James Shipman - Task Force Baum

“Where’ve you been?” the major asked, eyeing him.

“I had to take a piss.”

Stiller grunted. “Did you get any ammo?”

“Two clips.”

“I guess it will have to do. I borrowed this from Baum.” He flashed an M1 carbine. “This peashooter’s not a hell of a lot better than my forty-five, but it will have to do. Let’s get moving.”

Stiller turned and hurried toward the nearest tank. It was a light M5. The 37mm gun jutted out in a stubby cylinder from the turret. Four smaller wheels connected to the tread gave way to a giant fifth one near the back. A half-dozen men already crouched behind it. When they arrived, a sergeant eyed them questioningly.

“Baum said we could join one of the groups,” said Stiller.

“You’re still in command. We’re just along for the ride.”

Hall could tell the sergeant wasn’t thrilled. But sergeants didn’t tell majors what to do. He smiled to himself, thinking of his father and their position back home.

An explosion from their tank pulled him out of his reverie. The M5 belched out a second round, and the engine roared as the vehicle surged forward, in line with the rest of the force.

“It’s on!” shouted Stiller. “Stick close to me, Hall!”

The men started forward, clinging to the raised platform near the rear of the tank. Hall could hear bullets clanging off the armor in front of him. From his obscured view, he could see the Oflag drawing nearer by the minute. Already a tower and several barracks were in smoking ruin. He wondered how many POWs were dead and wounded from the attack.

The tanks continued their advance. Hall stepped around, aiming his Thompson, but Stiller stopped him, pulling him back. “No reason to waste ammunition right now, Hall. Let’s wait until we’re closer.”

Their tank fired again, jerking and shuddering from the recoil of the cannon. Hall could hear the rapid rat-tat-tat of the machine-gun fire as the 30 calibers sprayed the camp with bullets. He peeked around again. They’d covered half the distance to the fence line. They were no more than a hundred yards from the camp.

“Not much resistance!” shouted Stiller. “They must not have expected us here, or they’ve nothing left to throw our way.”

Hall nodded, unable to answer. He felt winded from the loss of blood and the effects of the schnapps. The adrenaline coursed in him again, burning a heightened euphoria through his body. They were fifty yards from the gate now, then thirty. He saw a German in one of the towers jerking back and forth as rounds ripped through his body. He hung against the wooden rail for a moment before tumbling over onto the ground in front of the fence.

A Sherman nearby exploded in flame, rolling forward for a few more seconds before it came to a rest. Burning fuel spewed out of the back, spilling over the infantry packed in closely behind it. The men were engulfed in flame, a half-dozen writhing figures adding their agonizing screams to the symphony of carnage.

“They must have some artillery!” Stiller shouted. “Keep your head down; we’re almost there!”

The tanks hit the fence in several places, the steel monsters ripping with ease through the barbed-wire barriers. The fencing bent, then broke, snapping and curling in long, whipping swaths. A coil ripped across a nearby GI, tearing off half his face. The soldier flipped backward, his legs kicking hard against the ground as his body shuddered.

Another tank was hit, exploding in a roar of twisted steel and erupting fire. “Where the hell is that coming from?” screamed Stiller. Hall scanned the buildings, looking for any sign of the attacking Germans. All he could see were the burning barracks, a dead kraut here and there, and the occasional flash of a small-arms weapon within the camp.

White flags appeared now at the doors of several barracks. Hall strained his eyes, trying to make out the forms behind the gesture. “Those are prisoners!” shouted Stiller. “We’ve made it!”

Hall realized the major was correct. They were still in combat, fighting the remaining resistance from the Germans. There was a tank or artillery somewhere that they must track down and neutralize, but they were in the Oflag, and they’d found the prisoners. Now they had one job left: they had to locate Patton’s son-in-law and get him safely home.

Between Hammelburg and Oflag XIII

March 27, 1945, 1230 hours

The fire from Koehl’s ambush rained down into the American convoy. The surprise was perfect, and in the first moments, a tank and a half-track were obliterated by the Ferdinands. Their position was ideal, and Koehl shouted and screamed in triumph as his force continued to pour a powerful and continuous barrage of steel down onto the task force. The explosions below looked like a massive fireworks display, and the Hauptmann gloried in his revenge as the Americans stood on the edge of annihilation.

Koehl scanned the opposite hill with his field glasses. Dozens of flickering flames illuminated his infantry unit raining small-arms fire down on the column. Although the bullets were useless against the tanks, the constant fire caused damage to the command jeeps and the half-tracks, as well as deterring any infantry attacks up either hill. But his men were exposed. A shell erupted amid the flashes of fire. He saw bodies tumble, rolling lifeless down the hill. He was taking casualties, but the infantry was spread out, and there were too many targets for the Americans to handle.

Another Sherman exploded, the tank rolling off the road to the left before rumbling to a stop with the front wedged against the base of a pine tree. The top of the hatch ripped open, and Koehl saw several men roll out onto the ground before they scrambled for cover, their bodies darting this way and that as they dodged invisible threats.

The enemy column slowed. Koehl felt the rush of elation. If the convoy stopped, they would have them trapped, and they would destroy the remaining armor in detail before turning on the half-tracks and the infantry.

A shell exploded harmlessly near the front of his Ferdinand. The thick armor made a crippling hit difficult for the enemy to achieve. He shook his fist at the Shermans scrambling below, the flames of victory flickering in his eyes. A few more minutes and the battle would be over. Already it seemed that the enemy fire was slackening. The task force was dazed and sluggish, unable to deal with the cross-fire attack raining down on it from the high ground. A lone GI raised his hands in the air in surrender. He was mowed down by machine-gun fire in seconds, and the Hauptmann knew capitulation was near. His revenge was in his grasp.

Koehl’s Ferdinand jumped and lurched, knocking him off his perch and into the belly of the behemoth. He stared in disbelief. The interior was awash with blood. The driver had disintegrated from a direct hit. Bits of flesh and brain were strewn all around the interior. Koehl gagged, fighting not to retch. Fire licked the bottom of the steel enclosure, burning his ammunition loader as the man writhed in extreme agony. Schmidt clawed at the ladder, anguish in his eyes, reaching an arm out in silent supplication. Koehl realized in horror that his friend’s legs were missing halfway down, cut off above the knee, the tattered bloody flesh melted into the fabric of his trousers.

Even as he watched, the flames rose, licking at his boots. He risked a glance at the ammunition and saw with horror that even now the fire was kissing the steel shells. When the heat reached a certain point, the ammo would explode, killing everyone inside. He had moments to save them. He reached out to Schmidt, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the ladder. He had to get them to safety.