THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (39 page)

“Not in this case. Not with our new little guest. He's here to have me removed if I waver. I don't see how I have any alternative; it wouldn't make any difference. If I don't order the attack, they'll get somebody who will. But if we're going to attack, the sooner, the better. The fewer Americans we'll have at our backs.”

Dietrich took this as a decision; he said nothing. Von Kluge summed up.

“It's incredible: blissfully planning an attack while Patton is rushing along our southern flank, eagerly forming a noose to strangle us.”

The German plan was to drive down the valley of the River Sée toward the ocean, spearheaded by the 1st SS Panzers—the heretofore invincible Adolph Hitler Division. The plan was not entirely without hope of success. Patton had skimped on the defenses on his flank. His situation was less precarious than it seemed, however, because Eisenhower had assured him that his army could be temporarily resupplied by air if it were cut off.

The stripped American defenses proved surprisingly resilient. On high ground overlooking the Sée Valley, American infantry were dug in, supported by assault guns. On the second morning of the German attack, the U.S. Second Armored Division launched a counterattack after materializing, according to a contemporary account, “out of thin air”—the thin air being supplied by top-secret Enigma intercepts. To compound their woes, Nazi tanks were repeatedly stung by hornets from the sky: American Thunderbolts and British Typhoons hurling their rockets earthward.

Having stopped von Kluge's thrust, Bradley and Patton saw the chance of which they had dreamt, and which had given von Kluge and Dietrich nightmares. Aware of Hitler's orders committing his Panzers to a full-scale westward assault, Patton reinforced his armor racing eastward along the German left flank. His tanks then swung north toward Falaise in a classic armored maneuver: a great hooking move to encircle the German armies.

As a precaution, Dietrich had approached an old friend from the Russian front—Lt. Jurg Bock, a communications expert. Through him, he arranged backdoor communications to other old comrades from the Russian front who were now serving in Hitler's command post in East Prussia. “Little Sir Echo,” he called Lt. Bock, borrowing from a song he had been taught many years ago by an English nanny. Bock sadly reported the Führer's reaction: a cold fury that the German counterattack had failed because von Kluge
wanted
it to fail.

6 August 1944. With Canadian/Polish forces south of Caen.

K
az and Swann dropped by the operations office early in the afternoon to see the most recent aerial reconnaissance pictures, hoping to find a place where their “starburst” tactic might be tested. After flipping through hundreds of pictures, Swann whistled softly and handed a photograph to Kaz. He could not have invented a better location. There was nothing special about the road running through the middle of the picture, a typical French country lane with straight stretches of several hundred yards interrupted by mild curves.

Rather, it was what lay on the sides of the road that made for an ideal location. For 100 yards on either side was a young pine forest—trees of approximately the same age and height, perhaps the result of a reforestation program, perhaps natural growth when farmers abandoned the cultivation of infertile land. As far as Kaz could tell, most of the trees were about 20 feet high, quite adequate to hide a Sherman, but small enough that they could easily be pushed over without impeding the progress of a tank.

Swann delicately raised the question of who would go where in the formation. It was Swann's squadron, but Kaz held the senior rank. Any awkwardness was avoided, however, when Kaz informed him of the explicit understanding when he had asked to maneuver with the Canadians: the Canadian officers, regardless of their rank, were to be in command; he was there simply as a guest to observe current battlefield tactics. This made sense to Kaz, and he had readily agreed. He knew the importance of esprit de corps. He didn't want, as an outsider, to be giving orders to resentful tankers in a language that was not his mother tongue.

As the squadron leader, Swann would take the command position at the base of the star, at 6 o'clock. He offered Kaz the 11 o'clock position—one of the two best locations to get a killing shot at any adversary they might meet. Kaz also noticed that Swann was taking the most exposed position, where he was most likely to be knocked out by a Tiger. The other four positions were filled out by the rest of Swann's squadron.

They did not begin their foray until 16:00; they wanted to go over details with their whole squadron. As they started out, they would stay quite close together, so that they could communicate with hand signals and maintain radio silence. They would either keep in line, when they were in a confined area, or spread out closely side by side, where the terrain permitted. Two jeeps—eight soldiers with assorted bazookas, machine guns, and rifles—would follow closely behind.

