Fury of the Tiger, page 24
They emerged into one muddy field, and an anti-tank rocked missed the hull by little more than a yard. The shooters were too slow to get out of sight, and Grant saw the movement three quarters of the way down the field as they disappeared into the hedge.
He grabbed the .50 caliber and fired a curtain of heavy slugs that sanitized the entire area. He'd no idea if he'd hit them or not, but no more rockets came from that direction. He thumbed the transmit button.
"Solly, keep her loaded with HE, and watch out for the heavy machine guns. They're here somewhere close by."
"You don't reckon they'll have a STUG stashed down the other end."
"I hope not. No, I don't think so. He'd have appeared by now."
The interior of Minnie reverberated as Vern opened up with the Browning. He'd seen a section of hedgerow drop away as if on a hinge, to reveal the deadly shape of a German machine gun. They got off a half dozen rounds that missed the crouching infantry before Vern's burst cut down the crew. The barrel of the MG42 pointed up in the sky as the burst sliced into the gunner, and he collapsed over the weapon. Angel hit the gas and pressed on across the field. Morgan was on the left flank and Kuruk on the right, the three Shermans on line abreast, able to bring all of their armament to bear. They were watchful for further German defenders, but they'd pulled back to the next field. Morgan called them on the net.
"Sergeant Grant, stay on point and push through the hedge. Let's look and see what they have the other side. Sergeant Kuruk, you and me will go in right behind him. Punch through hard and fast. With any luck, we'll hit them when they think they're lining up to engage a single Sherman. We'll give 'em a surprise and pound them into scrap before they realize it's a different game.
"Copy that, Sir."
They'll have the first few seconds to roast our ass before the other two tanks come through. This is going to be hairy.
Angel accelerated to deal the next hedgerow a mighty blow. The tough, wiry growth grabbed at Minnie's hull, and for a few seconds he thought they weren't going to make it through, but she eventually pushed into the next field with a mighty bellow of engine noise and exhaust smoke. It took them by surprise. The fleeing Germans from the first attack hadn't reached their friends at the other end of the field to warn them. Instead, they were in a straggling group, racing away from them, a half-dozen men in peculiar helmets and baggy smocks.
"Fallschirmjager," Solly exclaimed, "They're Hitler's elite troops. Damn, we need to waste these Nazi bastards."
Dale had already started shooting, and Grant grabbed for the .50 cal to join in the slaughter. He felt both sickened and exulted as they tore the paras to shreds, and their bodies littered the soaking field, the drizzle already washing their blood into the ground. This was close range killing, and as he knocked each man to the ground, he felt some more payback for David. Payback for Margot.
And yet these were men, and killing didn't come naturally to him. He was a lawyer, or had been once. Not a murderer. Shooting down running men didn't seem too many notches above murder. Even so, a kind of craziness took him over, took all of them over. It was an atavistic emotion; he was intelligent enough to realize that, a throwback to the human ancestors that once hunted wooly mammoths with wood and flint spears. Only they weren't mammoths; they were chasing Germans across the muddy field.
A bunch of field-gray soldiers appeared, struggling to push a PAK40 out into the open, but Solly was ready for them. Ready to take vengeance, ready with the HE shell Dale had loaded. The other Shermans had seen the danger, and two HE shells quickly destroyed the crew and the gun. The Germans pushed another anti-tank gun into the open from the other side of the field, and Solly was again ready.
"Target! Ten o'clock, anti-tank gun."
"Fire!"
The fumes filled the interior of the tank as the extractors struggled to clear them, but Dale already had another shell loaded, and Solly fired again. They smashed through yet another hedgerow into another field, and this time it came alive with enemy fire. They'd dug themselves slit trenches right across the field, which made it tough to hit them. The three Shermans blanketed the field with lead, and after they overran the first trench and buried the occupants in the dirt, the rest of the Fallschirmjager melted away.
