Confessions In Plastic

A blog made up entirely of war stories, some true, some fake, reflected in 1/32 scale models.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

The Americans did come, once again.

They always did.

Thankfully, the sometimes temperamental transmission held together as they clanked forward to the front line.

The massive beast rumbled and shook, like the colossal cat she was named after.

Though she was the last of her kind for miles, maybe even in the whole of Nazi Germany, she still had her claws, and intended to use them.

The GI’s had prepped the area with a short but intense shelling.

Their self-propelled guns left the area just before the river bank littered with pock marked holes and charred trees.

It was nothing new.

The hopeless infantry, God have mercy on them, milled about the mighty Tiger in their holes hastily dug into the earth.

For them, the hulking contraption of steel and power embodied their only salvation in this merciless fight.

Friedhelm knew the odds were long. But surprise was undoubtably on his side, he doubted the Americans would expect a King Tiger to still stalk this river bank. He hoped it'd be enough. Within minutes the battlefield was a scene of utter chaos. German machine guns, the dreaded MG42's, littered the ground with a heavy mixture of dead and dying GI's, who's artillery began to answer in turn. The first massive concussions of the 105mm rounds began crashing into the earth. His gunner spotted the Shermans before he did. They moved forward cautiously, as if they were apprehensive about the task at hand. Friedhelm would have laughed, had he had even the slightest bit of humor left in his aching bones. "Load....AP, Kurtz, fire when ready." BLAM! No matter how many times they fired their massive 88mm cannon, the sheer power and concussive force never ceased to "ring his bell" as the saying went. A ringing bell was an understatement for the crew of the first Sherman, their turret flung high in the air, flames leaping out of her hull. Before the second Sherman had even realized they were engaged by an enemy tank, they too caught a round, neatly punching a hole through the front and out the back. The chaos inside that Sherman was pure hell. The round sheared through the thin armor up front, killing the bow machine gunner instantly in a gory mess of entrails and blood. The commander, behind the gunner standing on his seat, was cut in half by the metal projectile hurtling through his tank. Friedhelm closed his eyes to shut out the thoughts. His crew, what remained of them were self sufficient enough to need no direction from him for shooting fish in a barrel like this. Disabling or destroying a total of five Shermans and one half track in under a half an hour, they had made their presence known without question. But that night, as Friedhelm eagerly took his turn to rest, he couldn't help but visualize an hour glass. An hour glass that was growing more and more empty by the minute.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

"And I can't wait to be back home on the plane. To see my poor daughter. To see my poor baby's face. I've got the point man in my sight. I wonder if he's got a daughter. And if he's got a wife. Christmas came as a surprise. I counted my blessings. And prayed to God for my life. I lost my best friend to Bastogne today. I wonder who'll tell his family, and who'll tell his wife." - The Menzingers, "Cold Weather Gear"

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

"It was dark all around. There was frost in the ground. When the Tigers broke free. And no one survived, from the Royal Fusiliers, Company Z. There were all left behind. Most of them dead, the rest of them dying. And that's how the High Command, took my Daddy. From me." - Pink Floyd, "When The Tigers Broke Free"

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

"Hollowed ground" - Germany, 1945 That's what his mother always called cemeteries. Said that they were peaceful places were the dead rested eternally, to quell his childhood fears. But then, what becomes of our land when the dead are strewn about like fallen leaves? Shriveled and mutilated, scorched equipment left to wither away. Had the whole of Germany become one gigantic cemetery under the Third Reich? If his mother was alive still, he'd had liked very much to ask her. Along with his young wife and daughter, she had perished in the hellish firestorms in Dresden from the Allied bombers. Even the mere thought of that searing hot loss turned his upper lip into a scowl. This conflict, the largest in human history, had driven him certifiably insane. He was sure of that. To the direct front of their tank, a massive lumbering Königstiger, left the rust in the blood soaked mud, say a U.S. GI's steel pot. Friedhelm's eye twitched as he focused on it. Did that GI have a wife and daughter? Or did he have a brother who took pride in flying the colossal B-17's that were ripping cities like Dresden and Hamburg apart at the very foundations? The scowl returned now, his hands tightening around his optics. They were scanning for anything alive in this desolate section of the front line. Waiting. The Americans would come again, after all, they had to push on to Berlin. Most had given up the "heroic" struggle for "final victory" by now; but some, like Friedhelm, knew that the war's end would signal that they'd have nothing left. No wives, no daughters, no families, no homes to return too. Their pasts obliterated. Futures turned to ash by shells and bullets. So here and now, in the present. They fought on.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

Beauty Part X

Beauty was at full speed, her powerful Ford engine rumbling along.

