Though the tide had swung back in their favor, it was several minutes before Scotty Dixon and his crew realized that. And even when they did, neither he nor anyone else on his tank showed any great desire to rejoin the fighting. They had done what they had hoped to do; they had saved their own lives. That they had killed other men in the process didn't matter. What mattered was that they were alive, that they were in one piece, and that the hope of making it home that way was still a realistic and achievable goal. There was no joy, no pride. Only four sweating men relieved that they had survived somehow and for the moment had nothing to do.
It was Vorishnov, in his indomitable style, who finally broke the silence and pulled Dixon and the rest of his crew out of their own personal reflections and thoughts.
Climbing up and out of the open loader's hatch, Vorishnov looked toward the rail yard, hidden by the twisting street but marked by many fires and secondary explosions. After taking off his helmet and wiping the sweat from his brow, Vorishnov looked at Dixon and pointed a finger at him. There was a stern look on Vorishnov's face. "You know, Colonel, it would have been much better with an automatic loader. This juggling act to load this cannon is too much for one man, especially an old one like me. You must tell your generals you need automatic loaders."
Dixon laughed. "Well, Colonel, remind me of that when we get to Bremerhaven."
Vorishnov nodded. "I will do that, Colonel. I promise you."
CHAPTER 15
In relative terms, the forces engaged were small given the area involved and the nations participating. The area defined by Giessen in the west and Eisenach in the east, Kassel in the north, and Fulda in the south belonged to the German state of Hesse and encompassed over 4,000 square miles, or slightly less than the state of Connecticut. The only river of any consequence was the Fulda, running north to south from the town of Fulda to Kassel. Most of the towns and villages scattered throughout this area were, comparatively speaking, small. Except for the major road networks that ran through some of them, few were of any significance.
It was the hills, forests, and small valleys that gave the Battle of Central Germany its character. Because of this, maneuver space was quite limited and the opportunity to use the sophisticated long-range weapons that both armies were equipped with to their maximum effective range was rare. The broken and hilly terrain, cluttered with forests, meant that the series of battles that took place seldom involved more than a single company on either side. There were no long-drawn-out battles of maneuver and massed firepower where generals and colonels maneuvered massed formations here and there. Instead, the Battle of Central Germany was a series of seemingly random and disjointed actions that were short but vicious. These confrontations, often fought at very close range, never involved more than a handful of tanks or infantry fighting vehicles, controlled by captains and lieutenants, and fought by soldiers who seldom saw more than one or two other vehicles of their own unit. Although violent surprise attacks against strong points and ambushes were the preferred technique of both sides, chance meetings were just as likely as the Tenth Corps shifted to deal with the aggressive 2nd Panzer Division and the leisurely probes of the 10th Panzer.
The weather added its own cruel touch to the battles fought throughout the state of Hesse. Short days and long nights, nights that lasted from 4:30 in the afternoon until almost 7:30 in the morning, added to the difficulties of combatants and those supporting them. Even when day did make its brief appearance, leaden gray skies filled with angry dark clouds often shielded the soldiers of both sides from the warming rays of the sun. It was perhaps the prevailing gloom of winter weather and the discomfort it brought to members of the Tenth Corps and the Bundeswehr that made the foul business of war even fouler and more unpleasant.
In war the weather can be as deadly and vicious an opponent as any human being. Freezing temperatures can kill the unprepared or careless soldier just as dead as a bullet. And even when the freezing temperatures rise long enough to melt snow, the weather gives no warmth, no relief. Instead, warmer weather generates mud, mud that coats both soldiers and their equipment. Mud that fouls weapons and machines. Mud that grabs an infantryman's ankles and makes each step an effort that further saps the soldier's diminishing strength and stamina. With the approach of night, when the temperature dips again below freezing, uniforms and jackets, now wet and covered with mud, give their owners little protection from the bitter winter winds. Nor do the cold and tasteless combat rations do anything to relieve the sufferings of the soldiers. Together with the lack of dry clothing and the inability to stop long enough to tend to personal needs, including sleep, hope, as well as a soldier's ability to function, slowly erodes. As physical discomfort and the frustrations of not being able to relieve them continue, nerves fray and tempers wear thin, adding mental gloom and despair to an already gloomy and desperate situation. With each kilometer that the Tenth Corps moved north toward the sea and the Bundeswehr fought to stop it, the hopes and spirits of the soldiers sagged lower and lower. Only the efforts of the commanders on both sides, who themselves suffered under the same conditions that were slowly breaking their men, kept both armies going.
Seventeen kilometers south of Bad Hersfeld, Captain Friedrich Seydlitz stood shivering in the open hatch of his Leopard II tank, watching and waiting impatiently for the American mechanized infantry forming up in the wood line across from his company to make its attack. That they were there and that they were preparing for an attack was obvious to everyone in Seydlitz's company. Since moving west out of Hünfeld, the Americans had been putting continuous pressure on Seydlitz's brigade while it continued to make its way to Autobahn A7. Seydlitz, standing on the forward edge of battle and unaware of the activities of other units, couldn't understand why, after such a magnificent start, he and his company were now standing on the defensive. No one, not even his battalion commander, bothered to explain to him that the lack of fuel and the unexpected counterattack of an American brigade in the rear of the 2nd Panzer Division kept Seydlitz and his men from reaching their objective. Instead, Seydlitz was simply ordered to move to such and such a place, assume a hasty defensive position, and be prepared to beat back any and all counterattacks.
Turning up the collar of his field jacket, Seydlitz wondered what the Americans across from him were up to. They had been fooling around just inside the tree line five hundred meters across a narrow valley from his company for better than three hours. Every now and then one of his tank commanders or gunners would catch a glimpse of an American combat vehicle and ask permission to fire. Seydlitz, without exception, declined permission. They, not the Americans, were at a disadvantage in this situation and had to be careful. Better, he thought, to wait until the enemy came at him in force and in the open than to pick ineffectually at them and expose his own tanks to systematic destruction. Though Seydlitz, like his tank commanders, was chafing at the insufferable delay and anxious to do something, there was nothing to do but curse the cold and dampness that inflamed every joint in his body.
In the distance, a series of low rumbles broke the silence. The firing of American artillery announced the beginning of the attack. Never having been the target of an artillery barrage, Seydlitz didn't quite know what to expect. In training, he had seen and even directed artillery fire at old vehicle hulks and piles of scrap metal. That, however, had been under totally controlled conditions in which every effort had been made to ensure that no mistakes would be made and that no one would be hurt. This, Seydlitz realized as he dropped to the turret floor, pulling his hatch cover over his head, was different. He, and not some pile of scrap metal, was their intended target.