Soldiers of ’44

Chapter Twenty-One

December 22, 1944. Mont Reynard/Lepont. Friday, 1230 Hours.

The sun was pressing through heavy cloud cover when Radar began barking again at something that had alerted him in the valley. Corporal Trankic’s detail had been back several hours, finding no sign of the German tank in a reconnaissance that had taken them from the base of Mont Reynard to a network of logging trails around the village.

Docker stood at the edge of the precipice where the overhang was topped and spiked with bracken and frozen thornbushes. He swept the valley with his binoculars, holding the scopes on an area where fir trees swayed and bent underneath layers of fog. Lowering the glasses, he listened to distant grinding sounds that shook the ground beneath him. Trankic and Tex Farrel came running to join him, and the men in the revetment climbed onto the cannon’s loading platform for a better view of the snow-shrouded valley.

Something massive and powerful broke through a screen of trees a quarter of a mile from them, and Docker said, “Jesus Christ!” as he saw the dark shape of a tank driving toward the base of Mont Reynard with mist floating like tendrils around its turret. The tank clawed through the frozen timber toward the slopes, stopping in a grove of trees glittering with hoarfrost and ice. Directly behind the tank a German command car turned into the cover of a hedge of white junipers. The engines of the tank and command car cut out simultaneously, and a deep silence settled over the valley. A few moments later they saw a German soldier in a greatcoat and visored cap walk from the row of firs and disappear behind the tank.

Chet Dormund, his face twisting with excitement, said, “Sarge, you see that wretched, fucking thing down there?”

Jackson Baird used his hands to shield his eyes against the stinging sleet as he studied the tank.

“What is it. Bull?” Trankic said.

“I’m not sure.” His binoculars couldn’t bring the tank into a sharp focus through the trees. “Probably a Panzer IV.”

Baird glanced nervously at him. “Sergeant, maybe you should take another look. I don’t think it’s a Mark IV. It’s got a glacis plate and machine-gun ports that are different—”

Docker cut him off with a gesture, waved everyone but Trankic back from the edge of the hill and trained his binoculars on the German soldier, who was partially concealed and protected behind the tank’s chest-high treads. The German seemed to be giving orders to his crew, and Docker had a passing impression of angular features and darkly hollowed eyes. After glancing casually up the slopes of Mont Reynard, the officer moved out of view behind the tank.

Docker lowered the glasses, not knowing whether or not the Germans suspected an American gun section was positioned above them on the hill.

“So what do we do now. Bull?” Trankic said.

“Get the truck and hook up the cannon.”

“We’re pulling out?”

Docker nodded. “At least to where we’ve got better cover and can make a break for it.”

They backed from the cliff and ran to the revetment, where the men — except Schmitzer and Linari — were waiting for them.

Baird said anxiously, “Sergeant, I’ve got to talk to you. It’s important, please believe me.”

“Make it fast then.”

“We can’t run for it. There’s no way we can—”

“Baird, this isn’t a goddamn debating club. Trankic, on the double.”

“You got to listen to me, sergeant. You’ve got to.”

“For Christ’s sake, what is it?”

“That’s not a Panzer IV down there, sergeant. It’s a Tiger Mark II.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“I’ve seen them, that’s how. I know what they look like.”

Trankic put in, “Where’d you see them, kid? In some fucking comic strip?”

“What difference does it make where I saw them? That’s what’s down in the valley. It weighs almost eighty tons and its turret armor can take direct hits from our Grants.”

“Hold it a minute,” Docker said to Trankic, and returned to the cliff’s edge. He trained his binoculars into the valley until the details of the tank sharpened in the scopes, and he saw that Baird was right, it was not a Panzer IV down there in the sleet-laden trees, it was the most dangerous ground weapon in the German arsenal — a King Tiger Mark II. The sergeant had seen a column of them in North Africa, but today — in heavy weather — he had not picked out the Tiger’s distinctive features. Now he could identify the massive turret with its black cross, the high profile of the glacis plate, the commander’s periscope and the huge 88-millimeter cannon... The Mark II was an awesome sight under any circumstances, and the way it seemed to be hiding in the cover of the mist and trees charged it with an additional, an almost unnatural menace, as if it were more than a great engine of war but rather some species of intelligent, invincible beast, crouching, waiting with infinite patience for the betraying panic of whatever it fed on.

