Fury of the Tiger, page 7
"Gunner, they've changed position, fifty yards behind the cottage, on the other side of the wall."
"Got it."
The motor whined as he rotated the turret to aim at the new target. He was too slow. By the time the first shell hurtled out of the barrel, the two men had slipped away, carrying their machine gun with them. He felt a keen sense of disappointment. The idea of those young infantrymen cut down almost before they'd started rankled. It was something else to settle, like David's death.
What was it they said? ‘Vengeance is a dish best taken cold.’ Something like that.
"Cease fire, they're gone. Driver, keep moving. Follow those men from the 29th."
Angel gunned Minnie's engine, and a cloud of exhaust smoke puffed into the air, almost like he was sending out a smoke signal. They trundled slowly after The Bounty, staying behind the marching men. The Major came back on the net.
"Heads up. The Rangers just reported a sighting of enemy soldiers digging in. They're building ambush positions. The shit's about to hit the fan, so button up."
Grant ducked back inside the turret and slammed the hatch closed, not a second too soon. A bullet pinged off the thick steel where he'd been standing a moment before. He searched through his vision slot, looking for the shooter. A single well-concealed sniper could do terrible damage to those foot soldiers.
"Enemy armor!" Vernon shouted, "Four hundred yards. Jesus Christ, they're Tigers!"
He searched the ground ahead and found the target. There were no Tigers. The enemy had brought up assault guns, three STUG IIIs. The 75mm guns could do wicked damage to a Sherman, and they would murder the exposed infantry, but they were also vulnerable.
"Calm down, Vern. They're STUGs. Gunner, load AP, open fire."
"On the way."
Dale and Solly were ready, and the shell left the gun almost before he'd stopped speaking. A miss, the AP round impacted a stone wall a couple of yards from the lead STUG. The German returned fire, and his shell also missed, but only by inches. Shrapnel from the explosion rattled against the armor. He suddenly realized they were in their first real armored duel. It could also be their last. The Bounty was firing furiously at the STUGs, and then Cochise joined in. Their combined shells knocked out one enemy STUG in an instant. A second assault gun exploded seconds later, but the third was more difficult, hidden behind the burning, smoking wreckage of his pals.
While they fought their duel, the 29th were in more trouble. The secondary armament, an MG34 of the surviving STUG was doing wicked damage to the infantry. He watched with horror as the hail of lead scythed down exposed infantrymen. He itched to close with the STUG and destroy it, but it was impossible. The gun was behind the two wrecked assault guns, well hidden with only the upperworks presenting a limited target. There was no sign of the Panzergrenadiers he knew wouldn't be too far away. They could be waiting with anti-tank artillery, panzerfausts, and more machine guns.
I have to do something.
Desperately, he surveyed the area and then found what he was looking for, a narrow path that would take them around the enemy's flank. It was narrow, much too narrow, but it was enough. Men were dying.
It has to be enough.
"Driver, steer right. Take the narrow path sixty yards ahead. We're going to flank those bastards and hit them where it hurts."
"You got it," Angel sang out.
He pedaled the gas, and the heavy vehicle rocked on its springs as he zigzagged forward to make them a hard target. When he reached the turn, he swung onto the track, which was barely wide enough for a narrow farm cart.
"Hey, Sarge, we ain't gonna get through here. Look up ahead, those houses. There ain't room to take a pedal cycle through there."
"I see 'em. Keep moving."
"Okay."
He sounded dubious, for good reason. They'd only traveled a hundred yards when the path narrowed between two Normandy stone cottages. The Sherman was almost nine feet wide. The gap between the two houses was no more than six. Angel slowed again.
"You sure about this? I mean, we're gonna do some serious damage here."
"Keep moving, driver."
"There could be people inside those houses."
"Then they'll have to jump for it. Knock 'em down if you like, but take us through there."
