Fury of the Tiger, page 23
As he walked down the staircase, he wondered if he'd done something wrong.
Am I in trouble for something I said?
The Gestapo and the SD were everywhere, rooting out so-called plots and insurrection. Most soldiers called it bullshit. They were trying to fight a war, not start a revolution. Meyer's door was open, and he went in.
"You wanted to speak to me, Sir.
"Yes, Captain Sturm. I want you to take a dispatch to Headquarters in Saint-Lo. The Allies are massing their armor and infantry around the town. Find out what resources they need to hold the town, but tell them we're stretched very thin. I must release some of my armored units to Caen. Otherwise we'll have nothing to hold them back, apart from a few lousy battalions of Ostvolk. Get over there right away."
"Yes, Sir, but, why not use the radio? Is there a problem?"
Meyer chuckled. "A problem? Every time I give an order over the radio for one of my companies to move to a new position, the British send in their aircraft to attack and destroy them as soon as they reach it, or even on the way. It's as if they can read our messages. I don't want to give away our order of battle, Sturm."
"No, Sir. But surely, the Enigma encryption system is unbreakable."
"The Enigma encryption system, yes. How do we know the Allies have not cracked our codes?"
"That's impossible! The Enigma uses millions, billions of alternative combinations. They cannot have cracked it."
"So how do you explain them knowing our plans, even before we do and put them into action? And only when we send the messages over the radio, using Enigma encryption."
The enormity of what Meyer was telling suddenly hit him. "Sir, if that's true, no matter where we go or what we do, they'll be waiting to destroy us."
"Exactly. That's what they're already doing."
"Standartenfuhrer, have you informed Headquarters of your suspicions?"
"They're not suspicions, Meyer, they're certainties. Yes, I have informed them. I have also informed Feldmarschal Rommel, Feldmarschal Rundstedt, even the Reichsfuhrer-SS, Heinrich Himmler. All to no avail, they said the same as you; it is impossible."
"And yet they are doing it."
"Of course. There is no other explanation."
He felt despondent. "This means we cannot even force a negotiated peace. There is no need for them to negotiate when they can forecast our every move."
Meyer grinned. "Now you know the truth, Sturm, you see we have lost the war, do you not?"
Sturm didn't answer. To say no to a question like that from an SS officer was tantamount to putting his pistol to his head. Meyer smiled at his silence.
"I understand why you will not answer, but of course you know we've lost. You think me cynical?"
"Of course not, Sir."
He bellowed a laugh. "I know I'm cynical, Sturm. I've had enough of trying to get our High Command to see sense. They're too busy squabbling for Adolf's favor to listen. As for our glorious Fuhrer, sometimes I wonder about his sanity."
Sturm walked over to the door and pushed it shut. Meyer chuckled.
"Good man. We don't want anyone hearing the truth, do we?"
"So why do we fight on, Sir?"
"Because we're soldiers, Sturm. This is what they pay us for, to fight and die for Fuhrer and Fatherland. It's glorious, isn't it? The Great Game."
Not glorious for those prisoners you ordered to be shot, Standartenfuhrer.
"If you say so, Sir."
"I do. Go to Saint-Lo, and find out what they need." He handed him a sealed envelope, "You may also deliver this to the Commanding Officer, SS Headquarters in Saint-Lo. Take a Kubelwagen, but watch out for enemy aircraft."
"Yes, Sir."
He walked out of Headquarters and found a Feldwebel in the transport section who reluctantly parted with one of the VW derived vehicles. As he drove away, he felt exultant. They'd sent him to the very place he wanted to go. All he needed now was to locate Margot Caron. He'd saved her once from American deserters. Now he needed to save her from his own people.
As he drove past flooded fields, burned out tanks and trucks with corpses lying alongside, unburied and unmourned, he wondered at himself. Why had this quest to save Margot Caron become such an obsession? He was a Wehrmacht officer, fighting a rearguard action against an overwhelming host of invading American, British, and Canadian troops. Some said there were also French troops pouring ashore. Yet he felt bound to concentrate his efforts on saving this one French girl.
