Graves opened the hatch and stood. He tried to pick out a location to hide in, but the trees were sparse here. The town of Bastogne was only a few miles to the west, but they might not have a chance of reaching it if they didn’t shake the King Tiger. Even if they actually managed to elude, it they’d still have to find a road.
The Tiger fired, and a round screamed over the Sherman as Graves’ tank hit a small dip. A few inches lower, and the turret would have been obliterated along with him.
“Right stick, come around twenty degrees,” Graves called.
Murph worked the sticks and the tank complied, even as they came up to speed.
There was a copse ahead. If they could get behind it, they might be able to turn tail and run.
The Tiger rolled forward and cleared a pair of small trees in a rending crash of wood. Branches covered in snow crashed to the earth and were crushed under close to seventy tons of metal, engine, and deadly gun.
“Hit him!” Graves called, knowing it was practically hopeless, but he was at least going to go down fighting.
The Sherman’s gun bucked and a 75mm round found the King Tiger, but glanced off the thick armor’s side.
“Again!” Graves yelled.
“On the way,” Big Texas said as he worked the gun.
The next round got lucky and struck track. A piece of metal flew off and the Tiger floundered.
“Hard right stick!” Graves called.
Murph gave him what he asked for, and the King Tiger’s next round glanced off the Sherman’s armor. The sound was like someone took a cast iron pan and fired a .45 round into it right next to Grave’s ear.
“Punch up the engine. We hurt that Tiger, but it’s still gunning for us,” Graves called.
Then something genuinely odd happened.
A group of German infantry scrambled up the sides of the King Tiger. There were at least ten of them and they moved almost mechanically. They weren’t along for a ride; in fact, they started beating at the thick metal.
The tank commander popped out to yell at the men.
The Sherman rolled over a tree, and a low-hanging branch smacked Graves across the back of his head. He was jolted forward and almost dropped his binoculars. He managed to catch the strap and then lift them again. He braced himself against the front of the portal and felt the back of his head to find a gash. He brought his hand around and broke his view to find blood on it.
“I been bushwhacked,” he mumbled.
He shook it off, even though the back of his head throbbed in pain. He looked at the King Tiger again and found that the tank commander was being dragged out of his turret.
The officer batted at hands, but he was pulled completely out. The German infantrymen dragged the SS officer across the metal and then beat at him with knives, rocks, and fists.
One of the crazy Germans leaned into the tank, then fell inside but the turret was still rotating to track the Sherman.
“Left stick, left stick!” Graves yelled but the tank didn’t fire on them.
“What’s he doing?” Big Texas asked.
“That’s some shit,” Graves said.
Then the tank’s gun spoke again, and a round ricocheted off the Sherman’s track. Metal ground against metal, and parts of the wheels flew into the air. The left track kept turning, pulling them in a semi-circle.
Graves prepared to issue the order to abandon the tank. One more hit and they were all dead.
But the Tiger ground to a halt, and the gun didn’t fire again. Another Kraut leaned into the tank and fought someone. Then a second man dressed in white joined the first. He fell in up to his waist, legs sticking up into the air like a big middle finger. They wiggled as the man wormed himself inside.
“Should I light them up, sir?” Gabby said.
“Out, out, everyone out,” Graves ordered.
Hatches popped and his men piled out, rolled over the side of the tank, and got down next to the working tracks. Now stuck, the tank still steamed, and exhaust from the engine rose into the air.
Graves crawled out of the turret and down the side to join his men.
“See that little rise there? Run for it. We’ll use it as a foxhole and then make our way into the woods to elude the damn Tiger,” Graves said, and pointed in the direction he wanted his men to move.
They broke into a run, backs bent, guns in hands. Murph wore his winter jacket, but Big Texas and Gabby had barely had time to grab their weapons.
As they ran for cover, Graves expected the tank to explode at any second. That Tiger was going to zero in on the disabled Sherman and send it flying. The military transport would go up like a Ronson, and they’d be sprayed with shrapnel and flames.
They dove into the improvised foxhole and quickly maneuvered around to get heads over the lip to watch the German tank.
It hadn’t moved.
“Did I see what I thought I saw?” Big Texas drawled.
“If you saw Kraut soldiers attacking the tank commander and the tank crew, then you and I saw the same thing, buddy,” Graves said.
Figures swarmed over the tank as it lay unmoving. It had come to rest against a big pine and pushed the tree at a sharp angle. The tree gave up the fight and finally cracked in the middle, showering the ground with snow and dead leaves.
Someone screamed in the distance. Then the sound was echoed by that of another man. The Krauts on the tank spread out and moved away from the vehicle as they sought a new enemy.
“Maybe those are Americans in German clothes?” Gabby speculated out loud.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. If that were true, they would have told us so we don’t shoot our own guys.”
“What else makes sense? Germans fighting Germans? Hell, this war will be over by Christmas if that’s the case.”
“Pipe down, guys. Those Krauts are on the prowl and they’re headed this way.”
“We should get back in the tank and take them out, Staff Sergeant,” Big Texas said.
“What if one of those guys shoots us from the Tiger?” Gabby said.
“Just pipe down. We’ll move out soon. Murph. Drop a grenade in the tank so they can’t use it against us.”
“On it, boss,” Murph said.
Murphy moved low to the ground. He tugged a grenade off of his belt and approached the tank.
German soldiers caught sight of him and broke into a run.
“Covering fire,” Graves said, popping up and opening fire.
TWENTY-SIX
TAYLOR
It was a miracle the jeep even started. The mortar round had gone off close enough to throw the vehicle on its side, but Betsy was a tough old broad and shook off the blow. The door was dented in and wouldn’t open, but the men got around that by piling over the sides.
Grillo, laid down fire over the windshield as they backed up. The rest of the men stood or sat where they could, and jammed into the limited space. She was sluggish and veered to the left, thanks to a damaged axle or bent rim. No time to assess the damage now. She was running, and that was all they could hope for, under the conditions.
He had no idea how the other companies were faring. With any luck, not as badly as Baker.
They hit a log, and the jeep bounced up in the air. It came down hard, spilling one of the men out of the transport. He fell with a yell, so Captain Taylor came to a halt.
Seven Germans streamed out of the woods, thirty or forty yards ahead. They had their hands in the air, and one offered a white flag.
Wayne hopped off the back of the jeep and grabbed a BAR. He advanced on the men with the gun locked against his shoulder. The Germans carefully lowered their weapons, but they looked over their shoulders in fear as they walked toward Wayne’s position.