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.

Withdrawal and Pursuit

Source

The driver was shivering, the temperature was dropping and the snow was falling harder. He didn't want to go back inside the tank, in these woods and on this narrow track he'd be lucky to see much from his periscope.

Reaching down with his left hand, he pulled his scarf up over his face. At the moment he did so, one of the tracks caught a root protruding from the soil and the tank lurched to the right. He got control quickly but not before catching hell from the commander.

"Driver, what the hell was that? Keep 'er under control, if we get off this path we'll probably throw a track."

"Sorry Skipper, won't happen again."

"Ah shit, driver, halt!"

The commander had turned to his rear to check on the infantry. They had stopped for some reason. It looked like their halftrack had bogged down, one of them was running up the trail to the tank.

The commander waited as the infantryman, a corporal, probably the new squad leader, climbed up onto the back deck of the tank.

"Sir! The halftrack has had it! Driver says the front axle is busted. Can we ride with you?"

The tank commander wondered if anything else could go wrong this day. He nodded and shouted, "Get a move on, we're still about two klicks from Checkpoint London. We need to hustle."

The infantryman waved a hand and went back to collect the remnants of his squad.

"Understood, we'll hold here, the reconnaissance element will be coming up to join us."

Once off the regimental frequency, he decided to go over and check on Three. The survivor had made it to them, but had died shortly thereafter. His gunner had tried to patch the man up, they thought they'd stopped the bleeding but the man's burns had been too extensive. His legs were charred.

"Gunner, come up here, I'm going over to Three. Somebody else might be alive over there. I saw two men get out of the turret hatches before she blew up. Besides, I need to clear my head."

Grabbing the machine pistol clipped inside the turret, the commander dismounted. Damn, it was cold. Putting his collar up, he started walking. Three was easy enough to find, just head towards the smoke.

He found the other man who had gotten out, on the far side of the vehicle. He saw immediately that the man was dead, when the tank's ammunition had cooked off, a sizeable piece of the turret had blown off and destroyed the man's upper torso. There wasn't much left of him above the waist.

"Shit."

He stood by the wreckage of Three, he felt guilty enjoying the heat produced by the funeral pyre of one of his tank crews, but the living had to press on. He would mourn his dead later, provided he didn't join them.

Checkpoint London was deserted, save for a small utility vehicle with two military policemen.

"Where the hell is everybody?" The commander of Firebird One was less than thrilled at the situation he found himself in. He turned to the infantry.

"Corp, have your men dismount and stretch their legs, I don't know how much further we have to go."

"Okay, Skipper."

As the infantry dismounted, the commander noticed one of the military policemen waving at him to get down off the tank. He thought for a moment, then told the crew he was dismounting.

As he walked over to the small vehicle, the policeman, a lieutenant he saw, barked at him.

"No salute, Sergeant? Can't you see I'm an officer?"

The Skipper sighed, some arrogant jerk from the rear echelon wanted to jerk his chain.

"This is the front, Sir. If I salute, someone might decide to shoot you. We don't do that up here."

The lieutenant placed his fists on his hips and took a deep breath, as if he was going to start screaming at the sergeant. As he did so, there was a commotion behind him. He turned.

The infantry corporal had his submachine gun leveled and pointed at the other military policeman who was blocking access to a small building the tank commander hadn't noticed. "My men are going in there to see if there is anything we can use. Move or I swear I will cut you down where you stand."

The lieutenant saw red, he drew his pistol and yelled out, "Goddamnit!"

"Corp, look out!"

The corporal turned his head, as he did so, the enlisted policeman grabbed the muzzle of his weapon. The corporal pulled the trigger.

The enlisted policeman hunched forward as three rounds tore into and through his midsection. A gout of blood escaped his mouth as he coughed convulsively. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The lieutenant had his pistol up and aimed at the corporal. The tank commander saw no way to stop the tragedy unfolding. When the shot came, the commander jumped. But the corporal was unharmed.

The police lieutenant dropped to his knees, "You sons of bitches, you ..."

He fell forward on his face and didn't move after that. One of the infantrymen came over, the man who had shot him as a matter of fact, and checked the man on the ground. He looked at his corporal, not the tank commander.

"He's still alive, Corp."

The corporal looked at the tank sergeant, who had drawn his sidearm.

A single shot rang out, the police lieutenant twitched and then moved no more. The tank commander had shot the man point blank. A large part of his head was gone.

