The sun was trying to rise and clear away the haze and the smoke of battle. Koenig choked on the smoke, realizing that part of the scent was human flesh cooking. The battle was moving forward and in front of them. They walked carefully around the ruined tanks and the dead and dying soldiers.
His radioman jabbed him on the arm. “Sir, I just heard a report that we’ve broken through to the lake.”
Canfield had decided that his spot was at the front. In part this was because the rear area was so constricted, but mostly because he felt he belonged at the point of danger.
Like everyone, he’d hunkered down when the shells began to fall. The trenches and foxholes had been well designed and only a direct hit was likely to kill. Still, there were numerous casualties from near misses, and from men running in panic from the relative safety of their holes and into a land where flying metal could skewer them.
He heard the tanks well before anyone could see them. His battalion’s position had been reinforced by four Shermans, a pair of 105mm howitzers, and a pair of 57mm anti-tank guns. These were all courtesy of General Truscott and had arrived only minutes before the German barrage started, which meant they were not all well placed.
Someone yelled that he could see the tanks and, sure enough, they were emerging from the fog and mist. American guns opened up. A howitzer firing over open sights managed a direct hit that blew the turret off a Panzer, while an anti-tank gun disabled another. Canfield watched with awe as two soldiers with a bazooka attacked the flank of another. They killed it but were cut to pieces by German machine gun fire.
The Panzers opened fire at close range. Shells and machine gun fire killed wantonly. Canfield felt something hit his arm and he saw that he was bleeding. A medic slapped a bandage around his arm and said it was a flesh wound. “Flesh wound, my ass,” he snapped and the medic grinned.
German infantry washed around what remained of his position. Their goal was the lake. Canfield’s advanced position had been neutralized and could be wiped out at a later time. Canfield watched in impotent fury as tank after tank rumbled by him.
A German appeared in front of them and hollered, asking them in badly accented English if they wanted to surrender. “Fuck you,” said Dubinski and shot him. The German grabbed his leg and staggered back. A fusillade of gunfire swept over the trenches and someone screamed.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” muttered Dubinski. “I just didn’t like being asked to surrender.”
Grant’s feet were in the water. Small waves lapped at his ankles. In front of him, he could see shadows in the mist. They began to take shape and become enemy tanks. He took a couple of steps forward so he could lie at least part ways on the ground along with a few score soldiers who were ready to fight. Clouds of smoke blew through them and the sounds of battle were becoming deafening. It occurred to him that the perimeter was not even ten feet deep at this point. He shifted in the wet sand so he could fire his carbine before he retreated into Lake Erie. He had no idea what he would do then.
Hundreds of American soldiers, perhaps more, milled around on the water’s edge. Only a few were, like Grant, preparing to fight. Too many were rear echelon troops who should have been farther back, but the narrowness of the beachhead had trapped them. German artillery shells landed in their midst, adding to their confusion, terror, and panic. With the German tanks bearing down on them, they ran to either side, some actually screaming in fright. A number of them splashed into the water, wading and swimming. They were going to try to make it to the transports, dimly seen a mile or so off shore. They wouldn’t make it. Grant and others yelled at them to come back. Some did, but others continued out. He watched in horror as bobbing heads disappeared.
Truscott plopped down beside Grant. “Think we can swim to Buffalo?” he asked with a satanic grin.
“Are we going to have to, general?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said as he gestured to another aide who then picked up a radio and gave orders. Seconds later, artillery fire from the transport ships anchored offshore erupted and began to land among the approaching Panzers, killing still more of them. It occurred to Grant that the Germans were paying too high a price to reach the lake. It was also apparent that American artillery was hitting many American soldiers who were trying to hide. A terrible price would be paid if the Germans were to be stopped.
A German tank appeared only fifty feet in front of him. Shells from the transports landed around it. They were almost on top of him and Truscott. The concussions rocked them and showered them with dirt and debris.
The tank fired and the shell seemed to scream only feet above Grant. There was a lull and Grant peered carefully over a low mound that had been sheltering him. The German tank was burning and a crewman lay on the ground beside it. His clothes and skin were smoldering. He thought he could see other Germans heading inland and away.
Truscott staggered to his knees. “I think this is as far as the Germans get. Their high water mark, so to speak.”
“What do you see?” asked Guderian. His voice was distorted and tinny over the radio. Koenig could hear the anxiety in his voice.
“We have been stalled by the guns on the ships. Our tanks are now shooting up the transports and a couple of them are already burning. The Americans are fighting far more tenaciously than I thought, and our attacks are slowing down. Send some more tanks, sir, and we can still pull it off.”
There was a pause and Koenig heard Guderian sigh. “Thank you, but that will not happen. I’m ordering a retreat before I lose the rest of the army?”
“But why, sir? We’re so close.”
“But not close enough, captain, and don’t question me,” Guderian snapped. “We are paying too high a price and the Americans have begun crossing the Niagara River to our south. I’m afraid the Yanks have won this round.”
Koenig gave the radio back to his aide. He looked to his rear and began to plot his retreat. As a German soldier, he’d never had to retreat. The Wehrmacht had only known victory. Oh yes, there had been some minor reversals that had entailed strategic pullbacks, but Guderian was implying that Germany had lost this battle. If the Americans were truly crossing the river, this withdrawal would likely be just the beginning.
He looked down and saw his shadow. The sky was beginning to clear and that meant that the American planes would be on them like blood attracts sharks.
Chapter Twenty-one
Canfield lay low and hugged the mud at the bottom of his trench as the German armor again drove past. One part of him said he should be shooting at them, while another part said that would be inviting retaliation and disaster. This time there were fewer of the enemy and they were headed in the other direction. The infantry among them were slumped over and in no way resembled Nazi supermen. Wounded Germans were stretched out on tank hulls. He wanted to exult, but he had lost too many men in the fighting. A rough count said fifty dead and two hundred wounded out of a battalion of eight hundred.
Dubinski rose up. His face was contorted in anger. He had his rifle and he was looking for a target. Canfield grabbed his arm and winced. His so-called flesh wound hurt like the devil.