Behind her rumbled various other American tanks, a mixed assortment of lighter and heavier armor.

Days had turned into weeks of heavy fighting, and finally, like a tree swayed too far in a storm, the German lines had bent & stretched, until they finally snapped clean.

It was a numbers game, the way Sergeant Douglas looked at it.

And from the looks of the wreckage ahead of them on the dusty road, the Krauts were coming up shorter every day.

GI’s milled around, some smoking, sitting around chatting. Watching the approaching column of tanks.

They littered around a burned out smoking shell of a German Panzer IV, it’s spaced side armor twisted and bent from the catastrophic explosion that destroyed it.

More than likely a direct hit from one of the fly boys, he thought to himself.

As far as the rest of the crew was concerned, things were quiet. The last few nights had been quiet, as quiet could be in a war zone, with movements each day in between.

He knew the strung out crew undoubtably needed whatever rest they could find.

Sergeant Douglas always found the sight of his loader, Deacon, sound asleep amidst the occasionally bumpy ride forward, cradling a 75mm AP round in his arms like a child comical.

Even though it was a precaution should the need to spring into action arise, he still found it just a little funny.

But his mind wandered, as it often did when he had the time.

He thought of the home he hadn't seen in years, and those he had left behind. Would his wife even recognize him, if he ever made it home again?

Would he be able to hold some tedious job down putting bread on the table, if even there was still a table to put bread on?

He preferred not to think about that. And shut the door in his mind as quickly as he had opened it. He'd cross that river when he came to it, after they had crossed the Rhine.

The Germans were on the run, but somewhere ahead they'd regroup and make their stand, which, by the information Douglas had pieced together, was more than likely the area they were headed too.

But you couldn't sweat the small things. In a place where anything at all could mean your death, he needed to be focused. Not daydreaming.

Unfortunately the thought of an early death didn't make it any easier to hold back the homesickness he felt, standing tall in his hatch as Beauty drove towards the front lines yet again.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

“Einen verzweifelten Katze” - Part III Seelow Heights, 1945 Soviet artillery was creating a firestorm all around Ludwig's tank. Earth shaking concussions shook the ground as debris ricocheted off the tank in every direction. Oberleutnant Ludwig was measuring his life, and the lives of his crew in mere seconds now. Their Panther had successfully reversed back down the hill, turning tail and giving full power to the Maybach engine, doing their best to escape the raging inferno engulfing the battlefield. On the other side of the small hill, urged forward by their officers over radio, Soviet tankers crept forward behind the barrage in the most dreaded tank in Stalin's arsenal, the massive IS-2. Ludwig and his comrades were eager to escape the fighting, in his mind, he had already made his decision. The war was lost, and at the first opportunity of safety, he'd order the crew to abandon their Panther, discard their uniforms, and part their ways. Individually they stood a slim chance of safely making it to the Americans, but surrendering to the Soviets was not an option. The only thing that mattered now was making it through the day. One step at a time. Oberleutnant Ludwig Heizer was thinking of escape, of his wife and daughter, wherever they may be, and of the chance to build a new life far from this horrible conflict. With the artillery bursting around them, and their backs to the enemy, none of the crew realized a Soviet IS-2 had mounted the small hill to their rear, and was laying in on the lone Panther. When the colossal 122mm cannon round struck the rear of the tank's turret, explosive force ripping it's way inside, Ludwig Heizer's mind was already back home. The direct hit from such a massive round decimated the Panther, killing the entire crew instantaneously. For Oberleutnant Ludwig and his comrades, it was a merciful end to a very unmerciful war.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

“Einen verzweifelten Katze” Part II -Seelow Heights, 1945

The sinister olive drab tank hung in his periscope.

Oberleutnant Ludwig was frantic & afraid, kicking his gunner Willi, shouting & cursing, on the verge of screaming in terror.

Combat has a way of bringing out the worst in individuals.

“Take the shot Willi! Take the fucking shot!”

“Shut the fuck up and let me do my fucki-!”

Willi’s heated words were cut short by the sonic boom of the enemy tank’s 85mm gun blast.

