Youngblood pointed. Brush had been crushed and earth churned up by the passage of a heavy vehicle, bigger than a Sherman, with wide tracks. Cole nodded. They continued on.
Cole abruptly froze, listening intently. Up ahead he heard the low, throbbing growl of a powerful engine, like the breath of a monstrous, mechanical beast.
The stillness was shattered by a stuttering roar he recognized as an MG34, a machine gun commonly used on German armored vehicles. 7.92 millimeter bullets slashed through the foliage, punching through tree trunks, clipping off branches, and sending splinters flying like shrapnel asthe pair flung themselves into a muddy depression and hugged the ground. They hastily squirmed behind a fallen pine as a second burst whipped overhead.
“No tracers,” hissed Youngblood. “Can’t see where he is.”
“We know which way he’s pointing and that’s enough. Let’s go!” Keeping the windfall between them and the enemy, they crawled back down the trail until they were far enough to safely get to their feet and run the rest of the way back to their tank.
Cole jumped inside and grabbed the microphone. “Able Two Two and Two Five, move in! He’s pointing away from y’all!”
“Wilco!” Soon Cole heard roaring engines and crashing guns.
Brown’s triumphant voice came over the radio. “He’s tracked! Got the son of a bitch as he tried turning back toward us. His gun’s stuck pointing away from all of us now!”
“Step on it, Kinkaid!” said Cole. “Able Two Four, follow me!”
The Sherman swung down the trail, followed by Jackson’s tank. Cole discerned a vague, menacing bulk ahead. It was the sleek casemate of a Jagdpanther, armored skirts protecting its interleaved road wheels, the long barrel of an 88-millimeter jutting from its angled front armor. Painted in splotches of green, brown, and tan, evergreen branches further camouflaged it. The left drive sprocket had been hit, blowing off the track and immobilizing the 45-ton vehicle.
Cole ordered Kinkaid to veer off the trail to provide a clear field of fire for Jackson. Both Shermans lurched to a halt; gunners lined up sights and stomped firing pedals. The tanks rocked from the recoil. Shells punched through the Jagdpanther’s flank, ripping deep into its metal insides. The others mercilessly pounded it from the opposite side. Black smoke poured from grilles; orange flames licked out. A series of sharp explosions blew it open as ammunition overheated and exploded. The Jagdpanther sat there gutted, reduced to a burning wreck.
The tanks trained their machine guns on it to shoot down the crew as they tried to escape. Fog and drifting smoke made it difficult to see. At length the fire died down.
“Didn’t see anyone,” said Kinkaid. “Reckon they’re all dead,”
“Check to make sure,” said Cole.
The crew dismounted, fingers on submachine gun triggers as they warily approached. The reek of cordite and burning rubber and oil hung thick in the air. As they got closer they could see the Jagdpanther’s top and rear hatches were open.
Cole, holding a grenade, peeked inside through a shell hole, bracing himself for the sickening sight and stench of human beings torn apart or burned alive. The compartment was roomy compared to a Sherman — and the five seats surrounding the gun breech were empty.
“They’re gone!” he said.
“Must’ve bailed out just before it blew up,” said Youngblood.
One of the medics drove up in his jeep, followed by Rosenthal in his.
Cole scowled and stepped back as he stared at the wreck, arms akimbo. “There’s no infrared apparatus. How the hell could they see us?” He looked inside again and saw charred remnants of uniforms, socks, field caps, boots, even underwear. “They left their uniforms behind.”
“So what the hell are they wearing?” asked Robinson.
“Don’t know. Left their guns behind too. I can see a Schmeisser and four pistols, They had to bail out so fast they didn’t have a chance to grab them,Good, that means they’re unarmed. And there’s no sign of any other Germans so those five are it.” Cole turned to face the others. “All right, let’s track them down. Jackson, bring your crew with me. Waters, Brown, stay here.”
The two crews fanned out into the forest. Those left with the tanks relaxed a bit, slinging weapons over their shoulders. The Shermans were parked in a circle, facing outwards.
Rosenthal lit a cigarette and circled the Jagdpanther. It bore the black-and-white German cross on the sides, the white tactical number 101 on the sides and rear, and the white tactical symbol for a tank destroyer unit on the glacis plate. Next to it was a yellow wolf’s hook, a heraldic symbol he recognized as the unit insignia of the 2nd SS Panzer Division.
The wreck was still smoldering, so he fetched a fire extinguisher from his jeep and put out the remaining flames. Then he gingerly climbed onto the hot, mangled engine deck and swung inside, eyes watering in the smoke. He examined scorched seats and hatchways minutely with a magnifying glass, picking off samples he placed in an envelope.
He inspected the burned uniforms. Tank destroyers were considered artillery in the German Army, so their crews wore panzer uniforms of field gray instead of black. The jackets bore the collar runes and sleeve eagle of the Waffen-SS, but no unit cuff title. For security reasons SS soldiers had been ordered to remove these. A General Assault Badge was pinned on the left breast indicating combat experience. These were veterans. He searched for paybooks, wallets, or letters, finding nothing.
Climbing out, he studied the muddy ground nearby, kneeling to take a closer look.
Finally he returned to his jeep. He drew his Colt M1911 automatic from its shoulder holster, ejected the magazine, and loaded one of the special magazines he had brought with him. Then he picked up a Thompson M1 submachine gun and swapped its magazine too. He cocked both weapons.
Brown looked at him, curiosity written on his face. “What’s up?”
Rosenthal flicked away his cigarette. “I don’t think these are normal Germans. I have to find the lieutenant — and I’d suggest getting back in your tanks.” He hurried off into the woods.
At length he found Lewis, who directed him to Cole.
“Sir, pull your men back,” said Rosenthal.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
They were interrupted by the harsh chatter of automatic fire, followed by yells. It came from back where the tanks were. The two crews dashed back up the slope.
Near the top they stumbled over Waters. His throat had been ripped out.
As the tanks came into uncertain view Rosenthal spotted a dark, shaggy figure on top of Brown, trying to wrench away the man’s M3. Rosenthal saw Brown hold down the trigger and pour 45-caliber slugs into the belly of his attacker — with seemingly no effect.
Rosenthal whipped up his Thompson and squeezed off a burst. This time the figure let out a shrill howl and toppled over. A twig snapped; he ducked behind a Sherman as bullets ricocheted off the steel. Rosenthal leaned out and fired back, blindly spraying the tangled vegetation. He was rewarded with a yelp of pain and heard brush crash as someone ran away. Then silence.
They searched the area for more lurking foes, but there was no sign of anyone.
Rosenthal and Cole ran over to Brown. Dark blood spilled from a severed jugular vein. There was nothing they could do as Brown gave a final gasp and slumped lifeless in Cole’s arms.
Corpses were strewn all over the bivouac. They had literally been torn apart — dismembered, disemboweled, or decapitated. Heads and limbs and entrails lay scattered on ground that was red and soaked with blood.