Tony was driving with the hatch open and his head and shoulders outside. This gave him an excellent view forward, although he could not see the eleven other tanks behind or the twenty lightly armored half-tracks that, full of infantry, followed the tanks. The area had been quiet and he was not particularly concerned about snipers.
“Hey, Toad.” It was Ernie the gunner. “What do you see?”
“Eva Braun dancing naked and calling out for you to fuck her,” Tony responded. If Ernie wanted to see what was in front, all he had to do was open the turret hatch and look. Fortunately for Tony, Brentwood usually ignored such idle banter between his crew. Brentwood was not totally stupid and knew it helped keep them sane.
The tank moved around a charred building, and there was a great deal of open space before it. In the distance, Tony could see a number of shapes and he stopped the tank abruptly, causing everyone to lurch forward and swear. “Tanks!” he yelled.
“Jesus,” Brentwood said. “How many do you make, Corporal?”
Tony started counting and also started shaking. “I see thirty but there may be more coming through the dust.”
“Where the hell did the Germans get them?” Brentwood muttered. There was a degree of silence as the rest of the column had halted behind Tony’s lead tank.
“Sir,” Tony said, an unsettling fear filling him. “They aren’t German. Those are Russians. That silhouette belongs to a T34.”
“Bullshit,” the colonel said. “The Reds can’t be this far west. Those are German Panthers, not T34s. They just look a lot alike.”
Tony admitted that possibility. Their silhouettes were very similar from a distance. A spotter plane radioed that a large number of tanks was headed toward them, but didn’t specify nationality.
Brentwood prudently ordered them to take up defensive positions. What had started out as a public relations stunt now had the potential to be a disaster.
Tony was shaking. This had all the earmarks of a bloody mistake. “Sir, I still think those are Commies.”
Brentwood was puzzled. The dust kicked up by the approaching tanks obscured any insignia. “We can’t take chances. They have to be German. We’ll treat them as if they are the enemy.”
And even if they are, we’re in deep shit, Tony thought. Even though many of the American Sherman tanks had been improved with a higher-velocity main gun, they still didn’t stand a chance against a Panther. Or a T34 for that matter.
The unknown tanks were in range. Tony saw a flash of light. Was it gunfire? Were the other tanks shooting at them?
“Goddamn Germans are shooting at us,” Brentwood yelled.
“I still think they’re Russians, Colonel,” Tony said.
“Then why the hell are they shooting at us and why the hell are you arguing with me?”
Tony winced. He had gone too far. Now there would be no reasoning with the colonel.
“Open fire,” Brentwood ordered, and a dozen American guns blasted. At long range, only a couple of enemy tanks were hit and they weren’t damaged.
At that moment, the spotter plane’s pilot confirmed that the tanks were Russians and might be shooting at a German position. Brentwood paled and Tony declined to say I told you so.
Brentwood grabbed him by the shoulder. “Toad, get the hell out there with a flag while I contact division.”
Though reluctant to leave the relative security of the tank’s armored womb, Tony clambered out onto the ground and pulled out the bag that contained a good-sized American flag and a collapsible pole. Many of these had been distributed so they could identify themselves visually should the need arise. Tony thought the need was now absolutely imperative and scrambled to connect it to the pole. He looked around and saw crewmen from a number of American tanks and half-tracks doing the same thing. There was a decent breeze and the flags unfurled themselves so that even a blind Russian could see them.
The Russian tanks continued to close on them and he could now see they had infantry trotting alongside. He counted more than the thirty tanks he first saw and many more were still coming into view, and they were definitely within range. Why hadn’t they shot at them? Were they concerned about killing Americans? Christ, he hoped so.
Suddenly, the Russian tanks opened fire. Dozens of guns barked, their sound barely preceding the stunning concussion of their shells impacting around him.
Tony clambered onto the hull as the tank began to back up. He could hear Brentwood screaming into the radio that he was being attacked by Russians. Tony was just about to climb down the hatch into his tank when the shock of a near miss threw him to the ground and rolled him away from his Sherman. He tried to rise again, but his tank took a hit. It lifted off the ground, then settled with a crash. For a moment he thought he was dead. He wasn’t, but his tank had been killed. It was burning furiously and the intense heat drove him back. The turret hatch opened and a living torch tried to crawl out. Tony watched in horror as the blackened, burning thing with no face moved a little, twitched, and stopped halfway out. Tony thought it was Ernie, but he couldn’t be sure. Asshole Brentwood was doubtless still cooking inside the tank.
He gagged from the sight and the stench of burning flesh. He crawled farther away from the Sherman and then looked around. A half-dozen other American tanks were also in flames, as were a couple of half-tracks. The sound of ammunition exploding inside the Shermans told him he was ungodly fortunate to be alive. The remainder of the American vehicles were running away from the one-sided battle as quickly as they could. He looked at the rapidly closing Reds and didn’t see any of their tanks on fire or stopped.
There were some other Americans lying on the ground around him. Most of them were quite still and only a couple were moving their arms or trying to rise. Tony checked himself and realized that he was basically unhurt. Bruises and cuts didn’t count in a disaster like this.
He looked at the Russian tanks. They were advancing faster toward him than he could ever think of running. They were outstripping their own infantry, which was rapidly being left behind. He whimpered without realizing it and settled himself to wait for whatever the Russians might do.
The sound of airplane engines from behind him caused him to look up quickly as a pair of American P-47 fighter-bombers roared only a few feet overhead. Their machine guns chewed through the Russian infantry but did no harm to the tanks. The fighters banked sharply and began strafing the rear of the Russian tanks and firing their five-inch rockets. This time the Russian tanks suffered. Less heavily armored in the top and rear, several of them took hits and exploded.
“Kill the bastards!” Tony yelled.
In a moment, however, the two planes were out of rockets and ammunition. He watched sadly as they flew off, leaving the field to the Russians. For a second time, he sat and waited for the inevitable, knowing full well that the Reds would be pissed at the aerial attack and would likely take it out on potential prisoners.
Thus, he watched incredulously as the Russian column veered away from the killing ground and turned off on a mission of its own. He stood up and unconsciously dusted himself off. He was alive. Damned alone, but alive. Find a weapon, he told himself, and get the hell out of here. And oh yeah, just who the hell was the enemy, the Germans or the Russians?
He found an M1 Garand on a body from a half-track and took it along with a couple of clips of ammunition. He looked at the wounded. Only a couple were still alive and he didn’t think they would last long. Maybe the Reds would find them and care for them. There sure as hell wasn’t anything he could do.