In the micro second the shot was fired, Ludwig squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating opening them and seeing the man with the sickle reaching for him.

Instead, all he heard was the deafeningly high pitch whine of the Soviet tank’s 85mm armor piercing round sail by their tank.

Russian optics were by far inferior to precision German examples, but at this range, Ludwig and his crew had been damn lucky not to have been on the receiving end of hot death this time.

But now it was their turn, as curses and shouts filled the tank’s interior Willi finally finished laying the gun on the target, and with shaking limbs he depressed the foot pedal.

The German Pzkw. V Panther carried a smaller, (75mm), main cannon than the Russian opponent they faced now, but one advantage they did have was the cannon’s long barrel, which when fired, generated an ungodly muzzle velocity for the round. In short, the long cannon propelled the smaller round with easily enough kinetic energy to shear the turret off of a T-34 at close range.

Willi’s aim had been true, and in the tense split second that the Russian crew were reloading and correcting their aim, the Panther’s round struck it’s target.

Penetrating the turret on contact, instantly obliterating the T-34’s gunner and shearing the tank’s commander into multiple pieces, while the loader’s organs were smashed into paste from the shattering concussion of the explosion.

The only two members of the T-34’s crew still alive, driver & radio operator, seated in the front of the tank, were only granted about a microsecond longer of life.

When the Pzgr. 39/42 round penetrated the T-34’s turret killing the crew members there, it’s explosion also cooked off the tank’s ammunition. Causing a catastrophic explosion that tore the shattered turret off the body, flinging hatches and panels open, and incinerating what remained of the entire crew.

Oberleutnant Ludwig watched the entire display through his periscope, hand resting on Willi’s shoulder. It was sickening, horrific, and completely beautiful at the same time.

By text book terms it was a completely perfect kill, and for the crew of the destroyed tank, it was a merciful death.

Ludwig and his comrades had seen far too many Russian and German crews alike trapped inside their steel beasts roasting alive, an instant death was the preferable way to go when the time came.

“Gun loaded” Ludwig’s loader finally said after what seemed like an eternity.

Soviet artillery began to fire again, this time closer to their position.

The German lines were definitely completely broken.

And for the moment, the Soviets seemed content to back away from this lone Panther.

Ludwig didn’t plan on sitting around to wonder why they had been so lucky.

Concussions from nearby explosions began to rattle the tank’s hull, showering it with shrapnel and debris.

“Gunther, let’s get the fuck off this hill. We’ve done all we can boys.” He spoke through his throat mike, directing the driver to finally abandon their position.

The Maybach engine roared into reverse amidst the artillery barrage.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

“Einen verzweifelten Katze” - Seelow Heights, 1945

He had been in combat before.

This wasn’t his first taste of action, but it was surely the most intensive.

The Soviets were using brute force to bludgeon their way through the thick defensive positions on the Seelow Heights; the Whermacht’s last defensive line before Berlin itself.

Communication between elements of Oberleutnant Ludwig’s “kampfgruppe”, which was a more polite term for any hodgepodge mixture of troops able to fight, had all but evaporated earlier in the day when the Soviet 122mm rocket barrage had opened up.

He was sure the lines were broken on either side of his position, ensuring the only way out was backwards.

Inside the Panther, cordite residue from the various guns, exhaust fumes, and the prevailing smell of unwashed men all came together, effectively making the interior of the vehicle as nauseating as the shattered patch of woods they found themselves in.

But outside was certainly worse; the fighting had created numerous unchecked fires that raged around them, choking black smoke and embers swirling to and fro.

To Ludwig’s left and right had been well prepared fighting positions dug by the infantry, but those few that were unable to break and run earlier now lay in the stillness of death.

Jarring him from his thoughts, the background noise of combat became much more personal when the Panther began receiving hits from small arms and lighter caliber Soviet AT guns, probably the older 47mm’s.

Short of making his crew nearly shit themselves, the rounds had no effect save to bounce of the thick well sloping armor, one thing Ludwig was thankful for.

“Oberleutnant! Ivan’s coming up the hill agai-”, his sentence cut short but the reverberation of the radio operator’s hull mounted MG-34.

His crew were clearly waiting for orders in the face of the renewed Russian assault, but frankly, he knew he had few options.

