Fury of the Tiger, page 27
"The Nazi fuckers are preparing to leave, and those trucks will be to carry away our money."
He chuckled. "We haven't got our hands on it yet, but it looks that way."
"We don't have much time."
"No. We'll shoot up the vehicles and personnel with machine gunfire as soon as we round the corner. That'll stop 'em getting away."
"They'll lock and bolt those doors as soon as they hear us start shooting."
"That's why you have a main gun."
Solly smiled. "And there's me thinking it's just for killing Germans. Now I know it's for relieving them of their dough as well."
"Right. I'll talk to the others. We need to coordinate the attack."
Allendale, Morgan, and Kuruk had stopped their vehicles and climbed down for a look-see. Grant stopped them before they gave the game away and explained the layout just around the corner.
"Remember, we're stuck for time. The Krauts are trying to hightail it, and they're loading their valuables on the trucks right now. Our own army is about to level the place with high explosive. Between the two of them, we have to drive in fast, shoot up the trucks and personnel, and put a shell through the main doors. Don't shoot at anything else. There are prisoners inside."
"Don't forget the money," Allendale reminded him with a glare, as if they were about to leave without it.
"And the money, yeah. As soon as the door blows, and when we know the troops in the square are all dead, Lieutenant Anderson's infantry will go in and secure the building. The armor stays outside, in case they get a chance to call for reinforcements."
"What about you?" Morgan asked, knowing what he had at stake.
"I'll go in with the infantry. Solly, you'll have command of Minnie Mouse. Look after her for me."
He chuckled. "It's a deal. Just look after my share of the dough, Sarge." He looked around and grinned, "This is going to be a piece of cake. Take the loot, kill a few Krauts, and off to Palestine to settle on a nice little kibbutz. What could go wrong?"
Before anyone could reply, the first Panzer nosed around the corner.
Chapter Eleven
Two kilometers outside Saint-Lo, 20.30, July 11, 1944
"We had a call from Standartenfuhrer Meyer's headquarters, Sir. They've sighted American armor inside Saint-Lo. We're ordered to go there immediately and destroy them."
"American armor inside Saint-Lo? How the hell did they get there? They told us the American attack had stalled?"
"Perhaps their information was incorrect, Obersturmfuhrer," his radio operator said tactfully.
"You mean they lied, Wilhelm?"
Schneider didn't reply. They were all too aware of Lenz, only a couple of meters away. He would be listening intently, desperate to pass on any defeatist or treacherous talk to his relative, Standartenfuhrer Schulz. Rolf surveyed the ground on the approaches to the town where a furious exchange of fire had taken place earlier. A few stray shells still arced overhead, but in the darkness it was impossible to make out who was shooting at whom. He sighed; there probably weren't American tanks inside the town. They were just panicking. But he had his orders, and there was only one way to find out.
"Franz, drive into Saint-Lo. We'll take a look and see if this report is true. Heinrich, load AP, in case we're facing enemy armor. All of you stay alert. We don't want any nasty surprises."
"Jawohl, Obersturmfuhrer."
He kept his head outside the turret, enjoying the cool night air, despite the cold drizzle. With any luck, the report would be a false alarm, and they could rejoin their unit. They were sorely needed. The 12th SS Hitler Jugend had linked up with Panzer Lehr to make an armored force that should have been formidable. Until the bombs and shells had ripped the guts out of their armored divisions.
Their mission was to keep the enemy out of the town, presenting them with an overwhelming armored force. No man was in any doubt the American assault on Saint-Lo would be decisive. If the town fell, the arteries that led east would be wide open. The future of France was at stake. And if the Russians and the Allies kept squeezing, well, their next step would be the Reich itself.
He felt his anger rise, thinking of the number of times he'd heard the military experts, the Generals, even the Fuhrer in the early days, warn of the perils of a two front war. Yet after the sacrifice of the lives of millions of German soldiers, and with the Reich itself laid waste by the enemy bombers, they'd fallen neatly into that trap.
He saw a flash as a shell fired. It came from inside the town, so perhaps they were right. Another shell exploded, a medium.
Shermans, probably.
As they drew nearer the town, he felt something strange. That feeling again, clammy, ice-cold, it gripped his body to warn him he was going to meet his fate.
Will I die in that crappy little town? Will it all end in a blinding flash when an AP shell penetrates the hull of my Tiger? Is that Sherman waiting for me, the one I first saw on the beach? Yet how is it possible the American tank is inside the town, the one they painted the name Minnie Mouse on the hull? Out of all the thousands of American tanks they landed on the beaches, it hardly seems possible it could be THAT tank.
And yet, he couldn't shake off the feeling. Somehow, he knew. They were here. He looked at each hand, one by one. They were both shaking.
What would it mean if they met inside the town? A Sherman would need to get very close to destroy them, probably a hit from the rear. So why was he so worried? If his crew were doing their job, they'd be fine. Besides, no one but a fool would allow enemy armor to get that close. Yet inside the narrow streets of a French town, they would be close. Close quarters fighting. There was a risk.
