Even from inside his two-inch-thick-steel armored tank, Commander Richard McLaren could feel the tremor. He opened the hatch above him hurriedly, sunlight pouring in from the opening. Squinting, he gazed ahead, the familiar sloping field coming into view. The minefield was caked in a strange layer of dust, and shrapnel littered the area. They had prevented the engineers from heading into the area after the 88s had attacked, and no soldier had set foot there since.
Now, McLaren was worried. The deafening roar of an enemy tank crackled menacingly through the air, and the young commander braced himself. The shell collided with something in the distance, a dull thud sounding almost as loud as the tank. McLaren swore to himself, turning around to face the other Rangers he had traveled with, searching for that Lieutenant. The other men in the Sherman were talking anxiously amongst themselves; they recognized the sound just as their commander had.
Twenty-six-year-old McLaren, an 'old man' by the other soldiers' standards, knew that that wherever the enemy tank was, it certainly wasn't far away. It would be on them as soon as possible.
Unable to find the Lieutenant, he motioned to the DD tank that flanked them roughly ten feet away. There, the machine gunners had been somewhat relaxed, their hatches open, letting in the morning sun. Now, they did not appear this way; a tense expression had crossed their faces.
The DD tank looked like a regular Sherman, only it was amphibious and had actually taken part in the Omaha Beach landing. It was the only survivor of its kind, aside from McLaren's Sherman. The DD still had the flotation devices around it, only they had been deflated and folded at the sides.
The commander of this tank, a farm boy from somewhere in the mid-west, did not have as much experience as McLaren, and he was becoming increasingly annoying, due to the fact that he did not know how to speak to the Ranger Captain over the radio. He was border-line arrogant and a bit of a lunkhead, but he knew how to work his tank, and that was what mattered.
His eyes met with McLaren's, and they both had the same expression. Both of them reached for their field glasses, directing them to the field. They had seen a few Germans roaming about, but had decided to remain hidden; the two Sherman tanks were situated in the woods where the Rangers had taken refuge from the Screaming Meemies. The tanks had been unable to assist the soldiers, due to the fact that the Meemies were out of range and could not be seen.
"What's going on, sir?" asked Peterson, the machine gunner.
"I'm not sure," McLaren replied, still gazing through his binoculars, "But something tells me that our Ranger friends are in trouble…"
No sooner had he said this, when a second boom echoed through he air like hellish thunder, and there was a distant flash of orange light. McLaren flinched; it was a Tiger. He could see it, now; it had been camouflaged and blended in with the field. The grass was scattered with shrapnel and the bodies of dead soldiers. McLaren felt his heart plummet from his throat to the pit of his stomach. A Tiger, for the love of God!
"Orders, sir?"
Peterson's voice managed to snap him out of his personal horror.
"We wait," he concluded, nodding, "We aren't sure where the Rangers are. If we fire on the Germans, we might be firing on our own men…"
"Sir, they have to be out of range, where those 88s were."
McLaren hoped that his machine gunner was correct, but he still wasn't ready. They would have a better chance at getting the tank from the side or the rear. If they took a chance now, the shells would practically bounce off. Against a Tiger, the Shermans were immensely vulnerable. His men had realized what they were up against, now.
"Jeezus," breathed Denley, the driver, "That's a fucking Tiger!"
Peterson swore in disbelief, joining the chorus of curses that sounded hollow inside the tank. McLaren sighed, rubbing his chin with a hand. He closed his eyes briefly, calming himself. When he was sure that he was no longer displaying any sort of alarm, he turned back toward the DD tank. He was going to need that radio.
Sergeant Horvath's ears were buzzing mercilessly as he and his men were forced to take cover. Wade screamed as Horvath snatched him up along with Private Williams and brought them both to the ground. The artillery shell slammed into the trees further away, through the barrier of flames that still raged on. The hillside was obliterated, much like the one that held the last 88. The earth trembled beneath them as they all took cover in the bushes, protecting their heads with their arms. A second shell tore through the forest, turning everything bright and green into charred, twisted ruins. Wade screamed again, but not from fear; Williams had landed right on his shoulder. He hurriedly moved off of him. Sergeant Horvath could tell that everyone was beginning to panic, and that he had to get them under control quickly. He didn't want anyone exposing themselves to that damn Tiger. He was scared for Miller and Reiben, defenseless in that field, but he knew that the Captain would have told him to worry about the others.
