The calm spring day had turned ominously sour towards the afternoon with the arrival of ever thickening rain clouds.
Sergeant Douglas, from the commander’s hatch of Beauty, had for a moment thought he heard thunder, signaling the awaited break of the storm that was encircling them, but to be honest, he couldn’t tell if it actually was the weather, or just another artillery impact closer to the front line.
Weather speculations disappeared from his mind soon enough, leaving the cross roads and the bitterly contested town behind, their armored column advanced up the road, to reinforce the 1st ID’s troops that had been deadlocked in a grueling slugging match with the Germans the entire day.
That Beauty and her companions were just now being committed, was nothing short of a miracle thought Douglas.
Not only a small part of him hoped that the fight was all but over at this point.
But every inch of ground they advanced, brought them further into range of the garbled and frantic cries coming out over the tank’s radio.
Beauty’s crew was on edge, silent, and worrisome for the right reasons. Their short respite from death’s grip had passed by blissfully, and now it was clear that the war was still on in full swing.
They were close enough to the raging firefights now that the occasional random bullet was heard pinging off the tank’s hull, without having to be told, each individual had buttoned up their hatches about a mile back.
Everyone felt it was better to curse at the stifling tank’s poor ventilation, than run the risk of catching a stray.
Everyone that was, except for Sergeant Douglas. He flung open his top hatch and swiftly dismounted when they halted.
As the lead vehicle in the column, the others came to a stop behind Beauty, sitting ducks it seemed.
Waiting for him on the side of Beauty, was a hard nose Staff Sergeant, who gruffly turned to size Douglas up, simultaneously revealing an unbuttoned combat shirt that showed the bloody gauze beneath it.
“Fuckers, motherfuckers! Jerry just won’t quit today. The CO caught one in the head around lunch time, top went out on a stretcher not twenty minutes ago. I’m all that’s left in the chain here, but I’m happy sonuva bitch to see these here tanks.” Said the SSGT, as the high pitched whine and resounding ping of a bullet skidded off Beauty’s hull.
Douglas uncomfortably smirked. He never understood how the grunts could get used to bullets coming within inches of them, and not showing any visible signs of the fleeting terror that always gripped him when he was forced to be outside of his tank’s armored body.
Before the Staff Sergeant could continue, Jim Banks’ hatch flew open, raising his voice to be heard, he said, “Sarge, CO on the horn, he’s thrown a track back at the crossroads, said division’s got the whole place pretty jammed up with traffic.”
Sergeant Douglas waved him away, that was one proble he’d deal with when he had too.
The Staff Sergeant looked back at Douglas and continued, “I’ll get right down to it”, another sharp ping, unnervingly close this time, “these boys we’ve been duking it out with all day ain’t no conscripts, they’ve gotta be some pretty crack joes with some good leadership. Now we’re pinned down for the most part, but our artillery is making sure they can’t get out of their holes up there. I need you to swing wide, out thatta way, through the bocage, my scouts’ll point you in the right direction when you get there. There should be two companies from 3-21 getting ready to push that flank, and I want your tanks there to support them. We’ve gotta wrap this thing up quick, come nightfall they’ll just haul ass outta here and we’ll be doing the same damn thing tomorrow. I can’t afford that. And I don’t think you want to either. We ain’t spotted no armor, but I’m sure you know that don’t mean they ain’t out there. I’m setting up a CP here, keep in touch. I’m gonna walk the arty right up on them as you go. Hit ‘em hard, and hit 'em fast Sergeant. Now get going, we’re burning daylight.”
Sergeant Douglas wasted no time, pausing for a second to listen for any incoming rounds over the din of battle, he leapt onto Beauty and slid down into his hatch, pulling it closed, but not locking it, just in case he needed to get a look around in a hurry.
Plugging in his throat mike as Deacon revved the engine and put Beauty in gear, he cleared his throat and began calmly relaying orders to his crew.
They pulled away from the road, cutting through fields to the west, all the while coordinating with the three other Sherman’s in their column, though they were down two tanks, due to the CO having to negotiate a tow from the crossroads, Douglas felt fairly confident that they’d make it through this one in one piece, even if the CO’s absence left him in charge of the column.
At least that’s what he told himself.
The crew was still tense, engine idling, all four Shermans on line behind a rather thin line of bocage. Through it, lay the German positions, and even inside the tank Douglas could hear the incessant sawing of the MG42’s & rhythmic thump of 8cm mortars humming their death song.
All around them milled the nervous infantry from 3-21, NCOs barked orders gruffly, reminding the men to stay behind the tanks while they crossed the fields, and to do everything possible to prevent any German getting close to them.
If the tanks went up, the infantry would be caught in a meat grinder. And without the infantry covering their blind spots, the tankers would stand little chance against a slithering German with a Panzerfaust.
Codependent was the term on Sergeant Douglas’ mind when he heard the first artillery rounds shift, and begin peppering the open field to their front. 105’s, from the sound of their thumping.
He swallowed once more, and gave the order.
“All cans forward, through the bocage! Let’s give it to 'em boys!”
As Beauty’s engine strained to tear a hole through the bocage, Douglas cautiously raised himself up into the hatch, binoculars in hand, ready to spot targets as they presented themselves.
The first few moments of being out in the open were full of excruciating pain for Sergeant Douglas.
Revealing themselves to be skillful veterans as anticipated, the German’s had positioned a considerable amount of force on their flank in case of such an event, and waited until the infantry had cleared the bocage as well as the advancing Shermans before picking their targets.