There was no reply, but Angel gunned the engine to full power, and they picked up speed as the Sherman drove slightly downhill. When they hit the cottages, the big vehicle was doing almost doing thirty miles per hour. Thirty tons of high-grade American steel smashed into the ancient French stonework. Although Minnie checked, there never was any competition. The 470 horsepower, 21-liter Chrysler 30 cylinder engine punched a way through as if the houses were made of mere cardboard. They cleared the cottages out of sight of the enemy, and he pushed the hatch open to survey the ground.
Chunks of masonry fell off the hatch as he opened up, and when he looked behind, the cottages were ripped open, as if by a can opener. The interior of each cottage was on display to the world, neat furniture, a coat hanging on the back of a door, and a burly woman, staring back at him. She caught his eye, raised a fist, and shook it at him. He waved back.
Sorry, lady, I didn't know you were there. Jesus, that was a close one.
A rifle shot whined off the open hatch cover, and he dropped back inside the turret.
"Vern, get on the machine gun. We have a sniper out there somewhere. Find him and kill him before he gets any more of our guys."
"Fuckin' A!"
Grant gripped the butt of his own .50 caliber and checked out the surrounding trees and bushes. The bastard had to be there somewhere. Out of nowhere a bunch of infantry grunts ran forward, a shot cracked out, one of them threw up his hands and pitched forward. But Grant had him now, a couple of trees surrounded by thick bushes. He'd seen the tiny movement of a branch when the bullet left the barrel.
"Vern, ten o'clock, two small trees, bushes at the base. He's inside."
"Yeah, I got him. This one's mine."
He pulled the trigger of the M1919 Browning machine gun, and the bushes danced as the barrage of .30 caliber bullets ripped into them. Grant aimed and fired his .50 cal, and the interior of the tank echoed burst after burst from the two machine guns. The foliage was soon torn into little pieces, along with anyone sheltering inside.
"Cease fire! Driver, halt!"
The stillness was strange, just the low throb of the engine on tick over, the tiny noises of hot metal as the barrel of his machine gun cooled, and a half mile away the thud of artillery and tanks as they slogged it out. It could only be Morgan's Company A, and it looked as if they'd walked into a heap of trouble. There was nothing he could do, and he kept his finger on the trigger while he searched for signs of the enemy, but it was quiet. A big black bird flew down, a crow or a raven, and landed on the ground to start pecking at some invisible morsel. Probably they'd churned up the ground and disturbed a few worms. He grinned.
Expensive worms.
He opened the hatch and cautiously poked his head up. No one shot at him.
"Driver advance. Let's go check it out."
They left the track and rumbled over a grassy field up toward the trees. The big bird heard them coming and had the sense to fly away. It hadn't been pecking for worms. The body of the German sniper lay half covered by broken branches and fallen leaves, his guts spilled out on the ground. His face was still intact, a kid of maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, too young to shave.
I only hope he got laid before they sent him out to kill our soldiers.
He thumbed his mike.
"We're done here. Let's go get that STUG."
They crept over the top of the small hill and below them was a fine view of the battlefield. Four hundred yards to the north the Channel was a car park for ships, thousands of them. Warships fired endless salvos to hit targets deep inland, and smaller vessels were coming and going, unloading more men and equipment for the battle. To the west, just inland from Pointe du Hoc, the Germans were counterattacking, and a fierce battle raged.
To the southwest, toward Carentan on the Cotentin Peninsula he could see, but it was too far away to make it out. Except it could only be Germans trucks, maybe, or more STUGs. It could be Panzers. That would make sense; chances are they'd run into them soon.
Panzers could also mean Tigers, Vern Franklin's bogeymen. No, that isn't entirely true. They’re every man's bogeymen.
Their target, the STUG, lay ahead only four hundred yards away. The crew had disguised the top of the hull with branches, but from above, they could make out almost the whole of the target. To the east, he could see units of the 29th, hopelessly pinned down by a single assault gun. Further back, the other two Shermans were still firing. Their shells exploded on the ground around the STUG, churning it over like some monstrous plow. But none managed a hit.
"How we gonna play this?" Solly asked.