For the moment, they had enough fuel to make a tactical movement, granted the transmission held, and enough ammunition on board for the cannon and machine guns to seriously punish anything foolish enough to try to overtake them.

“Hold position, I’m trying to raise Wolf 6 on the horn dammit!” Ludwig shouted into the throat mike.

Willi Deiter, his gunner, was traversing the Panther’s turret, using his coaxial MG-34 to help Hans keep the Soviet infantry from closing on the tank.

Together their combined fire was enough to push them away, leaving many of their more patriotic communist comrades face down in the dirt.

But Oberleutnant Ludwig knew he’d have to make a decision, and make one soon.

Holding the high ground here with almost no support or contact from their comrades was suicidal at best, but to try and move away espoused them to all manner of Soviet retaliation.

Naturally he could raise no one on the radio, slamming the transmitter down with disgust, he felt the turret again traverse right, and that’s when he heard the startled yelp from Willi.

“T-34’s! Right there! Schisse!”

Ludwig fumbled for his periscope, how had the bastards managed to mount the hill so quickly without anyone noticing? Should he have been paying more attention instead of trying with that damn radio?

He realized very quickly he may never know, because just beyond their position on the rise sat a menacing Soviet T-34/85, one of the best tanks the Soviets had, and it’s extremely lethal 85mm main gun was traversing right towards Ludwig’s Panther for a killing shot.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

Ardennes, 1944 Blitzkrieg, that was what the commanders had intended. A perfect recreation of the German Army's lightning race through the heavily forested southern portion of France in 1940. "Blitzfreeze" seemed to be a more realistic term. American paratroopers were holding fast inside the crumbling town of Bastogne, barely holding on to the vital crossroads that lay there. While the "mighty" Whermacht froze their collective asses off surrounding it. It was not the ideal way to spend Christmas, thought the young tank commander. Fully exposing himself out of his hatch, he spoke aloud to his crew through his throat mike. "This is useless, it's a fucking blizzard." Though they were running extremely short of the much needed fuel for their colossal Tiger, he had ordered the driver to start the beast to prevent them all being froze to death, but also to stop the engine block from freezing and becoming a useless block of metal. Closing the hatch as the inky black engine exhaust swirled around the tank, the commander slumped into his seat aside his gunner. The weather was certainly not in their favor. But then again, what was? Since the offensive's start they had made so little measurable progress. Shivering in the slowly thawing metal hull of the tank, the young tank commander came to the realization that the Christmas of 1944 would more than likely be his last. He smiled at the thought of hell and it's everlasting heat.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

France, 1944 SS-Untersturmführer Kepler took a moment to survey the area from the wooded hill west of Caen. Arms resting comfortably on his hips. His dirty, faded Panzer uniform, still reflected the allure and cunning professionalism of the German tankers, despite it's worn appearance. Behind him, menacingly haunched sat his Tiger I. Pings and dents scarred it's hull, only adding dread to those that faced it. Perched atop was one of the finest tank crews in the entire Panzerwaffe. Of all shapes and sizes, they were a common band of misfits held together by the special bond of a tank crew. To his front Kepler knew that there were several British and Canadian divisions waiting on the signal to go forward. The date was June 13th, 1944. The Allies had established their beachheads, pouring thousands of men and vehicles onto occupied French soil, poising to thrust the Whermacht back to Berlin. But now, the SS had arrived in full strength; ready to lock shields with their opponents. "Let them come, let them rush right into their own graves." Kepler thought unto himself. He knew the risks, was no stranger to combat, and like the men at his back, had no illusions of a glorious battlefield death, yet he had long ago made his peace and fully accepting the situation for what it was, Kepler steeled his heart. The British and Canadians would come forward with their tanks and their guns, and Kepler's Tiger would open it's jaws in welcome to them.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

France, 1940

Klaus trudged through the soft soil, an expression of sickness and disgust smeared across his soiled face.

The Allied armies were desperate to stop the lightning advance of the Whermacht’s forces, yet their panicked and hurried defensive positions were overcome one by one without much trouble.

This wasn’t his first firefight, and wouldn’t be the last before the day was through.

Blistered feet, shoulders rubbed raw, roughly torn hands, all the marks of a soldier made hard on campaign.

Everyone talked incessantly about the great victories being won, and for the first few weeks Klaus too, was among them; energized, fueled by their unstoppable tidal wave of destruction.

