Happy Memorial Day to all the veterans who gave their all!
The Tanker
June 17, D-Day + 11
"Fortitude is the marshal of thought, the armor of the will, and the fort of reason."
Sergeant Shiloh Wilcox, 27, a native of Detroit, waddled his way through the mass of humanity that consisted of rear echelon supply soldiers and men of the 1st Battalion, 116th Regiment, 29th Division who were sprawled all over a dull French town turned American supply depot, he believed it was called Montebourg, but he didn't truly care. The disheveled men were sleeping, cooking cold cans of food, bragging, comparing souvenirs, and reenacting every moment of their past engagements, real and imagined, every man a hero beyond belief.
The men of Able Company were trying to scrounge what they could before they moved out once more. Word was that the First Army was moving on up to the port city of Cherbourg, but the 29th would be escorting the "Red Ball Express", a truck convoy that was the primary supply line for the success of the invasion. Fuel, ammunition, explosives, medicine, food, condoms, everything vital that a soldier could imagine the Red Ball contained, every moment the Red Ball stalled the longer the war would pan out.
But Wilcox was different from these infantrymen and supply officers, and he took pride in knowing so. He was a tanker, in command of his own Sherman medium tank crew. Their customized Sherman Tank, Excalibur, was Wilcox's pride and joy. He and his crew were with this tank since Sicily and they had it retrofitted to best accommodate their style. They had upgraded the 75mm cannon to the much larger 76mm cannon which was more effective against medium and large German tanks. They salvaged destroyed tank plates to weld on to "Excalibur" to create reinforced armor plating from anti-tank weapons and tied tree trunks and sandbags to their rear for additional protection. And now before his eyes, his tank was being outfitted by Sergeant Mercer's engineers with a crab flail to destroy any mines they may encroach on.
He smiled at the name of "Excalibur". He remembered how his mother would read him to sleep with the stories of King Arthur and his greatest weapon Excalibur, every night before bed. When every kid was playing Cowboys and Indians and Cops and Robbers, all imagining being John Wayne or John Dillinger; he would be playing Knights of the Round, with a wooden stick in his hand being Excalibur itself. He always dreamt of the image of the legendary holy sword of King Arthur which he used to smite evil from Camelot. The Sword of Righteousness, how appropriate was this name for their Sherman, a great tank that saves American lives while destroying the wicked Germans and liberating the Europeans from the Nazi grip. How more righteous can such a cause be? The sword was used to hold Camelot together, if the sword vanished, then so did the land of Camelot. The tank was both. The outside was the sword and the inside was Camelot, the inside was his home. And the best feeling he received was how his tank would be driving down the land pumping shells into the enemy to save the exposed riflemen, acting like a true cavalry unit. Being in this thing was better than sex. Wilcox shook his head at the thought, it wasn't better than sex but it was pretty damn close.
He had a good crew with him. His Driver, Pfc. Grotowski aka "Grits", a lean and lanky Minnesotan who would drive a tank down Satan's throat if so asked. His Loader, Pfc. Russo, the stereotypical punk kid from Philly, hell, Wilcox had seemed a dime a dozen of these types in the army; but Russo was his Sherman's Philadelphian who could load shells into the cannon at the drop of a hat. Then there was his Gunner, Pfc. Adrian Hartinallow, who they simply called "Adrian", he was from Lansing, Michigan, in which Wilcox instantly took a shine to a fellow Michiganite. And last and certainly least, a new addition to his crew, following his bow gunner's death in Carentan, Wilcox received a replacement, who his crew simply called, "Rookie" or "Rook". The timid, ferret-faced bastard had a long and forgettable Polish name, so whatever. Maybe they'll remember it eventually. As the new bow gunner, he would use the .30 caliber-machine gun in ball mount swivel in the hull of the tank to engage infantry targets.
Wilcox was also in command of a tank platoon, consisting of three other tanks, all Shermans who were mostly upgraded. Black Flag, commanded by Sgt. Hickman, Vigilance, command by Sgt. Saffold, and Hitler's Bane, commanded by Sgt. Marco.
