Contact!

(Source)

Perhaps they had grown overconfident, they were used to things being quiet after dark away from the main highways. Leutnant von Lüttwitz thought to himself that they should have been a little more careful as they got closer to the front. They were close, sometimes, at night when the wind was right, they could hear the rumble of artillery to the north and to the northeast. By the lieutenant's calculations, they were within 75 kilometers of the border with Belgium.

They had set out shortly after dusk, it wasn't fully dark yet, but it had been a quiet day, some French farm traffic, carts and wagons, but no military vehicles had been on the roads all day. They knew from experience that the French would be off the roads after dusk, during the Occupation the curfew had enforced that and the French had yet to break that habit.

They had been advancing down the road itself, trying to make time, the men could sense that they were getting closer to where they wanted, needed, to be. It was getting foggy, the lieutenant hoped it would get foggier still, reducing visibility. They should be able to hear any vehicles approaching, and they did, but these vehicles were traveling at a high rate of speed, without headlights.

Feldwebel Dieter Pohl had been with von Lüttwitz on point, Unteroffizier Uwe Schumacher had been bringing up the rear, all three men carried MP 40 submachine guns. Pohl and the lieutenant had gone to either side of the road, taking cover in the ditches, ready for whatever emerged from the mist.

Obergefreiter Günter Voigt had been quick to get the MG 42 ready, Grenadier Hans Pfeiffer was his assistant gunner, the men were rotating that position as the spare ammunition, though limited, was still heavy. When the first vehicle came into sight, Voigt recognized it immediately, an American car, what the Amis called a Jeep. Behind it, close behind it as a matter of fact, was a small truck. He opened fire, he felt he had no choice.

(Source)

There were two men in the Jeep, only one in the small truck. Voigt's first burst killed the driver of the Jeep which veered off the road and into the ditch, catapulting its passenger into a nearby tree. The driver of the small truck had jammed on the brakes and then tried to accelerate through the ambush once he realized that's what it was. (He had no idea that the Germans were as surprised as he was.)

That man had died when Voigt shifted his aim and fired a second quick burst into the cab of the truck. His vehicle rolled to a stop as the dead man's foot slipped from the accelerator, the vehicle hadn't really come up to speed when its driver died.

Quickly six of the seven Germans checked on the vehicles, the seventh man, Grenadier Manfred Sauer, had checked on the Jeep passenger, who had died on impact with the tree. As there was nothing to be done, he rejoined his squad.

"Mein Gott Herr Leutnant, this truck is full of American rations!" Feldwebel Pohl exclaimed.

"Everybody, grab what you can, then we head as far from this road as we can! Move, move!" The lieutenant realized that the distinctive sound of their MG 42 would definitely attract attention. There must be an American post nearby if these men were traveling this side road. There could be no other explanation.

But there was.

The Americans were deserters, they were selling American rations to the French civilians and using that money to finance what could only be described as a large organized crime racket in Paris and other large cities behind the lines. Some estimates put the number of American deserters in the ETO as high as 40,000 men. These three were just a small fraction of those involved. Some took to the woods and lived away from civilization, others turned to crime. Many of the latter had been criminals before being drafted, France was just a different venue.

As the sun rose, von Lüttwitz examined the new map they had found on the body of the "flying Ami" as the men referred to him, the man who had been thrown from the Jeep. He had been a sergeant and had a very good American map of the entire region from St-Quentin to the Belgian border. He had other maps for the surrounding areas and the lieutenant had been delighted to find one which extended well into Belgium, nearly to the German border.

Leutnant von Lüttwitz was familiar with the Ardennes, he had been a young corporal in 1940 when his division, the 223rd, had been involved in the campaign which overran France. He had visited after the fighting was over and loved the rolling hills and forests of the area. He also reasoned that it wouldn't be heavily occupied. It might be a good place to get over the border into Germany. Perhaps the army still held the line of the Maas, he didn't know. But that was closer than trying to strike further north.

The men were satiated from the excellent rations they had recovered from the truck. He had allowed them to stuff themselves as they now had enough for at least a week, if they were careful. As these men had known the hardships of the Eastern Front, von Lüttwitz knew they could be counted upon to not eat more than was necessary.