But with each little firefight, every macabre scene of death he witnessed, Klaus began to feel less like a victorious liberator and more like a murderer.

The vicious MG-34 was still warm to the touch, as thick black smoke and embers whirled around him he approached what had been until a few short minutes ago, a pair of soldiers.

But instead of wearing field grey, these men wore tan khaki, the mark of the BEF.

Did, anyways. Not that it mattered much now.

The terrified pair had been caught in the terrific barrage of artillery fire that had set this small patch of wood ablaze. Scanning the shattered tree line, Klaus could easily see where the shells had burst among the tools of the trees, sending slivers of wood slicing through anything in their path.

No escape then, he thought. It was nothing new of course. But the sick feeling in his hardened stomach stemmed not from the killing, he’d been acclimatized to that some time ago; it came from the fact that these two unlucky men had been in the process of surrendering.

It had all happened so quickly, right up until it was too late.

Klaus’ thinly manned assault squad had advanced with the barrage, hoping to overtake the British positions without much of a struggle.

Instead of a fight, they found only destruction.

Churned up earth, corpses and limbs strewn about like discarded toys from an excited child.

Nothing survived.

Or so it had seemed, until the two panicked soldiers burst out from their slit trench, one screaming with the artillery madness, his comrade stumbling behind trying to stop him.

In the blink of an eye, the shapes materialized out of the smoke and embers.

The only thing they received was death’s embracing them with open arms.

Klaus squeezed a startling burst off, smacking the shell shocked soldier’s chest before he even grasped what was happening.

Capable of spewing out 600+ rounds a minute, the MG-34 had every bit as much bark as it did bite.

The unlucky soldier crumpled into a heap of bloody tatters instantaneously, his comrade stopping just short of him.

With a gasp Klaus now aimed at the second soldier, who raised his arms and opened his mouth.

It didn’t matter. Just as the first, Klaus cut the second down with oiled machine precision despite the loudly voiced protests of his squad mates.

He was honed to an edge, nerves frayed to the point that even the sight of an enemy soldier was enough to have him squeezing the trigger.

Clamping his eyes shut and beginning to breathe again, he didn’t see the man fumble onto the ground, heaving his dying gasp out.

Eickhart was closest to Klaus, and could only shake his head.

How could the loving father of three, a shoe maker by profession, mercilessly slaughter two defenseless men?

Because that shoe maker was willing to do whatever it took to see them again.

Even if it meant shattering who he was to survive.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

Beauty Part IX

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.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

Close Shave - Spring, 1944 Otto wasn't a stranger to life or death situations. Some of the other more superstitious members of his crew secretly claimed that he was a bad omen. His record showed nothing but. The product of several orphanages and foster homes from Frankfurt to Berlin, and a repeat offender of small criminal acts, Otto Keifer was the last person expected to be in command of a sleek STuG III G. Tank Destroyer. But the war had brought with it many surprises, least of which for Otto, accustomed to the worst that society could hand him, it was an easy choice when faced with the firing squad or an involuntary enlistment for the duration of the remainder of the war. In 1943 at Kursk, Otto Keifer was twice recommended for the Iron Cross, after he became the sole survivor of the destruction of two tanks he served on. Burns scorched their way across his back that week, and a bullet tore it's way into his right lung, branding him with marks that were undeniable, and a ragged draw of breath for the remainder of his days. But as in the past, Otto Keifer's torment refused to end. Like a cruel joke, he recovered against the odds in the hospital, and was reassigned before the massive Soviet spring offensive of 1944, in command of his own tank this time. An outsider even among his own comrades, he was always a man of little words. And when the CO ordered us forward into a near suicidal rear guard action that day, I was horrified at his casual shrug of indifference. We had concealed our vehicle hastily, and in the rage of battle, had expended all of the main gun's 75mm rounds. A fact that the Soviets were well aware of. One by one, the tiny STuG's of our platoon were knocked out by various means, and I realized the situation was growing desperate. Peter was above, outside of the hatch, firing burst after burst of machine gun fire, screaming in a bewilderment of fury and terror at the advancing hordes of Russian soldiers that were no longer upheld by our empty cannon. Otto had just lit a cigarette, seemingly unaffected by everything that was careening on around him. Even now, I can vividly remember the grotesque shrapnel scar that distorted his facial features, and the way the interior lighting exaggerated this, making it appear that I was to be entombed with some sort of demonic apparition. I was terrified. Frantically, I shook his shoulder, screaming over the battle's noise, that we must move, must escape, for him to call out over the comms to the sobbing driver, to free us of this madness. Otto Keifer's cold blue eyes pierced me with a look that chilled my very soul more than even the most severe Russian winter. Immediately, my hand left his shoulder, and I began to tremor at the thought of what this half man, half demon would do to me for my blatant display of cowardice. And it was at that moment we heard the smack of metal meeting flesh, the horrible gurgling sound, and the slump of Peter's body sliding with a thud into the hatch and onto the floor of our tank. Yet Otto's killer gaze had not left my eyes, and had it not been for the radio operator's frantic screaming I still believe that he would have dispatched me right there, in some manner I wish not to think of. Hopelessly I slid to the floor, unable to do anything but accept my meager fate, whatever it may be. But Otto Keifer was not me, and he merely pushed past my trembling body, stepping on Peter's pale bloody corpse into the dusty sunlight and dim of battle above. Taking place behind the machine gun, he began to fire with such ferocity that only the devil himself could have matched. I look on in a state of catatonic horror, as this man that I was entirely sure was not completely a man, cut down an untold amount of Soviet soldiers. One after the other, their bodies tumbled before the scathing hot machine gun in the spring heat. Shell casings peppered me as I lay there taking in the murderous fury of this lone man, hearing him scream the words that would be forever etched in my memory along with his chilling laughter at the shrieks of those he was killing. "I'm ready! How 'bout you?!"