He smiled. The gunner's face was smeared with soot and grease. He looked more like a Special Forces soldier about to sneak up on the enemy than a tanker.
"We'll go in fast, hit them like a thunderbolt. The ground doesn't look too bad. Can the gyrostabilizer can handle it?"
"I tweaked it, damn thing was too slow. I can hit him now we can see the bastard."
"Okay. Angel, full speed; give 'em hell."
He had to grab the machine gun to prevent the sudden lurch tossing him out of his seat. They were charging full pelt down the Normandy field, straight as an arrow and toward the STUG. The Germans were concentrating on hitting the infantry and failed to see the danger until it was too late.
"Fire!" he shouted at Solly, but once again the gunner's uncanny ability to time his shots to perfection was ahead of him. The main gun crashed out, and the recoil slammed the breech back. The first shell again missed the enemy, but Dale was already reloading, struggling to keep his balance as they bumped every time they hit a depression in the ground.
Solly fired again and scored a hit. The Sherman's main gun had a barrel length of ten feet and fired a shell weighing fourteen pounds, HE or AP. The AP shell could penetrate armor up to three inches thick. The STUG's frontal armor was a whisker over three inches, but they weren't shooting at the front of the vehicle. The rear armor was not so thick.
The Germans didn't stand a chance. The shell shredded men and machine, and exploded part of their ready use ammunition. The explosion was spectacular, and Angel brought the Sherman to a halt. In the distance, they could hear cheering from the foot soldiers running from cover to continue their advance to secure the landing areas.
A few hundred yards away, he caught sight of Major Morgan leading the rest of A Company in the direction of Gruchy, his tank distinctive because of the long, wavy aerials attached to the hull. There was something wrong, and Grant began to count the numbers.
Three, four, five...Only five?
"Solly, you see our Company over there. How many M4s do you count?"
"Uh, five. Oh shit, where are the rest of them?" A silence, "Maybe they went somewhere else?"
"It's not likely. I think we've just lost half the Company. I think they're gone."
The enormity was almost too much to sink in. Solly gave him an incredulous stare.
"We're still only a few hundred yards from the beach."
They were all listening. Just over twenty-four hours after they drove ashore, and already half of their Company was destroyed.
"We'll get some Krauts and pay them back, don't worry. Those bastards are gonna regret the day they played around with Company A. Driver, take us back and slot in next to The Bounty."
"You got it."
Angel followed the road this time to join up with the column, and they fell into line. Bligh called him up on the Company net.
"That was good work, you guys. We watched you take out that STUG, well done."
"You want the best, you call for Minnie Mouse," Vern exclaimed with glee.
"Shut up, Vern," three men said at once.
It was bad luck to boast, especially when you were in a battle zone. Something about tempting the Devil, someone had said. Maybe it was because war was much too serious to brag about. They rejoined the Company, and Morgan called them.
"We'll halt this side of that low rise ahead. We'll laager there and wait for the 29th to call us forward."
Grant checked his wristwatch. To his astonishment, it was already midday. They'd been fighting all morning, yet it seemed to have happened in the blink of an eye. The Shermans drove slowly toward their designated areas and maneuvered to form a defensive circle. Sufficiently far apart from each other to be safe from destruction should a shell or bomb hit a nearby tank, yet near enough to hit back in force if an enemy appear from any direction.
There was movement to the northeast, little more than a flicker on a distant hilltop, and Grant took out his binoculars. A single tank was moving west to east. It could only be a German, for Allied armor hadn't penetrated that far. It was in shadow and well camouflaged, which made it impossible to identify from the silhouette. But when the clouds cleared, the sun suddenly lighted it up, and a great, gray-green monstrous shape materialized. Solly climbed up next to him and focused a small spotting telescope on the distant target.
"Holy shit, it's a..."
"A Tiger."
The blunt, square shape of the immense armored hull was unmistakable. As was the long 88mm gun, a monstrous appendage that could hit and destroy a target from a distance a Sherman could only dream about.
