Fanatics

(Source)

Sgt. Brad Winkler had just the top of his head exposed above the hatch ring. He didn't want to have to rely on his vision slits, but he didn't want to expose too much of himself either. Snipers loved exposed tank commanders. His tank, "Boozer" was in the lead, 3rd Platoon was with the point element with the other tanks of Woodstock's platoon interspersed with the infantry.

3rd Platoon's lieutenant had been relieved of his command, now S/Sgt Bob Poole was running that outfit. Sometimes the new lieutenants thought that they knew more than they did, though things were quiet, there were still some diehards out there who wanted to kill Americans. Mostly SS, but the occasional band of paratroopers would put up a fight, most of the German Army types were content to surrender.

As Boozer rumbled down the small farming track, Winkler spotted some men coming out of a field to the right of the road waving at his tank. He pulled his field glasses out and studied them.

Bedraggled, no two men seemed to be wearing the same kit, some had helmets, some wore soft caps, and there were two varieties of those, some had no headgear at all. One man was holding a white rag on a stick, all had their hands in the air.

"Dilf, stop!" He ordered his driver, Cpl. Herman Dilfer. Boozer quickly came to a stop she was only traveling about 2 mph, Winkler didn't want to tire out his infantry support by rolling any faster than that. He looked to the rear, S/Sgt Poole already had his men deploying to either side of the road in a loose skirmish line.

When Winkler turned back to the front he told his gunner, Cpl. Jeb Nagel, "Jeb, keep an eye on that tree line, I don't want any surprises."

Shortly after he had said that, a line of tracers reached from the trees and passed through the surrendering Germans, tumbling over a number of them. Without a word, Winkler felt the turret slewing to engage the people firing. Nagel was on them in seconds, the coaxial machine gun firing, followed an instant later by a high explosive shell flying downrange to explode in the trees.

"HE up!" announced the loader, Pfc. Willis Hornsby. Without a word from Winkler, Nagel fired again.

Winkler looked to his right, Poole had a squad moving up to check out the tree line, it looked like they had suppressed or destroyed the enemy machine gun, but they kept the gun trained on that spot anyway.

After a few long minutes, the squad Poole had sent forward signaled the all clear. So Boozer began to advance again, two squads in support. Winkler was already on the radio reporting the encounter.

Pvt. Mathew Flores from 2nd Squad reported in to S/Sgt Poole, "Jefe¹, more of those SS bastards, two guys on the MG, we followed a blood trail back into the woods, the other guy didn't get very far, we found him dead. As near as we could tell, it was just the three guys."

"All right, thanks Matty, go back and tell Sgt. Russell to hold where they're at, we'll be moving as soon as I sort these Germans out, some of 'em are untouched, a few of 'em are wounded." Poole watched as Flores jogged back out to rejoin his squad. Doc Hood was working on the German wounded.

Poole had counted seventeen Germans, six of them were dead, two more had died of their wounds, four men were unscathed, one man had a slight flesh wound. Doc was trying to save two of the more badly wounded ones with the help of a German medic. He was about to have his radioman, Lou Hess, translate for the Kraut medic, but as he walked over to the two men, he could hear the German speaking English. It sounded odd because he spoke with a British accent.

"Doc, what's the scoop?" Poole has worked for a small town newspaper before the war, he liked the jargon of the newsroom.

Hood sat back on his heels and looked up, "Lou, get on the horn, we need a truck to evacuate these wounded, don't tell 'em they're Krauts."

"What if they ask?" Hess wanted to know.

Hood looked at the wounded Germans, the oldest one couldn't have been more than eighteen. "If they ask, they're wounded kids." Then he looked at his platoon leader, "Well, it's the truth isn't it?"

Suddenly the German medic swore and sat down in the road, throwing a bloody wad of bandages onto the shoulder.

"Fritz?" Doc Hood looked at the man.

"I couldn't save him, he lost too much blood, the damage was just too severe. Dwayne, he was only seventeen. Just a boy." Poole guessed that the two medics had introduced themselves, at first he'd assumed Doc was calling the man 'Fritz' because that's what they typically called a German. One German was Fritz, collectively they were Fritzes.

A Dodge weapons carrier was coming down the road at speed, the guy driving braked hard, kicking up a lot of dust. The driver of the weapons carrier, a T/5,² protested as soon as he saw that the wounded he was supposed to pick up were German soldiers.

"Nobody said nothing about picking up no Krauts!"

S/Sgt Poole looked briefly at the driver, then turned and called over Pfc. Ronald Donovan. "Ron, ride back with this guy and keep an eye on the prisoners. I don't think they'll try anything, but..."

"Got it Sarge." He began to help the Germans onto the vehicle, the driver began to protest again.

Poole walked over to the man and leaned in close to his ear, whispering something. The man went pale then mumbled something and climbed back into his truck. Within minutes the truck was headed back to the battalion aid station.

"What did ya tell him Sarge?" Doc Hood asked.

"I told him that I'd give one of the Krauts his carbine and let them decide where he was going to go, and with who."

"Seemed to work."

"Yup, usually does.

Poole had his men wrap the dead Germans in their shelter quarters, they all had one, and line them up just off the road. With the exception of one sergeant, the Germans were all very young. He looked off at where the SS had been set up. No doubt the Army guys were supposed to open fire on the first Allied unit that came down the road, then the SS would open fire. He guessed that the SS also had orders to shoot anybody trying to surrender.

He was determined to do the same for any SS trying to surrender. Some might call it murder, Poole thought of it as 'field justice.' He certainly wouldn't lose sleep over it.

Nor would any man in 3rd Platoon after the events of the past two days.

¹ Boss, Spanish.

² Technician Fifth Class, equivalent to a corporal

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