SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Finally they reached the foot of Hill 207 and drove into the protection of a draw. Kinkaid downshifted and followed by Jackson’s tank they slowly crawled uphill.

The mist thinned somewhat as they ascended, but this was countered by dark, melancholy stands of pine and fir covering the slopes. At the top of the draw they halted. The forest was dense and the only way through was a dirt trail snaking along the crest. Brown and Waters radioed that they had reached the other end of the ridge unscathed. Cole ordered them to stay put for the moment. Cannons were reloaded with armor-piercing shells.

“Got a bad feeling about this, sir,” said Kinkaid.

Cole grunted agreement. “For sure he turned around and is aiming right down that trail, just waiting for us. Youngblood, grab your grease gun and come with me.”

They climbed out, Youngblood holding an M3 submachine gun. He paused to snap in a 30-round magazine, pull back the bolt, and flip open the dust cover. Then the two crept through the wet brush alongside the trail, silently cursing the bramble thorns tugging at them. Water dripping from the needled branches pattered on their helmets. The trees stood like ghostly sentinels in the murk, silent and watchful.

Youngblood pointed. Brush had been crushed and earth churned up by the passage of a heavy vehicle, bigger than a Sherman, with wide tracks. Cole nodded. They continued on.

Cole abruptly froze, listening intently. Up ahead he heard the low, throbbing growl of a powerful engine, like the breath of a monstrous, mechanical beast.

The stillness was shattered by a stuttering roar he recognized as an MG34, a machine gun commonly used on German armored vehicles. 7.92 millimeter bullets slashed through the foliage, punching through tree trunks, clipping off branches, and sending splinters flying like shrapnel asthe pair flung themselves into a muddy depression and hugged the ground. They hastily squirmed behind a fallen pine as a second burst whipped overhead.

“No tracers,” hissed Youngblood. “Can’t see where he is.”

“We know which way he’s pointing and that’s enough. Let’s go!” Keeping the windfall between them and the enemy, they crawled back down the trail until they were far enough to safely get to their feet and run the rest of the way back to their tank.

Cole jumped inside and grabbed the microphone. “Able Two Two and Two Five, move in! He’s pointing away from y’all!”

“Wilco!” Soon Cole heard roaring engines and crashing guns.

Brown’s triumphant voice came over the radio. “He’s tracked! Got the son of a bitch as he tried turning back toward us. His gun’s stuck pointing away from all of us now!”

“Step on it, Kinkaid!” said Cole. “Able Two Four, follow me!”

The Sherman swung down the trail, followed by Jackson’s tank. Cole discerned a vague, menacing bulk ahead. It was the sleek casemate of a Jagdpanther, armored skirts protecting its interleaved road wheels, the long barrel of an 88-millimeter jutting from its angled front armor. Painted in splotches of green, brown, and tan, evergreen branches further camouflaged it. The left drive sprocket had been hit, blowing off the track and immobilizing the 45-ton vehicle.

Cole ordered Kinkaid to veer off the trail to provide a clear field of fire for Jackson. Both Shermans lurched to a halt; gunners lined up sights and stomped firing pedals. The tanks rocked from the recoil. Shells punched through the Jagdpanther’s flank, ripping deep into its metal insides. The others mercilessly pounded it from the opposite side. Black smoke poured from grilles; orange flames licked out. A series of sharp explosions blew it open as ammunition overheated and exploded. The Jagdpanther sat there gutted, reduced to a burning wreck.

The tanks trained their machine guns on it to shoot down the crew as they tried to escape. Fog and drifting smoke made it difficult to see. At length the fire died down.

“Didn’t see anyone,” said Kinkaid. “Reckon they’re all dead,”

“Check to make sure,” said Cole.

The crew dismounted, fingers on submachine gun triggers as they warily approached. The reek of cordite and burning rubber and oil hung thick in the air. As they got closer they could see the Jagdpanther’s top and rear hatches were open.

Cole, holding a grenade, peeked inside through a shell hole, bracing himself for the sickening sight and stench of human beings torn apart or burned alive. The compartment was roomy compared to a Sherman – and the five seats surrounding the gun breech were empty.

“They’re gone!” he said.

“Must’ve bailed out just before it blew up,” said Youngblood.

One of the medics drove up in his jeep, followed by Rosenthal in his.

Cole scowled and stepped back as he stared at the wreck, arms akimbo. “There’s no infrared apparatus. How the hell could they see us?” He looked inside again and saw charred remnants of uniforms, socks, field caps, boots, even underwear. “They left their uniforms behind.”

“So what the hell are they wearing?” asked Robinson.