James Shipman - Task Force Baum

“Are we going, sir?”

“Yes. We will roll up there at full speed. We have the inside cord of the arch, and they will be feeling their way along, looking for a way across. That will cause a delay. We should be able to beat them to the crossing and crush them with the same ambush I planned last time. Spread the word, Sergeant!”

Schmidt turned to the headset and began barking orders. The Ferdinands jerked as they accelerated almost immediately. Koehl stared out over the wooded fields as the column turned north, grinding along the twisting road that followed the Main. He felt his blood surge. He would avenge his sister after all.

Koehl’s column rumbled north at full speed. The captain felt the jarring vibrations of the Ferdinand in his teeth. He was sitting down inside the vehicle now, leaning against his command chair as they jounced along, bouncing and jolting over the pavement, rushing to win the race to Burgsinn.

Schmidt sat below him to the right, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he strove to pour some coffee out of a container into his tin cup. He finally managed to half-fill it, spilling as much as he was able to land in the mug. The sergeant took a deep sip, then another, before handing the drink toward Koehl. The captain shook his head.

“Take it,” ordered the sergeant. “You need to revive, sir.”

The captain smiled to himself. Just who was in charge here? He knew the answer to that question too. Without further comment, he took the coffee, pulling it up to his lips carefully and then taking a deep drink of the lukewarm liquid. The flavor was sharp and foul. God knew what it was made of. Certainly not real coffee. They’d run out of that years ago, the ocean routes cut off by those bastard English.

“Sir, maybe we shouldn’t pursue this.”

Koehl looked down at Schmidt sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“You heard the colonel.”

“Yes, I did. It’s not a main attack. Just a small force.”

“That small force outnumbers us five to one.”

“What does that matter?”

The sergeant hesitated, glancing up with understanding as he placed a hand on his commander’s knee. “Because as difficult as it might be to admit it, sir, it might be a blessing that bridge was blown.”

“We have orders from the colonel to get up there and stop them.”

“That’s not quite true either, sir,” Schmidt said gently. “He gave you the option, but he didn’t order you to do it.”

Schmidt was correct, and not just about the order. They were heavily outnumbered. He was putting his entire force in danger for highly personal reasons. For the first time in six years of war, he was operating out of emotion instead of out of the cold, rational intelligence that had kept him and his crew safe throughout the conflict. Even worse, his desire for revenge was against everything he’d learned and practiced as a priest. He tried to think clearly, to grasp the truth, but he couldn’t manage it. The hot fire of sorrow burned his intellect away. Just this once, regardless of cost, he was going to follow his burning passion. Gerta deserved it. I should have forced her to come with me .

“Sir?” He realized he hadn’t answered the sergeant.

“Someone has to stop them. You heard the colonel. He doesn’t have any other resources to throw at this. If they get across the Main, they are a knife aimed at the heart of Germany. We don’t know for sure what is coming up behind them. We can’t allow them a bridgehead.” He knew the lie of his words, and he delivered the speech in a wooden, hollow tone.

Schmidt nodded without challenging him further. Koehl saw the understanding again, and he was terrified by the loyalty and sacrifice he saw behind the look. “You’re right, sir, of course. We’ll get there and do our best. We’ll get those bastards, every last one of them. That’s what your parents would have wanted.”

Koehl jerked slightly. More pain. He forced it down until it simmered in the tired place. He wouldn’t think about that now. Gerta had joined his mother and father and most of his companions. Perhaps he would see them soon. He would welcome it.

He reached his hand out and grasped Schmidt. The sergeant knew him better than anyone alive. He was a substitute brother, father. He was life. He turned to his friend. “You keep your eyes sharp when this starts,” he warned. “If you let something happen to yourself, I’ll never forgive you.”

Schmidt laughed. “Speak for yourself. You were standing in the open like a wounded gazelle in Gemünden. I think for the next fight you can conduct the battle inside our machine as well as strolling around in the open like you’re taking a midday walk.”

Koehl laughed. “Fair enough. Let’s both be careful when we get there.”

The radio chimed just then, and Schmidt turned, pulling the headset out and fiddling with the switches. He spoke quietly for a few moments. When he was done, he turned excitedly to Koehl. “That was headquarters. We have positive intelligence on the column. They are parallel to us on the other side of the Main. But they’ve been delayed a bit. We’re at least a kilometer north of them. We should be able to get to Burgsinn with plenty of time to set up the trap. We’ve done it, sir.”

Koehl clapped his sergeant on the back. “Great news. Let’s step it up and beat those bastards!”

The Ferdinand, already rumbling mightily, coughed and jerked as it lurched forward at maximum throttle. Koehl closed his eyes, beginning to map out the trap they would set for the American column. He didn’t have a map of Burgsinn, and he cursed his lack of planning for this eventuality. If he’d only known this other bridge was there, he would have ordered a local chart so he could study the potential tactical situation. He was unlikely to be as lucky as he’d been in Gemünden. So many of these small towns contained narrow, winding streets and houses that kissed the river’s edge. He assumed Burgsinn was the same. He made mental adjustments, planning out killing zones and lines of retreat. Given the overwhelming superiority of the Americans, the lack of an open shooting field near the river might actually be an asset, as each Ferdinand could protect an individual street, along with a sprinkling of infantry. How could they maximize the firepower and destroy as many enemy Shermans as quickly as possible? If he couldn’t take out the armor, he would fail. As the minutes passed, he knew what he would do. He could taste the trap as if it had already sprung.

The Ferdinand jerked and sputtered. Koehl opened his eyes in surprise, afraid they’d been hit by a shell. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

The driver was silent for a second, setting his controls. Then he responded, “We are out of petrol.”

“No!” screamed the captain. He drew himself out of the turret, climbing the ladder until his head and chest poked out of the top of the vehicle. The Ferdinands behind him were all rumbling to a stop. He turned to motion to them, but he was interrupted by Schmidt.

“Another one just called in, sir. He’s out of fuel as well. The rest are on reserve. We’re not going to make it.”

Koehl shrieked in anger and frustration. He turned to the north, where he could just make out the tips of the tallest houses in the distance. They were out of petrol. Their object was a half kilometer away. He closed his eyes. All he could see was the silent, lifeless face of his sister frowning down on him in disappointment.

Near Burgsinn, Germany

March 27, 1945, 1100 hours

Hall slipped the safety off his Thompson submachine gun and slung it toward the enemy. He hardly had to aim. They filled the entire horizon, not only the road but up the hill on both sides. His heart exploded in his chest. He fought to catch his breath. He winced even as he moved, expecting any moment the bullet or shell that would end his life. His finger pressed the trigger.