Tom Townsend, page 15
“Jim?” Sherri said weakly. “You did it. You rescued me. I never thought you had it in you.”
"Your confidence is so very reassuring,” he said, and raised her head enough to give her some more coffee.
The moonlight reflected in her eyes for a moment—liquid pools of pale blue, framed with the matted strands of her golden hair. She laid her head on his shoulder and drifted off to sleep.
Sometime later, distant screams woke them both. Jim opened his eyes but did not move. Sherri stirred beside him and he told her to listen. A distant wail, shrill and bloodcurdling on the night air, drifted through the forest once again, and then there was total silence.
"Smythe,” Jim whispered. "I think the Jagdpanther found him.” Jim sat up and turned on the ignition. "That means it’s hunting us, so we’ve got to move.”
"Where are we going?” Sherri said sleepily from beside him.
Jim was already easing the half-track out ol its hiding place. "I’m going to double back, stay about fifty yards off my own tracks, and try to get behind him."
"Then what?”
"Then I’m going to put that missile right up his exhaust pipe.”
"I don’t think it will work.”
"The thickest armor he's got back there is less than forty millimeters. The Sagger will punch sixteen inches.”
"Not of Mirtheil, it won’t,” Sherri insisted.
"Oh yeah? We'll see. Up to now, that relic hasn’t taken on anything tougher than a truck. Tank-killing has changed a whole bunch since it rolled off the assembly line, so let’s just see how it runs with a missile up its ass.”
“Okay.” Sherri sighed. "But I think we are going to get in a lot of trouble.”
Jim ignored her and concentrated on driving and watching the forest around him. He eased the halftrack along at barely more than an idle, avoiding most of the trees and pushing over only the smaller ones. He was working his way along the side of a hill, keeping to the high ground above the trail he had followed when they left the lodge.
"There,” Sherri said suddenly, and pointed over the windshield. Jim stopped the half-track and killed the motor. Below them, through the trees, there was a familiar, blue glow.
"It’s following our old tracks,” Jim whispered. "Now we'll just sit tight and let it get past.” "Then what?”
“Then we slip onto the trail behind it and let the Sagger brew up a nice, hot panther stew.”
They waited, barely daring to breathe as the
Jagdpanther prowled past them. They could hear the distant sighing of its engine and the squeaking of treads as it moved cautiously along the halftrack’s trail. Jim waited until the blue light was but a tiny flicker through the trees before he moved. With his engine at an idle, he guided the half-track down the slope and turned into the Jagdpanther’s tracks. Far ahead, they could still glimpse the blue glow; the Jagdpanther was getting very close to their former place. Jim picked up his speed a little. Climbing a little rise, the trail turned slightly to the left. Suddenly, they saw the Jagdpanther, its rear still turned toward them.
Jim eased the half-track to a stop—the range looked good. "Now,” he whispered and took the missile’s firing control out of Sherri’s hand. "Get down real low. When this takes off, there’s going to be a lot of smoke and fire. Believe me, you do not want to be anywhere behind it.”
Sherri did not answer but moved closer to him and got down onto the floor. Jim rested the firing control on top of the windshield and rechecked the connections and flipped the arming switch. The Jagdpanther was still there, still with its rear to him. "Here goes,” he whispered as he took a good grip on the joystick and pressed the fire button.
The noise was tremendous—a high-pitched, ear-splitting scream which ripped at the stillness of the night and shattered it. Jim saw the missile’s bright, flarelike exhaust as it streaked down the trail, flying true and straight. The Jagdpanther glowed a brilliant, electric blue a split second before the missile hit directly between the twin exhaust pipes, centered on its rear hull.
The explosion was blinding. White light with an orange center turned night into day. A shock wave rocked the half-track, and branches fell all along the trail. Rolling thunder echoed across the hills. ''Bull’s-eye!” Jim yelled.
Sherri was standing beside him, staring up the trail. Smoke and snow had mixed into a dense, drifting fog where the Jagdpanther had last been seen. The fog turned blue. “The blue flame?” Jim said.