Originally slated with the 2nd Armored Division, Wilcox's platoon was reassigned to Able Company as support for as long as the Army saw fit. Wilcox didn't really care. He's been assigned to worse companies, soldiers who lacked the balls to assist the tanks when they were under fire. At least Able was a good company with good leaders. He fought with them four days ago at Carentan in rescuing Fox Company; he remembered how they all came in the town pumping everything with lead, rushing in like the white knights of old to rescue the trapped peasants from the wicked bandits. He remembered every detail that day, especially his crewmate Ayers and how he mounted the .50 and got blasted to pieces by an MG 42. Ayers… Wilcox spat out his gum that had lost its flavor.
"Aren't your boys almost done with that flail, Mercer?" Wilcox snapped.
The lead engineer of Able Company turned around and lifted up his welding mask, "Maybe if you stop riding us, we can finish damn it."
"We 'bout to move out soon with the rest of the convoy. And I sure as shit won't be scrutinized at because you bums are behind schedule."
"Fuck you, Wilcox. Once the shit hits, we'll be right there patching your sorry raggedy ass tank up, you better start showing appreciation."
The damn crab mine flail was an aesthetic eyesore. And in a more practical sense, it reduced the top speed of the tank. His former platoon leader insisted that Excalibur be the one to have the mine flail, they didn't have enough time to install it on all the Shermans. Wilcox protested, but the officer would have none of it, and 45 minutes later, the officer had his brains blown out by a sniper.
"Aaannnnnnnnnnnnnd done!" one of the engineers said, bouncing to his feet with a grin. The trio stood back and eyed their upgrade with pride. Mercer's smirk faded as he turned to Wilcox.
"We worked too hard on this fucker here, don't go and get blown to bits! I'll hate to be mommy and put Band-Aids on your boo-boos."
Wilcox could only chuckle, "You're a grade-A fuckup, Mercer. Hope you screwed in all the bolts right."
The trio of engineers left, hoping to catch a brief rejuvenating nap before they move out. Mercer turns; a warm grin on his face, "Later, Wilcox."
"Later, Mercer."
The Rookie stared at the monstrous mine destroyer, imagining the pure power that it would have when activated, "So what happens if someone gets caught by the flail?"
Grits made a grinding sound with his mouth while Russo smiled wickedly and made and explosion gesture with his hands, "Meat Confetti!" he shouted to Rook. The kid looked queasy, Wilcox just sighed.
"Grits, how are we on gas?" Wilcox asked.
"We need another canister, Sergeant. Hold on, hey Rook, go fetch another canister of gas!"
"Nah, I'll get it," Wilcox said lighting a cigarette, "Russo, Grits, I want you two to get the Rook situated with the MGs and the interior."
"But I know what to do, Sergea—"
"Was I talking to you, kid?" he snapped. The Rookie lowered his head to the dirt. Wilcox turned back to his veteran crew. "I want you to remind this guy what ticks inside, got it?"
"Yeah, we got it."
Wilcox roamed down the bustling supply depot smoking his cigarette, his mind drifting back to the assembly lines in Detroit. He groaned at the similarities of the D and the Army, same suppliers talking about their demanding more wages, which teams should be winning the pennant, which girl back home was looser than the last. All he needed now to complete the comparison was someone to be begging him for a cigarette.
"Hey tanker, can I bum one of those smokes?" a gruff voice came behind him.
Wilcox stopped, his jaw slacking low in confusion. He turned and gave a cigarette to the NCO behind him.
"Thanks, Wilcox."
"You're welcome, Conti." Wilcox stared into the First Sergeant's reddening eyes and chuckled, "Here, take another, it looks like you need to get all the smokes you can."
Conti gave the tankman a crusty smirk, "Thanks, I'm getting too old for this shit."
"Aren't we all?"
"Shut up."
"What's eating at ya?"
"Same shit, just a different day. Anyway, I'm glad I ran into you. Where are the rest of your tank sergeants?"
"They're around somewhere. Why?"
"Got some orders to give y'all."
"Tell me and I'll relay it back to them."
Conti lit his cigarette and opened up a local map of the Montebourg with detailed unit markings and large blue arrows drawn along the roads.
"So what's the plan, Top?"
"Well Wilcox, the name of the game is to protect the Red Ball Express."
"And what's the bad news?"
"Able and Dog Company will penetrate down this road and secure the crossroads. But during the advance, our flanks will be exposed. The area has a lot of walled-in courtyards and hedgerows, command's concerned for ambush."
"We looking at anything heavy?"
Conti rubbed his bloodshot eyes, "Aerial recon spotted some AT guns in the area that can blow the convoy to kingdom come. That's where you and your tanks come in."
"Where are they?"
