The unrecognizable bodies had taken the full force of an anti-tank round striking the engine, and passing through to the dashboard before exploding.
It was a miracle that anyone had survived, not that the gunner would see it until the tears and anger subsided.
Other infantry had dismounted and run forward, encouraged by the relative absence of fire from their target.
The lead Sherman, a 105mm howitzer equipped M4A3, seconded from the gun platoon, put one of its large shells into the nearest building with unusual results.
Fire spurted from every window as it exploded, but the structure itself seemed to hold, until something gave and it folded in on itself like a house of cards.
The snow reduced visibility and thus affected all ranges of fire, helped further by the smoke and dust from the German village.
The 105mm closed a little more, encouraged by its destruction of the large house.
Alongside, Garcia’s Sherman moved level, ready to provide support as the howitzer tank did its job.
From a hole to one side rose its killer, clutching a grenade. Taking rapid aim, the Soviet guardsman threw his RPG-6. He was an experienced tank hunter, and the RPG-6 was a much improved anti-tank weapon.
He had dropped back down into the hole before the American tank crew could raise a shout, and the grenade detonated before they could scream.
When the grenade exploded, its HEAT charge focussed its power and punched through the side of the turret.
Apart from a modest hole, no external damage was evident.
Inside, the story was different.
The loader and gunner had been transformed by the explosive blast. Garcia had lost both feet from the knees down, as he was pushing himself up and out the hatch at the time of impact.
His upper body strength came to his rescue and he propelled himself out into the cold, rolling onto the engine cover and off the back of the vehicle. He screamed as his shattered left leg hit the ground first; the second scream that followed immediately afterwards was louder than the first. The right leg came down, still with a partial foot attached, the swinging lump of boney flesh welting his left stump above the separation point.
Mercifully, Garcia dropped into unconsciousness.
His driver, shocked and stunned, reversed the tank.
The hull gunner sprayed bullets in all directions, hoping to stave off a repeat from any nearby grenade thrower.
It was not until the Sherman had reversed back some forty yards that the driver noticed the flattened body of his commander.
The machine gunner was too busy to notice, seeing only the shapes of the enemy in every shadow and swirl of snow He only stopped firing when he realised that the driver was vomiting into his lap.
They both abandoned the damaged tank and ran for their lives.
The infantry went to ground, and took the grenade thrower’s positions under fire.
Two more RPG-6’s hit the 105mm Sherman, but the throwers were less skilful.
Neither exploded and both bounced off the tank, which slowly continued on its advance, seemingly unaware of either the grenade attack, or the loss of their cover.
One of the watchful infantry put two Garand rounds through the chest of a grenade thrower, dropping him back into his snowy hole.
A special group from the 39th Engineer Sapper Brigade watched closely, assessing the position of the enemy tank, preparing to fire the explosives buried in the road.
The turret traversed and the gunner selected a building at random. In the blink of an eye, a 105mm shell blotted the group out. The Sherman crawled forward, rolling over one hundred kilos of Soviet explosives that would now not be detonated.
Inside the tank, the realization that they were alone suddenly hit the commander, and he ordered a halt.
The tank lashed out at all the surrounding buildings, leveling them one by one, as the hull machine gun sought out targets, or just expended ammunition to calm the crew’s growing nerves.
When Garcia’s tank had been knocked out, Moreno had pushed more of his force forward, and two Sherman ‘Easy Eight’s’ moved on either side of the howitzer tank.
Two Soviet soldiers rose up with RPG-6s, but both were cut down before they could release their grenades.
Despite the lack of fire from the village ahead, all three Shermans lashed the rubble.
The armored infantry pushed up again, their halftracks supporting with .50cal fire. They rushed past their armored comrades, achieving the edge of the village without loss.
Pushing his own element forward, Moreno took the lead and broached the edge of the village, seeing only friendly GI’s moving ahead of him.
As per his plan, the remainder of his armor switched to the right, intent on enveloping the village.
He had started to key the mike, having mentally rehearsed his message about the impending fall of Strassfeld, when he realized that such a message would be premature, as the uniforms moving to his right were not those of his own men.
The group of Soviet soldiers charged into the armored infantrymen, PPShs and PPDs lashing the position with a hail of bullets, dropping many of the men before they had a chance to respond.
Moreno could offer no support, but screamed into his radio, summoning more of the 53rd’s infantry forward.
The position was reoccupied by triumphant enemy soldiers. Not one GI escaped, and Moreno watched helplessly as four men were dragged away.
In his peripheral vision, he now noticed that the assault he had watched was being repeated in a number of other places and, all except in the rubblised gasthaus nearest his tank, repeated with exactly the same bloody result.
Hardegen was in his ear, desperate for information.
Moreno called it as he saw it and, in many ways, he was right. As he suggested, the lack of resistance on the run in had been to draw the force forwards, and into a close encounter with the Soviet infantry.
“Mohawk-six, Mohawk-three-three. I urgently need more infantry. The place is full of commie foot soldiers and we can’t progress, over.”
“Roger, Mohawk-three-three. Use your reserve for now. Pot’s dry ’til I get reinforcements, over.”
Moreno had hoped to get his own extra resources but, as that wasn’t going to happen, using the combat reserve seemed reasonable.
“Mohawk-six, Mohawk-three-three, roger. We are moving around the objective, but we won’t be able to help you for some time, over.”
Hardegen had figured that one out for himself, knowing now that his flanking manoeuvre had bogged down, and had simply resulted in him losing part of his own resources in Strassfeld, resources that would not be able to support him at Müggenhausen, hence his own plea to his commander, Greenwood.
Next to no assistance was forthcoming from that quarter, as the rest of CCA had its own problems on Route 194.
Greenwood grudgingly released another refugee from the 808th, only recently arrived and on the strength of CCA, plus a short company of men formed from the supporting services, and a platoon of German kommandos from Euskirchen, who had come out of hiding and presented themselves when the US attack rolled the Russians back.
The new troops came at a price, as Brigadier General Greenwood ordered Hardegen’s force to push through Müggenhausen, and on into Weilerswist, without delay, which in Greenwood language meant ‘at all costs’.
Hardegen remonstrated, to no avail, and Greenwood’s radio fell silent as the fighting on Route 194 grew in intensity.
“Fuck, fuck, and double fuck!”
“Santa Maria, Major! It’s that good, is it?”