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

Hell On Earth - March, 1945 The earth trembled and shook with each impact. Angry, and violent, it seemed as though the vengeful ground would react to the next explosion by tearing itself apart at the seams, dropping them down below into the hell that was frantically trying to be escaped. The operation had been simple in planning, a human wave assault reinforced with an armored brigade of T-34's. A standard push through the all but crumpled German defense on the eastern edge of their country. The attack had started off well, until the Soviets encountered the cornerstone of the German defense. A colossus of steel and gun, the mighty Panzerjäger Jagdtiger. It's arrival in the night had strengthened German resolve to hold this town, and for good reason. With a 250mm, (nearly a foot), thick slanted glacis plate, and a massive main gun powerful enough to likely pierce the armored belt of a battleship if given the chance, this beast was widely known to be the German's ultimate tank killer. During the initial attack, the Jagdtiger's enormous 128mm gun had claimed three Soviet tanks alone, their crews incinerated with fire, or simply erased from existence. A slew of infantry had fallen, and several thee T-34's lay burning from the well coordinated anti-tank positions and machine gun nests. The Nazis were beaten, Ivan Yousgouff had no doubt about that fact, but he often wondered if anyone had bothered to actually inform the Germans that it was true. It was with a stern jaw then that Ivan radioed the field command behind their advance, requesting any form of support they had to dislodge the Nazi defenders. What he received was more than he had hoped for. It seemed as though that Soviet STAVKA intended to make an example out of the would be German heroes that found themselves with a sudden urge to stand their ground in the face of such an overwhelming tide of Communist forces, Katyusha rocket launchers, 203mm artillery pieces, and even the much loved IL-2 attack aircraft began to dribble into the battle. From his field binoculars, Ivan saw that it was in fact the 203mm's that had the greatest effect on the German positions. The rounds themselves were about the size of a small automobile, and their explosive power was enormous. Entire buildings caved in on themselves, bodies tossed about like rag dolls from the concussion, chunks of concrete and debris the size of a man's torso flung near and far. Surely, nothing could stand up to this display of Soviet power. Yet, through the smoke and the haze, the flashes of impact after impact, Ivan's smile quickly changed to a stern frown at the sight of the Jagdtiger, slowly but surely advancing up the street to counter any renewed attack against the town. Colonel Yousgouff cursed, spat on the ground, and radioed his commanders. One way or another, his humiliation by the treads of this lone tank would end, no matter how many lives it cost the U.S.S.R.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