“Maybe,” Sherri answered, but even as she spoke, the Jagdpanther materialized out of the fog, glowing brightly and charging straight at them. “And maybe not!”
“Oh shit,” Jim said as he dropped into the driver's seat. He hit reverse and floored the half-track, backing over a half-dozen trees as he hurried to get off the trail and down the hill. The treads began to slide sideways in the snow and he used the opportunity to shift into forward. The result looked much like a fancy “bootleg turn,” only done with a halftrack instead of a car.
“Can we outrun it?” Sherri asked yelling over the roar of the engine as they snapped off a six-inch pine tree, which fell across the hood and then rolled off.
“Theoretically, yes,” Jim yelled back as he put the half-track into a tight S-turn. “Assuming that he doesn’t get a clear shot at us with that 88.”
“Oh,” Sherri said. “Then why is he gaining on
us?”
Jim shot a quick glance over his shoulder and, just as she had said, the Jagdpanther was only a few yards behind, the end of its gun barrel looking as if it was almost touching the half-track’s rear armor. "Goddamn it, why didn’t you tell me he was that close?”
“I just did, you idiot!”
Jim turned the wheel hard over. “Never mind, just jump—now!” He pulled the hand throttle wide open and stayed aboard only long enough to see Sherri leap, and then followed her. He was still in midair when the 88 fired and the half-track exploded. Jim glanced off a tree, took some branches off another, and hit hard in the snow. It seemed to him like he rolled a very long way and hit a lot of hard things before he finally stopped moving. For a while he lay perfectly still, listening to the May-bach diesel fade slowly into the night. When he at last raised his head, the first thing he saw was Sherri lying close beside him with her head propped up on one elbow.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” she said.
Sergeant Hank Murphy had only been this scared once before in his whole life. That was the day the Jagdpanther had brewed up his tank and his crew. Now he was running platoon point, hunting what the operations order had called a “hostile armored vehicle being operated by terrorists.”
The memory of Fafner’s visit and Murphy’s own call to set up the sale of a stolen AT missile both weighed heavily on his mind. It had to be the Jagdpanther they had been sent out to hunt, and Murphy, better than anyone else, knew exactly the damage it could do.
At 0700 that morning, his platoon had been lined up on Tank Table Six, with the ammo racks full of 105mm SABO rounds and the fuel tanks topped off. It should have been an average day on the live-fire ranges. Instead, they had received an operation order, all nice and standard, just like any other training exercise, except this time they were headed south, off the training areas away from Ansbach, down through the village of Dorfen and into the forest beyond.
Murphy’s platoon rolled past the smoldering remains of the hunting lodge and saw the crisscross of wide tank tracks. The German police were there, stuffing things into a shiny black body bag and, from the M-60’s cupola, Murphy had a good view of bloodstains on the snow.
“Hold it, driver,’’ Murphy said into the intercom as they crested a small rise. There was something in the snow ahead of him. A burned-out vehicle, maybe.
He touched the radio button. “One-six, this is one-four, I got something up here. Give me some cover while I take a look.”
Murphy glanced back, over the top of the open hatch as three tanks left the trail behind him, plowing through the trees and moving up to covering positions. “Move out, driver. Gunner, look sharp.” They eased forward as Murphy scanned the forest nervously. Visibility was poor. A fog hung over (he snow. The forest faded quickly into a gray void and even the tops of the pine trees were invisible.
"One-four, one-four, what have you got up there?” the platoon leader’s voice crackled over the radio. Murphy’s M-60 idled up alongside the wreck.
Murphy leaned out of the cupola and looked at the ground. "Armored vehicle, burned out but still hot. It's U.S.—looks like an old half-track.” “Roger, one-four. Anything else?”
“Tank tracks, too wide to be one of ours. Headed south.”
"Roger, one-four, follow ’em.”
Murphy acknowledged, and told his driver to move out. Yeah, we’ll follow ’em, you chicken-shit lieutenant. While you’re nice and safe back there somewhere, he thought.
The tracks led in a straight line south. Whoever was driving was making no effort to avoid anything. Streams were crossed in places where the banks were steep and slick, even if only a few yards away the banks were nearly flat. Murphy rolled over trees two feet thick that had been pushed down when only a slight course change would have avoided it.