When they got to their target area at the beginning of the pines, they spread out side by side, with Kaz and Windsor to the left of the road. Shonberg stayed on the road, slightly behind and to the right of Swann, with Martyn off to the right.

They proceeded slowly, at about 10 m.p.h., without event for about half an hour. Kaz wasn't sure whether he was disappointed or relieved by the absence of an enemy. Then suddenly, as they rounded a bend, Swann was terrified by the picture 200 yards ahead. From its huge size and massive turret, he recognized a Tiger. Fortunately, the German's turret was pointed to the side, and only slowly began to swing towards Swann. Swann got off one quick shot, which ricocheted harmlessly off the side of the Tiger's turret with a low, whistling sound. Swann ducked down into the tank and slammed the hatch—just in time, as machine-gun bullets raked his turret. His terrified driver headed for the ditch on the left. Swann couldn't believe his luck. The ditch was deep enough to hide his tank from the German's line of fire, but he could still see the action from his periscope.

Shonberg headed for the ditch on the other side, as did the two jeeps. But Shonberg was not quite so lucky. Before he got completely down into the protection of the ditch, the Tiger fired. The shell hit a glancing blow, not penetrating the tank. Shonberg was almost immediately on the radio:

“Just a flesh wound, chaps. We're OK, but there's so much ringing in our ears we can't hear a thing. We'll stay off the air until we get our hearing back. Once Jerry rotates his turret in another direction, we'll head for our assigned 4 o'clock position.”

Apparently Shonberg was by now also in a protected position where he could observe the German from his periscope without presenting a target.

But the German was bearing down on Swann and Shonberg. Not very fast—he had slowed to 5 m.p.h.—but inexorably. Swann was sweating profusely. He would soon be exposed to the German fire, and he was trapped in a place where he couldn't move.

“We need help. Quick. Can anybody get off a shot to distract the Tiger?”

“Coming up, cap'n.” Martyn was by now about even with the Tiger. There was a thinning in the woods that gave him a clear view of the German. He fired a round, which again deflected harmlessly off the Tiger's turret. He recognized his mistake—his next shot would be lower and to the left, where the side armor ended and the wheels and treads were exposed and vulnerable.

The German commander apparently realized his peril; he began to back up along the road. His turret was turning to the left, towards his tormentor. Martyn decided that he had better get out of the German's sight. Quickly. Rather than take a second shot, he moved forward, to a much heavier section of pines. But he was not safe. The German could see the tops of the pines bend as Martyn proceeded, and knew his approximate position. There was a sharp report as the German's 88 fired. The shell sheared off one of the pines neatly, just to the rear of the Sherman. Martyn ordered his driver to stop, to avoid giving the German any better idea of where he was. The next 88 shell passed about 15 feet in front of his tank. It was now Martyn's turn to shout over the radio for help.

Kaz had meanwhile found a trail, made by trucks or tractors, through the pines, about 75 yards to the left of the road and parallel to it. He accelerated rapidly down this path, without fear of giving away his position. By the time he heard Martyn's shout for help, he figured that he was beyond the German tank. He swung his Sherman sharply to the right and headed for the road.

As he came to a sparse section of trees, he could scarcely believe his eyes. There, only thirty yards in front of him, was the fattest target he had ever seen—the rear of the Tiger. He did not have to give his gunner an order; he had already pressed “fire.”

The shell struck home. But there was none of the smoke and fire that Kaz expected from the Tiger's engine. Kaz's crew was already reloading; the German's turret was turning away from Martyn and toward him. It was then that Kaz discovered, to his great relief, one of the few defects of the Tiger: its turret was severely underpowered and could be rotated only with excruciatingly slow motion.

The Sherman fired again, this time achieving the desired result. Wisps of smoke began to appear from the Tiger's engine, and the rotating turret slowed to a halt. Over the radio, Kaz could hear cheers from several of the other tanks. But he wanted to make sure.

“Fire!”