He grabbed for Wade, heaving him to an upright position. The medic grimaced with pain as sweat was trickled down his face. Dirt was cascading down on them, pattering on their helmets.
"What the hell are we going to do now?!" Corporal Fox hollered, more to himself than the Sarge.
Horvath didn't respond to that question, but he was secretly asking for an answer just the same.
*********
The world seemed to have exploded. Everything was blurry and covered with dirt; boiling heat came from some unknown place, surrounding him. For a moment, he thought he had died and gone to the one place he feared to set foot in. It wasn't until pain stabbed through his arms was he sure he was alive.
Private Jackson, the gangly sharpshooter from Tennessee, rolled to his feet, his heart pounding furiously against his ribs. Everything ached. His head was throbbing with pain, and his hands were slick with blood after touching his temples and forehead. He spat out dirt and other grime from his mouth, feeling a deep bruise on his arm as he moved it around. His helmet was wedged in the tree he had fallen against, and he yanked it free, the steel hot on his palms. The netting had been burned in a few places, and mud caked it, turning it a dark brown. The skinny private plopped the helmet back on his head, rubbing his cheeks clear of blood and sweat. His ears were ringing once again, and this fact annoyed him more than anything else at that moment. As he gazed around at the destruction, only one statement came to him.
"…Lord A'mighty…."
It was more of an awed whisper than a prayer.
Avoiding the trees that the tank had set alight, he searched for his Springfield, hoping it wasn't lying somewhere in pieces. He caught a glint of light amongst the wreckage, and tore at the fallen tree branches. His fingers found the wooden stock of the rifle, and he unearthed the rest of it, breathing a sigh of relief once he realized it was still in one piece. The special scope was still shining on top of it, practically unscathed, in spite of what it had been through. He hugged the Springfield close to him, as if protecting a baby.
"I gotcha now…" he muttered, tapping the barrel, "And I ain't about to lose you again…"
Private Jackson stood, slinging the Springfield over his shoulder. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and tried in vain to scrub off the soil that was ground into his neck. His hands were filthy; his fingernails were blackened. His uniform was coated with soot, and his shirt clung to him, drenched in sweat. He cringed; he felt sticky and his head still pounded.
That Tiger had nearly got him. It was a fact that he was just beginning to absorb. He shivered where he stood; he had almost died.
But Jackson was not one to dwell on such things for long. The shouts of the Germans in the distance reminded him that his Captain and Reiben were trapped out there in the pasture. Panic gripped him tightly, and he stumbled around the ruined forest, trying to think of something.
Risking getting his skin blown off again, he made his way back to where the knoll had been, keeping low, almost on his belly. The Krauts were obviously convinced they had gotten rid of him and were preoccupied with setting up the tanks for travel. Jackson's gaze fell to the still, crumpled forms of Miller and Reiben, and he felt that panic begin to surface once more. As he raked his brain frantically for any sort of plan, he was praying for a miracle.
"Please, let me find some way out of this; the Cap'n and Reiben need my help…"
His eyes inspected the pasture for anything he had missed, hoping that an idea would burst into his mind.
"Please…Just gimmie a sign…sumthin..."
It was then he found what he was looking for. Far in the distance, past the minefield, his eyes rested on the hidden forms of two Sherman tanks. The Krauts hadn't seen them yet, for their eyes were not as trained as his. Jackson smiled, a feeling of hope coming over him.
He knew what he had to do, now. But I'll have to go the long way…
Jackson stole away from the destroyed knoll, and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction. This wasn't going to be easy, but nothing came free. There's always a catch! As he dashed through the terrain, his thoughts were on his fellow Rangers, and he pleaded for God to give him the ability to keep his head.
"I am strengthened by this war…Let me not forget this fact…"
*********
Commander McLaren stood inside the M4 Sherman tank, listening. His men were still talking below in hushed voices, and he shushed them. They obeyed, but their faces conveyed the weariness that everyone had begun to feel. McLaren was doing his best not to show them he was just as worried; if they saw that he was upset, they might not be able to perform that well.
