The Tiger

(Source)

She was one of the few King Tigers remaining in the West. Weighing nearly 77 tons, she wasn't built for speed. Yet her big 8.8 cm main gun could reach out to a range of two kilometers and penetrate up to 153 mm of armor plate sloped at 30°. Because of her vast weight, she could travel no more than 120 kilometers cross-country at a speed of 15 to 20 kilometers per hour. She could go further and faster on roads, but those times were gone. The Allied air forces controlled the skies over Germany. Anything which moved by road was likely to be destroyed.

She was never meant to be an offensive weapon, she was far too slow for that. But that was another thing that was in the past, offensive warfare. Now the German military was simply trying to hold off the inevitable defeat. As a defensive weapon, the King Tiger was superb.

Oberleutnant Fritz Goettner pondered these things as he stood in the commander's cupola of "his" Tiger, number 113. It was one of two vehicles left in his platoon, of which he was the commander. His original tank, 111, had been destroyed in a bombing raid when his battalion was waiting on a rail siding for transportation to the east. Tank 115 had been destroyed in the same raid. Tank 112 had broken down after they had been ordered to the Remagen front to try and crush the American bridgehead.

Now he was parked in the ruins of a German town, his other vehicle (114) having been retained at headquarters as a now immobile pillbox, there had only been enough fuel for one tank, so he had been ordered to the front. The attacks on the bridgehead had stalled, with heavy casualties. Now they were on the defensive.

Those units which could still move were withdrawing to defend the Ruhrgebiet, the heart of German industry. If that fell, there would be no more weapons, no more ammunition, and no more hope.

Goettner scoffed at the idea of hope. Hope for what, He wondered. Hope that he would survive the war to live as an Allied prisoner? Hope that he would survive the war so he could travel to the east to find his family?

He was from Königsberg in East Prussia, his family had lived there for generations. Now it was surrounded by the Red Army. He had served in Russia, he had seen what Germans had done there, he knew that Soviet reprisals would be harsh and unremitting. His only hope was that his family had somehow gotten out before the siege.

Goettner heard a cough, he looked down to see his loader, Wilhelm Fratzke, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Is there a problem, Willi?"

"Nein, Herr Oberleutnant, it's just that, well, are we expecting more ammunition? We are down to twelve high explosive rounds and twenty-two armor-piercing rounds. That isn't very much." Fratzke was nervous, he was suffering from fatigue and jumped at the slightest sound.

Fratzke, like the rest of his crew, could use some rest, preferably far from the front. But where? The front was everywhere, Germany grew smaller with each passing day. Allied bombs rained down on the towns and the cities of the Reich without pause. Truly, there was no place to go.

All five men hailed from Old Prussia, two had first names which were very old Prussian, Bertulis Kaulitz and Endris Rudat. Kurt Wowereit was the youngest of the crew, and was called Eichhörnchen,¹ as his last name was derived from the old Prussian word for that tree dwelling member of the rodent family. Kaulitz was the driver, Rudat was the radio operator/bow gunner, and Eichhörnchen was the gunner.

At the moment, Kaulitz had nothing to do, the tank was parked on a narrow street which led up from the Rhine and was the only path American tanks could take in this sector to break out into the open country beyond. They too were a pillbox, though a more mobile one than 114.

"I tell you Fratzke, that should be enough for our mission here. If we destroy two or three of the Ami Shermans, we effectively block this road. Then we sit and make sure they don't clear the wreckage. Do you think we need more ammunition to perform such a mission?"

"Nein, Herr Oberleutnant, I suppose not."

"Good, now round up your crew mates, I suspect we'll have some business coming our way soon. Battalion has informed me that the Amis have broken through and are on the way."

Fratzke did not look pleased by that news.

US Army Photo

1st Lt. Stephen Hernandez was jogging behind Misfit II, Sgt. Doug Harrell's tank. His platoon headquarters group was with him, all were on high alert. Once again Charlie Company was in the lead and 2nd Platoon was once again the tip of the spear.

"This shit is starting to get old L.T.!" Sgt. Woody Sherman was breathing hard as he jogged just behind his lieutenant.

"Told ya to quit smoking Woody, that shit's bad for you!" Cpl. John Myerson called out.

"What? And going into combat is healthy?" Sherman snapped back at Myerson.

"Knock it off, keep your eyes open and your yaps shut." S/Sgt Jack Wilson, tired of the grousing, wasn't going to let it keep going.

Up ahead, Hernandez saw Sgt. Enrique Cruz and his men dart to either side of the road. Cruz made the sign for the men to stop. After a moment, 2nd Squad's assistant squad leader separated from the group and came running back to the lieutenant.

"What is it Chaps?" Hernandez asked as Cpl. John Chapman caught his breath.

"Sgt. Cruz swears that there's a Tiger up the road. He can see the end of the cannon and he can hear the engine idling. It ain't no Panzer IV or Panther. Sarge is pretty good about that stuff."

"All right, hold on a second." Hernandez went to the rear of Misfit II and talked over the phone attached to the back of the tank with the tank commander. In a moment he was back.

"Okay Chaps, let's go up to where Cruz is. Fred, Schultzie, you're with me." Without needing to be told, Cpl. Myerson followed Hernandez as well. Unless explicitly ordered to stay behind, the radioman stuck to his commander like a shadow at high noon.

They reached Cruz in a minute, he was kneeling beside the corner of a building which sat on a curve in the road. Hernandez looked carefully, sure enough, there was the tip of a tank cannon. And yes, the engine sounded big. Tiger big.

"What do ya think L.T.? We can't send a Sherman around the corner and expect it to survive, can we?" Cruz asked, he was sweating profusely, he hated Tigers, one had almost killed him in France.

