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Surely Fury's crew did not lack combat experience. Hence, nobody was really surprised when three quick beams of light suddenly burst out from the left of the formation, and stroke the flanks of two out of the three tanks that were advancing towards the sorry remnants of the convoy on the road. A high flame rose vertically from the top of the leading Sherman's turret; the hapless machine soon caught fire, while still moving forward at low speed down the slope. Over the next second, the tank behind was hit in turn, on its turret left side: a dazzling burst of sparks bloomed on impact, having the Sherman stop on the spot. The third tank, seemingly panicked, immediately reversed at full speed. This desperate move actually saved it from being hit by a fourth shot, coming from the left as well: the beam travelled in front of the machine, crossing the location it had just left.
-–- What the f...?! Grady yelled as brutally waken up. Krauts!
-–- Ho, you bet?!» Don mumbled just before pounding orders: «Button up! All hands to battle stations!
A very ordinary day, indeed...
All of Fury's hatches were closed in a trice. All except Sergeant Collier's at his command cupola: with but the upper half of his head sticking cheek-high out the edge, Don was scanning the area from which these lethal strikes originated, striving to see through the haze with his binoculars. A sudden flash from a distant new shot finally gave him the enemy's location. The Sarge stated in a clear sound voice, both over the radio for the platoon's other Sherman tanks as well as over the intercom for his own crew:
-–- Contact, eight o'clock! Driver: face up! Loader: smoke shell! Gunner, target: the stand of trees on the edge of the field, range 750 yards. Four hostiles spotted at the moment: two Panthers and two Panzer IVs, hulls down!
Bad news... Roughly equivalent to the Sherman, the Panzer IV made up the basic armored junk of the Third Reich's last divisions. But the Panther, on the other hand, was a 45-ton heavy tank reputed to be even more dangerous than the fearsome Tiger, enjoying a shell-proof front armor and a 75 mm gun with extra-long barrel, deadly up to the most distant ranges. In open grounds like this one, the most optimistic experts considered that five Shermans had to be sacrified in order to write off one single Panther; the most realistic ones rather said ten...
Anyway, Fury's crew reacted as a perfectly-oiled team. Less than five seconds after the Sarge had passed his orders, Gordo had pivoted the tank that now faced the enemy, and Bible had shot toward its location the smoker previously loaded. The white cloud that quickly blossomed between the 3rd Platoon and the German threat would provide some relief to the American armored force, possibly even force the enemy tanks to leave their safe defensive position. Several voices began sounding over the radio: the other tank commanders were reporting their situation:
-–- Don! Novak here, from Foo-Fighter! They got Fifolet, and Fireball III as well, I think. The lieutenant is history. Now you are the one in command for whatever remains of the platoon...
-–- Fireball here! a voice denied in a loud Midwestern accent. Badly shaken, but still alive and willing! I'm with you, Don...
-–- Flatfoot Frankie reporting in, ready to take orders! a third, younger voice tersely added, where an onset of panic could be detected yet.
-–- Fury to 3rd Platoon, Don quickly answered over the radio. This open ground is freakin' doomed! Head for the destroyed column, double-quick: we gonna hide among the wrecks, under cover from the fire smoke! Move out, dammit!
Gordo did not wait for Don's complete orders to have Fury speed off. The machine roared and snatched its 30 tons off the slippery ground, spitting a bowl of dark smoke out of its exhausts. Foo-Fighter, Sergeant Novak's tank, immediately followed its path. Both of the other two Shermans that were advancing already towards the column, also rallied and hurried to the objective. In spite of the non-lethal impact that had left a grey ribbon of fumarole sticked to its turret, Fireball III was holding the pace, and soon drove close to Fury. At the tail end of the formation, Flatfoot Frankie's crew, the least experienced one within the 3rd Platoon, had fallen far behind. Don grabbed his microphone in order to radio the first reassuring news of that day:
-–- We've been given a direct frequency to the Regimental HQ for this recce mission: I'm requesting an emergency air support over the area! Would those Kraut dummies just stay out there, the sky is about to fall upon their heads!
