Leave her!" Father Bouchet shouted through his smashed teeth. They'd left him in chains, so he could watch. Every time they beat him, they also made certain her head was turned to watch his suffering.
Pervert!
She hadn't meant to say it aloud, but his free hand punched her hard in the kidneys, and she screamed again.
"You should be careful who you call a pervert, Caron. You have little time left to you. I suggest you consider how you wish to spend your final hours. You can go to your death in peace free from pain, or in screaming, unbearable agony. It's up to you."
"I don't know anything."
In the end, he snapped an order to a guard waiting outside the cell, and he returned with another guard, dragging a heavy wooden bar between them. She wondered what fresh agonies she had to endure now, but the priest recognized it, and she saw his eyes close, as he understood what they meant to do to him. The bar had metal rings that suspended it from iron staples set high on the wall. They fetched a wooden stepladder, and then dragged the priest over to the beam. They carried him up, and one man held his hand while the other drove a nail through his hand into the beam.
Bouchet was whimpering in agony, and Margot wracked her brains for anything she could tell them that may ease his suffering. But she knew nothing. They left him hanging and screaming, and came back a few minutes later with another length of wood, which they propped against the wall below his dangling body. They then proceeded to nail his ankles to the vertical timber. He was quietly whimpering, and Margot suspected his mind had almost gone.
"What do you think of that?" Bachmann leered, "A priest suffering the same fate as the Jesus he worships. He should be honored, should he not?"
"You're sick!" she spat out, "You should be put down like an animal."
She thought he'd strike her again, and she'd gone beyond caring. Instead, he laughed.
"So now you know where you stand, Caron. You probably think I'm some kind of sadistic psychopath? Of course, you're probably right. The Third Reich has need of men such as me. Bold, brave men, men who are unafraid to get their hands dirty. The Fuhrer himself said that 'Everyone must know if he raises his hand against the State, then certain death is his lot.' I am merely an instrument of the Fuhrer's will, protecting Germany from enemies such as you and this priest."
By now, Bouchet had lapsed into unconsciousness.
"Why don't you kill us now?" she cried, "You must know I have no information to give you. If you're so bold and brave, finish this and go out and fight the real enemy, the Allies who are in process of liberating France."
He stared at her, wearing a puzzled expression. "But, my dear, do you wish to ruin my enjoyment? You’re lucky. Your sentence has been delayed for now. You are to be taken to Saint-Lo presently for more intensive interrogation, so let’s not waste your remaining time here."
He snapped out an order to the guard standing near the crucified priest. "Toss some water over him and bring him round. We’ll start again."
Chapter Nine
Five kilometers outside Caen, 07.30, July 11, 1944
Captain Gunter Sturm had yet another bad night, tossing and turning in his bed at the Ardenne Abbey. It wasn't just the trucks racing in and out of Headquarters as they began to evacuate everything of strategic importance. Nor the smell of burning as frightened men began destroying the evidence of their crimes.
It was the idea that the side he fought on comprised of sadists, bullies, and murderers that gave him nightmares. He hadn't enjoyed a peaceful moment since he'd seen the Canadians shot down in front of his eyes by the SS. The knowledge that the French girl he'd saved, Margot Caron, was a captive of the Sicherheitsdienst weighed on his mind. When he learned she had a sentence of death over her head, he wanted to find Scharfuhrer Bachmann and shoot him down like a dog.
He felt so helpless, utterly helpless. If he could reach Saint-Lo where they now held her in the Gestapo prison, perhaps he could intervene and save her. But how could he abandon his post and travel across a battlefield without orders. They'd shoot him as a deserter. There had to be some other way.
He was finishing dressing when a knock sounded on the door.
"Hereinkommen."
A messenger entered, a private soldier, not SS. Sturm recognized him as one of the decoding teams who worked in the Army signals office. Like most of them, he was bedraggled, unshaven, and looked as if he hadn't slept for a long time.
"The Standartenfuhrer sends his greetings, Sir. You are to report to him immediately. He is in his office."
"Very well. Tell him I will be there in a few moments."
"Yes, Sir."
The man left, and he finished dressing. He briefly considered having a shave. After all, he was a member of the German Officer Corps. It wouldn't hurt to show an SS thug like Meyer how a soldier should present himself. In the end, he decided not to bother. It would give the impression he hadn't been busy like the rest of them, scurrying around, preparing to evacuate like frightened rabbits. So much for the much vaunted Waffen-SS, and their Fuhrer's promises of total victory.