They punched through more fields, and all the time the artillery duel continued. They finally reached the last of the bocage, and they were out in the open. The infantry came up behind them and assembled for the final push up the hill.
"They need heavy artillery," Solly commented as they watched the preparations for the final assault.
"I think they got it," Grant replied.
A rumble announced the arrival of an American assault gun, a monstrous 155mm artillery piece mounted on a tracked Grant chassis. Named the M12 Gun Motor Carriage, it was capable of flinging a shell weighing a hundred pounds to a range of fifteen miles. A cargo carrier came up behind, loaded with replacement 155mm shells.
"Jeez, I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those," Solly murmured.
The crew of the M12 howitzer swung into action, readying the assault gun for the attack. Within minutes, the big gun started firing, and huge explosions marked where the shells tore into the enemy guns.
"Me neither," he murmured, watching the devastation.
He surveyed the track either side of where they waited. "What the fuck is that?"
A light vehicle had just emerged from a sunken lane some distance away, close to a small wood.
Strange.
* * *
One kilometer outside Saint-Lo, 09.40, July 11, 1944
Sturm was desperate. A battle was raging around the hill that commanded the approaches to Saint-Lo, and if he waited any longer, the Americans would arrive in even greater numbers, and he would never get through. He thought of Margot, cowering in a Gestapo basement, waiting for the knock on the door that would signal the arrival of her executioner. It was now or never. He left some of the branches on the hood of the vehicle and four hay bales in the rear, to change the distinctive silhouette of the Kubi. Then he started the engine and drove away.
There was a track to the east of his position. It looked like it may cut through a gap in the enemy lines and take him straight into the town. He floored the gas pedal, and the Kubi surged forward. He had to follow that route before the armor and infantry came up in greater force and made it impossible. He almost made it.
* * *
Three miles outside Saint-Lo, 09.55, July 11, 1944
"That's not one of ours!"
Even as Solly shouted, Grant could make out the field-gray camo paintwork and the sloped bonnet of the little German utility jeep. Some kind of VW variant, there was no mistake it was the enemy. Solly had already dived into the interior and was shouting for Dale to load HE.
"HE loaded."
"Target acquired."
"Hold it! Hold your fire."
Grant had grabbed for his binoculars and focused on the single occupant of the German jeep.
An officer, no question, and he’s not pointing a gun at anyone. He could be an intelligence officer, worth his weight in gold for the information he has stored in his head. The guy could be carrying maps, orders, codebooks; you name it.
"I have to shoot. He's getting away."
"I said hold it."
Grant grabbed the .50 cal and let loose a stream of bullets that chewed up the ground in front of the hood, forcing the Kraut to a halt. He applied the parking brake, raised his hands in surrender, and waited.
"Angel, take us over there. Vern, keep him covered. I'll talk to him."
He explained about the potential value an intelligence officer, but they grumbled nonetheless.
"Hell, Sarge, he's a Kraut. I've got him bang to rights. It's crazy to leave him alive."
"He's surrendered, Vern. You can see that. It'd be murder if you shot him now."
He heard the Southerner mutter something about, 'fucking lawyers,' but he decided to let it go. He also wanted to kill every Kraut he came across, but he knew it wouldn't bring back the people he'd lost. His brother David, and Margot, who he never even got a chance to know well. Although every Kraut they killed was another German who couldn't keep this fool war going when everyone could see they'd lost. He sighed, except this particular Kraut. He could be valuable. He climbed down from Minnie, drew his Colt .45, and walked up to the peculiar vehicle.
The man was a captain, sure enough. Wehrmacht, not SS. Grant took the Luger pistol from the holster on his belt and tucked it in the pocket of his jacket.
"Do you speak English?"
The man turned his head and nodded. "I do, yes. Captain Gunter Sturm, under the Geneva Convention, I..."
"Shut the fuck up, Sturm. I've got four crewmen on that Sherman who are all itching to put a bullet through you, so just answer my questions, and you may live long enough to get back to your shithouse of a Fatherland. Clear?"