Docker walked back to the revetment. “Trankic, get the truck.”

“You don’t understand,” Baird said, an edge of desperation in his voice.

“I understand who gives the orders here,” Docker told him.

“But you’ll lose whatever edge we’ve got—”

“Goddamn it, Baird, I won’t tell you again to shut up,” Docker said, and gave his binoculars to Farrel and told him to keep the scopes on the Mark II.

The wind had picked up suddenly, gusting around the revetment, sweeping the snow up in blinding eddies, whining through the trees that studded the crest of the hill.

“You’re wrong, you don’t know what you’re doing!” Baird screamed the words at them. “You guys are going to get yourselves killed!”

“Jesus, take a break... didn’t you hear Docker?” Trankic said, and started for the trees, where the single truck was parked.

He had not taken two steps when Baird said, “Hold it, corporal,” his voice unsteady, and backed quickly away from the group and unslung his rifle.

Trankic said very quietly, “Don’t point that thing at me, you crazy, fucking kid.”

“Baird, put it down,” Docker said.

“Not until you listen to me, sergeant.”

The youngster’s face was whiter than the snow driving across the hill, his breath was coming so fast that it made a small keening sound. There was a comic look to his outsized uniform and trailing overcoat, but nothing funny in the way he held his rifle, sweeping its muzzle steadily across the men behind Docker and Trankic.

Sonny Laurel smiled uncertainly and walked toward him. “Maybe this is a joke, but it’s no time for it. Come on, give me that rifle. Hey, this is crazy!”

“No, stay away from me—”

“You wanted to talk, so let’s talk.” Docker spoke quietly, almost casually. If Baird started firing — even if he didn’t hit anybody — those shots would betray their position to the Germans.

Trankic said, “Sure, why not speak up, kid?” Shifting his weight casually, he moved closer to Baird, thumbs hooked carelessly over his cartridge belt. “What’s on your mind?”

“I know the T.O. for a Mark II, sergeant,” Baird said. “It calls for five men — a tank commander, two corporals, an ammo leader and a driver.” He backed off another few steps. “Maybe I did learn all this from books and training manuals. It doesn’t matter. I can tell you what else is down there with that Tiger II. A German officer wearing SS insignia and three braids on his collar tabs. Same rank as a lieutenant colonel in our army.” He moistened his lips. “Just listen to the rest of it, sergeant — then you can have this damned rifle.”

Trankic was almost within arm’s reach of him now.

Docker said easily, “Sure, Baird, let’s hear all of it.”

Baird let out his breath slowly. “If we pull this cannon and try to make a run for it, we’re dead. They won’t attack until they know what’s up here, what kind of firepower we’ve got. With a field-grade officer in charge, they won’t make any mistakes in tactics. But if they hear us leaving, they’ll know they can take this hill. And then it’s just a matter of arithmetic. A Tiger Mark II makes thirty miles an hour on flat ground, maybe half that coming up the mountain, and when it gets here it’s equipped with a Porsche turret that can traverse three hundred and sixty degrees in less than twenty seconds. We won’t be halfway to the river before their eighty-eight opens up on us... but they won’t take the chance unless we give them the high ground...” He pointed to the mist-shrouded peaks above their position. “What they want is—”

Trankic closed on him now with a rush and tore the rifle from his hands. He tossed it to Farrel and struck Baird once in the body and again in the face, the second blow spinning Baird around and dropping him to the ground. Trankic flipped him onto his stomach, dug a knee into the small of his back and used Baird’s own belt to tie his wrists behind him, securing the knots with a pair of tight hitches.