"Corp, we better mount up and move on. You wanna take the car?"

"Sure," the corporal was shaking and his voice quivered, "much as I like your tank, it's kinda exposed back there."

Both men knew that they had just committed a crime, neither really cared at the moment. Somewhere, to their rear, was the enemy and they had to be coming on.

They grabbed everything useful at Checkpoint London, which wasn't much, then remounted the vehicles.

The commander had the turret rotated to the rear, the two infantrymen who didn't fit in the car were squeezed into the tank's crew compartment. The commander knew that in the event of a fight, he'd get one round off. It was too crowded in the turret to do much more.

They needed to get out of this forest!

Three followed the wheeled armored reconnaissance vehicle at a distance of fifty meters. That was their "reinforcement," a single scout car. but they had brought orders with them.

He looked at his map, about four kilometers from where the track led from the position they had attacked, was a small woodsman's hut. It was marked on the map as it was an official building, the foresters in this region tended the forest well and took their jobs seriously.

"Huh," the tank commander grunted, "state employees, probably loners living this far out in the woods."

The radio crackled.

"One, this is Foxhound. There's a halftrack up ahead on the trail. Looks abandoned."

"Jesus, Chief, where does this guy think he is? On maneuvers?"

Gesturing at his gunner to be still, he answered the scout car, "Put a couple of rounds into him, if he doesn't answer, then yes, he's abandoned."

Hearing the crack of the scout car's 20 mm cannon, he spoke into his microphone again, "Well, Foxhound? Do I have to guess what you discovered?"

"Sorry, One. Yes, it's abandoned, based on the tracks on the trail, there's a single vehicle, probably a tank, headed up the trail in front of us."

"Copy, hold your position while we join you."

His gunner spoke, "Okay, we saw two tanks and a halftrack, we've accounted for one tank and now the halftrack. Am I missing anything?"

The commander shook his head, "Yeah, that sums it up, let's get Two up here."

Tank Two had been left at the destroyed enemy position as security. Now that he felt he knew what was facing them, he decided to get his little force concentrated.

"Two, this is One."

"Go ahead."

"You see the forester's hut on your map?"

After a moment, Two answered, "Ah, yes, I see it."

"Rendezvous with us there, we'll wait."

"Copy."

"Foxhound, you on?"

"Yessir."

"Forester's hut, maybe another kilometer or so. We'll meet up there. I don't know what's ahead of us, so I'll lead the way."

"Thanks, Chief. I feel kinda naked in these damned woods."

"Copy. Move out after we pass the dead halftrack, give us about fifty meters interval."

"Copy."

Deeper into the forest they went.

To whatever Fate had in store for them ...

Contact ...

Source

The tank commander swore he saw movement to his front. He looked away from the spot he'd been staring at, sometimes his peripheral vision would pick things up faster, especially at night.

He was looking across a field towards another forest, with patchy fog in the area it was tough to see anything at a distance. But there were gaps ...

There! Something big, no, two or three "somethings."

"Driver, fire the engine up." He barked over the intercom, the crew would recognize his "don't ask" voice.

As the engine rumbled to life, he switched to the frequency which would connect him with the infantry next door.

"Blue Three, Firebird One, you guy's up?"

The reply was staticky but understandable, "We're here, what's going on to our front?"

"Don't know, there shouldn't be any of our guys forward of our position. Get your boys up and ready."

"Copy."

Source

"One, Three, infantry in the trees just up that next rise."

"I see them."

The commander of the lead tank had been glassing the treeline ahead and as the light increased he had seen men running towards what had to be dug in positions overlooking the field they had to cross.

"Gunner, I see a tank and some infantry, just like the recce team reported. No halftrack, no second tank, you seeing this?"

The gunner's optics were very good, better than the commander's field glasses and in a steady mount. He had seen the infantry shifting into position. There!

"Second tank, farther back in the woods. Want me to take him?"

"On my signal. Wait for it ..."

Source

The commander winced as he looked through his forward facing vision block, the sun was coming up in the east. Though the sky was overcast locally, to the east it was clearing and the bright sunlight in his eyes was painful. In minutes the sun would be obscured by low scudding cloud, for the moment it blocked his view to the east, where the enemy was.

To his left he heard the scream of an incoming shell, blinking he turned to that direction. An instant later that shell exploded to the rear.

"Firebird Two, report!"

"Firebird Two here, we're up, damn near shit my pants. That was HE, my gunner has the shooter in his sights."

