SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Cole pondered the matter. “Heard a report about a new gun sight the Krauts invented to see at night. Uses infrared light. They equipped a few Panthers with it and there were rumors they also put it on some Jagdpanthers.”

The shaken crew limped over to the curb so the medics could administer first aid.

Cole got on the radio to the rest of the platoon. Interference forced him to raise his voice. “Anybody see anything? Over. Over!” He finally received a crackling series of negative replies.

Cole stood in the hatch and looked around. Oddly, the village lacked a church, normally a ubiquitous feature even in the smallest European hamlet. At two stories, the inn was the tallest building. He clambered out and got onto the roof. From here he scanned the area with binoculars. Nothing. The fog was just too dense.

Returning to his tank, he tried contacting Captain Hogue, but the company and battalion command channels were drowned out by torrents of static. Youngblood adjusted dials and double-checked the equipment, but was unable to clear it up.

“Where’s this interference coming from?” asked Cole.

“Don’t know, sir. Maybe we’re being jammed.”

He was still able to talk on the platoon channel so he called, “All TCs come to my tank.”

He jumped to the ground as the other tank commanders clustered around. Digging a cigar from a pocket of his olive drab overalls, he chewed on it thoughtfully as he unfolded a map and spread it out on the engine deck.

“Radio net’s jammed so we can’t reach anybody,” he said. “Krauts know we’re here and if we sit here they’ll move to another position and start picking us off – or use the fog to slip away.”

“So we’re on our own,” said Waters.

“Looks that way.”

This prompted head-shaking and muttered profanity from the others.

“No use complaining about it. Let’s just get the job done. They’re somewhere on this ridge.” Cole tapped the map. “Hill 207. We know it’s an eighty-eight so we’ll have to assume it’s a Jagdpanther. They may have night-vision sights.”

“So if we try to move they’ll nail us,” said Sergeant Jackson.

“Well, if we all move at the same time and go at full speed in different directions they’ll have multiple targets to deal with. And we’ll fire smoke as we go.”

“If they can see through fog, won’t they see us anyway?”

“WP burns hot so maybe it’ll blind them. And the fumes could make them bail out.”

The others exchanged skeptical looks. Brown voiced the others’ concerns when he said, “Sir, if it really is a Jagdpanther its armor’s thicker than ours and sloped. Our shells will just bounce off.”

“We’ll charge the ridge from both ends and outflank it. It doesn’t have a turret so they can only swing their gun back and forth so far. Beyond that they have to turn the whole vehicle around to aim. If we knock off a track they’ll be stuck and then we can circle around and hit them from the side or rear where the armor’s thinner. Lindsey’s crew will stay here in town. So will the medics and the CIC guy until we have the hills secured.” Cole folded up the map. “Any questions?” He raked dark eyes over resigned faces. “We roll in five minutes.”

Everyone returned to brief their crews, then ‘buttoned-up’ – closed hatches – and put steel helmet shells over their fiberboard tanker helmets. Loaders pulled shells off ready racks. The 761st had the Sherman with the 76-millimeter gun, inadequate against the heavy armor of late-war German tanks like the Panther and Tiger. It had to get close to penetrate and the fearsome panzers had long high-velocity guns capable of destroying it before it could get within effective range. It did have a hydraulic traverse and gyrostabilizer, allowing the crew to rotate the turret quicker and even fire with some accuracy while moving, but that did little good if they were out of range. High-velocity armor-piercing rounds had greater penetration, but HVAP was scarce and the platoon only carried standard APC.

Cole’s bass voice boomed over the radio. “Move out!”

The platoon burst from Teufelsdorf, the two tanks under Cole and Jackson heading northeast and the two under Brown and Waters going northwest, all charging full speed across fallow farm fields, smashing through hedges and fences. Their cannons hurled a salvo of phosphorous shells up into the heights above and white pillars of smoke immediately rose.

Cole stood in the turret, unlit cigar still clenched between his teeth. A loud clang deafened him as he felt the hot rush of a passing shell. It had grazed the top of the turret, barely missing him and tearing off the 50-caliber anti-aircraft machine gun. He hissed profanity. Despite the fog and smoke, the enemy could still see them.

Kinkaid shifted into high gear and worked the steering levers, trying to zigzag and make the tank as difficult a target as possible. A second shell gouged a crater in the earth just behind them, throwing up a geyser of dirt and smoke.