“Stop moaning,” said Herzog, “those bloody planes will be back again if we don’t hurry.”
Langer grunted rebelliously and pulled angrily at the strap of his rifle. The other troops gradually formed a column and the meagre procession sloped off towards the forest.
The commander of the leading Tiger tank waited until the column of troops was on the move before giving his orders. The sound of his voice seemed to echo inside the cavernous body of the vehicle. With a roar, the tanks rolled forward, their caterpillar tracks squeaking protestingly. As Herzog glanced over his shoulder to look at the steel juggernauts their 88mm guns seemed to nod menacingly at him, the turrets twisting from side to side as if they were sniffing the air.
“Nature always suffers worst in a war,” remarked Erhardt, reflectively.
“Very bloody philosophical,” snorted Langer. “What about us? Don’t we suffer?” He grunted and added, as an afterthought,
“Fuck nature.”
Unperturbed by his colleagues’ cynicism, Erhardt shook his head. “She’s so helpless. She didn’t ask for this.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, you’ll have us all in tears in a minute,” japed Langer.
“I don’t think any of us asked for this,” said Herzog, sullenly, remembering the pain in his hand.
There was a deafening screech as the first Hurricane swooped on the column.
A burst of fire from its machine-guns spattered the ground drawing dotted lines of death across the road.
“Get down,” bellowed Herzog, hurling himself into the roadside grass. The men needed no prompting. They flung themselves off the road hugging the ground.
“Where the hell did they come from?” snarled Langer, burying his head in the grass. Erhardt lay on top of the MG 42 as if trying to protect the weapon.
The first Hurricane swept away to maintain its position in formation and Herzog looked up. Two more aircraft were roaring down, their engines screaming like banshees. The sergeant caught sight of two bombs hanging beneath their wings. He suddenly leapt to his feet and began running towards the two, momentarily stationary, Tiger tanks. The commander of the first pushed back the turret flap and hauled himself up. He saw the sergeant dashing towards him, waving his arms and gesturing frantically at the diving aircraft. The commander turned in time to see the leading planes’ guns glow orange.
A stream of tracer ploughed up the road, some of it hitting the tank. The commander tried to duck back inside but a hail of bullets hit him. Herzog stopped short as he saw the head rise on a gout of blood. It thudded to the ground in front of him as the decapitated corpse slid back inside the tank.
“Get the tanks off the road,” shouted Herzog, trying to make himself heard over the roaring of the aircraft. The third plane swooped and two gleaming metallic globules fell to the ground. Lumps of earth and metal flew into the air raining down onto the prone troops.
The planes swung away, preparing for a second sweep. Herzog struggled to his feet and shouted, “As soon as they pass, run like hell for the forest.” He glanced up the road to where the green of the trees offered much needed cover.
The Hurricanes came screaming back and he flung himself into the grass.
“How the fuck are we going to reach the forest?” said Langer. “It’s half a mile up the bloody road. They’ll pick us off like flies.”
Herzog turned on him, tension tight in his voice. “And what do you think they’ll do if we stay here?”
The ground shook under the impact of a bomb.
The sergeant peered through the grass at the Tiger tanks. The leading vehicle had not moved and it was blocking the route of the second.
“What the hell are they doing?” he muttered to himself. As he watched, the huge barrel of the 88mm cannon swung around, the turret turning to follow the path of the escaping Hurricane. There was a dull boom as it spat out the heavy shell.
More by luck than judgement, the shell clipped the plane’s tail. There was an explosion and it cartwheeled, bleeding smoke and flame into the sky behind it until it disappeared in a consuming ball of red and yellow fire. A chorus of cheers followed its stricken plunge.
“Now,” bellowed Herzog, “run.”
As one man, the troops leapt to their feet and began running. With a speed born of fear they raced towards the beckoning forest.
The Hurricanes swept in once again and the Germans threw themselves to the ground, cursing or praying according to their natures. This time the aircraft seemed more interested in the Tigers and unleashed all four bombs. They hurtled towards the leading tank.
Three hit the target.
There was a deafening explosion and the scream of buckling metal. The turret was lifted, intact, into the air on a shrieking geyser of fire. The tank was riven, the powerful Maybach engine spun across the road, torn from its housing.
“Poor bastards,” murmured Steikel as a huge length of caterpillar track spun into the air.
A blackened charred hand protruded from the driver’s observation slit.
Herzog afforded himself a cursory glance at the pile of twisted metal, all that remained of the fifty-five-ton juggernaut, then he shifted his gaze to the remaining planes. Urged on by his shouts, the men ran. Racing death which sped down at them, spitting bullets. Tracer spattered across the earth, bowling over a number of the fleeing men. Herzog dived into the grass beside Langer and Feld. The boy was quivering, large salt tears welled up behind his spectacles. Despite the sergeant’s reassuring smile, the lad continued to quiver. He was seventeen.
They ran again, finding new speed as the forest drew nearer. The driver of the second Tiger slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator and the tank crashed into the wreck of the other vehicle, pushing it off the road. The steel monster roared defiantly and leapt forward, oblivious to the squeal of bullets singing against its armor-plated hull. Ahead of it the men had already reached the protective covering of trees. Here they waited breathlessly until the roar of the planes died away to be replaced by the throbbing power of the tank. Herzog stepped into the road and signalled for the driver to stop. The turret door opened and Sergeant Dorn stuck his head out. Sweat was pouring from his fat, red face and he had removed his tunic.
“A close call, Wolf,” he said, cheerfully.
Herzog nodded. “Too bloody close.”
Dorn glanced over his shoulder at the smoking wreck of the first tank. “A pity about Werner,” he said, wistfully, “a good man. I’m sorry to lose him.”
Herzog cut him short. “I told him to get the fucking thing off the road.”
Dorn shrugged and scratched his shoulder as the sergeant continued, “I want you to take your tank up ahead of us, I don’t want my men walking into a trap.” He paused a second. “There’s been a lot of resistance activity around here lately and we’re sitting ducks in the middle of this lot.”
Dorn nodded vigorously, his jowls quivering fluidly. He disappeared back into the tank, which, a moment later, rolled forward. The men waited until it was a few yards ahead before forming a column and following.
The forest swallowed them up.
Chapter Two
There was a silence within the stifling confines of the forest which was almost palpable in its intensity. The smell of earth and wood hung thickly in the air, mingling with the brooding heat to form a cloying humidity which prickled the skin. Courageous shafts of sunlight occasionally fell through the canopy of trees only to be engulfed by a thick green carpet of moss which covered the forest floor like some kind of fungoid ocean. There was no birdsong to be heard. It was as if no living creature dared to disturb the silence.