"Take him out!"

Source

"Three! What the hell are you shooting at?"

There was no response. "Radio, get me the artillery frequency. Things are going to hell too fast."

"You're connected."

As the commander began to call in a fire mission, it struck him that his gunner had not fired.

"Gunner, hit that tank!"

"Which one?"

The commander overrode the gunner's controls at that point. Pressing his face into his own sight, he saw the tank back in the trees, but not the one he'd seen earlier to the front. Damn it. He got the gun on target and fired.

"Loader! AP!"

"Loading!"

"Woodpile, fire mission!" The commander needed to get artillery down on these guys across the field.

"Jesus!" One of his crew shouted over the intercom.

The gunner's shot was on target, he saw sparks as his shot hit the enemy tank then apparently ricocheted off into the blue. He was starting to panic, then he heard his loader scream, "UP!"

He hit his trigger after making a few minor adjustments to his aim point. This time his shot "stuck." Sparks, then a glowing hole in the enemy's lower hull.

"Three's hit!" The radioman called out, he had had his periscope turned to the right for some reason. When he'd noticed he reached up, looked through it and saw tank Three hit twice in succession. The first round had glanced off, the second had struck home. He could see flames issuing from the turret ring. His best friend was the gunner in Three.

The platoon commander watched in horror as the turret hatches on Three flew open. One man, wreathed in smoke, nearly leapt from the hatch then fell out of view on the other side of the vehicle.

A second man climbed out slowly, he was beating his trousers, which were on fire. The commander lost sight of him when the last man out pushed that man off the tank. This third man seemed to pause and look around, flames were starting to issue from the hatch he was in.

The man, probably the gunner, placed both hands on top of the turret and looked to be trying to heave himself out of the turret.

The commander lost sight of him when Three exploded.

He stood there in shock, then he heard, "Shot out!"

It puzzled him for a moment, then he remembered, the artillery!

"Skipper is dead." Came as a screech over the infantry frequency.

"What, who is this?"

"Blue Three, sorry boss! Firebird Two is dead. Our platoon sergeant is dead. We need to get the f**k out of here!"

The commander of Firebird One looked back, indeed, there was the hulk of Firebird Two, enveloped in flames, the turret missing. He hesitated. Looking through his vision blocks he could see the infantry running for their vehicle, which they'd parked about thirty meters behind Firebird Two.

He yelled into the radio, "Blue Three, get back to your positions!"

As he said that, artillery began to impact where the infantry had been.

He announced, to no one in particular, "We're f**ked, damn it. Driver, reverse, get us the hell out of here!"

Source

"They're pulling back!"

Once again his gunner was on top of things. The commander's mind felt like it was running in slow motion. He shook his head.

"Woodpile, Woodpile, mission complete. Enemy is falling back."

"Copy."

Switching frequencies he called regiment. "Roadblock is clear, we're going to advance to the position and hold."

Though the response faded in and out, the terrain played havoc with their communications, the commander heard the acknowledgement. He thought he heard that the main attack would go in elsewhere, he was to hold and await orders.

"Chief, looks like one guy survived from Three. He looks pretty messed up."

Standing in his hatch, he looked down to the ground. A wounded man staggered up, it was Three's loader, the legs of his tanker's coveralls were still smoldering.

"Radioman, loader, dismount and help this man."

Then he got on the platoon frequency, "Two, move up to the enemy position, I'll cover."

"Copy."

The commander shook his head, four dead on his side, who knew how many across the field. And for what?

Source

With his head out of the hatch, the driver felt better. Though the occasional rain squall was making that position rather uncomfortable, it was better than being buttoned up while people were shooting at you.

They'd driven by the remains of Firebird Two, still burning, the turret off in the woods somewhere. He'd known those guys, not well, but well enough. Now they were dead, all five of them.

What was left of the infantry, they had two wounded and three dead out of their squad, followed in their halftrack.

"Where to, Skipper?"

"Checkpoint London, about three klicks farther on. The rest of the company is there."

The driver shook his head, maybe they had a spare hatch seal. Something cold touched his face, the rain was turning to snow.

"Wonderful," he muttered to himself.

Advance to Contact ...

Source

The driver paused for a moment, his eyes were starting to ache from the dim lighting at his position. There were a couple of lamp bulbs which needed replacing and supply just didn't have them at the moment.