June, 1944 Smoke, dust, and screams swirled together in a mass of confusion and destruction. Caen, a vital port and key city in the Normandy invasion. Was being utterly wrecked by the largest conflict in human history. Canadian and British troops were caught up in a struggle for the city pitted against the fanatical soldiers of the Waffen-SS' 12th SS Division, the Hitler Youth Division, Germany's boy soldiers. Dieter was the picture of Aryan culture. Raised under the Nazi Swastika, with bright blue eyes, and crisp blonde hair. For as long as he could remember, he had dreamed of fighting for his home, shoulder to shoulder with the brave soldiers of the Reich. The realization came utterly too quickly, shattering innocence with the first crash of naval gunfire. Dieter had found his place in the once mighty Wehrmacht as a bow gunner on a colossal Tiger II tank. The Tiger II was a monstrous machine of war, embodying everything German engineers had learned about armored warfare. Defiantly armed with a massive 8.8cm KwK 43, more than capable of punching holes through even the toughest of allied armor. But two weeks of training inside an obsolete Panzer III was no preparation for the front line. Shortages of petrol, ammunition, spare parts, and everything but allied soldiers, left Dieter wondering what happened to the unstoppable Wehrmacht he had seen on the newsreels at the theater. He was scared, dirty, and exhausted. His ideals, beliefs, everything he held dear to him had fallen by the wayside. The one thing he promised to never show, as hard as it was, was how badly he wanted to run home to his mother, as quickly as his blistered feet could carry him. But he knew his duty, and with every passing day he still drew breath, he became more aware that he was only a pawn on the chess board. And as he aptly remembered, pawns rarely survived the game.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

Beauty Part VIII Operation Cobra was in full swing still, the Allied armies surging ever forward, against stiffening German resistance, yet Sergeant Charles Douglas and the crew of Beauty, weren't scheduled to move forward from the crossroads until the afternoon. The sun had just rose, Lou was making something that resembled coffee inside the tank, and Sergeant Douglas reached for his pack of smokes inside his coveralls. The fighting was further forward for them, and he felt safe enough to be outside of the tank. As safe as they could be in the middle of the largest conflict the world had ever seen anyways. But you couldn't sweat the small things. James Deacon, the tank's driver, had just risen from his seat, taking full view of the unit's tanks encamped in the field by the crossroads. "Mornin' Sergeant, we moving up today?" "Yup, a little later." "God dammit.." Interjected the tank's loader, Jim Banks, who was sitting leaned against the steel beast. "Yeah, well you know they can't leave us well enough alone for too long. Just as soon as you start enjoying everything, you get pulled back in." Replied Douglas. "Why in the hell I ever volunteered for this shit, is beyond me Sarge. For fuck's sake." Charles Douglas just smiled. He loved his men, his brothers, and his friends. He would, and had, gone to hell and back for them. And he knew, when the gloves came off, they'd do the same for him, time and time again. It wasn't something he could explain in words. Or ever wanted too. His wife, in the few letters he had time to write, would never understand what it felt like. Spending so much time with a group of men, that they know you better than someone who shares your bed, anticipating your moves and thoughts before you even knew them yourself. It was a beautiful thing, in a place devoid of any form of beauty. All around them, the war raged, hungrily, and all consuming. Soon, they would return to it, on steel treads they'd ride into the jaws of death once more. But not before that cup of coffee, no, not before the coffee dammit.

[disgruntledgrunt1577]

Beauty Part VII

Nightmares..

Sergeant Charles Douglas had them damn near every night, every night he managed to actually snatch a little sleep.

Normally they were the same thing, and every time, he knew he’d awake in a cold sweat, but it never stopped him from remembering.

He remembered very vividly, too vividly, what they had done to the crew of that unlucky tank.

The hole punched in the turret, the flames, the screams, and the all consuming smoke.

Most nights he would see them, the smoke filled cramped interior of the Panther, the cries of misery as the flames lapped the crew.

Even now, in moments of silence like this one, with only the occasional thump of artillery in the distance, he wondered what it felt like, to have the machine that was your home, double as a steel coffin.

He could almost see their charred bodies, faces twisted in agony.

And the brass handed out medals for that sort of thing.

Sergeant Douglas shook his head, the other members of the crew were dozing, somewhat peacefully.

To think, that a tiny medal attached to a ribbon were supposed to console a man for burning souls beyond recognition, well, he certainly couldn’t see the sense in that.

He knew that those men trapped in that burned out husk of a tank would never see their homes again, wives, daughters, family, it all could have gone up with the tank, and it would have meant the same.

Nothing.

Charles Douglas knew his place in the world, knew his job well, and was prepared to do it.

But talking about it, that was another matter entirely.