"They didn't say."
"So no tanks?"
"So they say."
The tanker stared at Conti, "Command has their head up their asses again, don't they?"
"All the time."
Wilcox spat and sneered, "The fuck? How we s'pose to move in if we don't know if they have any armor out there? This is such bull—"
"Goddamn it, Wilcox, we're in the Army. We improvise when the shit hits."
"Fucking Army."
"Fucking Army. Now look, since you got the flail you'll be our saving grace. Reports have come in that Jerry has mined the roads. Use that flail to destroy any mines we come across."
"We're going to need some rifles to support us."
"Fine, you got 2nd platoon with you."
"Any 88s in the area?"
"They didn't see any."
"Oh thank God," Wilcox sighed in relief.
"Good. That's all we got for now. Your tanks will be leading the charge."
"Figured as much. Able Company's going first as always, aren't they?"
"Actually no, Dog Company has that honor." Conti's eyes scrolled over to the officer's tent where Captain MacKay and another officer with Captain's bars on his collar were exiting. Conti smirked, folding up his map, "Speak of the devil."
"Who's that with MacKay, Conti?"
"That's Captain Bishop, CO of Dog Company."
"From what I heard it was quite the ass-chewing, Bishop." MacKay said to his fellow Captain.
"Aw to hell with them. Command is too conservative, MacKay. We got Jerry falling back to Cherbourg faster than crap through a goose. We need to be on their ass like stink on fly! So what if I told my men to seize the objective at all cost. We got it before Jerry did! If Patton was here, we'll be right on top them so fast we could give 'em all reach-arounds without them knowing!"
"Reports are coming in from other units that hedgerows are beginning to slow the advance. None of us were trained for hedge fighting. We can't be rushing in all the damn time."
"I'm sure the tanks can plow right through some low cut bushes."
"Yeah, right."
Bishop put his helmet on and gave his fellow Captain a toothy grin, "Dog Company is going in first, we shouldn't meet anything but light resistance, but we'll do our best to save some Germans for Able."
"Shoot them up and get the glory for yourself. It'll save my men. Remember, Bishop, Able's right behind you guys. Don't overextend the advance; we're stretched thin as it is."
"Jesus, MacKay, you're starting to sound like my mother," Bishop snickered. He got in his command jeep, and with an expression of seriousness he said, "Don't worry, we won't go too far."
One Hour Later
"This is Dog Company, requesting support! Repeat, Dog Company requesting support, over!" We are in the courtyard! North building! We're taking heavy fire, over!"
Four Shermans rolled up on a patch of grass with First and Second Platoons from Able Company behind them. Wilcox protrudes from his tank hatch; he can hear the pops of German rifles in the distance and the burst of machine guns from the courtyard up ahead. He digs in his pockets and chews on his standard issue stick of gum. He could hear MacKay cursing to himself off to the side.
"Goddamn it! I told him not to overextend the advance!" MacKay sighed and shouted back to his men, "Come on Able, let's go bail their asses out!" Fats handed him the radio receiver, "Dog, this is Able, hang on Bishop we are on our way."
MacKay glanced at Wilcox. The tank Sergeant smacked his gum and grinned. He pulled out his radio, calling to the other tanks, "Showtime, boys! We're heading to the courtyard to the north. Excalibur, Black Flag, Vigilance, Hitler's Bane; rolling out!" The four imposing tanks lurched forward with a screech, nothing on earth made a sound like a tank did. Insurmountable weight pressured on metal, the clamor of rolling iron and the odor of diesel fuel. By God he loved it, smelled just like Detroit.
"Hey Rook," Wilcox called down.
"Y-Yeah?" he timidly responded. Wilcox shook his head; the boy's heart was in his throat.
"We're about to run into some mean bastards. When you line them up, hose them down! You copy?"
The rookie stammered.
"Goddamn it, Rook! You copy?"
"Y-Y-Yes, Sergeant!"
"Wilcox, we're approaching the courtyard now," Grits said.
"Alright! Asses in gear! Let's save the Damned Dogs! Grits, hit that fucking wall."
"Will do!"
Excalibur slammed through the thin brick wall with ease and caught the Germans completely unware. Wilcox could see it all. He counted over 25+ Germans in the courtyard, firing into buildings occupied by components of Dog Company. He noticed how the Germans were so slow in turning around and pointing their weapons at him. He smiled. He had caught the vile brigands unaware, and now he could dispense some knightly justice unto them.
