Adam Makos - Spearhead

Since his periscope mirror had been requisitioned by Rolf, Gustav pressed an eye to the rubber ring sight of his MG 34 Panzerlauf machine gun, a special stockless variant. The barrel and sight protruded from the slant armor and gave a view no wider than the diameter of a coin.

The Germans retreating into their tanks spooked the local farmers, who scattered from the fields, leaving their tools behind. As if on cue, the Shermans appeared two miles away in the forest gap.

From the turret, Rolf called out their range and heading, which Gustav copied in a pad before alerting the company commander.

Following the road, the column of the U.S. 34th Tank Battalion flowed into the fields without hesitation, obviously intent on liberating Luxembourg City that day.

A motorized whine sounded behind Gustav. The gunner was tracking the column with the nearly 17-foot-long gun known as the über lang, or extra-long. The turret crept agonizingly slowly. Finally, the extra-long stopped directly over Gustav. It was a 75mm gun like the older Mark IV’s, but chambered with a larger, nearly 3-foot-long shell that fired with earsplitting “super velocity.”

“Wait for my call,” Rolf told the gunner. The enemy was in range, but Rolf wanted to hold his fire until they couldn’t retreat.

Sweat trickled down Gustav’s face. The whites of his knuckles showed as he gripped his machine gun. It was useless against tanks, but comforting to hold. Peeking above the stacked shells that separated them, he saw the Panther’s driver gazing through his periscope, its light spilling around his eyes. The man was utterly relaxed.

The Shermans motored farther from the safety of the forest toward where Rolf and the Panther lay in wait. They were now only a mile away. But Rolf wanted them closer. He’d learned on the Eastern Front to wait until the target was within a half mile’s distance, then to shoot the last tank in the column, then the first, which created a deadly logjam. After that, the hunting was easy. [5] The extra-long was at its most accurate at the range of a half mile, as evidenced by a postwar test when a Panther put every shot within a 12-inch circle at that distance.

Suddenly, a shaft of green tracer zipped from the right and slammed into the lead Sherman.

Gustav couldn’t believe it. Someone fired too soon! He watched as the Sherman’s hatch covers flung open and the crew came tumbling out.

Rolf cursed. He must have traced the fire back to its origin and seen it. There, on the hilltop to the north, sat a Panther in the trees, smoke floating from its muzzle. The golden opportunity was squandered.

The column of Shermans halted. In unison their turrets turned toward the hilltop Panther and began firing, driving it and a second Panther into retreat.

Rolf had to act. He directed the gunner’s attention to the second Sherman in line. Its crew had turned nearly broadside to join in the firing.

The extra-long was typically a “point-and-shoot” weapon—the gunner had no need to compensate for distance.

Gustav sat back from his gun sight and braced for the shot. Rolf gave the order as if perturbed to have to do so. “Fire.”

With an earsplitting bark, flames leapt from the extra-long’s muzzle and a 16-pound warhead blasted downrange. The green tracer covered the mile in barely two seconds. The Sherman shuddered and swayed on its suspension as it absorbed the punch. The gun’s recoil rocked the Panther back on its heels.

“Hit,” Rolf said.

Gustav returned to his gun sight. A hole flickered with flame where the Sherman’s engine sat. Gustav watched the crew come pouring out of the Sherman as it burned in the field. Gustav was pleased to see them escape. Even if they were the enemy, they were fellow tankers who endured the same miseries that he did. [6] Amazingly, of the two Shermans that the 34th Tank Battalion lost that day, no men were killed in either vehicle. Their commanding general would comment in his report: “It soon was apparent from the skillful tactics of the enemy, that the engagement was considerably more than a hastily planned rear-guard action.”

Shielded by the two smoking wrecks, the remaining Shermans turned back the way they’d come.

Gustav glanced over at the driver— That’s it?

He’d barely finished the thought when a shell smacked the Panther’s front armor with a low-pitched resonance. The battle was just beginning.

The intercom came alive with cursing as Gustav reeled from the attack. Returning to his gun sight, he saw a brilliant white cloud enveloping them, billowing larger and larger. Fiery sparks popped and danced.

The smoke wafted inside the tank through an air intake in the ceiling, stinging Gustav’s eyes and nostrils, and he tasted acid on his tongue. “What is this?” Gustav asked, wiping his watering eyes. The others couldn’t stop coughing. No one answered because none had seen white phosphorus before.

It was an incendiary weapon used primarily by the Western Allies. A chemical substance so volatile that it was stored underwater for safety reasons, when packed into exploding shells it ignited on contact with the air, burning at 5,000 degrees for almost a minute. A single waxy flake could burn a man to the bone. And this was just the smoke from it.

Gustav was still pawing his eyes when another, heavier, shell slammed the Panther’s slant with the noise of a cathedral bell.

As the tank lurched backward, the gun sight punched Gustav in the forehead, sending him sprawling against his seatback.

Rolf called for the driver to reverse—“Get us out of here!”

The tank shifted gears, lurched backward, and began clanking slowly toward the shady cut in the woods, which was behind and to the left of them. Nursing his forehead and with ringing ears, Gustav crept back to the gun sight to resume his post. A dark shape, probably some sort of armored vehicle, had moved into the gap during his absence.

It was an American M7 self-propelled artillery vehicle, housing a massive 105mm gun.

Nicknamed the “Priest” by the British, an M7 normally fired skyward as mobile field artillery, but now its gun was leveled at the Panther.

A muzzle flash blinked from the Priest’s direction. Gustav jumped back before the shell slammed the armor directly in front of his face. The lights flickered. The ringing in his ears returned. He stared in terror at the walls of the tank. The cream-colored paint was flaking.

A second shell slammed the slant armor. Then a third. Gustav gripped his ears. It was like a battering ram striking just inches from his face. In the corner of the hull, he could see fissures forming up and down the welds.

Despite the pounding fire, the driver swung the tank into the cut in the forest, striving to get behind the wall of trees. For a brief moment, the turn to safety presented the Priest with a clear view of the Panther’s side. The enemy took advantage. Yet another shell slammed the Panther, this time finding the left track. The brutal impact flung the driver sideways against the shells and Gustav against the steel wall.

Gustav clutched his shoulder. The driver regained the controls from the midst of the chaos. He reported to Rolf that he could feel the damage—a shell had probably severed the left track.

“Keep going!” Rolf urged.

The tank kept rolling deeper into the cut, behind the wall of spruce trees, just before its wheels rolled off the last track link and sank into the earth.

The Priest reluctantly shifted its aim to fire on someone else.

A hatch slid open from the turret and Rolf stood in the shade.

In the sun-swept fields, Panthers were retreating left and right. They had no choice but to leave behind two of their own—one abandoned by the road, one burning on the hilltop.