"I'd best call Vern," Solly smiled, "He'll want to see this. You know the range of that gun is said to be two miles."
"Leave him alone. He'll meet a Tiger soon enough."
They watched the tank in silence. To their surprise, the Tiger halted. A flash of sunlight reflected from the turret, which meant the Tiger commander was watching them through binoculars. He shivered. It felt as if someone had walked on his grave.
What was it about that distant Tiger? It was the first one they'd seen since they hit the beach. Yet it was something more, a weird vibe, a feeling he couldn't shake off.
Fear? No, it isn't fear. We’re too far away for a fight. What is it?
He thought for a few moments and came up with the answer.
Fate. Somehow we’re gonna meet up with that Tiger. Maybe not today, but our futures will be intertwined.
He shook his head and smiled. It was a crazy thought. The Nazi supertank was at least three miles away, too far for any kind of recognition. There was no way they'd ever know if they came across it again. Even so, he knew deep down in his guts something connected their Sherman to that tank.
We’ll meet again, no question.
"How do we deal with something like that?" Solly asked him, "If we're ever going to beat the Krauts, we have to find a way to destroy those things."
He'd been thinking the same thing. "We have to get up close and hit them in the rear, so the experts say. Maybe we could penetrate the side armor. That's not so thick. The Brits did capture a Tiger intact in the desert a while back. A shell from one of their Churchills jammed the turret, but it was a one in a million chance. I guess the best way is to leave them to the bombers."
Solly grimaced. "Sure, the Air Force is like the cops. When you need one, they're never around. All we can do is hope we don't ever tangle with that big, bad bastard."
Except I know we will tangle with that big, bad bastard.
"We'll meet him," he murmured.
He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but the gunner stared intently at him.
"What was that? How do you mean, we'll meet him?"
"I dunno, Sol. Just woolgathering, I guess."
The both focused on the distant Tiger. It was still stationary. Watching like a predator, waiting to pounce.
Probably they're working out how they want to kill us when we meet.
* * *
The drive north from Dreux had been a bastard, and they'd already lost three Tigers to enemy aircraft. Manhausen wanted to curse the idiot who'd delayed the decision and cost them the night hours, and then sent them forward in daylight. No doubt they all felt the same, but none dared to voice their thoughts. They all knew the reason for the delay. The Fuhrer had been in bed, and they didn't want to disturb him.
Dummkopfen!
To add to their misery, some Feldgendarmerie cop, the German military police had directed them the wrong way, and instead of joining the rest of the unit on the outskirts of Caen, they'd come too far west. Right now, they were overlooking one of the invasion beaches close to a village named Vierville. They'd discovered the error when Rolf grew suspicious that the road was empty of German armor. He managed with some difficulty, and the grudging assistance of a surly French cop, to pinpoint their location on the map.
Why are French cops all so surly? I can understand it now, but I came here before the war, and they were no different. Miserable bastards.
Just when they started to retrace their steps, the engine had overheated, following the long drive. Because they had lost their way, they were separated from the mechanics that would normally have been available to make repairs. They were on their own.
"Franz, how long is it going to take? You know we're a sitting target for the bombers up here."
The reply was slow in coming. He sounded irritable, "I'm doing my best, Obersturmfuhrer. It's those verdammt valves. They're a load of crap. All of our Tigers are having problems with their engines, and it's no wonder. I'll bet they're made of cheap tin."
It was the same story, endlessly repeated. "I know, I know. How long?"
A loud sigh issued from the engine compartment. "Give me ten minutes."
"Understood. Crew, keep your eyes skinned for aircraft. Make sure the machine guns are manned and ready. Heinrich, load the main gun with HE. You may have a chance of a shot if we run into the enemy."
"Jawohl, Obersturmfuhrer. Sir, we're low on ammunition. We left Dreux with only half our normal complement of shells."
"You'll have even less if a Typhoon hits us with rockets," he snapped, immediately feeling guilty for making the angry remark.
