The sight was both terrifying and mesmerizing. Fortunately, he and Friel were too far away to be in any real danger from the Allied bombs.
That changed when the planes returned from their bombing run to strafe the narrow road. Each American plane was equipped with wing-mounted .50 caliber machine guns. Like dozens of others, Von Stenger scrambled for shelter as the heavy slugs churned up clods of frozen mud and shredded whatever vehicles were in the line of fire.
Considering that the planes traveled at high speed, the strafing was over in an instant. The planes circled back to hit the column again, but this time the Germans were prepared. Behind a MG-42 mounted on a vehicle, he could see Sgt. Breger was one of those soldiers unleashing twelve hundred rounds per minute at the planes, which were well within range. Without doubt, the planes took fire, because they did not return.
Once the planes were gone, Von Stenger crawled out from the roadside ditch and was amazed to see Friel still standing in the back of the Volkswagen, unscathed, even though the strafing had punched holes in the hood of the vehicle.
The bastard had nerves of iron.
"That was just two planes," Friel said ruefully as Von Stenger climbed somewhat sheepishly back into the vehicle. "They will return, and perhaps in greater force. Fortunately for us, their base in Saint-Dizier is more than one hundred twenty kilometers distant. Even if those were scouts, that buys us some time."
"It will take hours for the entire Kampfgruppe to get there on these roads."
"Do you have an alternative to suggest, Kurt?" the Obersturmbannführer snapped at him.
"No, Herr Obersturmbannführer."
"I wish you did." The SS officer folded his map and stowed it in a pocket of his coat. "Keep that rifle of yours handy. Perhaps you can shoot down an Allied plane or two."
The Kampfgruppe continued along the road, its progress slowed by the burning or disabled vehicles in its path. Panzers now doubled as bulldozers, pushing the wreckage off the roads. Behind them, a single tank was engaged with a small American unit that had scattered with the first shot from its 88 mm cannon.
With the weather clearing, Von Stenger knew well that they were in a race against time. The return of the Americans to the skies meant real trouble for them. It was hard to ignore the fact that the Kampfgruppe was spread out now over many kilometers, making concerted movement difficult and communication challenging.
They had to get to that bridge at Habiemont.
“Come with me, Kurt.” Friel climbed aboard a tank. A single tank could race ahead and hold the bridge. It was their best hope. He ordered Breger to follow in a half track equipped with a machine gun.
At speed, a Tiger II tank could move at twenty-four miles per hour. The road ahead was narrow but frozen hard, not broken up yet by the passage of other vehicles. They moved close to top speed, the countryside of snow-covered fields and rolling hills passing in a satisfying blur. If there were civilians, they had the good sense not to show themselves. Friel rode with his head out of the hatch, keeping one eye on the skies and the other on the road ahead. The tank crew tried to ignore the falling fuel gauge as the roaring engine drank greedily.
Von Stenger rode on top of the tank, feeling very exposed. He would have preferred to be on the ground, but he could not have kept up with the mechanized treads of the tank.
From time to time, Friel leaned down and shouted into the tank below, “Faster! You can do better than that! The road ahead is clear. Full throttle!”
Despite the speed of the tanks, it took them an hour to reach Habiemont. Finally, the village came into view. It looked like something out of a storybook with the little houses all covered in snow. The bridge came into sight.
The bridge was narrow, so the massive tanks would need to cross one at a time.
Movement ahead caught Von Stenger's eye. He spotted a knot of soldiers in olive drab struggling up the far bank of the river. They appeared lightly armed, as if they were not concerned about defending the bridge. What had they been up to? With a sinking feeling, he realized that one of the men held a large spool of wire in his hands as he scrambled up the bank. Another man held a detonating plunger.
Von Stenger lifted his rifle and shouted a warning. "Friel, they are going to blow the bridge!"
Their driver had already stopped so that Friel could direct the panzers, so Von Stenger stood and balanced the rifle across the tank turret. He put the crosshairs on the American engineer holding the spool of wire and squeezed the trigger. It was not too difficult a shot — no more than 300 meters. The man crumpled and the spool of wire went bouncing away. For a moment it looked as if it might roll right into the river. But the wire got caught on something and another man slid down after it. Von Stenger worked the bolt of his rifle.
Friel was shouting, ordering the tank to fire on the engineers while urging Breger forward with the half track so that he could open devastating fire with the machine gun.
Von Stenger could aim faster than a panzer and with more precision than the machine gunner. No sooner had the next engineer picked up the spool, than Von Stenger shot him. Once again, the spool bounced away.
The next man dived on top of it like an American football player. He almost hated to shoot such a brave fool. He lined up the crosshairs on the soldier, let out his breath—
A split second later, the tank lurched beneath him as the cannon fired. The sound was deafening, making the powerful rifle seem like a pop gun as it went off, the bullet going far astray. Von Stenger cursed; his ears rang and his eardrums hurt as if a nail had been driven through them.
He ignored the pain. No time for that.
A bullet pinged off the top of the tank. Scheiss! Von Stenger swiveled around. The shot had come from behind them. Another bullet cracked past. He could not see anyone behind them, but there were clearly snipers back there.
“Kurt, get down!” he yelled. “You are drawing sniper fire. Get inside the tank!”
Another bullet karoomed off the steel skin of the tank. Friel wasn’t so lucky this time, because a fragment of the bullet grazed his face. He tumbled inside the tank, where operations came to a standstill as the crew hurried to help their injured commander.
Cursing, Von Stenger jumped down from the tank. Now fully exposed to sniper fire, he ran to one side of the road. A bullet kicked up ice and snow inches from him. Stabs of pain radiated from his wounded leg, but he ignored that. He got free of the road and sprawled in the snow, hoping a prone position would keep the rifle steady.
For now, he chose to ignore the snipers aggravating them. All that mattered was securing the bridge.
Locked under the rifle, his elbows were effective as a bipod. He put his eye to the scope in time to see the drab-uniformed Americans scurrying like rats to attach the wire to the detonator.
The pause in the firing from the Germans as they reacted to the sniper attack was all the time that the American engineers needed. They scrambled to lay wires and set charges.
Von Stenger took aim. He was just about to fire when from the corner of his eye he saw the bulk of a King Tiger tank approaching as it raced toward the bridge. Cursing, he rolled out of the way to keep from being crushed. Several tons of steel now blocked his line of fire.
He ran to a new position and fired, the bullet going wide, kicking up mud a foot or so away from the man working at the detonator.
Von Stenger worked the bolt, put the crosshairs on the man, forced himself to let out a breath and take better aim.