Where time had slowed to a crawl coming through the bocage, the moment the first scream of MG42 fire came slicing through the air, it seemed that time was now flying as fast as the bullets.
Machine gun fire peppered and ricocheted off the advancing tank’s hull, finding exposed flesh behind them, wreaking havoc on the infantry desperate for protection from the murderous fire.
In doing so, they fatally exposed their positions to Sergeant Douglas and the other tank commander’s veteran eyes.
“Louie! Louie! Traverse right four degrees! Look for the flas-”
“I got it dammit!” Came the nervous but firm reply.
Jim Banks was on the ball at least, having already correctly chosen a 75mm High Explosive round for the gun.
“And..”, the hard thump of the short cannon resounded through ears and Beauty’s armored hide as Corporal McKinley gently pressed the firing lever, “bingo.”
Trying to remain as small as he could in his hatch, Douglas observed the resulting explosion, branches and shrubbery tossed about, and what looked like a man’s arm going with it, “thank the lord himself for Corporal Louis fuckin’ McKinley”, came the thought in Douglas’ head.
One by one the gun nests were observed and eliminated, yet still the fire kept pouring out, and as the advancing force neared closer to the patch of woods, the German’s true ruse became obvious.
Out of tiny slit foxholes came figures, hunched and darting with the adrenaline induced speed of terror at closing the distance to the great steel monsters.
Men against tanks. David against Goliath.
But as where David was armed with a slingshot. These German soldiers each carried one, if not two, of the deadly Panzerfaust antitank rockets.
These tiny disposable launchers carried with them enough force to blow a Sherman’s turret clean off, and incinerate the unfortunate men trapped inside.
Corporal Ronald Wicker, Beauty’s radio operator/bow gunner, was already on it.
His sweaty palms feverishly squeezed the trigger of the hull mounted .30 caliber machine gun.
His only wish that the evil sounding machine would spit death faster.
It was life or death for everyone involved at this point, and the maddening battle rage was overtaking everyone trapped inside Beauty’s steel belly.
Corporal Wicker spotted at least five Germans nearing the tank, clamping the trigger down with white knuckles, one man clutching a bundle of hand grenades was cut completely in half by the sharp impact of .30 caliber rounds.
Banking the gun’s traverse further right he managed to catch a second German, the bullets spraying a sickening pulp of bone and flesh before sending the man squirming in his death throes to the ground.
Already around them, the tank killer teams had scored a victory, sending one Sherman up in flames from a direct hit.
Beauty’s comm system was nearly blown with the noise of the burning crew’s slow and painful agony.
Though Wicker had tried, the fiendish Germans dove to the ground on either side of the tank.
The accompanying U.S. infantry were scattered and in disarray from the concentrated mortar and small arms fire, their infrequent shots were of no use against the hunters with rockets that hugged the ground like snakes.
Corporal Wicker screamed in primal terror as the German on his side of the tank let fly his Panzerfaust, the rocket careening wildly into the ground inches in front of the tank’s drive sprocket.
Luck was to be had on the opposite side, as the German there aimed his weapon, a blessed bullet smacked into his body, sending the rocket flying in a spiral past Beauty’s side, smokey vapor trail burning up the air behind it.
Realizing they were still, unmercifully, quite alive and still in the thick of the shit, Douglas’ nerves beginning to fray, shouted as loud as he could, “Louie! Toast that motherfucker! Fucking TOAST HIM!”
Depressing the gun with shaking hands, in the seconds after they were hit, Deacon confirming the gun was loaded with his usual reply, Louie fired a white phosphorous round at near point blank range into the ground just ahead of their tank.
The engagement had degenerated into total chaos, smoke engulfing the field with dark storm clouds hanging low above them.
The “willy pete” round impacted beautifully, the resulting explosion sending scalding phosphorus in all directions, engulfing the helpless German trying to crawl away.
For Deacon, Beauty’s driver, his mouth hung open in astonishment as the human torch of a man wriggled and squirmed like a squashed bug on the ground, tearing at his clothes and equipment in uncontrollable torment as the very oxygen around him roasted his flesh alive.
“Wick! You alright!?” Came the jarring shout into the throat mike from Douglas.
“Yuh…yuh..YEAH! Good! Fuckin’ track is gone! We’re stuck fast Sarge!”
Sergeant Douglas kicked out with his foot against the turret wall in fury and frustration, every ounce of his being refusing to die like a helpless animal.
He peered out of hatch, forcing his mind to ignore the gunfire, explosions, and garbled pleas and shouts coming from his headset.
The remaining two operational tanks had pushed forward at full speed, dumping round after round into the patch of wood, having successfully defended themselves from the tank killers, they extracted as much vengeance as possible on the entrenched Germans.
Douglas witnessed a Sherman’s tracks pulverize a wounded German in it’s path, and noticed the fires from the woods had slackened off.
Though a heavy toll had been extracted on the Americans, the German’s had finally been dislodged from their positions, and frantically retreated.
He felt the turret traverse slowly, and smelled the stench of cordite, burnt flesh, and the million other smells of the battlefield.
Corporal McKinley seemed to be the only one thinking clearly, and was still searching for any threats to their tank.
For the second time that afternoon, Sergeant Douglas thanked the powers that be for his tank’s gunner as he began to radio for help to the other tanks finishing up their work.