"No, Sir. I'll unload and change to HE."
"Got it."
The motor whined as he rotated the turret to aim at the new target. He was too slow. By the time the first shell hurtled out of the barrel, the two men had slipped away, carrying their machine gun with them. He felt a keen sense of disappointment. The idea of those young infantrymen cut down almost before they'd started rankled. It was something else to settle, like David's death.
What was it they said? ‘Vengeance is a dish best taken cold.’ Something like that.
"Cease fire, they're gone. Driver, keep moving. Follow those men from the 29th."
Angel gunned Minnie's engine, and a cloud of exhaust smoke puffed into the air, almost like he was sending out a smoke signal. They trundled slowly after The Bounty, staying behind the marching men. The Major came back on the net.
"Heads up. The Rangers just reported a sighting of enemy soldiers digging in. They're building ambush positions. The shit's about to hit the fan, so button up."
Grant ducked back inside the turret and slammed the hatch closed, not a second too soon. A bullet pinged off the thick steel where he'd been standing a moment before. He searched through his vision slot, looking for the shooter. A single well-concealed sniper could do terrible damage to those foot soldiers.
"Enemy armor!" Vernon shouted, "Four hundred yards. Jesus Christ, they're Tigers!"
He searched the ground ahead and found the target. There were no Tigers. The enemy had brought up assault guns, three STUG IIIs. The 75mm guns could do wicked damage to a Sherman, and they would murder the exposed infantry, but they were also vulnerable.
"Calm down, Vern. They're STUGs. Gunner, load AP, open fire."
"On the way."
Dale and Solly were ready, and the shell left the gun almost before he'd stopped speaking. A miss, the AP round impacted a stone wall a couple of yards from the lead STUG. The German returned fire, and his shell also missed, but only by inches. Shrapnel from the explosion rattled against the armor. He suddenly realized they were in their first real armored duel. It could also be their last. The Bounty was firing furiously at the STUGs, and then Cochise joined in. Their combined shells knocked out one enemy STUG in an instant. A second assault gun exploded seconds later, but the third was more difficult, hidden behind the burning, smoking wreckage of his pals.
While they fought their duel, the 29th were in more trouble. The secondary armament, an MG34 of the surviving STUG was doing wicked damage to the infantry. He watched with horror as the hail of lead scythed down exposed infantrymen. He itched to close with the STUG and destroy it, but it was impossible. The gun was behind the two wrecked assault guns, well hidden with only the upperworks presenting a limited target. There was no sign of the Panzergrenadiers he knew wouldn't be too far away. They could be waiting with anti-tank artillery, panzerfausts, and more machine guns.
I have to do something.
Desperately, he surveyed the area and then found what he was looking for, a narrow path that would take them around the enemy's flank. It was narrow, much too narrow, but it was enough. Men were dying.
It has to be enough.
"Driver, steer right. Take the narrow path sixty yards ahead. We're going to flank those bastards and hit them where it hurts."
"You got it," Angel sang out.
He pedaled the gas, and the heavy vehicle rocked on its springs as he zigzagged forward to make them a hard target. When he reached the turn, he swung onto the track, which was barely wide enough for a narrow farm cart.
"Hey, Sarge, we ain't gonna get through here. Look up ahead, those houses. There ain't room to take a pedal cycle through there."
"I see 'em. Keep moving."
"Okay."
He sounded dubious, for good reason. They'd only traveled a hundred yards when the path narrowed between two Normandy stone cottages. The Sherman was almost nine feet wide. The gap between the two houses was no more than six. Angel slowed again.
"You sure about this? I mean, we're gonna do some serious damage here."
"Keep moving, driver."
"There could be people inside those houses."
"Then they'll have to jump for it. Knock 'em down if you like, but take us through there."
