Fury of the Tiger, page 3
A scion of an old money, heir of a patrician family, he was a solid, Ivy League American WASP personified. Tall and lean, with carefully styled sandy colored hair, everything about him was controlled. His appearance, his uniform, his career, even sex with his wife, so they said, had an allocated time slot in his careful schedule. Lindbergh was one hundred percent ambitious. He was also stupid beyond belief.
Every man devoutly prayed the Krauts would target Lindbergh's vehicle first. It was not an unreasonable hope; his command Sherman was festooned with aerials, which enabled him to communicate both with his Company commanders and Division. Although Grant suspected there was some vague law of Universal Chance that would keep him alive, while other Shermans, less visible, would be destroyed. One thing they all knew was if Lindbergh survived long enough to get ashore, his ambition to win medals and glory was liable to get them all killed.
Grant's crew was already clambering into the hull. He took a last look around at the vast armada of ships and men surrounding him, all heading the same way, into the inferno. Then he stepped up onto the hull and climbed down through the hatch into the turret. Inside the dim interior, stinking of grease and rubber, sweat, and terror, Angel had taken his position in the driver's seat. Vernon was settling into the adjacent co-driver's position behind the breech of the machine gun. Solly and Dale were busy with the main gun, preparing to fire their first 75mm greeting at the German enemy. He pulled on his headphones and connected the plug. He was ready. They were ready, as ready as they could be. He recalled the famous lines of Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade.
'Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.
Into the Valley of Death, rode the six hundred.'
He smiled to himself. That about sums it up. We’re the six hundred, riding into the Valley of Death. At least we know the reason why, unlike those poor Brit Light Brigade cavalrymen at the Battle of Balaclava, during the Crimean War. Kill Krauts, that's all they said. Kill enough of 'em, and you'll end the war. That’s good enough reason.
He could hear the ping of shell fragments, rifle and machine-gun bullets, as they began to come under fire. It was like a hail of scrap iron hammering at the loading ramp, and then underneath his feet, he felt a slight lurch as the LCT nudged a sandbar at the edge of the shallows. Morgan's voice came on the radio.
"Six minutes, men, stand by. Commanders, button up, there's a lot of metal flying around out there. And good luck."
He reached up, pulled the thick armored hatch closed, and settled himself into the cramped turret. The engine roared as Angel started up. In front of him through the viewing slot, he saw the ramp begin to lower. Minnie Mouse was going to war.
The mouse squeaks. And how!
He keyed the transmit button on his mike.
"Gunner, load HE. Stand by to fire."
Vernon's voice came out of the gloom, "Watch out for those fucking Tigers!"
Grant mentally grimaced. He was fed-up with listening to Vernon's constant whining about the German heavy armor. Although the Southerner did have a point, every one of them was rightly overawed by the reputation of the enemy heavy armor. If the Germans brought up their Tigers, King Tigers, and Panthers in one huge, armored force, they'd be unstoppable. They'd squash Minnie Mouse like a fly, as well as the rest of the Allied armor. Northern France would become little more than a massive killing ground, and afterward, there'd only be fields of scrap metal, mixed with the bloody flesh of the tank crews.
He looked ahead. They were nearly there. The ramp was dropping, and ahead of them the Germans waited, to kill them.
"Fire!"
* * *
Two kilometers outside Dreux, Northern France, 06.00, June 6, 1944
He watched the cyclist pedaling along the road past the farmhouse where he slept along with the rest of his crew. The bombs and shellfire had awakened them in the early hours, and they'd dressed and waited for the order to move. Since then, there'd been only silence from HQ in the nearby medieval town of Dreux. He'd called three times already, and the last time, the battalion commander, Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist, had chewed him out.
"I'm damn busy collating intelligence from the coastal batteries, Rolf. It's just possible this is the real thing. I do have a little more to occupy my time than chatting to my junior Panzer commanders."
"Yes, Sir, I understand! Sorry Sir."
Kleist softened a little. "I'm doing my best, Rolf. The truth is there's nothing we can do, not yet. We're all waiting on Berlin. Apparently, the Fuhrer is still asleep."