The answer was simple. It wasn't just that she was pretty. No, it was more than that. When he'd saved her from the deserters, she became his responsibility. It was as if fate had placed him there at that particular time and place. As if his entire war had distilled into this single effort to salvage some common decency amidst the slaughter and outright murder.
Save Margot Caron, and he may save something of the soul of humanity with this single act. Saving Margot Caron would go some way toward saving his own soul.
Is that a good enough reason to go to such lengths? I am prepared to give my life if necessary. Yes, it is enough.
Satisfied he'd put it straight in his mind, he drove on through the war-ravaged countryside toward Saint-Lo to free Margot Caron, or die in the attempt. An hour later, he swerved into a ruined barn as enemy armor appeared in the distance. They hadn't seen him, but they drove past his hiding place and stopped less than half a kilometer away. His route to Saint-Lo was now completely blocked. He camouflaged the Kubelwagen with bales of hay and broken pieces of farm machinery, and settled down to wait.
* * *
Five miles outside Saint-Lo, 07.30, July 11, 1944
On the way to Saint-Lo they'd passed a litter of destroyed armor. German armor, for the most part, and the majority had fallen victim to a succession of Allied air attacks. They were forced to stop at one time and take a break while an engineer unit bulldozed a couple of tangled wrecks aside to clear the road.
"Where the hell is their Air Force, the Luftwaffe?" Dale asked as they drove past the wrecked Panzers, "I mean, we were told they were this elite kickass outfit. So what are they up to, letting our bombers blast the crap out of their Panzers? Not that I'm complaining," he added hastily. "It's just strange. Like, do they know something we don't?"
"Like there're a few million Russians chasing their Nazi asses on the Eastern Front?" Solly grinned.
"Yeah, it could be that," he nodded his head, "If they're over there, they're not over here."
"Right."
"Fucking Tigers are over here," Dale asserted grimly, "You all laughed, but you saw that damn great tank. That wasn't any kind of a joke. Clever, too, the way he disappeared."
"Why would he do that?" Grant mused, more to himself. He'd been thinking about where the Tiger had disappeared to, what did they have to fear from a Sherman? He could have turned his turret through a hundred and eighty degrees and shot the shit out of them.
So why didn't he do it? Weird.
They stiffened as a jeep rolled up and halted next to them. A general was sitting inside, and he didn't look too happy.
"Sergeant, what're you men doing here? Are you part of the 745th?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Where've you been?"
Grant shrugged. "Here and there." He wanted to say, 'Fighting a war,' but he thought better of it.
"Why aren't you with your battalion? My men are getting shot to pieces while you sit here in the sun drinking coffee."
They hadn't seen any sun, not for several days, just a persistent, damp drizzle. And they weren't drinking coffee, although if that had any, they would have.
"We're waiting for the road to clear, General."
He pointed at the engineers toiling in the rain, their slickers gleaming as it fell on them in torrents. The General glared at the bulldozers, as if they were inventing an excuse. "As soon as it's clear, you join your unit. Have you seen any action yet?"
He thought about the brush with the heavy Panzers and their pursuit of the Tiger. They'd fought several actions since against entrenched Panzergrenadiers, including STUGs and anti-tank artillery, even a unit of Fallschirmjager who'd fought like demons.
"Some."
"Some." The General stared at him, "Define some, Sergeant." His voice sounded dangerous.
Grant gave him a rough estimate of the men and armor they'd destroyed, and the General managed to look impressed.
"You can back up those figures?"
"It's all in the log, Sir."
He licked his lips but eventually decided they were on the level. He even managed to smile.
"You've done well. Catch up with your Company. We're about to renew the attack on Saint-Lo. See if you can kill a few more of those Krauts."
"We will, Sir."
"That's the spirit. Carry on."
He leapt back into his jeep and drove away. Senior officers were more used to the bigger, more luxurious Dodge Command Cars, with comfortable seats and a quieter more powerful engine. Problem was, the Jerries knew that, too. They saw a Dodge Command Car, and they'd let all hell loose in an effort to kill it; after too many losses amongst senior officers, most decided to rough it in Willys jeeps.
