Robert Conroy - Himmler's war

Somewhere he recalled reading that armored columns were supposed to move quickly and charge dramatically into battle. Well, it wasn’t happening this day. The tanks and tank destroyers were in the front of the column, while half-tracks and trucks followed. Literally hundreds of armored and support vehicles were lined up in the narrow dirt road, and all were heading into combat for the first time as a unit. That is, if they ever got there.

The hedgerows in this area weren’t as bad as those closer to the Normandy coast, but they were difficult enough. They constricted vision and forced the regiment into one long single-file column.

Morgan had drawn PFC Snyder again as his driver. Jack yawned and glared at the half-track in front of them. A dozen men were stuffed into it and they all looked bored as hell. His radioman dozed in the back seat. His chief NCO, Sergeant Major Rolfe, and his two lieutenants, Hazen and Vance, rode in vehicles behind him.

Morgan decided to make light of it. “At this rate, Snyder, the war’ll be over before we get to it.”

Snyder grinned. With Morgan his commanding officer, he was no longer the taciturn and bored driver who’d brought him to the regiment. “Fine by me, sir.”

There was a loud crack and the half-track in front exploded. Bodies flew through the track’s open top and into the air. “What the hell?” Morgan said.

Flames erupted from the stricken vehicle as it slowly fell onto its side. A handful of survivors crawled out. One was on fire. Others screamed and tried to crawl away. Snyder floored the accelerator and pulled off the road to their left just as a second crack sounded and the vehicle in front of the dying half-track also exploded. Their Jeep slid onto its side and all three men jumped out.

It was a German ambush. “Everybody out of the trucks,” Morgan yelled. The order was unnecessary as everyone was doing just that. He jumped up and ran down the line to repeat the order to a handful of men who remained frozen in place, grabbing a couple by the collar and hurling them to the ground. Sergeant Major Rolfe was already doing the same thing, but Morgan’s young lieutenants, Vance and Hazen, seemed dazed and confused, and remained in their vehicles. Jack grabbed Hazen and threw him on the ground. Vance shook off his shock and climbed down. All up and down the line trucks were emptying of men.

Crack!

Rolfe dropped down beside Morgan, who was hugging the ground. “It’s a German eighty-eight, Captain. I remember the sound of the fuckers from North Africa and Sicily.”

The squat bow-legged sergeant was one of his few veterans. Properly identifying their enemy was one thing, but doing something about it was something else.

Crack, and another truck exploded. “It’s a turkey shoot,” Rolfe said. “You’re in charge, Captain. I suggest we do something.”

A Sherman tank roared down the line of trucks, its stubby seventy-five looking for a target. It was on the Germans’ side of the road and the stalled vehicles, and its run exposed the tank’s less heavily armored side.

Crack, and the tank lurched to a halt. Black smoke began to pour from its hatches as the crew stumbled out. Only two of the five made it before the ammunition in the tank began to explode.

“God help the poor bastards,” said Rolfe.

“Can you see where the kraut gun is?” Morgan asked.

“Kinda. I thought I saw a flash in those trees to our left front, maybe a quarter mile away.”

The area wasn’t as thick with hedges and trees as the ancient farms around the Normandy invasion site, but the foliage was thick enough to hide an antitank gun.

“Then get everybody shooting in that general direction. If nothing else, it’ll keep them pinned down a little. I’m going to take some volunteers and see if we can creep up on it before the son of a bitch destroys the whole regiment.”

He started to run, but slipped, falling on his knees. He gagged as he realized he’d stepped in the intestines of a soldier who was gasping and flailing his arms. All around him men were yelling and screaming. A few were trying to help the wounded, but panic reigned. If the Germans had a machine gun on this side of the road, they would have slaughtered the men of the 74th like sheep. He shook off his shock and got up.

With Rolfe’s sometimes aggressive assistance, Morgan grabbed a half dozen “volunteers” and headed out to their right. He ordered the men left behind to keep shooting in the general direction of the German gun. Maybe they’d hit something. Maybe they’d help keep the Germans’ heads down. At least it would give them something to do. He hoped to keep out of sight until he was behind the German gun.

No such luck. They had just squeezed through a section of hedgerow and onto some farmer’s field when a machine gun opened up and two of his men fell. One was clearly dead while the other grabbed his leg, then writhed and screamed as blood spurted out. Of course the Germans would be expecting a flank attack, Jack thought savagely. Of course they would have machine guns waiting to cut the attackers to pieces. Damn it. What was he thinking?

A second Sherman arrived, but this one’s commander was smarter. He drove down the other side of the road, keeping the damaged and burning U.S. vehicles between him and the Germans. Then he turned to his left, presenting his more heavily armored front, and began spraying the trees with his machine guns while the seventy-five millimeter gun chewed up the place where they thought they saw the gun flashes. Jack was dismayed that there was so little rifle fire coming from the men in the stalled column. Was he the only one who wanted to take on the Germans?

After firing a few rounds, the tank crossed the road and moved carefully towards the trees. There was no return fire. Jack gathered his remaining volunteers and, reinforced by more men and Sergeant Major Rolfe, they moved slowly towards the enemy position.

The Germans had departed, but two of their comrades lay sprawled on the ground as testimony to the fact that the fight hadn’t been totally one-sided. However, the eighty-eight and the machine guns were gone. Tracks showed where the Germans had loaded up and moved out down another dirt road. The Germans had done what they’d set out to do, a quick massacre of a helpless column at the cost of only a couple of dead krauts.

Morgan laid his weapon against a tree and tried to control the shaking that was affecting his hands. He hadn’t fired a shot. “Nice try, Captain,” said Rolfe. He offered his canteen to Morgan who gratefully accepted. “Your first battle, sir?”

“Is it that obvious?” he asked and Rolfe chuckled.

Behind them the dead and dying were being picked up while destroyed and damaged vehicles were pushed off the road. The column was moving again. Morgan wondered if this was how it was going to be all the way to the Rhine and beyond.

Hours later the column had lurched to a halt and Morgan did a quick job of setting up a security perimeter-no real fortifications, only barbed wire this time as it was understood they’d be on the move again tomorrow morning. They hadn’t reached the actual front lines, although the sound of artillery had grown sharper and they’d passed through American 155mm batteries firing at something off in the distance. Along with the one-sided fighting earlier in the day, the effect was sobering.

Morgan wasn’t surprised when Colonel Stoddard told him to report. Like Levin said, unless provoked or served incompetently, Stoddard was a fairly decent sort. A West Pointer in his mid-forties, he was short like most tankers, had thinning gray hair and eyes that pierced right through you.

Morgan reported and was told to sit down. “Captain, I just don’t know whether to congratulate you or kick you in the head. Your stunt this afternoon showed initiative and courage under fire and for that you are to be commended. However, you took half a dozen men on a senseless foray and now one is dead and another badly wounded. What do you have to say?”