SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

“Don’t know. Left their guns behind too. I can see a Schmeisser and four pistols, They had to bail out so fast they didn’t have a chance to grab them,Good, that means they’re unarmed. And there’s no sign of any other Germans so those five are it.” Cole turned to face the others. “All right, let’s track them down. Jackson, bring your crew with me. Waters, Brown, stay here.”

The two crews fanned out into the forest. Those left with the tanks relaxed a bit, slinging weapons over their shoulders. The Shermans were parked in a circle, facing outwards.

Rosenthal lit a cigarette and circled the Jagdpanther. It bore the black-and-white German cross on the sides, the white tactical number 101 on the sides and rear, and the white tactical symbol for a tank destroyer unit on the glacis plate. Next to it was a yellow wolf’s hook, a heraldic symbol he recognized as the unit insignia of the 2nd SS Panzer Division.

The wreck was still smoldering, so he fetched a fire extinguisher from his jeep and put out the remaining flames. Then he gingerly climbed onto the hot, mangled engine deck and swung inside, eyes watering in the smoke. He examined scorched seats and hatchways minutely with a magnifying glass, picking off samples he placed in an envelope.

He inspected the burned uniforms. Tank destroyers were considered artillery in the German Army, so their crews wore panzer uniforms of field gray instead of black. The jackets bore the collar runes and sleeve eagle of the Waffen-SS, but no unit cuff title. For security reasons SS soldiers had been ordered to remove these. A General Assault Badge was pinned on the left breast indicating combat experience. These were veterans. He searched for paybooks, wallets, or letters, finding nothing.

Climbing out, he studied the muddy ground nearby, kneeling to take a closer look.

Finally he returned to his jeep. He drew his Colt M1911 automatic from its shoulder holster, ejected the magazine, and loaded one of the special magazines he had brought with him. Then he picked up a Thompson M1 submachine gun and swapped its magazine too. He cocked both weapons.

Brown looked at him, curiosity written on his face. “What’s up?”

Rosenthal flicked away his cigarette. “I don’t think these are normal Germans. I have to find the lieutenant – and I’d suggest getting back in your tanks.” He hurried off into the woods.

At length he found Lewis, who directed him to Cole.

“Sir, pull your men back,” said Rosenthal.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

They were interrupted by the harsh chatter of automatic fire, followed by yells. It came from back where the tanks were. The two crews dashed back up the slope.

Near the top they stumbled over Waters. His throat had been ripped out.

As the tanks came into uncertain view Rosenthal spotted a dark, shaggy figure on top of Brown, trying to wrench away the man’s M3. Rosenthal saw Brown hold down the trigger and pour 45-caliber slugs into the belly of his attacker – with seemingly no effect.

Rosenthal whipped up his Thompson and squeezed off a burst. This time the figure let out a shrill howl and toppled over. A twig snapped; he ducked behind a Sherman as bullets ricocheted off the steel. Rosenthal leaned out and fired back, blindly spraying the tangled vegetation. He was rewarded with a yelp of pain and heard brush crash as someone ran away. Then silence.

They searched the area for more lurking foes, but there was no sign of anyone.

Rosenthal and Cole ran over to Brown. Dark blood spilled from a severed jugular vein. There was nothing they could do as Brown gave a final gasp and slumped lifeless in Cole’s arms.

Corpses were strewn all over the bivouac. They had literally been torn apart – dismembered, disemboweled, or decapitated. Heads and limbs and entrails lay scattered on ground that was red and soaked with blood.

The only survivor was Brown’s driver, Jones, who stood dazed, holding a bleeding arm. Kinkaid opened a first aid kit, dusted the wound with sulfa powder, and began bandaging it.

“What the hell happened here, Jonesy?” he asked.

“It bit me.”

“What bit you?”

“I don’t know.” Jones swayed and slumped against the tree. He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily. “I don’t feel so good.”

“You’re gonna be all right, man, just hang in there.”

Rosenthal examined the enemy he had killed. The dark shaggy figure was actually a blond white man riddled with dozens of gunshot wounds. He was totally nude. Rosenthal lifted the body’s left arm, revealing a black letter tattooed on the underside.

“SS blood group tattoo,” said Cole.

Hanging from a cord around the dead German’s neck was an identity disc, the Wehrmacht equivalent of dog tags. Made of zinc alloy, it was stamped with the wearer’s replacement unit, personnel number, and blood type. Rosenthal opened a notebook, compared the information with a list, and grunted confirmation. He scribbled a few notes with a metal mechanical pencil he drew from his pocket.

“Why’s he buck naked?” asked Cole.