He contemplated buttoning up inside the turret, but then he laughed at his fears. He was in command of the mightiest tank on the battlefield, and here he was behaving like a frightened kid. An American tank opposed him that had the absurd name of Minnie Mouse painted on the hull. He reminded himself, tigers ate mice.
That's the way it would be, in the event they tangled with the inferior American machine. It didn't help a lot. He couldn't help feeling uneasy. He kept his head out of the hatch, ignoring the chill rain that soaked him to the skin. If this was to be the end, who cared about a little rain? He chuckled to himself, what was he thinking.
We’ll find that Minnie Mouse, gobble her up, and spit out the bones. Hals und Beinbruch!
* * *
Town of Saint-Lo, 20.55, July 11, 1944
"Shoot the fucker!"
"There's another one right behind him."
"Jesus, another. That makes three."
"AP loaded."
"Fire!"
They'd been lucky. For some reason, the Panzers hadn't been aware the American tanks were so close. Solly's first shell scored a lucky hit on the base of the turret, an inch below the mantlet, and the first Panzer IV came to a stop with smoke pouring out of the hull. The second and third tanks put on speed, and the turrets began to turn. Allendale's M10 fired, and the longer, heavier 76mm shell turned another Panzer IV into a smoking, flaming ruin. The third vehicle halted abruptly, allowing Morgan's shell to whistle past and bury itself in a nearby building. The German driver slammed his vehicle into reverse, and a couple of seconds later he was out of sight.
Morgan charged across the open ground, pursuing the fleeing German, and Kuruk went with him. Anderson's infantry had dismounted and were milling around, uncertain about what to do. It was still an enemy held town, and at any second they were liable to run into more German armor.
The M10 came alongside Minnie, and Allendale climbed on top of the turret to shout across.
"What's the deal, Josh? Do we leave 'em to chase down that Panzer while we carry on to the target?"
"That's what we're here for," Lieutenant Anderson called up to them, "You need to give the order."
His men were grouped around him, waiting on his reply. Waiting to go in and grab the dough. Grant realized he was the de facto commander. They looked to his commands to keep them alive, and to make them rich. But they were right. Two Shermans could deal with a single Panzer IV, and right now they had the advantage of surprise, which they were about to lose if they didn't move fast.
He looked across at the stone edifice opposite. The sentries were gone, and the massive doors firmly shut. It had to be now or never. If he left it too late, they could meet German reinforcements, or the American barrage would start.
"We go in. Stand by, wait for us to blast the main doors."
The soldiers looked content with the plan. They wanted to make sure of their money.
"Solly, load HE. As soon as we've fired, I'll go with the infantry to find Margot. Look after Minnie. She's all we've got to get us home. Gunter, I want you with me."
"Of course," the German replied calmly.
He looked at the infantry. "Are you ready?"
"I know my job, Sergeant," Anderson snapped.
He nodded. "Stand by."
A second before Solly fired, a German machine gun crew doubled around the corner and set up an MG42 directly in front of the doors.
"Fire."
When the smoke cleared, the doors had disappeared, along with the machine gun and its crew. There were just scraps of wood, steel, and flesh painted with blood. Anderson raced forward, leading his men, and as soon as they were inside, the shooting started. Grant shouted," She's all yours, Solly," as he grabbed his M2 carbine, vaulted to the ground, and ran.
Dale had taken over the gun, and Vern would load. It would never have worked before. Vern would have made it impossible, loading for a black gunner. On the other hand, money changed everything. Even prejudice.
He dodged across the square with Gunter at his heels, but there was no attempt by the enemy to stop them. They were either dead, or they'd run. He almost tripped over a German helmet in the doorway, recovered, and sped through the front into the building. Bodies were strewn in the hall, some killed in the blast, others gunned down by Anderson's men.
"The basement," Gunter shouted over the racket, the sound of automatic fire, rifle bullets, and the crash of tank shells.
It seemed unlikely the Germans had brought up more armor. With any luck, Morgan was disposing of the last Panzer IV. The cell had to be in the basement, of course. It was always in the basement where evil men carried out their dark deeds. Hidden from the harsh, bright glare of public scrutiny. Half of Anderson's squad was racing up the wide staircase, while the rest of them busted into the Gestapo Commandant's office on the first floor. Gunter had told them the treasury was in a storeroom inside.
Good luck to them, to all of them. I don't want the money. I want the girl. Margot.
They reached the foot of the staircase, and a hail of bullets chipped stone from the wall behind them, forcing them back. Someone down there had a machine pistol, and they weren't about to surrender.
"Give me your pistol," Gunter pleaded, "I will distract him while you take the shot."
He was wary about giving a weapon to an enemy, but he decided it was worth the risk. The guy hadn't brought them this far just to sell them out. He handed over the Colt.
"What're you planning to do?"
"Kill him," the German answered. His voice was casual.
"It may not work out the way you're planning, buddy. He could kill you, unless you're careful."
"Another death?" Gunter smiled, "Why would one more concern you, Sergeant, when there have been so many? What is important is that we free this girl before they kill her."
"Sure, but you don't want to die in the attempt."
"Do I not?"