He stared back. "Yes, I understand. Perfectly."
"Where were you headed, Saint-Lo?"
"Saint-Lo, yes."
"You're an intelligence officer?"
Sturm shook his head. "Not intelligence, no. I was a liaison officer for Feldmarschal Rommel's staff."
"Rommel, uh. I guess your troops are retreating to the town to prop up the defenses before we attack. It's okay, pal, it's no secret. So what are you, running away?"
They both ducked as a bunch of shells from Hill 192 landed nearby and threw mountains of earth and hedgerow into the air.
That's one way to do it. Let the Jerries clear the bocage for us.
When the smoke cleared, he saw the bodies strewn on the ground where the shells had hit. He felt like raising his Colt and shooting this man dead on the spot.
Fuckers.
"I was taking a message to the commander from the Ardenne Abbey."
"Ardenne Abbey?"
"Standartenfuhrer Meyer's headquarters."
"Standartenfuhrer? That's SS. You said you were Wehrmacht."
"So I am. As I said, I was a liaison officer."
Grant was suspicious. Solly Rothstein spoke some Yiddish, a bastardized form of German. He shouted for Solly to come down and held out his hand.
"Gimme the message."
The German hesitated, but after a few seconds handed it over. Solly snatched it away from him, with a scowl at the German. He left the man in no doubt what he'd like to do with him. He read the piece of paper and looked at Grant.
"This is crap, just a request for the local commander to arrange a guard and transport for the Divisional payroll and treasury. So this guy Meyer is sending the money back to Germany. Save it for a rainy day. I guess your man's a common thief."
Sturm looked puzzled, and he shook his head. "He is not my man. Meyer is SS. That message..."
"I'll bet he's planning to send back the loot they stole from French Jews before they murdered them," Solly snarled.
Grant watched Sturm for his reaction. There was just a resigned smile. He grabbed the lapels of his tunic. The guy was a Jerry, and he didn't trust him an inch.
"You knew about this?"
"No, I know nothing. Do I know about members of the SS and SD looting stolen artworks and valuables? Yes, I know, they make no secret of it. But I knew nothing of the contents of that message. My job was to assess the strength of our defenses, no more."
"How much have you sent back to the Reich to feather your little nest, Sturm? What do you have, a cozy little Hausfrau looking after it all for you?
He stared back with a firm gaze. "My wife is dead. One of your bomber raids destroyed our home." He closed his eyes; "Thank God she was asleep at the time. She wouldn't have known anything."
"A night raid? That's the Brits, pal, not us. USAAF bombs Germany in daylight. It's the Brits that go over during the night."
"Should that make a difference?" he replied, his lips twisted in irony, "She's dead. That is all."
Grant nodded in sympathy. "Yeah, that's a bad break. So you're just a messenger boy, is that right?"
"I told you, a liaison officer. That message, I was asked to deliver it while I was there."
"What else were you planning to get up to in Saint-Lo?"
"I, er, nothing."
Something in the man's reply didn't read right.
He sounds guilty. Why? He has to be hiding something.
Grant felt his anger intensify. He'd given this guy a break, and now he was lying to him. Maybe he should have let Solly again do his eye for an eye bit. He stared at the man, his eyes conveying a warning. He hoped this guy wasn't too stupid to understand he was in deep, deep shit.
I don't want to kill you, pal, but I'll give you to Solly if I have to.
"Tell me the rest of it. Why were you going to Saint-Lo? And don't give me that messenger crap, there's more to it, I know that. I'm not a fool. I've questioned plenty of guys in the past, enough to know you're lying."
"Those were my orders," Sturm almost shouted, "You can believe me or not. It makes no difference. If I'd known what was in them, I'd have tossed them into the River Vire before I passed on any dispatch that may help the SS loot the Divisional payroll."
"There's something else in Saint-Lo, isn't there? What is it, bank notes, jewelry? Tell me!"
The man shook his head. There was no fear in his eyes.
Does this guy want to die?