“One-four, one-four,’’ the radio crackled again. “Be advised, we’ve got a West German platoon on our right flank, about one klick west. They are Leopard IIs. They should be moving parallel our axis, over.”
Murphy acknowledged and eased his tank up to a treeline that bordered a rolling meadow. The fog was thinner here. Far to his right, he saw the Leopards break from the trees. They were running fast, boiling up clouds of frozen snow in their wakes as they maneuvered into a ragged line formation. Halfway across the meadow, the center tank shuddered and turned, out of control. Black smoke began to pour from the engine bay. Only then did he fully realize that the Leopard had been hit.
"Come on, bail out, bail out,” Murphy was whispering, but the hatches never came open, and the whole tank burst into flames. "One-six, one-six,” Murphy almost shouted into the radio. "Krauts have a contact, one Leopard hit and burning.” As he spoke, tree branches shuddered and snow stirred across the meadow as a hidden gun fired again and its muzzle blast gave away its position. Road wheels and sections of tread flew from a second Leopard, bringing it also to a halt, just as the remaining three opened fire on the treeline.
The platoon leader’s tank rocked to a halt beside Murphy’s. The lieutenant had his binoculars resting on the front of his cupola. “He’s moving,’’ Murphy said into the radio, “across our front. Range about one thousand meters.”
“Identified.” The lieutenant’s voice sounded like an excited kid. "He’s ours; let’s go get him!” In only a slightly more formal voice, he barked out his orders: "Charlie one-six to all one-six elements. Warning order. Tank red, moving east, range one thousand; mission, destroy.” There was a moment’s hesitation and he continued. “Move out and close it up, echelon right.”
The platoon commander’s M-60 gunned its engine and broke out into the meadow with Murphy running just behind and to his left. Seconds later the platoon’s other three tanks followed and began maneuvering for position. "SABO in the tube,” Murphy’s loader reported.
The fox had been flushed and the chase was on. Murphy dropped into the cupola and closed the hatch behind him. Despite his fear, he felt the adrenaline pumping in his veins as his excitement grew. There was something about tanks that did that to him. The roar of the engines, the speed of the attack, the tremendous weight and firepower at his fingertips. This time it was real, and there was revenge too; sweet revenge for the fiery deaths of his old crew.
Through his vision blocks, he glanced at the Leopards on his right. Only the two burning hulks were still visible. The others had made it to the treeline. He turned his own attention there: if the enemy chose, he could have the first shot once again. The treeline remained peaceful. Beneath him the M-60’s 750-horsepower diesel roared at its top RPM, pushing the tank up to a speed of near forty miles per hour.
They broke into the trees, snapping off tall pines as though they were matchsticks. Only within the relative safety of the forest did the platoon slow down. Gray mist clung to the forest. All around them were the black silhouettes of tall straight trees.
"Platoon, right turn; form line,” the lieutenant ordered, and six tanks executed a cartwheel turn. Murphy eased open his hatch and raised his head so that just his eyes were visible above the cupola. Any engagement in here, he figured, would be close, real close. He needed to see better than he could when buttoned up.
Even with the muffled roar of the engines and the cracking and snapping of trees and brush beneath the treads, the forest seemed ominously quiet. The enemy tank should be to their front, trapped now between the platoon and the three West German Leopards. "Driver, halt!” Murphy ordered as a brush-choked ravine suddenly appeared ahead.
"One-three and one-four cover; I’ll cross first,” the radio barked, and the lieutenant’s tank swung its long gun tube to the side and plowed off into the ravine. Its engine screamed at a fever pitch as it fought, half-submerged in dead limbs and brush, across the ravine’s floor, then began climbing steadily up the far side.
Murphy saw the end of the Jagdpanther’s gun tube move slightly through a tangle of branches. The lieutenant’s tank was already halfway up the ravine; in another two or three seconds it would be crawling out, belly up and totally exposed. There was only time to fire. He grabbed the override switch, swung his turret a few degrees left, and dropped the gun lube an inch. “Main gun,” he yelled, and squeezed his firing control. The M-60 rocked back on its suspension . The muzzle blast was hot and sharp against Murphy’s eyes as he sighted over the cupola. The 105mm SABO round exploded exactly where Murphy had seen the muzzle.
