As another shell screeched overhead he tried to glimpse a red muzzle flash or green tracer trail so he could pinpoint the enemy position. He saw nothing.
They barreled into Teufelsdorf, engine bellowing, tracks clattering on the cobblestones. Civilians glared at the Americans and sullenly withdrew into their homes and shops, banging doors and shutters shut.
The narrow, crooked streets — now deserted — intersected at a square. Cole halted behind an inn. Like most of the buildings, it was a solid structure of white, plastered stone and brick with a red tile roof. Teufelsdorf had been of no importance during the war so it had survived unscathed. Cole wrinkled his nose at the familiar manure smell of a farm town.
He felt the tanker’s unease of close terrain where his machine was vulnerable to hidden foes armed with panzerfausts — German shoulder-fired anti-tank rockets. He watched as the other three Shermans and both jeeps entered the square and spread out, seeking cover behind nearby shops. Finally Lindsey and his crew straggled in on foot, one clutching a wounded arm, another limping heavily. All five had escaped. He beckoned to Lindsey.
“Sounded like an eighty-eight,” said Cole. “Where’d it come from?”
Lindsey stared at him with a dazed expression, blood trickling from his nose and ears. The concussion of the shell had stunned him. His gunner answered for him.
“North, sir. We got hit in the right side as we rounded the bend. Shell tore right through us and knocked out the engine.”
“Guess the rumors were true.”
“No way he could see us, sir.”
Cole pondered the matter. “Heard a report about a new gun sight the Krauts invented to see at night. Uses infrared light. They equipped a few Panthers with it and there were rumors they also put it on some Jagdpanthers.”
The shaken crew limped over to the curb so the medics could administer first aid.
Cole got on the radio to the rest of the platoon. Interference forced him to raise his voice. “Anybody see anything? Over. Over!” He finally received a crackling series of negative replies.
Cole stood in the hatch and looked around. Oddly, the village lacked a church, normally a ubiquitous feature even in the smallest European hamlet. At two stories, the inn was the tallest building. He clambered out and got onto the roof. From here he scanned the area with binoculars. Nothing. The fog was just too dense.
Returning to his tank, he tried contacting Captain Hogue, but the company and battalion command channels were drowned out by torrents of static. Youngblood adjusted dials and double-checked the equipment, but was unable to clear it up.
“Where’s this interference coming from?” asked Cole.
“Don’t know, sir. Maybe we’re being jammed.”
He was still able to talk on the platoon channel so he called, “All TCs come to my tank.”
He jumped to the ground as the other tank commanders clustered around. Digging a cigar from a pocket of his olive drab overalls, he chewed on it thoughtfully as he unfolded a map and spread it out on the engine deck.
“Radio net’s jammed so we can’t reach anybody,” he said. “Krauts know we’re here and if we sit here they’ll move to another position and start picking us off — or use the fog to slip away.”
“So we’re on our own,” said Waters.
“Looks that way.”
This prompted head-shaking and muttered profanity from the others.
“No use complaining about it. Let’s just get the job done. They’re somewhere on this ridge.” Cole tapped the map. “Hill 207. We know it’s an eighty-eight so we’ll have to assume it’s a Jagdpanther. They may have night-vision sights.”
“So if we try to move they’ll nail us,” said Sergeant Jackson.
“Well, if we all move at the same time and go at full speed in different directions they’ll have multiple targets to deal with. And we’ll fire smoke as we go.”
“If they can see through fog, won’t they see us anyway?”
“WP burns hot so maybe it’ll blind them. And the fumes could make them bail out.”
The others exchanged skeptical looks. Brown voiced the others’ concerns when he said, “Sir, if it really is a Jagdpanther its armor’s thicker than ours and sloped. Our shells will just bounce off.”
“We’ll charge the ridge from both ends and outflank it. It doesn’t have a turret so they can only swing their gun back and forth so far. Beyond that they have to turn the whole vehicle around to aim. If we knock off a track they’ll be stuck and then we can circle around and hit them from the side or rear where the armor’s thinner. Lindsey’s crew will stay here in town. So will the medics and the CIC guy until we have the hills secured.” Cole folded up the map. “Any questions?” He raked dark eyes over resigned faces. “We roll in five minutes.”
Everyone returned to brief their crews, then ‘buttoned-up’ — closed hatches — and put steel helmet shells over their fiberboard tanker helmets. Loaders pulled shells off ready racks. The 761st had the Sherman with the 76-millimeter gun, inadequate against the heavy armor of late-war German tanks like the Panther and Tiger. It had to get close to penetrate and the fearsome panzers had long high-velocity guns capable of destroying it before it could get within effective range. It did have a hydraulic traverse and gyrostabilizer, allowing the crew to rotate the turret quicker and even fire with some accuracy while moving, but that did little good if they were out of range. High-velocity armor-piercing rounds had greater penetration, but HVAP was scarce and the platoon only carried standard APC.
Cole’s bass voice boomed over the radio. “Move out!”
The platoon burst from Teufelsdorf, the two tanks under Cole and Jackson heading northeast and the two under Brown and Waters going northwest, all charging full speed across fallow farm fields, smashing through hedges and fences. Their cannons hurled a salvo of phosphorous shells up into the heights above and white pillars of smoke immediately rose.
Cole stood in the turret, unlit cigar still clenched between his teeth. A loud clang deafened him as he felt the hot rush of a passing shell. It had grazed the top of the turret, barely missing him and tearing off the 50-caliber anti-aircraft machine gun. He hissed profanity. Despite the fog and smoke, the enemy could still see them.
Kinkaid shifted into high gear and worked the steering levers, trying to zigzag and make the tank as difficult a target as possible. A second shell gouged a crater in the earth just behind them, throwing up a geyser of dirt and smoke.
Finally they reached the foot of Hill 207 and drove into the protection of a draw. Kinkaid downshifted and followed by Jackson’s tank they slowly crawled uphill.
The mist thinned somewhat as they ascended, but this was countered by dark, melancholy stands of pine and fir covering the slopes. At the top of the draw they halted. The forest was dense and the only way through was a dirt trail snaking along the crest. Brown and Waters radioed that they had reached the other end of the ridge unscathed. Cole ordered them to stay put for the moment. Cannons were reloaded with armor-piercing shells.
“Got a bad feeling about this, sir,” said Kinkaid.
Cole grunted agreement. “For sure he turned around and is aiming right down that trail, just waiting for us. Youngblood, grab your grease gun and come with me.”
They climbed out, Youngblood holding an M3 submachine gun. He paused to snap in a 30-round magazine, pull back the bolt, and flip open the dust cover. Then the two crept through the wet brush alongside the trail, silently cursing the bramble thorns tugging at them. Water dripping from the needled branches pattered on their helmets. The trees stood like ghostly sentinels in the murk, silent and watchful.