While they had made less than 40 kilometers that night, and had diverted further north than he had planned, they had food and good maps. He had been concerned about the machine gun fire and knew that the Amis would start searching for them soon. They had to. It seemed dangerous to let an armed foe wander your rear area when they probably had no idea how large a group it was.

The French had indeed reported the destroyed vehicles and the dead Americans to the local gendarmerie. They had reported it to their regional headquarters and eventually, three days after the event, the Americans sent a patrol to investigate.

"Whaddaya think Sarge? Deserters?" The lieutenant commanded the Military Police detachment in St-Quentin, he had been a New York City detective before the war. He knew that it was odd for three men to be traveling this far off the beaten path. The weapons carrier had been ransacked, there were empty ration cases around the rear.

"I dunno lieutenant. But yeah, three guys, a Jeep and a weapons carrier, way out here in the boondocks? Looks fishy. I'd bet they were selling rations on the black market. But these guys were shot up, the Maquis maybe? Now that the Krauts are gone, a lot of them are fighting their political enemies, not all of 'em are fans of de Gaulle."

The Frenchman who had brought them to the scene began to gesticulate rather wildly, he was mad about something, but his French came out in such a torrent that their interpreter, a GI who had a French mother and an American father, had trouble keeping up.

"Lieutenant, as near as I can make out, this guy's French is some heavy rural dialect, this couldn't have been the Maquis. He says he heard machine gun fire, German machine gun fire. Ya know, nothing makes a sound quite like a Kraut MG."

"What? Do ya think the resistance doesn't have Kraut weapons now that we're no longer supplying them. Hell, there's Kraut equipment laying around from here to Normandy. The f**kers shed as much weight as they could when they started running. My money's on the Maquis and these simple country f**ks made off with the rations themselves. Sure, blame the Krauts." The sergeant was known to express his opinions freely, as he did so now.

The lieutenant thought about it for a moment. Looking at the vehicles he then walked down the road in the direction which they had been traveling in, it wasn't long before he found what he was looking for.

"C'mere Sarge, take a look." The lieutenant was kneeling in a ditch about 20 yards from where the jeep had crashed. Cartridge casings were everywhere, perhaps 15 or so, whoever had been on the gun knew his business, this was not some resistance fighter shooting. They tended to use far too much ammunition.

"Okay, lieutenant, this is where the shooter was. Kraut ammo casings, doesn't mean that it was a Kraut on the gun." Staff Sergeant Cranston shrugged his shoulders, he hadn't been a cop before the war, he'd been a car salesman, but being an M.P. beat being in the infantry.

"Look again Sarge. How many Frenchmen wear hobnailed boots?" The lieutenant pointed out the tracks around the scene, it looked indeed like the shooter had been wearing military footwear. As far as he knew, only the Germans and the British wore hobnailed boots.

(Source¹)

Sgt Cranston thought about that for a bit. Made sense, but...

"So what do we do lieutenant, report a band of marauding Krauts in the area? Could even be other deserters, who knows?"

"I know Sarge, but we should keep our eyes and ears open for other strange doings in the area. There have been Krauts picked up between here and Normandy for a few weeks now, some of the bastards are just looking for someone to surrender to, maybe a few hardcore types still trying to make it back to their lines. I dunno. But I'm curious."

"Okay lieutenant, you're the detective."

Sitting on the lieutenant's desk back in St-Quentin was a report from the gendarmes of a suspicious death near Tilloloy, a small town about 30 miles west of St-Quentin. It seems that the local gendarmes were convinced that a farmer had been murdered, then had his house set on fire, trying to make it look like an accident, they supposed.

Seems that one of the French cops had noticed odd footprints going into the hen house. What thief would wear hobnail shoes?






¹ No, it's not why Germany lost the war you dumbasses on Reddit. The British wore them as well, helped to keep the soles from wearing out. Remember, most Germans marched to war, just like their grandfathers and great-grandfathers had. Cobblestones were a problem, but most of the war did not take place in quaint city streets. /rant