"You know how it is, friend, shortages everywhere. You're lucky you've got fuel and ammo for your crate. Now move on."

He frowned at the memory of the supply sergeant's dismissing his request out of hand. The man hadn't even checked his inventory. Granted, things were hectic at the moment. But he could have checked, right?

He thought about putting that little incident in his letter home, then realized that would never get past the censors. Ah, I could tell them about the meal we had last night, that was special ...

As he put pencil to paper, a drop of water splashed onto the letter, smearing a line he'd just written. He muttered an oath, shook the paper to get rid of the moisture, then prepared to write some more.

Damn it. Another drop of water.

Condensation? As he looked at the hatch above his position he saw what was going on, the hatch seal seemed to not be properly seated. He reached up, loosened the lever holding his hatch closed, pushed it up a bit, then pulled down hard and twisted the lever

Good, no leak. He watched the spot where the water had come in for another second.

Damn.

Another drop was forming.

He shifted in his seat to move his letter writing activities to a drier location.

He waited for a second. As he watched the drip fell, missed the page, but hit his wrist and went into his sleeve.

Shaking his head, he went back to his letter. With a small "pop," the dome light failed.

Realizing that he needed to turn the engine over shortly, he folded his letter and put it away. He tapped on the dome light, nope, dead.

Rummaging in his storage bin, he found a spare for the light. Fumbling in the half dark, he managed to get the old bulb out and the new one in. As he finished, the tank commander yelled down at him.

"Fire the beast up!"

Source

The rain was falling harder now. It didn't bother the three vehicles making their way down the forest track as the ground was still firm. But it did bother the three men standing in their turrets. Being buttoned up would keep them dry, but it wouldn't keep them alive.

The attack was supposed to be a surprise, the infantry had found and identified the first enemy position just before sunset.

"Two tanks and some infantry in a halftrack."

"That's it?"

"We watched them until it was too dark to see anything further, then we came back. The infantry are in foxholes, one of the tanks is hull down, looks like they dug it in themselves, the other tank was further back. But that's all we saw."

The commander nodded. He checked his map, where the enemy was reported covered the road to the first big town near the border. Well, near as in twenty kilometers, this area was sparsely populated. The road followed a fast flowing river for much of its length, narrow, passing through thickly wooded hills, it was a good spot and could be held with very few men.

At least it could hold up an advance until the main defensive line further to the rear could be brought to full alert.

"All right," the commander said, turning to the man who would lead the probe, "take your platoon down there and smoke them out if you can."

"I only have three vehicles, Sir. Will there be infantry support?"

"No, can't spare them, but take this." The commander handed the platoon leader a piece of paper with radio frequencies and call signs on it.

"Artillery support, how far back are they?"

The commander looked at his map again, "They're at the edge of their range, but should be close enough."

The platoon commander sighed as he remembered that little conference. At least they had established communications with the artillery. He figured they'd pin the enemy, then call in the artillery.

Source

The driver switched the engine off, silence ruled once more. He looked out of his periscope, it was still too dark to see anything. He reached back and tapped the loader on the foot.

"What?" The man was surly and wasn't a popular member of the crew. The commander had plans to be rid of him when they returned to their main camp. But for now, he was here.

"Ask the Skipper if it's still raining."

The loader scowled but did as requested. After a muttered conversation with the commander, he leaned into the driver's position.

"Yup, the rain has stopped, fog's coming in now. Can't see shit out there."

"'Kay, thanks."

The driver decided to pop his hatch and see what he could do about the seal. From the way the water had been dripping in, if they went into action it would go right down the collar of his coverall. He didn't want that, he wouldn't even wish that on the loader!

He popped his hatch, using his hand held light he inspected the seal. Ah, right there. A tear in the material, he'd have to bug the quartermaster for a replacement. Or get used to being wet everytime it rained.

Source

The gunner had his face pressed to his gun sight, he could catch glimpses of the road ahead through the fog. Tough but better than sitting in the dark and ...

A flash of light, someone with a torch perhaps. It was there, then it was gone. He reached over the breech block and slapped his loader. When the man looked at him, he said over the intercom, "Light ahead. Someone's up there."

The commander had seen it too.

"Get ready, that has to be the post the recce spotted."

Switching to the platoon frequency he ordered his men, "Echelon left, we've got room there, prep for action. Three, load HE, two stay with AP. Wait for my shot."

The sun would be up in less than an hour. Some of these men wouldn't see another sunset.