"I beg your pardon, Sir!" He was sure he hadn't understood.
"You heard correctly the first time; he's in bed, asleep. His staff refused to call him. They said he needs his rest. No, don't say a word, you don't know who's listening! I'll call you the second I hear. How are the boys holding up?"
"They can't wait to get into the fight, Sturmbannfuhrer."
"Is that right? So our brave young warriors are ready to lead us to victory, our young Nazi heroes. I feel encouraged by your assurance, Rolf."
SS Obersturmfuhrer Rolf Manhausen made no comment. Both men knew the truth. The 12th SS Panzer Division Hitler Jugend was a newly formed Waffen-SS heavy armored division. They were unique because the senior NCOs and officers were, like him, veterans of the Eastern Front. The crews were not veterans of the Eastern Front or any other front.
They were kids, all of them, some as young as only fourteen. So young they were supplied with candy and soda instead of the standard tobacco and alcohol ration. There was no doubt they'd fight with admirable enthusiasm. Everyone knew they could be relied on to make up for lack of experience with their fierce fanaticism and loyalty to the Fuhrer. Except there were times when experience was needed more than loyalty, if the enemy was not to slaughter them wholesale in their first encounter.
They had problems other than the inexperience of the crews and the enemy. The ominous SD Standartenfuhrer Werner Schulz had arrived from Berlin. A high-ranking officer from the SS Security Office, the SD, he was also the uncle of his loader, Siegfried Lenz. Standartenfuhrer Schulz claimed to be nosing around Normandy to root out a possible plot against the Fuhrer. So far, all he'd done was make a thoroughgoing nuisance of himself. He had also found nothing. But when had a lack of evidence worried the SD or the Gestapo?
He continued to dog their footsteps and make absurd allegations. Two nights ago, he'd even suggested Rommel was planning to assassinate the Fuhrer. Rolf Manhausen started to laugh until Schulz informed him, with a face like thunder, that even his sense of humor constituted treason.
"A threat against the Fuhrer is no laughing matter, Manhausen."
"But, Sir, Feldmarschal Rommel? It's absurd. I hold him in the highest regard. We all do."
"Is that right?" Schulz's expression was almost benign, and he smiled gently, "I imagine you support him in all things."
He wasn't about to betray the legendary Feldmarschal, Schulz or no. "Rommel? Of course, I support him to the hilt."
"I see." He looked around at the crew, "You just heard Obersturmfuhrer Manhausen openly admit he would support a possible threat against the Fuhrer. Young Lenz, you heard the remark?"
"Yes, Uncle, of course. Sorry, Standartenfuhrer. It constitutes treason."
"Treason, yes." His voice cracked, like a whip, harsh and hard. "Manhausen, I don't trust your loyalty. Consider yourself under arrest until this investigation is concluded."
Rolf gaped at him. "Arrest?"
"Open arrest. You will continue with your duties. I will decide whether to take this matter further at a later stage. You will stay with your Panzer, even when the crew is stood down. Is that clear?"
"It is clear, Standartenfuhrer," he acknowledged, careful to keep his expression neutral.
It’s absurd. Rommel? Impossible. And me, a Tiger commander on active service placed under arrest, and in the middle of a battle for our very survival. Insanity. Then again, it's unlikely we'll survive the coming days. In which case, all this is so much hot air.
Standartenfuhrer Schulz went on to instruct the other crewmen they could also be regarded as co-conspirators, if they did not take a threat against the Fuhrer's life seriously. Lenz, of course, nodded, his young face puffed with importance. His trust in Adolf Hitler was absolute. He would be happy to testify to Manhausen's treasonous statement.
After that night, they'd kept quiet about Schulz and Rommel; the fate of their Tiger commander was more than a warning to all of them. Having Schulz's relative in their vehicle, SS Sturmann Siegfried Lenz, made their lives even more than dangerous. Lenz took it all so seriously, a single misplace word could be reported to his uncle. The fool even thought they could win the war, when every man in Germany knew the best they could hope for was to grind the Allies into accepting some kind of peace.