"Krauts in the open! Open fire!" Wilcox bellowed. "Russo, load an HE round!"
"Loading! HE round set!"
Wilcox shouted down, "Adrian, fire at that rifle squad, traverse left! Up 50. Let 'em have it!"
"On the way!" Adrian screamed back.
The shell exploded from the cannon, soaring through the air with magnificent sparks as it crashed in the middle of a German rifle squad, erupting in fiery fury. Screams emerged from the blast along with the smells of thermite and charred flesh that permeated the air. The squad that the shell hit was completely decimated; most of them were missing limbs. The Germans started falling back at the sight of Excalibur, but ran in full retreat when the other tanks and 2nd platoon of Able Company emerged in the courtyard, guns blazing. Run you Kraut bastards! Run! Wilcox cocked the .50 back and pulled short bursts against the fleeing Wehrmacht, a smile devoid of purity on his face. Oh how the bodies exploded when a .50 caliber round hits the flesh.
The two M8 Greyhounds followed shortly after and ripped into the German forces with their 37mm gun and .30 cal MGs. Soon, the three tanks of Wilcox's platoon arrived with the entire force of Able Company at their backs; who were shooting, running, and shouting in blended unison. It was through American bullets and shells that melted the Wehrmacht forces away into lifeless and bloodless heaps that littered the courtyard. The men of Dog Company left the confines of their buildings and ran to Able Company, patting backs and expressing thanks—MacKay took the time to curtly berate Bishop for risking the entire operation. It was then decided that Dog Company would join up with Able.
The order went out, "Secure the road for the Red Ball Express." Easier said than done. Wilcox would love to meet the asshole who told him and Conti that there was no armor sighted in the area. Because apparently, out of the fucking blue, Able Company stumbled on an HQ belonging to the Panzer Lehr Division which Able had to take out. Wilcox told his boys to mount up, but Conti echoed MacKay's words, stick to the main road to secure it.
Wilcox provided Able Company with the tanks, Black Flag and Vigilance, along with a Greyhound to attack the HQ to the east. Excalibur would be moving out with Hitler's Bane, two Greyhounds, and the understrength 2nd platoon. The mixed unit was moving down the road, all eyes peeled for any sign of Germans. Wilcox peered through his binoculars and spotted the crossroads straight ahead of them. He grabbed his radio and ushered, "I see—"
"Panzers!" someone shouted.
A hollering shell tore through the air, and crashed into a Greyhound, ripping it in half and leaving it engulfed by flames. Before Wilcox could comment, a second shell had slammed against Excalibur, rocking the metal behemoth with a terrible boom.
"The fuck was that?!" Grits shouted.
"We've been hit!" Russo shouted.
"Oh my God! Oh my God!" the rookie rattled on.
"Shut the fuck up, Rook!"
"Oh my God! Sweet Jesus! Oh my God!"
"Give me a damage report, goddamn it!" Wilcox yelled. "Is there a breech in the hull down there?"
"No we're good! The hull's still intact!" Adrian answered.
Wilcox spotted the metal fuckers. Two of them. Coming from the plains on the right with frightening speed and menace as if they were giant chariots that escaped from hell. With an MG34 mounted on the front of the hulls, the two Panzers burped an entire belt of savage machine gun fire into the rifleman ranks. With no discernible cover on the roads except for two drainage ditches running parallel with the road, several riflemen fell screaming as their lives were ripped from their bodies. The surviving infantrymen of the tank ambush dived into the ditches, suppressed and on the verge of being pinned down.
"Reverse hard left! Reverse! Reverse!" Wilcox yelled to his driver.
Excalibur crept to a stop, as did Hitler's Bane, and creaked in reverse. Hitler's Bane fired and nailed the Panzer in the far rear, but the Panzer kept going and returned fire into Hitler's Bane, shattering its left tread. The imposing Sherman slowly crept to a halt.
Marco radioed in, "Damn it! The bastard got us! We can't move!"
The Greyhound to his right was blown sky high. He could feel the heat from the flames from on top of the tank. He grunted in anger, scanning the battlefield from where the shot originated from. The two Panzers were reloading, so who fired that shell? Was it an 88 SP? God help them if it was an 88…
He saw a flash in the distance, then what appeared to be a flaming comet shot was heading right for his head, but it soared harmlessly over by several feet and exploded into a brush. He looked through his binoculars and saw what had destroyed the Greyhound.