"A woman? A girl?"
He went rigid.
So that’s it, Grant smiled to himself, Some interrogation, all I’ve got out of him is the guy was going there to see his girl.
"She your girlfriend?"
"No!" he snapped.
"Sister?" Solly smiled, "What is she, on vacation in the Greater German Reich? Or maybe Hitler's girlfriend?"
"She is French."
"Name," he snapped out.
He felt himself going dizzy when the German said, "Margot Caron." At first, Grant refused to believe it, but how could this guy know of their connection? Sturm went on to explain how he'd rescued her from American deserters, only for her to be arrested by the SD. How she'd been transferred to a Gestapo cell in Saint-Lo and was under sentence of death.
With an effort, he brought his boiling emotions under control.
"Whereabouts in Saint-Lo are they holding her? Do you have the location?"
"Yes, I know the building."
"What is she to you, this Margot Caron?"
Sturm shook his head. "You would not understand. She is the end of war."
"End of war?"
"I've had enough of killing and brutalizing civilians. I'd already decided to surrender to the Allies. This war is nothing more than the mechanized slaughter of the innocents."
"You'd know about that, being a Nazi."
"I am no Nazi," he insisted, "But when I came across Margot Caron, I'd had enough. She is a symbol. That's what she means to me. If I can save her, perhaps my soul will not be totally forfeit."
"You're a Catholic, Sturm?"
"How did you know?"
"A lucky guess. So you planned to rescue her again, is that it? The shining white knight, you in love with her?"
"No."
"How did you intend getting her out, what's the plan?"
The German shrugged. "I have no plan. My intention was to get there first, and then make a plan."
"Now you do have a plan."
"Excuse me?"
"You have a plan. To be exact, you have a Sherman. Minnie Mouse is going in with you."
He shouted up to Dale, who was watching them from the turret.
"Come on down here. I want you to dump that piece of Kraut VW junk into the nearest ditch. Then I need a word with all of you."
The loader looked puzzled, but he climbed to the ground, started the Kubi, and drove it into a field. Halfway across there was a shellhole, and he put the wheels into it, so the hood was half buried in the mud. Then he ripped out as much of the wiring as he could, and for good measure put two shots through the gas tank. The Wehrmacht wouldn't be using that particular Kubelwagen in a hurry.
"The rest of you guys, come here," Grant shouted to them, "I want to talk to you."
They gathered around him, looking curiously at the German, and then back at their tank commander. He quickly explained the situation in Saint-Lo, that Margot Caron, the girl who'd cooked for them, was held awaiting execution.
"I'm going in to get her out, me and Minnie Mouse. This Kraut is coming to show the way. I'd appreciate some help, but if you don't like it, you can start walking back to Battalion."
His declaration was greeted by silence. Vern reacted first.
"Jesus, you only just met the girl, Sarge. I mean; we can't just go in there on a wing and a prayer. They'll murder us. They're fucking SS in that place."
He grinned. "They might. And then again, they might not. I'm planning to go in as soon as it gets dark, so they won't see us coming. We already captured a few SS, they're no big deal."
"They'll hear us coming," Angel said, his Hispanic faced stretched with concern, "You know the German Army has a headquarters in the town."
"Gestapo," Sturm said.
"Oh, great, that's just great." He shook his head, "It's crazy, just crazy."
"There're plenty of Krauts to kill," he said, "We could wind up with a medal if it comes off."
"Krauts to kill? Sounds good to me," Solly said.
"It could be a posthumous medal," Dale pointed out, with a slight smile.
"Maybe."
"I can get you in without being noticed," Sturm interrupted, "There is a way, a sunken lane with bocage on either side that will provide cover for most of the journey."
"Great," Dale stared at Grant, "So we get there alive, and then they kill us. It's not much of a plan."
"The entire town is in chaos," Sturm went on, "Every man has been called to the front, and the rear echelons are loading the trucks with equipment and heading west. They do not believe they can hold out for much longer."