Manhausen all but forgot about his open arrest. It was just a form of words, meaningless, unlike bombs and shells. A couple of his crewmen shouted questions at him about their orders, but he ignored them as he walked out the door and across to the barn. It was the only cover sufficiently large to hide their armor from the incessant Allied raids.
They'd lost scores of tanks in the last few days, especially during daylight. As soon as they were on the move, the British and American aircraft came over in waves like angry hornets, bombing and rocketing the Panzers. He'd seen too many comrades die in the blazing pyres of their vehicles, so now they were careful to restrict their movements until after dark, where possible.
He pulled open the small door in the side of the building, to be greeted by the familiar odors of gasoline, oil, and rubber. The stench of burned cordite would come later, after they engaged the enemy. A sound of metal on metal alarmed him, and he put a hand on the butt of his Luger but relaxed when the head of SS Sturmann Franz Schelling, his driver, appeared from under the front of the nearest track. He grinned as he wiped a streak of grease from his face with his sleeve. He only made it worse.
"Obersturmfuhrer! Has the order arrived to advance?"
He smiled. SS protocol was for officers to be called by their actual rank. In the Wehrmacht his rank would have been prefaced by Herr, Schelling would have called him Herr Obersturmfuhrer. In the SS, it was just Obersturmfuhrer.
A shame, I’ve always liked the old formalities. They are so, German.
"No, Franz, not yet. The Fuhrer is asleep, it seems. They do not wish to disturb him."
Schelling stared at him. "Is this some kind of a joke, Obersturmfuhrer?"
He shook his head, feeling exhausted.
Why am I so tired when we haven't even engaged the enemy yet?
"Sadly, no. We must wait for orders, until he awakes."
Franz was about to say something, but he choked off the retort, probably remembering the proximity of Lenz. Manhausen smiled, Schelling was a good man, well, still a boy, all of seventeen years old. A dedicated Nazi, although more fanatical about keeping the mechanics of the Tiger in good working order than the Nazi Party. Although he was a good driver, he had an unfortunate tendency to confuse right from left, which had caused them more than a few problems. Particularly at night when the error wasn't noticed until it was too late. Manhausen nodded at the steel track he'd been working underneath.
"What were you doing under there?"
He shrugged and wiped his greasy hand over his black SS tanker's uniform. "Ach, the torsion bar link to the front drive wheel was loose. I could hear it grinding every time we took a corner. I think I fixed it for now, but it won't last. A new part would be better."
"We don't have a new part, Franz," he said patiently, "You know I tried, but they said spare parts are in short supply."
Which is the same answer they've given me for the past year.
"I understand, Obersturmfuhrer. Is there any news on the gasoline?"
Rolf kept a straight face, even though he was inclined to laugh at the absurdity of it all. And the Fuhrer was asleep in bed. "We'll manage with what we have."
"Yes, Sir."
Until the fuel tanks are empty, when we'll have to abandon our Tiger. Of course, the Allies may drop a bomb on us in the meantime.
"I'm going to stretch my legs. Call the others, and tell them I expect we'll be moving soon."
"At once, Sir."
He nodded and looked up at the formidable main gun. An 88mm shell could destroy anything the Allies sent against them, and at long range. Besides, their frontal armor was nearly a hundred and twenty millimeters thick, safe enough from the shells of the American Shermans and the British Cromwells. Although they were not safe from air attack, or long-range bombardment from the ships offshore, which even now were flinging thousands of tons of shells at targets inland from the coast. The entire region echoed to the constant crump of explosions.
And the Fuhrer is asleep in bed, while we wait for orders.
He walked out of the barn and strolled around the garden that surrounded the house. The fruit trees and flowers were fragrant with blossom, and the scents were a relief from the mechanical, warlike stench of the Tiger. It was all so different from Russia where there'd been no trees and no flowers. Stalin had ordered the earth scorched, so they won their battles only to claim empty, useless territory. He felt the ache in his bones when he thought about that brutal conflict.