"What was all that about?" Dale asked, watching the jeep disappear in the direction of Saint-Lo.
"I think that was the officer in command of VIII Corps, General Troy H Middleton," Grant told him.
"What did he want?"
"He wants Saint-Lo, I guess. That's where we're all headed."
The engineer shouted across to them and waved. The road was clear enough for a Sherman to drive through. They mounted up, and he gave the order for Angel to drive away toward Saint-Lo.
* * *
Three miles outside Saint-Lo, 09.30, July 11, 1944
There was no need for directions; flames lighted the countryside ahead of them as the battle for Saint-Lo got into gear. Angel headed for the columns of smoke that decorated the sky. As they drew nearer, they began to encounter the wrecks of American vehicles, and the reason for the destruction quickly became obvious. The first indication of trouble was the whistling noise in the air.
"Incoming!"
He ducked inside the turret and secured the hatch. Solly was already looking for a target, but when he found it, it was way out of range, a low hill commanding the approaches to the town. The shell exploded four hundred yards away, and Grant decided to take a look outside.
He threw open the hatch and looked in the direction of the hill.
The town will be a bastard to take, no question.
Protected by marshy ground and flooded fields, the hillside sparkled with the flash of explosions as the German defenses threw out a curtain of heavy fire. He checked his map for the location of the biggest concentration of enemy guns. Hill 192.
Even as he looked at the surrounding countryside, he knew it'd be a hard job. The River Vire wound its way past the town, a natural line of defense. The Germans had flooded yet more fields, and the maze of bocage was a formidable defensive position. Of one thing he was sure, they were going to take a number of losses before they entered the town.
The rain still fell in constant miserable, cold sheets, destroying visibility and making the ground underfoot treacherous for the infantry who'd need to take the town. The hull of Minnie Mouse was slick and shiny, as if she'd been coated with gloss paint. In the sky the clouds were low, making air operations difficult, if not impossible. Any aircraft approaching would have to fly straight and low, right into the clusters of AA guns the enemy had sited around the town.
A bastard, no question!
He gave the order to advance, and they continued toward the devastation. An MP sergeant was directing traffic at an intersection, his face a mask of misery as he endured the pouring rain, with water streaming from his helmet and rubber poncho. They stopped to ask directions, and at first he glared at them.
"Are you the guys supposed to be taking that town?"
Grant nodded. "What of it?"
"Get a move on and get it done. I'm freezing my butt off out here while you boys travel in luxury inside those tin cans. Give that message to the guy in charge."
"Yeah, that should impress him. I'll be sure to mention it."
"You do that."
The MP pointed to a turning a couple of hundred yards further along the road.
"You turn in there, and you'll find them a few hundred yards along that lane. Can't miss 'em."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
As they drove away, Grant looked back and saw him trying to light a cigarette. After a half dozen attempts, he cursed and threw it into the mud.
I pity the poor bloody infantry going up that hill.
Lindbergh was near the entrance to Battalion HQ, reaming out one of his company commanders, so he ignored them when they drove in. Probably he didn't realize they'd been missing again. They saw found Morgan's pitiful remnant of a company, two tanks, at the far corner. Dan Kuruk had managed to find yet another replacement Sherman; this one patched together after the crew perished when an AP shell exploded inside the hull. He came out to greet them, his dark, Indian face a picture of misery in the pouring rain.
"You made it back."
"Yeah, we had a disagreement with a Tiger."
"At least you're alive to tell the tale."
"Amen to that. They gave you another Sherman, I see."
He nodded. "The engineers patched her up, and it took us a couple of hours to wash away the blood from inside." He grimaced, "At least she'll keep us out of the rain."
He thought of that MP. "Right. Where's the Major?"
"He's with Lindbergh. Didn't you see him when you came in? Our fearless leader is giving orders for the first attack. That'll be inside the next couple of hours. The 29th are going in, and we're their support."