He needed to get in touch with that Ranger Captain, Miller. The Lieutenant that had managed to survive the Meemie attack and the minefield fiasco was not as helpful as McLaren had hoped. Jones, as he was named, was more concerned with keeping what was left of the company alive and away from the approaching tank. By now everyone had heard the echoing blast and knew what they were up against.
McLaren could see the Tiger in the distance, to the left of the minefield. He knew the Germans must have been confused on where the mines were placed, seeing as how everything was in disarray. That tank wasn't going to fit through the 'safe zone' that one private had found, either.
After failing to get the DD tank commander's attention, McLaren turned back to look through his binoculars to see if the Tiger had brought any friends. Sure enough, he could see a platoon or more of Infantry soldiers waiting behind. Smoke had surrounded the tank, and the soldiers stood behind it, readying themselves to move. A knot formed in McLaren's stomach as he watched the shadows move through the smoke. A second Tiger tank came grinding out into the open, painted jet black. Like death itself. McLaren swore loudly.
"Sir?" questioned Peterson's voice.
The commander fell back down inside the Sherman, looking dazed. The field glasses hung loosely around his neck. Peterson had wriggled from his position to come closer; Denley had done the same.
"What is it?" asked the latter.
"…There's two of them…" McLaren muttered, his eyes wide.
"What do you mean there's two of 'em?!" Patterson blurted.
McLaren looked at him with the same numb expression.
"I mean just that; there're two Tigers out there."
Denley and the machine gunner sputtered a line of curses, trying to find the reason why they had been the ones thrown into this situation.
"Wha-how-why-?"
The tank commander allowed his men a brief moment of horror before saying,
"Start 'er up. Don't worry," he said, reading their expressions, "They won't be able to hear us over their own engines."
McLaren left them, pulling himself through the hatch above. He shouted for the two other operators, and they came running obediently, having been watching the field in silent fear. They clambered into the Sherman behind McLaren as he dropped to the ground, stepping up to the DD tank. Before he could ask for the radio, a Ranger private stopped him with the words,
"Are we going down there, sir?"
"Yes, we are-?"
"Caparzo," said the stocky soldier, "Could you promise me something, sir?"
"I don't know…Caparzo."
"No, I think you could promise this," the Ranger stepped in front of McLaren and the DD tank, and worry flashed across his eyes for a brief moment. McLaren frowned curiously. "If you're gonna shoot at those bastards down there…make sure you don't hit our friends."
Private Caparzo jerked his head to the left, where a second, fidgety Ranger stood. McLaren looked from him, to Caparzo and back.
"…I think I can manage that," he said.
The private named Caparzo smirked.
"Thank-you, sir."
He joined his comrades, and they waited in silence for orders. McLaren watched them go, sighing. He stepped back up to the DD tank, where the mid-western commander was sitting.
"Give me the radio; I have to speak to that Captain."
The DD tank sputtered to life soon after his statement, and the commander passed him the 'handie-talkie' saying,
"Good luck with that, Major."
McLaren pursed his lips, turning the radio over in his hands. Before he could put it up to his ear, he saw something coming at them from the side of the hill. A dark figure was running toward them like a bat out of hell, a small cloud of black dust trailing behind him. He was sputtering something in gibberish at the top of his lungs.
"Jeezus!" McLaren exclaimed. He pulled out a pistol, leveling it at the advancing soldier.
"No! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!!"
McLaren and the other American soldiers tightened the grip on their rifles in spite of what he was saying. The commander of the DD tank wasn't about to believe this Kraut for one second.
"You think that's gonna work, ya' stupid Kraut?!" he shouted.
"I ain't a Kraut for Christ's sake!" the young soldier cried, "Don't shoot me!"
McLaren himself, wasn't sure what to believe; the soldier wore a black uniform, but his cracking voice had a Southern accent…
He proceeded to beat at his arms, and the Americans watched as a layer of soot and dirt sprayed from his uniform. The blue diamond patch of the Rangers was now visible on his right shoulder.
Private Caparzo broke into a relieved grin.
"It's Jackson!" he said.