There was no reply, but Angel gunned the engine to full power, and they picked up speed as the Sherman drove slightly downhill. When they hit the cottages, the big vehicle was doing almost doing thirty miles per hour. Thirty tons of high-grade American steel smashed into the ancient French stonework. Although Minnie checked, there never was any competition. The 470 horsepower, 21-liter Chrysler 30 cylinder engine punched a way through as if the houses were made of mere cardboard. They cleared the cottages out of sight of the enemy, and he pushed the hatch open to survey the ground.
Chunks of masonry fell off the hatch as he opened up, and when he looked behind, the cottages were ripped open, as if by a can opener. The interior of each cottage was on display to the world, neat furniture, a coat hanging on the back of a door, and a burly woman, staring back at him. She caught his eye, raised a fist, and shook it at him. He waved back.
Sorry, lady, I didn't know you were there. Jesus, that was a close one.
A rifle shot whined off the open hatch cover, and he dropped back inside the turret.
"Vern, get on the machine gun. We have a sniper out there somewhere. Find him and kill him before he gets any more of our guys."
"Fuckin' A!"
Grant gripped the butt of his own .50 caliber and checked out the surrounding trees and bushes. The bastard had to be there somewhere. Out of nowhere a bunch of infantry grunts ran forward, a shot cracked out, one of them threw up his hands and pitched forward. But Grant had him now, a couple of trees surrounded by thick bushes. He'd seen the tiny movement of a branch when the bullet left the barrel.
"Vern, ten o'clock, two small trees, bushes at the base. He's inside."
"Yeah, I got him. This one's mine."
He pulled the trigger of the M1919 Browning machine gun, and the bushes danced as the barrage of .30 caliber bullets ripped into them. Grant aimed and fired his .50 cal, and the interior of the tank echoed burst after burst from the two machine guns. The foliage was soon torn into little pieces, along with anyone sheltering inside.
"Cease fire! Driver, halt!"
The stillness was strange, just the low throb of the engine on tick over, the tiny noises of hot metal as the barrel of his machine gun cooled, and a half mile away the thud of artillery and tanks as they slogged it out. It could only be Morgan's Company A, and it looked as if they'd walked into a heap of trouble. There was nothing he could do, and he kept his finger on the trigger while he searched for signs of the enemy, but it was quiet. A big black bird flew down, a crow or a raven, and landed on the ground to start pecking at some invisible morsel. Probably they'd churned up the ground and disturbed a few worms. He grinned.
Expensive worms.
He opened the hatch and cautiously poked his head up. No one shot at him.
"Driver advance. Let's go check it out."
They left the track and rumbled over a grassy field up toward the trees. The big bird heard them coming and had the sense to fly away. It hadn't been pecking for worms. The body of the German sniper lay half covered by broken branches and fallen leaves, his guts spilled out on the ground. His face was still intact, a kid of maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, too young to shave.
I only hope he got laid before they sent him out to kill our soldiers.
He thumbed his mike.
"We're done here. Let's go get that STUG."
They crept over the top of the small hill and below them was a fine view of the battlefield. Four hundred yards to the north the Channel was a car park for ships, thousands of them. Warships fired endless salvos to hit targets deep inland, and smaller vessels were coming and going, unloading more men and equipment for the battle. To the west, just inland from Pointe du Hoc, the Germans were counterattacking, and a fierce battle raged.
To the southwest, toward Carentan on the Cotentin Peninsula he could see, but it was too far away to make it out. Except it could only be Germans trucks, maybe, or more STUGs. It could be Panzers. That would make sense; chances are they'd run into them soon.
Panzers could also mean Tigers, Vern Franklin's bogeymen. No, that isn't entirely true. They’re every man's bogeymen.
Their target, the STUG, lay ahead only four hundred yards away. The crew had disguised the top of the hull with branches, but from above, they could make out almost the whole of the target. To the east, he could see units of the 29th, hopelessly pinned down by a single assault gun. Further back, the other two Shermans were still firing. Their shells exploded on the ground around the STUG, churning it over like some monstrous plow. But none managed a hit.
"How we gonna play this?" Solly asked.