"What're we up against?"
Dan shrugged. "The usual. Panzergrenadiers, our Intel suggests they have a couple of companies of heavy Panzers, and three or four rifle battalions. Enough to make it tough, you saw the approaches to the town on the way in?"
"I did. I only wish the rain would stop for the footsloggers."
"Don't we all. That muddy hill dominates the line of attack, and the infantry has to go that way. The moment they start, all hell's gonna break loose."
He stopped as Morgan walked toward them. He was smiling, although he looked tired.
"Where've you been this time? Chasing another Tiger?"
"Same one, Major."
"How can you tell?"
He shrugged. "I just know, Sir."
"Hmm. I've been having a row with Colonel Lindbergh. He's upset I keep losing tanks. He wanted to assign me to Headquarters Company, I guess so he could keep an eye on me. He didn't believe I had three Shermans left until I saw you roll in. You know we're about to move out?"
"I do, Sir. Dan told me."
He nodded, and they looked across to Kuruk's battered replacement. One of his crew was holding a poncho to ward off the rain while Dan painted the name on the turret.
"He's calling it Cochise again. I'm not sure it's lucky," Morgan muttered.
"They're alive, Sir. That's all the luck we need out here."
"I guess you're right. Grab some chow, and make sure you're ready to leave in," he looked at his watch, "an hour and forty minutes."
"Yes, Major."
They located a fuel bowser and filled Minnie with gas. To give Lindbergh his due, the Battalion had worked a miracle and brought up plenty of fuel and ammo to fill the empty tanks. Grant wondered if he'd missed his forte, a job in logistics. Behind the canvas-covered shelter, they could see many more drums of fuel, readied for the coming battle. There was another pile of stores further back, covered by a heavy tarpaulin. They were not drums of gas. These were coffins and bales of rubber body bags. As essential for the business of war as shells, bullets, and gas.
They heard the shouted orders, and the noise of engines starting up, plumes of smoke from the exhausts venting into the air, the stench of the fumes. Morgan's voice came over the Company net.
"A Company, prepare to move out."
"Three tanks, some fuckin' Company," Vern sneered from inside, "We..." His voice was drowned as Angel started up the big, 400 horsepower Continental air-cooled gas engine.
Grant watched the Major's Sherman move out and gave the order.
"Driver, move out."
They made it less than five hundred yards from the assembly point before the German artillery found them. A couple of shells smashed into the ground around them, and then the battle became a bloodfest. A German shell found a Sherman that became a smoking pyre. The infantry slogged through the mud, slipping and sliding on the treacherous hillside, keeping low to avoid the shrapnel. Grant began to wonder if this was the way to go about taking the town after whole platoons of infantry fell victim to the remorseless gunfire, and yet the Germans were too far out of range to hit back. The cloud base was still too low for effective air support, and at first it looked as if they'd beaten off the attack before they'd even got half way.
An enormous explosion sounded only yards away from inside an apple orchard they were driving past, and then another explosion, and another. He glanced through the trees and glimpsed the American artillery returning fire. A battery of 105 mm M2A1 howitzers had gone into action. Seconds later they were joined by two other batteries. The high explosive shells, each weighing thirty-five pounds, began to hammer at the enemy position up on the hill with a huge, rolling barrage. The noise was deafening. Each M2A1 was capable of a rate of fire of fifteen shells a minute, and the top of Hill 192 was wreathed in smoke and flames, almost like an erupting volcano.
From the infantry huddled in muddy ditches, he heard a mighty cheer. The men clambered out of their trenches and foxholes, even from behind stout trees where they'd been sheltering, and resumed their advance. Angel drove on, and behind them the howitzers continued to pound their targets.
Soon, they were leading a bunch of infantrymen, who used the bulk of Minnie for cover from the bullet and shrapnel filled slopes. Every hedgerow on the approaches had been turned into a strongpoint, and they had to be destroyed before they could advance further. Minnie led the way, and Angel smashed their Sherman through hedgerows twice the height of the tank, using the Culin device attached to the front.