The Americans lowered their weapons, expressions of confusion across their faces. The dirt-faced Private Jackson sprinted up the remaining stretch of grass to where McLaren stood puzzled. Gasping, Jackson stammered,
"Sir…Don't shoot, sir…Cap'n Miller is down there!"
"I was just about to radio him-"
Jackson gripped his wrist.
"Don't."
McLaren could almost feel the intensity of this statement. The soldier's eyes were hardened with determination as he stared at the commander, willing him to understand. McLaren gave him a slight nod. Jackson relaxed, feeling the panic reducing inside him.
"Hey, kid," came the annoying voice of the DD tank operator, "What the hell do you suppose we do, then? There's two Tigers down there, in case you haven't noticed!"
"I fucking noticed," Jackson spat, "They were the ones shooting at me!!"
Privates Caparzo and Mellish had been standing off to the side, watching their buddy speak with the others. After Jackson's outburst, they nodded approvingly.
McLaren intervened, hoping to save this guy any more trepidation.
"Alright, cut it out! What's your name?" he asked.
The gangly private glared at the DD tank as he scrubbed his forehead with a fist, still trying to remove the sweat and grime.
" Private Daniel Jackson, sir, Charlie Company," he drawled.
McLaren nodded again, looking up at the sky for a brief second. He was amazed that this kid had made all the way out here, but he was still without any sort of plan. The fact that he couldn't use radio contact only frustrated him more. He turned to say something to the soldier, but found that Jackson was already directing a statement toward him.
"We need to trap
those Tigers right where they are, sir, so we can either blow 'em
apart ourselves, or git them Navy boys to do it for us."
"There
are two of them, Private," McLaren reminded him, "Even if we
managed to blow up one of them, the other one would be right on our
asses."
"I know, but if we get the first one in the middle of that minefield, with the Infantry trapped between it and the other one, then we might have a shot."
Jackson waited in patient silence, desperate for the Commander to understand. As he was pondering this, the DD commander snorted in disapproval. Jackson glared at him once again.
"What, you have a better idea, sir?" he growled.
"I'm sure I could think of one."
Jackson felt a pang of fury shoot through him again. He had never been this angry at anyone in his entire life.
"Lemme hear it then, if you have the answer to everything."
Caparzo and Mellish were watching Jackson with eyebrows raised; they had most definitely never seen him like this before. It was almost entertaining.
The DD tank operator, whose name was Pratt, Jackson read, appeared to be angry that this lowly private was standing up to him. Yet, he was at a loss for words.
"I thought so," concluded Jackson, still glowering at Pratt with real hatred.
McLaren had had enough of this, and he called for their attention.
"We're going with this plan: disable the first tank and trap the Infantry in between the two of 'em," he paused, as if to convince himself of this fact as well. "Keep the radio handy incase we need backup from the Navy boys."
McLaren's eyes fell to Jackson, and he smirked.
"It's just crazy enough to work."
*******
The drumming of the Tigers was all around them. The stink of diesel fuel hung in the air, stifling the two Rangers in the pasture, still faking their death remarkably well. Private Richard Reiben was still terrified, and he wondered if Captain Miller felt the same. He shifted his eyes over to Miller, not knowing what else to do. His body was beginning to ache and his limbs were tingling from not being able to move for so long. He was starting to sweat, which frightened him more than anything. However, the Germans had not been as observant as he had feared, which he was thankful for. Reiben didn't think he could take much more of this. Either the Tigers left the field or they blew them up; which ever way, he didn't want anything to do with them.
The B.A.R. rifle remained clenched in his hands; they had turned numb after a while, and he had learned to blot out the pain in order to keep himself quiet. His helmet was cutting into the side of his head, and if he moved ever so slightly, a twinge of pain would jolt through his temple and cheek. Reiben wanted nothing more than to just move. He hadn't even been able to breathe the correct way for nearly an hour now. He had never felt this vulnerable or exhausted in all his life.
Captain Miller wasn't watching Reiben, however; above him, the German tank commander was barking orders to the other Tiger over the din of the engines. The Infantry watched in respective silence as they received their orders, and the other tank operator saluted. He disappeared into his tank with a loud, creaking slam.