The blood from Baird’s lips stained the trampled snow. Docker hated the look of it. It reminded him of Larkin and Haskell and he was sick of his feelings, of his fears and responsibilities he couldn’t admit to or avoid. Baird’s eyes were closed, his breathing ragged.

Laurel took out a handkerchief and knelt beside him. “You didn’t have to bust him up like that, Trank.”

“Just try minding your own business. Sonny. Crazy punk could have blown the shit out of all of us.” Trankic turned to Docker. “Unless Larkin gets back before we haul out of here, we gotta leave the machine guns. You want me to pick up Schmitzer and Linari when I get the truck?”

“No, Trank.” Docker shook his head slowly. “We’re not leaving.”

“What the fuck you mean?”

“I mean he’s right.”

Trankic stared at Docker. “Mind spelling it out for me?”

“They’ve got to come up this hill while we’re traveling at least three miles down to the river. For six, or eight minutes, we’ll be in their sights. That damn eighty-eight won’t miss at that range.”

Trankic studied the narrow road curving down the hill from Mont Reynard and Castle Rêve, tracking its misted length through the meadows and trees to the river. He massaged his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I guess our little Napoleon called it at that.” His voice was empty, quiet. “They got us in a fucking trap—”

Suddenly Tex Farrel was waving to Docker from the edge of the hill. “Sarge, they’re zeroing in.”

Concealed by the hedge of frozen underbrush. Docker stared into the valley and saw the turret of the massive tank revolving slowly, the long, gleaming cannon rising toward the crest of the hill.

He realized that his first hope had been simply a reflex of wishful thinking; the Germans in that tank damn well knew there was an enemy position on Mont Reynard. How they knew and what they were after were irrelevant now...

“Get back,” he said to Farrel, and ran toward the revetment, calling to the others to hit the ground before throwing himself full-length onto the frozen earth.

The tank’s cannon sounded with a roar and the first projectile struck the rim of the cliff, showering the hill with shards of rock, the fragments whining around them like bullets. The next three blasts came at rapid fire, and Docker locked his arms over his helmet as the projectiles rushed high above them toward the timberline of distant mountain ridges.

Then there was silence again, broken only by the shifting winds and the noise of rock flows rattling down the sides of the hills. A painful ringing sounded in Docker’s head, and warm blood streamed from his nostrils.

Laurel had thrown himself across Baird, protecting him with his outflung arms and legs. “He’s all right, sarge,” he called out.

“How about you?”

“I’m okay,” but his eyes were bright with shock.

The sleeve of Trankic’s jacket had been ripped open, and blood ran down the back of his grimy hand. Sitting up, he picked tiny pieces of rock from his thick forearm, wincing as patches of skin came free with them. Dormund had blood coming from one of his ears and complained of a killer headache. Solvis was limping; he’d been knocked flat, cracking his knee against splintered rocks. Docker told Dormund and Laurel to untie Baird and put sulfa on his face cuts. Then taking his field glasses from Farrel, he crawled back to the edge of the cliff.

The Mark II had not changed positions, its gray bulk looming through the frosted grove, the cannon covering the overhang of Mont Reynard. He saw now that the small-arms ports were open, revealing the snoutlike muzzles of the 7.9-millimeter machine guns. There was no way that he could see — no reasonably safe way — to get close enough to the tank to destroy its treads, and thereby its mobility, with grenades. He remembered what young Baird had said and knew he was right: With a field grade officer, there’d be no mistakes in tactics. The tank was positioned so that its machine guns covered the open terrain around it, and the thick grove of trees gave the crew the option to leave the tank and double as riflemen.

Docker heard an engine revving up somewhere below him, but his ears were aching from the cannon barrage and he couldn’t immediately locate the source of the staccato sounds. Until he saw the German command car race out from behind the tank, drive into a logging trail and shoot out of sight among the trees before he could so much as raise his carbine at the colonel who was at the wheel, a visored cap shading his features...