James Shipman - Task Force Baum

The Sherman directly in front of them continued to roll forward, jerking and shaking as shells bounced off the armor and as its own cannon screamed in fiery anger. Hall ripped his clip out and fumbled for the bag, tearing out the metal stick and shoving it into his Thompson. He pulled back the bolt and twisted the weapon out to his right, firing madly, an animal yell escaping his lips unconsciously as he fought for his life.

He emptied the Thompson in moments and fumbled for more ammunition. He shoved the last clip in and blazed away, hunched down as low as he could get as he depressed the trigger over and over. Soon the Thompson was exhausted again. He was out of ammunition. Now he was helpless and had to wait for the bullet that would kill him. Stiller drove beside him, brow furrowed, quiet and cool, pushing the jeep forward as close to the butt of the Sherman as he could. Simple or not, he was brave under fire, a natural warrior. The shells rattled in, exploding and raining over them.

Then they were through it. Somehow the column kept going. Hall counted three burning Shermans, but they were able to weave through them. The column rumbled and rounded a bend. He craned his neck, trying to make out the half-tracks that he was sure would be torn apart by the cross fire. He couldn’t see them past the trees.

Minutes passed, and the fire died down. The road straightened out even as it continued upward. The lieutenant pivoted in the seat and half stood, straining his eyes to see the back of the force. To his surprise, a good number of the half-tracks seemed to have made it. Some were battered, and smoke emanated from the hood of one, but they were still there, still moving. Somehow the task force had escaped.

“Shit,” said Stiller finally, spitting an enormous wad of tobacco and bourbon-colored saliva out of his mouth. “That was a hot-damned surprise. Krauts nearly had us there. You okay, Hall?”

The lieutenant couldn’t answer. His tongue seemed frozen to the roof of his mouth. His hands shook, and he felt like his body had been run through a grinder. He’d never experienced such intense fear and violence. The previous day’s skirmishes seemed like pleasant holidays in comparison. He merely nodded, unsure of himself. He checked his arms and legs. His fingers came up bloody. At the same moment, a throbbing, fiery pain emanated from his upper right arm. He looked down and saw a quarter-sized gash. The skin hung in a red flap, and the blood poured out of the wound in pulsing froths. “I’m hit,” he managed to blurt out.

“Where?” asked the major, concern in his voice. “Let me see it.”

Hall rotated his arm, showing the wound to the major, who glanced over a few times to examine it, even as he kept the jeep moving up the road. “Doesn’t look too bad, Hall. Shell fragment ripped right by you, it looks like. Do you have another bandage?”

“I think so,” said the lieutenant. He reached down into his jacket, gingerly pulling out the aid kit he’d retrieved earlier. His hands shook, and he felt tears coming down his face. He fumbled through the pack and retrieved a bandage. Ripping it open, he wrapped the gauze around his arm. The action was difficult to perform with one hand in the bounding jeep, but after a few tries, he managed it. He was wounded. Good lord. He might have died.

“Not too tight now,” advised the major. “You’ll cut the circulation off and lose the damned thing.”

“I think I’ve got it,” he said.

Stiller chuckled. “Good man. Now you’re a real soldier, Hall. You did good back there. You have any ammo left?”

“I used it up.”

Stiller grunted. “Can’t be helped. We’ll scrounge up something when we get there. We can’t be far now, maybe just a few minutes. When we arrive, hold back with me, and I’ll see about more ammo for you and something for me. I don’t want to charge them with only my dick in my hand.”

“I can’t believe we made it through that.”

“I’ve had worse and survived. You never know what will get you and what won’t. In war, you’ve got to take each moment at a time. Smell it, taste it, feel the seconds. Each could be your last.”

Despite the fear, Hall knew what the major was saying. He’d never lived like this before. The colors of the pine trees and the sky, the sharp, brisk pitch of the air, mixed with diesel, the grinding rumble of the Shermans, and the whining rev of the jeep engine. Everything was exaggerated, stretched out with diamond clarity in front of him. All his conquests and victories in school, in life, seemed dim in comparison. This was life balanced on the sharp edge of a knife. He was terrified, but he relished it.

The column lumbered on, the engines gasping for breath as they struggled up the incline of the hill. Hall expected to see the German plane, almost an old friend by now, materialize overhead, but it was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps having passed the ambush, they were in the clear. If that was all the Germans had left to throw at them, they were a feeble and tired foe indeed. They were rolling near the summit of a great hill now, the trees opening up at the top. He wondered what they would see when they crested the hill.

Then they were over it, and the wide vista of Oflag XIII opened before them. Towers and wire fencing dominated dozens of buildings arranged in neat rows. The camp was a few hundred yards off, with nothing between them but open fields that had obviously been cleared by the Germans to provide a killing field for any escaped prisoners. The space would also make the ideal platform for an armored advance against the camp.

As Hall watched, the camp came alive with activity, like a disturbed anthill. He could see the chaos caused by the appearance of the task force at the Oflag’s front door. The guards in the towers rushed back and forth, pointing and raising their weapons at the task force. It was an empty gesture, Hall knew. The submachine guns, so effective against an escaping prisoner, would do nothing against the charging Shermans.

The tanks wasted no time in preparation. Reaching the clearing, the vehicles moved rapidly into a line. Stiller stopped the jeep twenty yards behind the forming group of armor and hopped out, motioning for Hall to join him. The lieutenant saw that the half-tracks were halting just short of the crest of the hill. Baum was up also, already out of his vehicle and shouting orders as the task force hastily assembled for the attack. Even as they approached the commander, the first shells were belching out of the tanks and lobbing into the POW camp.

“Infantry spread out!” shouted Baum, screaming to make himself heard over the din of the shelling. “Stay behind and low. Don’t engage the enemy until we get close. We’re moving fast. Let’s get the hell in there and get our boys!”

The infantry spread out, small groups sprinting to positions huddled behind each of the remaining tanks. Stiller approached Baum. “What do you want us to do?” he asked.

Baum looked over, irritation crossing his face. “Just stay the hell out of the way and go get your prisoner when the camp is open.”

“No way. We’ve fought all the way here, and we’ll fight now,” responded Stiller sternly. “Hall needs some more ammo. Can you spare any?”

Baum looked at them for a second, then seemed to acquiesce. “Fine. You can go in support with a squad. Don’t get in their way.”

“What about the ammo?”

“Check with the half-tracks. They might have something.” Baum flicked his wrist behind him negligently.

“Go find out if they have some bullets for us, Hall,” ordered Stiller.

The lieutenant tromped back away from the fighting. The half-tracks were a hundred yards or so down the road. As he reached the crest of the hill, he darted to his left, stepping into the trees a few feet so he could relieve himself. His arm was throbbing, but the bandage seemed to be holding. He finished and zipped his trousers back up. Looking around, he quickly dug the flask out of his pocket and unscrewed the top, taking a quick gulp of the fiery liquid. He immediately felt better as the warm feeling spread from his stomach through his limbs. He stuffed the flask back into place and then hurried back toward the half-tracks. Inquiring of one of the drivers, he was directed to the supply vehicle. He was able to beg for two clips for his Thompson. He was soon back up the hill and returning to the command area, where Stiller was waiting impatiently for him.