End of the Line

Source

The sergeant watched as the infantrymen hastily dragged the dead military policemen off the track and into the woods. All thoughts of searching the forester's hut were gone. As the infantrymen who would fit in the utility vehicle climbed aboard and began to drive off, a burst of firing arose to the rear.

Looking back, the sergeant saw their disabled halftrack blow itself to pieces. Whatever was shooting at the halftrack was decidedly unfriendly. Sounded liked 20mm cannon fire, the sergeant was not prepared to stick around and find out. He ordered the driver to move out up the trail.

The Sherman lurched forward, then steadily accelerated, vanishing up the trail as the snow fell harder.

Source

The small scout car inched up the trail, fresh tracks in the accumulating snow indicated to the vehicle commander that they had just missed the Amis¹. He radioed back to the two Panthers coming up behind him.

"The halftrack has been destroyed. A single tank is still around, based on the tracks going up the trail. I do not plan on pursuing."

The commander in the first Panther couldn't help but smile, thinking, "If I was in a little 222, I'd wait for the big boys as well." To the armored car commander he responded, "Probably a smart move, we'll be up in a minute."

"Two, you copy?"

"Jawohl, klar²."

The two Panthers came up on the armored scout car, sitting just off the trail. The platoon commander had the 222 bring up the rear, the 222's speed and agility was meaningless on this forest track. The commander preferred a tank in the lead.

The driver was straining to see forward, his periscope was fogged up and water was dripping from his hatch again. The snow had turned back to rain and the track was becoming almost unnavigable.

"Sarge, we're not going to stay on this track much longer are we? You can feel Old Betsy starting to slip every time I yank on the tillers." The driver spoke over the intercom, his concern evident in his strained voice.

"Got no choice for the moment, Smitty. Those Krauts back there aren't going to stop. Word over the battalion net is that the Germans are boiling out of the woods to the east in their thousands. Our guys are falling back all along the line."

The gunner spoke up, he'd been looking at a map. "Skipper, I think I know where we are. This trail ends in about 500 yards, hooks up with the main road to Stavelot."

The tank commander, squatting down in his hatch, trying to stay dry and warm, succeeding at neither, answered, "Puts us kinda to the north of where we're supposed to be, doesn't it?"

"Yep, but based on the terrain, and that fork we took a while back, that's where we are. I'm sure of it."

Smitty, easing up on the accelerator, felt the tank slow. "Sarge, little village ahead, couple of houses anyway."

"Okay, stop here. Ozzie, gimme that map."

"They've stopped."

The gunner was pressed against his sight, he knew that Hans had an armor piercing round loaded in the gun. All he saw was the single Sherman ahead, the trees were thinner here, he thought he saw buildings ahead as well.

The tank commander used his field glasses to study the area around the American vehicle. He shivered, it was still cold but at least the rain seemed to have stopped. He was looking for the utility vehicle he had seen earlier. Perhaps the Amis were on the run like their comrades all over the Ardennes.

If you believed the chatter over the battalion net, they had broken through. He had heard the regimental adjutant come on the net and order everyone to press hard.

From what he'd seen, the Americans were making them pay in blood for every meter gained. He'd left the railhead at Bitburg with a full platoon of five tanks, now he had two. But why had these Americans stopped?

He saw no other sign of troops other than the single Sherman. Had they reached an established position? Perhaps they were as lost in the woods as he felt.

Sergeant Hubert had the driver pivoting the tank to face back they way they'd come, they were low on fuel and he was tired of running.

What was left of his infantry were long gone, apparently when they'd hit the main road, they'd just kept on going.

His gunner nudged him, "Whaddaya think, Hube? Make a stand here?"

Hubert shrugged, "Lou, you get anything on the radio?"

"Nah, Skipper, lots of jamming, either that or these damned hills are blocking our reception again, I keep hearing snatches of transmissions, some ain't in English."

Hubert realized that they were stuck for the moment. He noticed that the tank was now pointing back to the east. At least they had their thicker armor to the front.

Not that a Kraut 88³ would care one way or the other.

"He's turned around, his gun is trained back down the track."

"What's the range?"

"750 meters, clear path to the target."

"So you have a shot?"

"Aber natürlich, Chef⁴."

"Fire when ready."

The big Panther shouldered its way past the smoldering American tank. The other of the pair followed in its wake. It had taken two shots to kill the Sherman, the first had glanced off the gun mantlet, the second had gone in right through the radioman's position.

There had been a brief fire in the American tank, but it had stopped. Probably something inside that wasn't soaked had managed to burn for a moment, then gone out. From the smoke issuing from the open radioman's hatch, the fire wasn't completely out but wasn't going to catch.

The German commander of the first Panther shook his head as they rolled on to the main road. It could have been them back there, they had gotten lucky.

The driver of the Sherman sat quietly in his position. Lou, the bow gunner/radioman had been killed instantly, his blood showering the driver as he frantically tried to back the vehicle up after the first shot had hit. The turret crew were still screaming in confusion and pain from that first shot.

Though it had glanced off the mantlet, it had sent dust and paint fragments off the turret wall into the gunner's face. He was frantically trying to clear his vision when the second round hit. Killing him and Lou within a fraction of a second of each other.

The driver was the only one alive at the moment, the Sarge was gone, maybe he had bailed? Lou and Ozzie, the gunner, were both dead, and Johnny, the loader had coughed a couple of times, then gone silent.

He felt a drip on his face, he looked up.

"Huh, f**king hatch seal is still leaking."

Then he closed his eyes.

¹ German slang for the Americans.

² Yes, that's clear.

³ American tankers often assumed every enemy tank carried an 88 mm cannon. The Panther's gun was a 75 mm, very effective though.

⁴ But of course, Chief.

Editor's Note: Links to the first three episodes in this vignette are here, here, and here. This is the last episode of The Tank.