All along this desperate race for life, each of the tank commanders kept a cautious watch on the smoke screen deployed by Fury at the opening of the engagement, in fear of seeing the dreaded enemy Panthers pop out at any time. Seated at his gun's right side, Boyd had nothing better to do at the moment than stare as well through his scope at this lone, thin obstacle between them and their certain deaths. The gunner finally turned his skinny, fatalistic face towards Don sitting right behind him:
-–- If these guys hold us responsible for the mass killing out there, I don't think they'll let us get away with a gentle slap on the cheek...
-–- Stop that bullshit! Stop it now! old Wardaddy ranted while pointing an accusing finger at the rough location of the Nazi tanks outside. They are the ones responsible for these killings: this one, and all of the other ones before! And since long even before Poland!
With their runaway tracks sending up in the airs large sprays of fat mud, the four machines kept on rushing towards helpful cover into the line of burning wrecks. Fury was first to reach them, followed by Novak's Sherman. As both of the leading tanks were vanishing into the smoke, Don's earphones suddenly began to crackle, before he could hear an anxious voice:
-–- Freeman here, from Flatfoot Frankie. German tanks in sight, just out of the smoke screen; one Panther leading. It... Jeezus, its turret is stalking my move! Press on, Bud! Damn, I'm just about to reach cover into the convoy, Fury, but it'll be close! I...
The communication was brutally cut off. Don nervously called on his microphone:
-–- Flatfoot Frankie? Flatfoot, report! Freeman?
No use calling any longer, alas: there had been some kind of brief, inhuman howl over the radio, immediately followed by the sound of a sledgehammer striking an anvil, one millisecond before the silence fell in Don's earphones. Old Wardaddy perfectly knew what it meant for Flatfoot Frankie, for young Sergeant Freeman, and for his crew...
The three surviving tanks were now advancing at a very slow and silent speed amid this grim scrapyard, trying to maintain visual contact as they bypassed the blazing skeletons of vehicles aflame. Under such a smoky sky, no way to even guess where the sun could shine, that anyway was barely visible through the mist before. Sergeant Collier had dropped his now useless binoculars down his chest; yet, he kept on suspiciously watching the surroundings, as far as he could from his open hatch. All of a sudden, a volley of artillery fire fell without warning all around the three Sherman tanks. Some direct impacts on wreckages of light vehicles dangerously increased the density of shrapnel travelling through the airs. Pragmatically, Don chose to take shelter back inside the turret.
-–- Blast! Buttoning up...! he shouted while hastily closing his hatch.
-–- Kraut mortars, 120 mm; we are privileged, guys! Red assessed as a connoisseur, eyes on his scope, just through the look of the sprays of mud blooming all around the tank.
As a matter of fact, individual periscopes were actually now the only means of attempting to locate anything on this hellish ground. Over the next few minutes, the artillery barrage ceased briefly, resumed with lesser intensity, ceased again then resumed anew, keeping Fury's crew under pressure inside its armored shelter. The smoke thus raised reduced further again any visibility, while the rumble from surrounding explosions deprived the men of any chance of getting bearings through the sound. It did not take long before Don lost contact with the other two tanks. After one last unsuccessful attempt to assess his situation from the inside of his panoramic cupola, the Sarge let loose a sigh of frustration, then took notice of Boyd and Grady down the turret, staring at him and waiting for his command.
-–- Well, at least, we know what we'll have to face, Don analyzed in a mixed tone. The Kraut Panzers will certainly come and engage our own tanks in close combat, right here into this damned maze of burning iron. Besides, under all this smoke, they'll be unseen from our Air Force...
-–- Oh fuck... Fuuuck! Grady whined while nervously rubbing his face glistening with sweat already.
-–- Not that a bad thing, actually, Boyd intervened with his usual mildness and composure. At long range, these Panther tanks strike hard without any hope for us to respond anyway. Yet at very short range... Now we got a chance...
-–- And you got the point, Bible, Don concluded. Coon-Ass, reload one piercer, and have some more ready at hand. Gentlemen, we're fighting for our lives!
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