‘‘Got the goddamn mother! You owe me one, sir,” he cheered into the radio just as the lieutenant’s tank topped the ravine. A gun fired in front of him, shaking down tree limbs and stirring the snow. The lieutenant’s tank shuddered. The cupola and the loader’s hatch both blew straight up into the air. The tank turned sideways, as the left tread slipped, and then slid backward down the ravine and turned over at the bottom, with black smoke pouring from the engine bay.
“Jesus Christ! SABO, left front! ” Murphy ordered another round.
"Up!” the loader confirmed, and then something hit Murphy’s tank. He could hear only a tremendous ringing sound, like some giant hammer had banged against the hull. Murphy realized that he was no longer standing in the cupola but sitting on the turret floor, staring at the gun breech.
The loader w'as lying beside him, all, that is, except his head, which was nowhere to be seen. Orange tongues of flame were licking around the turret floor. Murphy tried to stand up. He grabbed for the gun breech and pulled himself up a little. The gunner was still in his seat, slumped forward and unmoving. Blood was dripping onto the turret floor from a gaping hole in his back. Through a gray haze of smoke, Murphy reached for the fire-extinguisher-system handle and pulled. Nothing happened. He dragged himself toward the hatch far above him. His pants leg was on fire. He swatted at the flames with one hand, and then his sleeve was on fire also. Flames danced around the ammo racks in the turret's rear.
He could not breathe. The smoke was choking him as flames consumed all the oxygen within the limited confines of the turret. With one hand, he reached the commander’s seat just.as the padding on it began to smolder. Flames were everywhere around him, blending into a white-hot curtain; yet he was still moving, climbing and climbing, inch by inch, up over the seat and behind the machine gun in the cupola.
His head emerged above the open hatch, but he could move no farther. He could no longer feel the winter air on his face or fill his lungs with the crisp air. Across the ravine, he saw the Jagdpanther one last time with unreal, crystallike clarity. It was backing away. Flames leaped around him; he felt himself slipping, slipping back into the boiling inferno below.
Chapter Seventeen
The first, gray hint of dawn showed through cracks in the barn wall. Jim shivered in the morning cold as he stuck his head out of the hay that he and Sherri had slept in for the last few hours. He had no idea how far they had walked after the half-track had been hit, but this had been the lirsl refuge they had found.
The hay stirred beside him. A tangle of hair, almost the same color as the hay, but somewhat dirtier, rose up and shook. “God, I feel terrible,” Sherri croaked as she tried to brush her hair out of her eyes. "I hurt in places I didn’t even know I had.” She yawned and looked sleepily around the barn. ‘‘And next time, I’ll choose the hotel.”
‘‘Yeah? Well, I’ve had better times with a woman in the hay myself.”
‘‘Don’t be tacky. Where are we, anyway?” "South of Ansbach, a little way.”
Sherri nodded thoughtfully. "That’s good. We have to keep going south.”
"Whatever for?”
"What for?” Sherri looked disgusted at not being understood. "Because that’s where Ehrler said the forges were.”
Jim pulled the map out of his jacket and tossed it to her. "Okay, so which mountain?”
Sherri shrugged and picked up the map. "That's the only part I haven’t figured out yet, but I think there is some—”
Jim touched his finger to his lips. "Listen,” he whispered. Somewhere outside was the distant rumble of tanks.
"The Jagdpanther?”
"I don’t think so—sounds too modem. M-60s or Leopards.”
Sherri perked up a little. "Oh, good. Maybe they’ll have something to eat; and we can get a ride out of here and then go get cleaned up and—” "There is one little problem with that,” Jim said cautiously.
"What problem? They’re probably out looking for us right now. You did tell them you were coming to rescue me, didn’t you?”
"Oh, they’re looking for us all right. But it’s because they think we stole the Jagdpanther and used it to attack a supply convoy.”