Miller swiveled his eyes around painfully to watch the second Tiger inch forward form the corner of his vision. It growled past him and Reiben, sending up great clouds of the ashes, leaving a clean trail of bright green grass behind it. Miller braced himself as the ashes spiraled around him, silently cursing everything he could think of.
The German Major had disappeared inside his tank, and his voice echoed strangely from inside the steel turret. The Infantry was plodding by, their MP-40 machineguns and bolt-action rifles gripped tightly and ready to fire. Miller watched them go until he was sure they had passed behind the Major's Tiger and out of sight. Eyes watering, he turned his head to look at Reiben, finally able to peel his eyes away from the dead German beside him. His head was throbbing from where the helmet had cut into him. He figured maybe they could move if the Germans had traveled far enough into the minefield, and being as blackened as they were, there was a possibility that they wouldn't be seen.
Reiben appeared to understand what was happening, a look of immense relief beginning to spread across his face. Miller, desperate to keep themselves hidden, shook his head ever so slightly and slowly put a finger to his lips.
Behind them, the second Tiger when rumbling past, treads squeaking and gears grinding. The Germans followed close behind. Miller could still see him in his peripheral vision, and prayed they would move faster. The Major's tank still towered above him, a dreadful reminder that he and Reiben were not out of trouble yet. Clouds of dust and diesel-tinged smoke swirled above their heads, choking them. Miller held his breath. His eyes flitted to Reiben to check on him, and he swore silently in disbelief. The B.A.R. gunner was about to sneeze. Miller was thinking of every swear he could come up with, hoping just as frantically for something to stop Reiben. It was bitterly humorous, though he would not discover this until later; the fact that a sneeze, something so natural and scarcely thought about, would be enough to kill him.
Reiben, with a look of pure terror himself, sneezed several times into the grass, sending puffs of dark powder into the air. His helmet fell over his eyes, and he could no longer see. He emitted a small sob, then buried his face back into the ground. His hands tightened around the B.A.R., and once again he pretended he was not there, but somewhere far away.
Captain Miller was livid with Reiben, but he knew he shouldn't be. How could he have been so stupid to let that happen?! Didn't they teach how to prevent those things in Basic?!
The hatch clanged open again, and Miller wondered if he was going to lose his mind once and for all right there. Tears of desperation had welled up in his eyes, and the blurry form of the Major reappeared. He watched as his men trudged on through the minefields, tapping his knuckles on the lip of the hatch. He shouted something to them, then muttered back down to the others in the tank. He climbed back inside it and disappeared. Miller heaved a sigh of relief as the Major's Tiger finally chugged onward, crushing a fallen rifle as it went. Miller gazed at it as it left his side, rolling on to his stomach with painstaking slowness. His hand was shaking like mad.
"S-Sir…" Reiben hissed to him.
Miller waved at him to stop talking, even though the Germans probably wouldn't hear them. The Private inched his way up to the Captain, his breathing ragged. The bridge of his nose was bleeding from where the helmet had dug into it. He stared at the Tigers rolling into the minefield, relief washing over him. His body ached at every joint, and his hands were bleeding.
"S-Sir," he stammered, "I'm sorry, Cap'n, sir, I didn't mean to do that! It just happened; there was nothing I could do!"
Miller managed a wry smile, slapping a dirty hand over Reiben's mouth. The private's dark eyes were wide with in determination to explain as he stared back at his Captain from over his palm. But Miller just shook his head lightly.
"Sssh…"
Reiben nodded, and the Captain removed his hand.
"It's alright, Reiben," he whispered, "You did one hell of a job out here- even if you did almost kill us…"
Not far away, the Sherman tanks were prepared to take their shots. The first Tiger was beginning to crawl its way up the middle of the minefield, the squads of Germans tagging along behind it, rifles ready to fire. They all looked the same, with their gray uniforms and squared helmets. It was hard to believe they were individual people.
Private Jackson never thought of such things, but marveled at how the Germans appeared to be one and the same. He had been instructed to provide assistance with that Springfield of his by Lieutenant Jones; Jackson lay prone in the bushes roughly twelve feet from the Shermans; groups of his fellow Rangers tensed in anticipation behind him. One had offered to be his spotter, but Jackson declined; he didn't need anyone to tell him how to do his job. He was relieved to see that Mellish and Caparzo were still alive, and they were crouched a few feet behind him.
