Custer looked worried, told Abrams to push on, then ordered his commo officer to make contact with Tenth Armored and CCB. "Tell them hubba-hubba one time," Custer said. "The game's afoot."
We went on, the road winding past small farms and fields. To show how memory is tricky, I remember it being deathly quiet, with the only sound the low rumble of engines and the ominous grinding of treads on the frozen ground, but of course this is absurd. There would have been shouts, the occasional blast of gunfire as a machine gunner reconned some building he wasn't sure was empty by fire, the crackle of radios and other sounds of an army on the move.
We approached another village, little more than a dirt crossroads with a scattering of walled farmhouses around it, trees not yet torn apart by shellfire around the farmhouses.
The land opened on the other side, climbing through virgin snow to trees and a second group of buildings that appeared abandoned.
Then German 88 shells exploded around us, too fast for us to hear their approach, greasy black against the snow.
"Son of a bitch," Custer said. "They're up there, in those buildings."
Foot soldiers were coming off the tanks, finding any cover available. More 88s came in, airbursts in the trees, and I saw men pirouette, go down, be scattered like bowling pins. Inexperienced soldiers went flat, experienced ones stood close to the trees, giving a narrow target to the overhead bursts.
Abrams didn't need any orders. He put the 37thon line, and the M4s went up the hill, men stumbling through the deep snow behind the tanks.
There was another explosion… a 75mm, I think… against the brick wall our armored car sat beside. The driver stood up, turned back to us without a face, fell dead, and the engine died.
"Unass this pig," Custer shouted, and the surviving crew obeyed.
A staff halftrack rumbled toward us, Paul Harkins standing next to the driver. An 88 drilled through its engine compartment, and Harkins vanished in the blast. Flames rose out of nowhere, and a Panther rumbled from behind a barn, smashed over the halftrack toward us.
A self-propelled gun had a clear field of fire, and put a 105mm shell into the Panther's belly, and it exploded.
"They're in a damn' minefield," Custer shouted, and I looked upslope, and saw explosions, men falling, a Sherman's track rolling, like a huge rubber band, back downhill as the tank flamed up.
There were men pushing, shoving, some trying to get forward to fight, others to get the hell out of the way. A man screamed, the scream abruptly cut off, as a tank backed over his legs.
Custer ran for an M4, pulled himself up on the deck, grabbed the track commander's mike, got through to the command net.
He gave swift orders-bring the road units up on line, and support Abrams.
"Get those damn' SP guns up here," he ordered.
Custer had a tight smile on his face, was clearly enjoying himself.
I would have thought there was nothing left to burn in this ruined village, but flames crackled, and greasy smoke boiled down the lanes.
Another scream came, this one in terror, and a King Tiger, the Germans' biggest tank, rumbled slowly toward us, tearing the barn it'd hidden in apart.
Its huge 88mm cannon slammed, and a Sherman blew up, turret spinning high into the air, then crashing down on a group of machinegunners.
I was on the Sherman's deck, beside Custer, as he ordered the tank commander to take the Sherman behind a house, and come back in on the Tiger's rear.
The TC obeyed, and the front horns of our tank crashed into the ancient stone of the building, pulling it toward us. I ducked behind the turret, saw, falling from an upstairs window, an old woman in white. She was screaming, waving her arms, but the air wouldn't hold her, and she fell in front of our tank.
The Sherman ground over her, leaving a patch of blood and entrails in the slush, and we were around the corner and could see the Tiger's stern.
"Don't miss," Custer advised. Our tank fired its 75mm cannon, the shell going just over the Tiger's turret. The gunner corrected, and his second shell hit the turret at its base. The Tiger lurched, then smoke poured out. Machine-gun fire chattered from the street as our infantry took care of the crew.
"Good boy," Custer shouted. "Now, let's go get those cannon that're giving Abrams a hard time."
We moved forward, into the open again, and I looked up the slope. The 88s up there weren't cannon, or even SP guns, but more Tiger tanks.
A handful of Abrams' tanks scuttled back toward us, through the smoldering ruin of ten, no, fifteen, M4s on the slope, and the attacking infantry was tumbling back down the hill.
But we had bigger, closer problems. SS soldiers were streaming into the street, and the battle was suddenly swarming hand-to-hand. There was no order, no organization, just a swirling mass of fighting, killing, dying soldiers, Germans and Americans intermingled.
Two Americans sprawled, hit by submachine-gun fire, and an SS man running past them paused, and put a deliberate burst of Schmeisser fire into them.
I was at the.50 on the tank, and cut the bastard in half, swung the big machine gun and slashed through a formation of his fellows.
There was another Tiger coming through the smoke behind the bodies, its commander in the open hatch. Our gunner fired, and his cannon shell hit the solid forward plate of the Tiger, ricocheting off as the Tiger fired.
It took us in the bow, and I was flipped backward off the Sherman as it slewed to a halt, smoke wisping from its hatches.
I looked around for Custer, saw him as he jumped off the side of the destroyed tank, the tank commander's Thompson gun in hand.
"Come on, George," I heard him shout… I think.
The Tiger's turret swung toward him as Custer fired, and the German tank commander slumped. Custer staggered, and an SS officer came from behind the tank, submachine gun firing.
Custer's tommy gun was empty, and he clawed out his antique.45 six-gun, and shot the German down.
Another bullet hit him, and he turned, lifting his pistol, as the monstrous Tiger turret swiveled on him.
Insane, goddamned insane, and he fired at the tank, completely unafraid, and the Tiger's coaxial machine gun chattered, and Custer sprawled in the mud.
The turret swung, looking for another target. I saw a dead panzergrenadier in a doorway, his Panzerfaust beside him.
I ran to it, not letting myself look, not letting myself see that huge turret aim at me.
I had the Panzerfaust, spun, didn't need to aim, pulled down on the firing lever, and nothing happened. I was very calm, able to look down the 88mm barrel as I realized the rocket launcher still had the safety clip in, yanked it out, and pressed the lever down again.
The rocket hit the driver's slit, exploded into the Tiger's interior, and the blast knocked me back into the ruined house. There was no smoke, no flame, only a blackened hole on the front of the Tiger, but it was dead.
I ran to Custer's body. He was very dead, most of his upper body missing from the machine-gun bullets. Rounds whistled past my head, and I grabbed his pistol, rolled twice, saw an M1 rifle in the street, had it and dropped the German who was busy reloading his Mauser for another shot at me.
Then I was up, limping, not knowing when or how I'd been hit, moving back. I shoved Custer's pistol in my belt, found a bandoleer of ammo, shoved clips into the M1, fired when I saw a field gray target.
We pulled back, out of that village, as more and more German tanks, SP guns, and halftracks rumbled toward us along the country lanes.
Custer's luck had finally run dry.
More than Custer's CCA and CCR took a beating that day and the next few. The Tenth Armored Division was bloodied by Second SS Panzer, and CCB was hit hard by First SS Panzer. We couldn't hold, but fell back on Bastogne, Dietrich's Sixth Army on our heels.
They captured our fuel tankers for desperately needed gas, came on.