He smiled. The gunner's face was smeared with soot and grease. He looked more like a Special Forces soldier about to sneak up on the enemy than a tanker.
"We'll go in fast, hit them like a thunderbolt. The ground doesn't look too bad. Can the gyrostabilizer can handle it?"
"I tweaked it, damn thing was too slow. I can hit him now we can see the bastard."
"Okay. Angel, full speed; give 'em hell."
He had to grab the machine gun to prevent the sudden lurch tossing him out of his seat. They were charging full pelt down the Normandy field, straight as an arrow and toward the STUG. The Germans were concentrating on hitting the infantry and failed to see the danger until it was too late.
"Fire!" he shouted at Solly, but once again the gunner's uncanny ability to time his shots to perfection was ahead of him. The main gun crashed out, and the recoil slammed the breech back. The first shell again missed the enemy, but Dale was already reloading, struggling to keep his balance as they bumped every time they hit a depression in the ground.
Solly fired again and scored a hit. The Sherman's main gun had a barrel length of ten feet and fired a shell weighing fourteen pounds, HE or AP. The AP shell could penetrate armor up to three inches thick. The STUG's frontal armor was a whisker over three inches, but they weren't shooting at the front of the vehicle. The rear armor was not so thick.
The Germans didn't stand a chance. The shell shredded men and machine, and exploded part of their ready use ammunition. The explosion was spectacular, and Angel brought the Sherman to a halt. In the distance, they could hear cheering from the foot soldiers running from cover to continue their advance to secure the landing areas.
A few hundred yards away, he caught sight of Major Morgan leading the rest of A Company in the direction of Gruchy, his tank distinctive because of the long, wavy aerials attached to the hull. There was something wrong, and Grant began to count the numbers.
Three, four, five...Only five?
"Solly, you see our Company over there. How many M4s do you count?"
"Uh, five. Oh shit, where are the rest of them?" A silence, "Maybe they went somewhere else?"
"It's not likely. I think we've just lost half the Company. I think they're gone."
The enormity was almost too much to sink in. Solly gave him an incredulous stare.
"We're still only a few hundred yards from the beach."
They were all listening. Just over twenty-four hours after they drove ashore, and already half of their Company was destroyed.
"We'll get some Krauts and pay them back, don't worry. Those bastards are gonna regret the day they played around with Company A. Driver, take us back and slot in next to The Bounty."
"You got it."
Angel followed the road this time to join up with the column, and they fell into line. Bligh called him up on the Company net.
"That was good work, you guys. We watched you take out that STUG, well done."
"You want the best, you call for Minnie Mouse," Vern exclaimed with glee.
"Shut up, Vern," three men said at once.
It was bad luck to boast, especially when you were in a battle zone. Something about tempting the Devil, someone had said. Maybe it was because war was much too serious to brag about. They rejoined the Company, and Morgan called them.
"We'll halt this side of that low rise ahead. We'll laager there and wait for the 29th to call us forward."
Grant checked his wristwatch. To his astonishment, it was already midday. They'd been fighting all morning, yet it seemed to have happened in the blink of an eye. The Shermans drove slowly toward their designated areas and maneuvered to form a defensive circle. Sufficiently far apart from each other to be safe from destruction should a shell or bomb hit a nearby tank, yet near enough to hit back in force if an enemy appear from any direction.
There was movement to the northeast, little more than a flicker on a distant hilltop, and Grant took out his binoculars. A single tank was moving west to east. It could only be a German, for Allied armor hadn't penetrated that far. It was in shadow and well camouflaged, which made it impossible to identify from the silhouette. But when the clouds cleared, the sun suddenly lighted it up, and a great, gray-green monstrous shape materialized. Solly climbed up next to him and focused a small spotting telescope on the distant target.
"Holy shit, it's a..."
"A Tiger."
The blunt, square shape of the immense armored hull was unmistakable. As was the long 88mm gun, a monstrous appendage that could hit and destroy a target from a distance a Sherman could only dream about.
