SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

The five green Shermans emblazoned with white U.S. stars clanked and rumbled along the macadam road spouting blue-white exhaust as they wended through verdant hills sprinkled with blue and yellow flowers. Far in the distance towered white-capped mountains. They drove in march column at the prescribed seventeen miles per hour, thirty-five yards between each tank, with Cole’s machine in the lead. Trailing at the end were two Willys jeeps: one – prominently marked with the Red Cross – driven by two medics from the battalion medical detachment, the other driven by Rosenthal.

It was a bright spring day, but inside the tank it was noisy, smelly, and claustrophobic.

“How’d we get stuck with this job?” asked Technician Fifth Grade Robinson, the gunner.

“Y’all know why we got it,” said Private First Class Youngblood, the loader, sitting next to him in the turret basket.

The crew was black, as were all the enlisted men and most of the officers of the 761st Tank Battalion. During World War II, the U.S. Army kept black soldiers in segregated units. As usual there were doubts about their abilities, despite the fact they had fought honorably in every major war going back to the American Revolution. Every generation had to spill its blood to disprove the same old stereotypes. The 761st ‘Black Panthers’ had racked up an impressive record battling across Europe, finally halting when they met the Red Army in Austria.

The battalion, part of General Patton’s Third Army, was not permanently assigned to any particular division. An independent unit, it was attached to whoever needed armor support.

Now the war in Europe was over and the 761st, posted at the city of Steyr, was preparing to leave Austria and move to Germany for occupation duty.

The weather abruptly changed as the platoon neared Teufelsdorf. The clear blue sky clouded over and turned somber gray. The fresh breeze died. Mist veiled the landscape and it began drizzling. No flowers grew on the murky meadows; not even a bird song brightened the dismal atmosphere. The mist thickened as the road cut through an oak and beech grove.

“Can’t see shit,” said Kinkaid.

As the column emerged from the trees and rumbled around a curve the quiet was shattered by the scream and crash of a shell, followed by the deep boom of a cannon.

The urgent voice of Sergeant Waters, one of the other tank commanders, came over the transceiver mounted in the back of the turret. “Taking fire!”

Cole grabbed the microphone. “Get into town! We’re out in the open here!”

Kinkaid accelerated as quickly as the 450-horsepower engine could push the tank’s thirty-plus tons.

“Able Two Three is hit, sir,” said another tank commander, Staff Sergeant Brown, the platoon sergeant. “Crew’s bailing out.”

“Cover ‘em with smoke.”

The view from inside using slit periscopes was restricted, so Cole stayed in the open turret hatch, exposing himself so he could oversee everything. He had not earned a Silver Star and a battlefield commission by being timid.

Behind him Able Two Three - Sergeant Lindsey’s tank - sat smoking on the road. The other tanks laid down a screen around it with their 2-inch smoke mortars. Cole prayed Lindsey made it out. Wet ammunition stowage had lessened the Sherman’s infamous propensity for catching fire, but not eliminated it.

As another shell screeched overhead he tried to glimpse a red muzzle flash or green tracer trail so he could pinpoint the enemy position. He saw nothing.

They barreled into Teufelsdorf, engine bellowing, tracks clattering on the cobblestones. Civilians glared at the Americans and sullenly withdrew into their homes and shops, banging doors and shutters shut.

The narrow, crooked streets – now deserted – intersected at a square. Cole halted behind an inn. Like most of the buildings, it was a solid structure of white, plastered stone and brick with a red tile roof. Teufelsdorf had been of no importance during the war so it had survived unscathed. Cole wrinkled his nose at the familiar manure smell of a farm town.

He felt the tanker’s unease of close terrain where his machine was vulnerable to hidden foes armed with panzerfausts – German shoulder-fired anti-tank rockets. He watched as the other three Shermans and both jeeps entered the square and spread out, seeking cover behind nearby shops. Finally Lindsey and his crew straggled in on foot, one clutching a wounded arm, another limping heavily. All five had escaped. He beckoned to Lindsey.

“Sounded like an eighty-eight,” said Cole. “Where’d it come from?”

Lindsey stared at him with a dazed expression, blood trickling from his nose and ears. The concussion of the shell had stunned him. His gunner answered for him.

“North, sir. We got hit in the right side as we rounded the bend. Shell tore right through us and knocked out the engine.”

“Guess the rumors were true.”

“No way he could see us, sir.”