"How'd it go up there?" Carpy whispered to him, "Is everyone okay?"
"Lost 'bout twenty men," answered Jackson, adjusting the scope of the Springfield as he spoke. The Tiger sharpened in his crosshairs as it continued toward them slowly.
"Jeezus Christ," Caprazo breathed, "How did that happen? The Krauts weren't dug in that good, were they?"
Jackson scratched left-over dirt from his beloved rifle, making sure a bullet was in the chamber. He leaned over it, nuzzling the scope with his cheek. He chose a target and waited.
"Reaper's flamethrower blew up the entire stash of ammo left over; the whole hill just went up," Jackson drawled in reply, his voice oddly calm.
Caparzo swore again, and Jackson winced.
"What about Reiben, or the Captain? Wade, too…are they alright?" Mellish wanted to know.
They both watched as the sharpshooter nodded. Mellish gasped in relief; Caparzo grunted in approval. They fell back into silence soon after. Jackson was watching the Tiger intently, waiting for Major McLaren to take a shot. He reached for his cross and kissed it. Not too far away, the Shermans were growling with the same intensity as the Tigers. Jackson kept his crosshairs set on the turret of the tank, sucking in a breath.
Major McLaren was again peering through his binoculars at the advancing Tiger. He spoke to his gunner through the radio.
"Alright, I want you to aim at the treads, but just a little bit behind them."
The turret cranked slowly to the right.
"Perfect! There's a guy with Panzershrek walking right behind the thing…"
"I see 'im, Major. Say no more…"
McLaren smiled, lowering the field glasses. "It's all yours, Private..."
The tank shattered the charged silence with a resounding blast. The shell collided with the Tiger in the field, and it came to a halt, struggling to retreat. The gears whined in protest, and the treads came sliding off in one fluid motion, as if they were rivers of steel. The Germans at the back of tank began to shout in alarm amongst each other, their voices reaching a heated crescendo once the turret of the Tiger burst into flames. The gunner had hit the rockets perfectly. The hatch slammed open, and thick smoke black as charcoal came billowing out of the turret. The tank commander leaned out, coughing, shouting something.
Jackson fired a round through his heart to permanently relieve him of command.
The Germans were looking around feverishly for the source of the attack. The Rangers had opened fire by then; ahead of them, several of the enemy soldiers jerked around from the force of bullets, performing a gruesome dance before falling heavily to the ground.
Caparzo exclaimed, looking pleased with his work.
"Got two with one shot!" he bragged to Mellish, who shook his head, chomping on a wad of gum.
"Been there done that," he said.
"But not with -!"
Caparzo was silenced by his fellow comrade, Jackson, who had already taken out four Germans clustered together in his sight – all within a matter of seconds. Caparzo said nothing more; Mellish grinned in between chews.
The sniper, unaware of 'Carpy' and 'Fish's' dark competition, continued to perform as he always did; calm and collected, picking out targets as best he could. Most of the Germans had gotten smart and clustered behind the disabled Tiger; the others panicked. They ran straight into the mines. Plumes of greasy black smoke coiled into the sky; the echo of each explosion rang across the fields. The strong odor of cordite was thick in the air.
Jackson swore; his view was obstructed. He scanned around for more targets, but couldn't get a bead on anyone. The Krauts blended in with the smoke, still screaming for their comrades to take cover.
The Shermans unleashed their payloads, great patches of the earth flinging every where. Jackson closed his eyes as the dirt pounded down on him. Men on both sides were screaming. The smoke had somewhat dissipated; Jackson was able to see the Germans now, but had to bury his head as a volley of gunfire thudded into the hillside. The trees and bushes behind him were shredded to pieces. The gunfire continued on, and several Rangers began screaming. Jackson did his best to blot out their cries, focusing on a few Germans who began running back to the other Tiger. It looked like the Major was not about to stay and fight. Jackson realized with horror that they would be running straight over his friends and into the Rangers that remained hidden in the forest.