"I'd best call Vern," Solly smiled, "He'll want to see this. You know the range of that gun is said to be two miles."
"Leave him alone. He'll meet a Tiger soon enough."
They watched the tank in silence. To their surprise, the Tiger halted. A flash of sunlight reflected from the turret, which meant the Tiger commander was watching them through binoculars. He shivered. It felt as if someone had walked on his grave.
What was it about that distant Tiger? It was the first one they'd seen since they hit the beach. Yet it was something more, a weird vibe, a feeling he couldn't shake off.
Fear? No, it isn't fear. We’re too far away for a fight. What is it?
He thought for a few moments and came up with the answer.
Fate. Somehow we’re gonna meet up with that Tiger. Maybe not today, but our futures will be intertwined.
He shook his head and smiled. It was a crazy thought. The Nazi supertank was at least three miles away, too far for any kind of recognition. There was no way they'd ever know if they came across it again. Even so, he knew deep down in his guts something connected their Sherman to that tank.
We’ll meet again, no question.
"How do we deal with something like that?" Solly asked him, "If we're ever going to beat the Krauts, we have to find a way to destroy those things."
He'd been thinking the same thing. "We have to get up close and hit them in the rear, so the experts say. Maybe we could penetrate the side armor. That's not so thick. The Brits did capture a Tiger intact in the desert a while back. A shell from one of their Churchills jammed the turret, but it was a one in a million chance. I guess the best way is to leave them to the bombers."
Solly grimaced. "Sure, the Air Force is like the cops. When you need one, they're never around. All we can do is hope we don't ever tangle with that big, bad bastard."
Except I know we will tangle with that big, bad bastard.
"We'll meet him," he murmured.
He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but the gunner stared intently at him.
"What was that? How do you mean, we'll meet him?"
"I dunno, Sol. Just woolgathering, I guess."
The both focused on the distant Tiger. It was still stationary. Watching like a predator, waiting to pounce.
Probably they're working out how they want to kill us when we meet.
* * *
The drive north from Dreux had been a bastard, and they'd already lost three Tigers to enemy aircraft. Manhausen wanted to curse the idiot who'd delayed the decision and cost them the night hours, and then sent them forward in daylight. No doubt they all felt the same, but none dared to voice their thoughts. They all knew the reason for the delay. The Fuhrer had been in bed, and they didn't want to disturb him.
Dummkopfen!
To add to their misery, some Feldgendarmerie cop, the German military police had directed them the wrong way, and instead of joining the rest of the unit on the outskirts of Caen, they'd come too far west. Right now, they were overlooking one of the invasion beaches close to a village named Vierville. They'd discovered the error when Rolf grew suspicious that the road was empty of German armor. He managed with some difficulty, and the grudging assistance of a surly French cop, to pinpoint their location on the map.
Why are French cops all so surly? I can understand it now, but I came here before the war, and they were no different. Miserable bastards.
Just when they started to retrace their steps, the engine had overheated, following the long drive. Because they had lost their way, they were separated from the mechanics that would normally have been available to make repairs. They were on their own.
"Franz, how long is it going to take? You know we're a sitting target for the bombers up here."
The reply was slow in coming. He sounded irritable, "I'm doing my best, Obersturmfuhrer. It's those verdammt valves. They're a load of crap. All of our Tigers are having problems with their engines, and it's no wonder. I'll bet they're made of cheap tin."
It was the same story, endlessly repeated. "I know, I know. How long?"
A loud sigh issued from the engine compartment. "Give me ten minutes."
"Understood. Crew, keep your eyes skinned for aircraft. Make sure the machine guns are manned and ready. Heinrich, load the main gun with HE. You may have a chance of a shot if we run into the enemy."
"Jawohl, Obersturmfuhrer. Sir, we're low on ammunition. We left Dreux with only half our normal complement of shells."
"You'll have even less if a Typhoon hits us with rockets," he snapped, immediately feeling guilty for making the angry remark.
"No, Sir. I'll unload and change to HE."
