James Shipman - Task Force Baum

The sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir, but that’s about it. We’ll be coasting in on vapors.”

“Nothing to help it. Let’s get rolling. Before we leave, let Hoepple know we won’t get far once we get there. See if he can pull some fuel from somewhere, somehow.”

“Yes, sir,” said Schmidt doubtfully, and he turned, running this time, back toward the headquarters hotel.

Koehl turned and waved for his company’s attention. “All right, folks!” he shouted, making his voice loud enough so all could hear. “We are heading out. I’ll be in the lead. Keep your eyes and ears open. I don’t know what we are heading into, but you can be sure it’s going to be a lot. Maybe a whole division. We must get to the ambush site before Patton does. If we do, and if our brilliant strategists deem it wise to reinforce us, we will blow the bridge over the Main, wipe out their lead tanks, and stop them cold! Are you men ready for battle?”

The company roared in response. He raised his hand, pumping it in the air. He loved all of them. He looked from face to face, trying to burn their eyes into his memory. He did this frequently and always before a major engagement. He knew that, for some of them, this was the last time he would see them alive.

Koehl rumbled along, his head sticking out of the top of his tank destroyer as he rolled down the highway. He closed his eyes, letting the crisp March wind rush past his face. He looked out again to the horizon, to his left and his right. The woods and hills were so beautiful, fresh from the melted snow and with all the promise of spring. He loved the time before battle. Most people felt terror or a strange numbness when they knew they were heading into combat. Not Koehl. Perhaps it was the years of religious training, or the discipline. He knew death was but a step on a better journey. He loved the little moments when the end of life loomed near, when he could taste eternity.

They were already a half hour out of Hammelburg, rumbling along to the southwest at ten miles an hour. They were making excellent time. He didn’t have updated intelligence on the enemy, but he sensed they were going to make it to the ambush in time.

Would it be in vain? He had no information on the infantry company or its precious explosives and engineers. If they failed to materialize, like the petrol this morning, all he could do was score a few hits on the lead Shermans before his force was overwhelmed by whatever the hell was coming down that road toward them. In that case, he was likely to be dead before noon. Well , he thought, smiling to himself, in that situation at least I can avoid another meal of our awful field rations .

He stepped down into the belly of the Ferdinand. Immediately an overwhelming stench of diesel and sweat assaulted him. Despite the smell, he drew a deep breath. This was the familiar comfort of war. He was safe here, among foul air and fair friends. He watched their progress from a slit and consulted his map again. He didn’t really need to see where they were going. He’d long since memorized the route, but the map was as comforting as the confined space. Old habits sustained him.

Schmidt sat just below him to his left. He ran a cleaning rod down the end of his MP 38 submachine gun. The sergeant was a calm, cold killer with the short-range weapon. No matter that he couldn’t sleep from the nightmares that tortured him. He did his duty.

Koehl placed both hands on the sergeant’s shoulders. “You ready for this?”

“Sure, sir. I love getting shot at. Particularly when we’re terribly outnumbered.”

Koehl laughed. “Same as always, isn’t it? We haven’t had good odds since the early Russia days.”

Schmidt smiled. “Ah yes, the Soviet Union in ’41 and ’42, streaming along the steppes with nothing to stop us. Those were the days. Too bad the damned communists got so serious at Stalingrad.”

“Well, I’d rather be here now than on the Eastern Front.”

“Who wouldn’t? At least the Americans play by the rules. There are no good endings in Russia.”

The Hauptmann stared out of the viewing slit. “How much farther up?”

“Ten minutes, I’d say.”

“We going to beat them?”

Schmidt shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough. Sir, when we’re done with this, would you mind saying a Mass for some of the men? It’s been weeks.”

Koehl smiled, “I’d be happy to.”

They rode along for a few minutes without talking. Koehl was mulling over the map in his mind, and the logistics of dealing with the bridge. Assuming the infantry showed up. Schmidt interrupted his thoughts.

“Town’s coming up, sir.”

Koehl strained his eyes and saw buildings in the distance. He lifted his radio. “All right, men, we are coming into the town. The bridge is on the far side. Look sharp; it’s possible the Americans are already here. If so, it’s going to get very hot, very quickly. If I spot any armor, I’ll fire. If you hear a shot, begin a retrograde movement immediately, cannons ready. We’ll back out of the town and get the hell out of here.”

They rolled into the buildings. Koehl popped his head back out of the turret and looked around. He spied the occasional face in a window, but that was about it. There were no vehicles on the narrow streets or even pedestrians. He strained to hear the sound of enemy vehicles, but his own Ferdinand was so loud there was little chance of making out anything else. He felt the tension. A Sherman could be waiting around any of the narrow, winding corners. If there was one, the first he would know would be a shell crashing down on him, potentially killing them all in an instant.

He rounded another corner, and he could finally make out the river in the distance, along with the iron girders of the bridge. His eyes leapt to the far side, looking for men, tanks, anything. He saw nothing. He breathed in deeply, the relief washing over him. They’d made it. They could take defensive positions and prepare, no matter what happened with the infantry company and the engineers. The first part of his mission was a success: beating the Americans to the river.

They cleared the buildings and moved into an open area just short of the bridge. A small park with an elegant lawn under the shade of some hardwood trees spread out for a hundred yards to the left and the right in front of the crossing. Koehl ordered his tank destroyer forward onto the grass. The treads ripped up the turf, flinging sod and soil behind them. He felt a flicker of sadness at wrecking such a pleasant scene, but he repressed the emotion and moved on with the solemn preparations for death.

Koehl climbed out of his Ferdinand. He drew his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the other side of the river, searching as far down the highway as he could see and into the adjacent countryside. There were no Americans in sight. He had a few minutes to set his men.

He leapt down to the ground and led individual tank destroyers to the positions he wanted them in. He placed one down each of the converging side streets, a few yards back from where the roads ended into the park. He then placed the two remaining Ferdinands behind the trees near the front of the park. He now had some cover for each of the vehicles, both as camouflage and to block some of the incoming shells. They were also spread far enough apart, at least thirty yards at the minimum, so that they would not take collateral damage if a stray round missed.

The preparation of his positions took scarcely five minutes. He checked his watch. The infantry still wasn’t here. That was unfortunate. Without the equipment, he could not blow the bridge. Well, at least he would take a few Shermans with him, and if there was time, they might make a fighting retreat and escape. It was the most he could hope for. He had just finished making his dispositions when he heard the first sounds of engines in the distance.