"I'm going to bring Misfit up here, keep her behind the building here. At this range even a Sherman anti-tank round will go through a Tiger's armor. It's also pretty tight in here, that big tank will have trouble negotiating this narrow street. You guys hold here. If that tank advances, get under cover fast." Hernandez finished and turned to go, as he did, he heard Cruz say, "Bet your ass L.T.!"

When Hernandez got back to Misfit II, he, Harrell, and S/Sgt Brad Woodstock, Harrell's platoon commander, had a brief talk. Woodstock was further back in the column and was speaking to Hernandez and Harrell via radio. After studying their maps for a few moments, the men realized that this was the only road through the small town which the Shermans could use, the others were all too narrow.

"We've got no other option L.T., Brad agrees, I'm the lead tank, it's me against the Tiger or we wait for a better idea. Call in arty, the road is blocked, call in air, the road is blocked. If we can knock the Tiger out, we can probably push it out of the way. Maybe." Harrell didn't sound happy, going up against a Tiger wasn't a smart idea if one wanted to survive the war. It could be done, but the idea scared the shit out of him.

Myerson climbed up on the Sherman, "L.T., it's Sgt. Cruz on the radio, he's got an idea."

Hernandez took the handset and talked to his 2nd Squad leader. When he was done listening he nodded and said, "Not a bad idea Enrique, give us a minute, then your guys go ahead and move out."

Turning to the others he said, "Okay, one of Cruz's guys found an alley which leads to the next cross street, which leads right to where the Tiger is sitting. Doug, if they create a distraction, can you get around that corner and engage the Tiger and kill it, before it kills you?"

"That might work, we'd have to pump out as many rounds as we could before the Tiger gets a shot off. But yeah, it's worth a try. And I had so hoped to survive this f**king war." He grumbled.

2nd Squad got into position, they could see the German tank now, most of it anyway. It was a big one. "Hey Sarge, ain't that one of those King Tigers?" Pvt. Dave Hudson said with a certain amount of fear in his voice.

Cruz looked at it, all he said was "Yup."

Hudson and Pvt. Jake Serrano looked at each other, Serrano and Hudson were both carrying captured German panzerfausts. They were both mentally kicking themselves for having picked the damned things up. Shooting at Krauts in buildings with them was one thing, dueling with a King Tiger was quite another.

Sgt. Cruz held a hand up, then snapped it down, when he did, both Hudson and Serrano dashed into the narrow side street. Checking to the rear to make sure that no one was back there, both aimed their panzerfausts, then fired.

Goettner was constantly scanning his surroundings from the vision slits in his cupola, he didn't want to stick his head out any further than he had to, he knew there were American infantry in the vicinity. He'd seen one man come around the corner down the street then quickly duck back when he'd seen 113.

The 8.8 cm cannon was trained down the street, ready to fire the instant any enemy tank came around the corner, they wouldn't stand a chance.

"Steady Eichhörnchen, as soon as the hull is in sight I want you to put a round right between where the driver and radioman sit."

"Willi, as soon as the gun fires, I want another Panzergranate up the tube, fast as you can Junge. Klar?"

"Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant, as if my life depended on it." Fratzke answered.

"Good, because it does, in fact all our lives depend..."

Goettner was interrupted by a loud whooshing sound followed by two nearly simultaneous impacts on the engine compartment of 113. What the Hell, he thought, that sounded like a Panzerfaust. Then he smelled burning fuel, he also noticed that the engine had cut out.

"Herr Oberleutnant, the engine is dead, all my gauges just dropped to zero, I can't start it!" 

"Don't panic Berti, I think we took a Panzerfaust back there, maybe two." Goettner heard the rising tone of panic in Oberpanzerschütze Bertulis Kaulitz' voice. Panic was the last thing they needed. As he turned to look to the rear, his heart leaped into his throat, flames were issuing from the vents on the engine deck.

Panzerschütze Endris Rudat then screamed, "Infantry, front!" and started firing his machine gun in that direction. 

Oberpanzerschütze Kurt Wowereit raised his eyes from the cannon's gunsight, he was starting to feel fear. He had heard the screams of comrades dying inside a burning Panzer, not something he wanted to ever hear again. Panzerschütze Fratzke then screamed and everyone's blood ran cold, "Enemy Panzer to the front, Kurt kill it!"

As Wowereit lowered his eyes back to the gunsight, it was too late, by perhaps two seconds.

Harrell saw his first round glance off the pavement just in front of the Tiger, a f**king King Tiger, ya think Hernandez might have mentioned that fact, he thought. But Pvt. Bill Bullock had already loaded another armor-piercing round and his gunner, Cpl. Jay Lang, had already fired a second round at the big German tank.

Harrell thought he saw the second round glance off the big turret and shoot into the sky, but that second round hadn't been needed after all. The first had smacked into the cobblestones under the tank, then ricocheted up and into the thin armor of the tank's belly.

Harrell saw the enemy tank's cannon pop up to max elevation, then oddly enough, the gun fired, sending the round harmlessly into the sky. What Harrell couldn't know is that the last thing the enemy gunner had done in his death throes was stomp the foot trigger, firing the big 88.

It had taken three hours to shove the big German tank out of the way, first they had had to extinguish the engine fire. One of the guys had looked inside the Tiger, then had closed the hatch, "Don't look in there guys, it ain't pretty."

As 2nd Platoon marched past the wrecked King Tiger, each man put a hand on the big vehicle, as if it were a talisman signifying that they had survived another encounter with Death. Not so the five Prussian tankers inside the vehicle. They had, true to their oath, died for Folk, Fatherland, and Führer.

(Source)

¹ The High German (Hochdeutsch) word for squirrel.

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