With the third shot, greasy smoke billowed from the Tiger's engine. The hatches swung open, and the crew began to bail out. As their feet hit the ground, a rapid series of rifle shots rang out, and the German crew collapsed to the ground. In the middle of the tank action, the infantrymen had moved through the edge of the woods, where they had pointblank shots at the Germans.

Kaz wanted to make sure that there would be nothing left of the Tiger for the Germans to salvage from no-man's land. He ordered his gunner to fire again.

With the next shot, the smoke thickened and began to billow out of the main hatch. Kaz raised his hatch for a better look at the dying Tiger. Suddenly, there was an explosion. One of the shells inside the Tiger had gone off. A round black puff belched from the hatch. It rose slowly in a tight circle, reminding Kaz of the smoke rings that his grandfather, rocking contentedly by the stove with his pipe, used to demonstrate for his awed young grandson.

It was followed, in quick succession, by four or five more puffs. Then came a major explosion, blowing off the turret. They wouldn't have to worry about the Germans salvaging that Tiger.

Swann ordered the tanks to resume their formation, and proceeded cautiously down the road about a mile in search of additional victims. But it would soon be dusk.

“The Tiger hunt is over,” Swann announced over the radio, indicating that the time had come to return to their base.

On the way back, Kaz thought back over the action. He mused on the peculiar rules of war. When a warship is sunk, the crews, having taken to lifeboats, are simply not to be attacked; they are out of combat, and, if the perils of the moment permit, they are to be picked up rather than left to perish slowly in the cruel sea. Armored land warfare is quite different: crews bailing out of tanks are fair game. Perhaps the difference is the speed with which a tank crew can be equipped with a new tank and once again become a mortal enemy. Perhaps it is because naval warfare is fought at greater distances. Combatants rarely see their adversaries face to face; they are not attacking flesh-and-blood enemies, but the steel of a destroyer, cruiser, or battleship. The conflict is less personal and less hate-filled. Battleship crews are taught gunnery, the skills needed to hit a dimly seen target ten or even twenty miles away. Infantry, in contrast, begin their training with running charges, shouting “kill” as they plunge their bayonets into limp dummies.

Then, thought Kaz, there is the nasty business of fighter pilots. In the officers' mess back in England, he had heard stories of pilots who had bailed out, being machine gunned as they floated helplessly down. It was a barbaric act, but it was done. Not very frequently—German air crews were too busy trying to survive—but just often enough that pilots had begun to fall freely and not pull the ripcord until they were a thousand feet off the ground. At that height, they wouldn't have much choice of a landing spot, but it was better than the alternative.

That evening, they were told to get a good night's sleep, even sleep in past noon if they wanted. There would be a briefing the next day at 15:00 hrs. on an upcoming operation the following night.

W
hen Kaz arrived for the briefing, a group of officers clustered around Swann, warmly congratulating him on the action of the previous day. Still feeling like an outsider, Kaz held off to the side, but his discomfort was quickly ended when the briefing officer entered the room and they took their seats.

“Before I outline tonight's action,” Col. O'Brien began, “I want to congratulate Capt. Swann and his associates, particularly Major Jankowski.” The briefing officer was conspicuously looking down at his notes; he seemed unable to remember Polish names. “In fact, Swann's tactics were brilliant. I will give him the floor to explain what they did. Some of you may have the opportunity to repeat his success in tonight's action. But first, I want to let you in on something even Swann doesn't know yet. Intelligence has just discovered that, in their tank battle, they killed none other than Hauptsturmführer Michael Wittmann—the scourge of the Russian front, who personally destroyed more than 100 Soviet tanks. Also, as some of you may have heard, he inflicted some nastiness on the Scots shortly after D-Day. Col. McGonagle has already called to congratulate us for settling scores with Wittmann.”

Nastiness, indeed, thought Kaz. Just a week after D-Day, Wittmann had been in his Tiger in a forest alongside a road when he observed a number of Scottish Cromwell tanks approaching. He held fire as they moved closer, then dispatched the lead Cromwell with a single shell, blocking the road. Disdainful of the ability of the Cromwells' guns to pierce his armor, he then emerged from his hiding place and proceeded methodically down the line of Scottish tanks, knocking them out one by one with his 88 shells while his machine guns chewed up the accompanying infantrymen.