He hesitated only a second, then he was gone, sprinting around the corner, and another fusillade of shots exploded from whoever was back there. Grant followed, and as he left the safety of the stairwell, he was forced to duck low as bullets chipped stone next to his head. The unknown shooter had been waiting for them, and Gunter was stretched out on the floor, blood oozing from his body. He looked dead, but then his head moved a fraction. More gunshots cracks out, and in the flashes he could see the German sheltering in a recess, or maybe it was a doorway. Whatever, it was impossible to get in a clear shot.
Gunter's sacrifice was all for nothing.
It was an impasse. The German broke the silence first.
"Drop the weapon, American. Unless you want to die like your treacherous friend."
He spoke English with a harsh, guttural accent. He studied the other man. His face was almost a caricature of sneering brutality. If anyone wanted to look the evils of the Nazi regime in the face, this was it. The man held an MP38, and Grant wondered how many shots it had fired. Not enough to be empty, almost certainly. Which meant there'd be enough left in the clip to finish him off. Besides, the guy had the drop on him.
Maybe he could bring up his M2 up and pull the trigger before the other man reacted, but he doubted it. This was a Jerry who lived for the kill, and he'd be praying that Grant made the move. He looked down as Gunter's lips moved, framing a word, two words.
Just two words, but he couldn't make them out. A trickle of blood seeped out of his mouth, and he saw the man's head move slightly. A nod, and then it came to him.
Do it, that's what he said. Does he have some kind of a plan? But he’s dying, his blood leaking out to the cold, dusty floor.
"I said drop the weapon, American."
He glanced at the man, and then at Gunter again. His right hand was held in an awkward position beneath his body.
Does he have a gun in that hand? He has to. Otherwise, we’ll both die.
"Okay, pal, take it easy. I'm putting the gun down."
He carefully placed the M2 on the stone floor and stood up to face the German.
"I didn't come to kill you, pal. I just want the girl."
He knew there was no way the sadist would give him anything, but he needed to give Gunter time to make his move. He edged forward, moving his arms to attract the attention of the Nazi, keeping it friendly. Hoping it would take his attention from the bleeding soldier on the floor. Assuming he was right, and Gunter did have a gun in his right hand.
The Nazi's sneer widened. "You're so stupid, you Americans. Do you honestly believe you can defeat Germany with such a feeble, weak attitude to war?"
He pronounced Germany, 'Chairmany.' Grant suppressed a smile. It wasn't even remotely funny.
"We're not doing so badly, last time I checked."
The sneer disappeared and his expression darkened. "You've achieved nothing! We have secret weapons which the Fuhrer will unleash on your puny armies and send them home in coffins."
Grant nodded. "Uh huh. He's leaving it a bit late, isn't he, your Fuhrer? A lot of your soldiers have died here in France, Africa, Italy, and in Russia. When do these things appear, these secret weapons, this year, next year, or the year after, maybe? If I was Adolf, I wouldn't leave it too late."
He was taunting him deliberately and knew he was taking a chance. The SS man raised his weapon, and Grant stared into the small, dark hole at the wrong end of an MP38.
"The Fuhrer will show them to the world when he is ready. And you, American, will not live to see it. You have come here to die."
Grant tensed, about to lunge for the M2. He knew he'd miscalculated. Gunter wasn't going to make a move. He only had that one tiny chance to grab for the gun. He started to move, and the German's eyes widened as his finger tightened on the trigger. It was the last move he made. With a supreme effort, Gunter twisted his body over to free the Colt .45 automatic, and he fired a single shot. It struck the Nazi in the throat, and he staggered backward, clutching at the wound. Blood was pouring down his uniform even as he tried to bring the MP38 back to the aiming position. It was too much for his waning strength, and he dropped the weapon as he fell to the floor. Blood oozed onto the stone in a gathering pool.
Grant snatched up the M2 to cover him, but he was a gonna. He turned to Gunter.
"That was some shooting. How bad is it?"
"I'll live, for now," he replied, "Let's go find the girl."
He helped the German to his feet and gestured at the Nazi who was gasping for breath through his ruined throat.
"What about him? We should put him out of his misery. It'll only take a single bullet."
"No! He deserves a slow death, and that will be more mercy than he showed to his victims."
Grant shrugged, and they walked past the shuddering body. At the end of the corridor the cell door was closed but unlocked, and they pushed their way in. Margot was inside, her face covered in cuts and bruises, and her eyes screwed up in pain. Father Bouchet lay nearby, his hands and ankles covered in dried blood. There was a third man in the cell. An SS officer, Grant corrected himself; the cuff titles were different. The initials SD were embroidered in silver on a black patch.
So this was a member of the infamous Sicherheitsdienst, the Nazi SS intelligence service, a Standartenfuhrer, from his rank badges. The rank of colonel, he recalled from his briefings. They said that any prisoner of his rank should be taken to Headquarters for interrogation. Yet this man wasn't going anywhere. He had his arm locked around Margot's throat. His other hand held a Luger 9 mm Parabellum pistol, pointed at her head. His expression was calm, and he studied them for a moment before he spoke.
"If you want her to die, carry on and arrest me. Otherwise, get out."
"No!"
It was Gunter who shouted, and the SD officer shot a glance at him. "No? You want me to kill her?"