He'd been wounded twice, once with a bullet in the leg, and once with a shell fragment in the left side. The leg wound still ached, and he found the only remedy was to stroll around to lessen the stiffness in his joints. It was worse in the mornings, especially during the tension of waiting to be called into action very soon.
His thoughts turned again to Russia where the Reds had finally driven all over them, despite their superior armor. They had Panzer Vs, Tiger Is, like the vehicle he commanded, and now the new Tiger IIs, the so-called King Tigers. Yes, their armor was superior to the Soviets. Until a tank broke down and lay unrepaired for lack of spare parts, or was unable to fight because they had no fuel.
It happened too often, and there was little chance of defending themselves from enemy attack when they couldn't even start the engine. When they could move, the Russians faced them in ever-increasing numbers. What use was a heavy tank, one of the German technological marvels, when the opposition could field twenty of their useful T-34s for every one of your Tigers or Panthers? All too often overwhelming numbers of Soviet armor pulverized their heavy Panzers. As fast as they knocked them out, they replaced them with two, three, or four times their number.
It had seemed like an escape when he was transferred to the 12th SS in France, but now it was all happening again. Like his comrades, he had no illusions. Just as in Russia, they'd be faced with overwhelming armored hordes. The only difference was this time they'd be English and American, instead of brutal Communists. Once more, the Fuhrer would insist they fight to the last man, even when local commanders desperately needed the flexibility to maneuver on a constantly changing battlefield.
He mentally shrugged. They would go out and fight, and if it were humanly possible, they'd win. They were Germans, Waffen-SS, the toughest fighting unit that had ever joined battle. Their tanks were superior to those of the enemy, better armored, and better armed. He felt his spirits lift. They would prevail, his young and inexperienced HJ crew would overcome the obstacles, and if the fates willed it, they'd win.
Provided they had enough petrol to drive to the front and fight. Provided they could locate the spare parts they desperately needed to fix the frequent breakdowns. Provided the Fuhrer awoke and gave permission for them to move. Then they could take on the enemy armor. If they could avoid the enemy air attacks. He smiled to himself.
Too many 'ifs.' A pity I don't have a liter of fuel for every 'if' that awaits the coming battle.
* * *
Omaha Beach - June 6, 1944
They closed the beach, the hull of the LCT already beginning to scrape the bottom.
"Dear God!"
He never made out who shouted. The thunderous roar of artillery shut out all sound other than the ear-splitting salvos. The Naval barrage was continuous, aided by the sharper cracks of the tank main guns and the bombs and rockets from armadas of aircraft that flew overhead. They were using their combined might to smash down the German defenses before the troops left the dubious safety of the ships and drove onto the beach to face the horrors of the massed coastal defenses.
He looked back at the craft that followed them into the shore, and felt helpless as another Sherman DD amphib collided with an LCT, capsized, and sank. Straight to the bottom of the storm-swept English Channel. All that marked the grave of thirty tons of American steel and five American soldiers was just a few scraps of ripped canvas. An angry voice shouted over the radio.
"Target, eleven o'clock, up on the cliff top gun. It's a Kraut gun emplacement! Kill the fuckers!"
The shout came over the battalion net, and he wrenched his eyes away from the stricken Sherman to search for the enemy. He identified a reinforced concrete gun pit built into the top of the cliffs, overlooking Omaha Beach, a threat to all those who dared attempt a landing.
It was possible the gun inside the enclosed emplacement was a dreaded 88mm. In which case, the German could take his time and destroy them all. No tank armor gave protection against the 88, the same gun fitted in the turret of the Tiger tank. The noise grew even louder until it felt as if they were driving into an ironworks. It was like the constant clang of heavy steam hammers.
After they started engines, the fumes from the Sherman exhausts had filled the interior of the enclosed LCT, making them nauseous. The bullet strikes on the ramp increased until they were a continuous ringing noise set to jar their nerves beyond endurance. Some men huddled in corners, and a few were weeping. Other men looked away, embarrassed, or maybe intimidated. A few rounds pinged off the turret armor, a foretaste of the fiery hell that awaited them when they went ashore.