"Attention! We got a Kraut AT Gun! 2 o'clock, a hundred yards down!"
Two Panzers was challenging enough, but aided by an AT Gun and Panzerfaust-carrying bastards, forget about it, the Shermans and riflemen might as well roll over and die.
"Jesus, fuck me!" Wilcox cursed at the sight of the camo-painted metal monstrosities.
"What do we do, Wilcox?" Grits asked, slamming the stick into reverse.
"Give us an order!" Russo bellowed.
"Russo, load some smoke! Adrian, fire the canisters right in their faces! Marco, can you hear me! Load some smoke and shove it down their throats, don't stop 'til you're out!"
Excalibur burped a large smoke shell at the Panzers, the canister popping like a balloon and expelling a thick quantity of heavy white smoke. Hitler's Bane fired a smoke shell as well. The Shermans fired shell upon shells of smoke into the faces of the Germans, even the AT infantry was blinded by the massive fog of smoke. The attacking Germans stopped and hid within the fog.
"They're not moving," the Rookie mentioned.
"They don't want to come out of the smoke and not know what's in front of them. This is just giving us time to think," Wilcox clarified.
"What now, Sarge?" Russo asked.
"Lemme think, lemme think…Marco, what's your status"
"They got my tread! Mercer and his engineers are working on it now."
"Alright, lemme think…" Wilcox looked over at 2nd platoon hiding within the drainage ditch and formulated an idea. He called for the lieutenant of the outfit to come over. A soldier stood from the ditch and ran forward, but he was wearing chevrons instead of bars.
"Who're you?"
"I-I-I'm…I'm Corporal Hudson, just call me Duck," he stammered.
"Where's the L-T?"
"Dead. The Panzer MG took care of him and the platoon sergeant. I'm the only non-com left in the platoon!"
"Wilcox, we must retreat. Hitler's Bane is crippled, and we ain't much better!" Russo told him.
"I agree, it's just us against those two fuckers and an AT Gun, we're screwed." Grits chimed in.
Wilcox could hear the acceleration in his heart. "No, unless these two fall in a shit-filled ditch, they're our problem!"
Another Able Company rifleman ran up to the tanks and climbed aboard. His face was completely composed, as if the German tank-infantry assault had never taken place. Wilcox could have sworn he recognized him before.
"What're you doing here, Blackwell?" Duck asked him.
Blackwell turned to the frightened Corporal and spoke with an eerily amount of serenity, "You wanna live? Huh?"
"Y-Yeah…"
"I've been in a shitheap like this before. Do what I say and maybe some of us can survive this."
Duck couldn't say a word, he was lost in the brooding glare of Blackwell. But Marco was able to spit it out, "You ain't in command of the platoon, you're a private."
Blackwell didn't take his eyes off Duck, "Death don't care 'bout rank. You've realized that since coming to Normandy, haven't ya, Duck?"
"Fuck…alright Blackwell, what do we do?"
Wilcox thought he saw a corner of Blackwell's mouth rise at the question. "There it is," Blackwell said softly. The dark-browed veteran stared into the smoke, listening to the gibbering language of German inside the smoke. "We ain't got much time." He turned to Wilcox and could tell the shit situation the tanker was in, "Don't even bother charging forth against all that AT fire."
"I know. It's suicide. We need to pave a way for you riflemen to reach the crossroads. Can y'all take out the Kraut rifle squad inside the smoke."
"That we can do. What else ya need from us."
"If you bastards can get through the smoke and the tanks, knock out that AT gun, we can't get through to the crossroads until that's neutralized." Marco explained.
The smoke was beginning to dissipate. The heavy clanking of colossal metal gears grew louder.
Blackwell stared at the busted treads of Hitler's Bane and the engineers trying to fix it. "Alright, while we're at it, we're gonna try to disable one of those tanks with stick bombs, give you two tankers an edge." He looked to Duck who was beginning to steel his nerves. "That sounds good to you?"
Duck thought about the remainder of 2nd platoon that now fell under his command. He nodded, "Yeah, whatever it takes!"
Marco spat outside his tank, "You riflemen are going to run smack-dab into a hail of bullets? Y'all know that, right?"
Duck and Blackwell exchanged some looks. Duck turned to Marco in what Wilcox deemed a smile of false courage, but he spoke with a measure of confidence, "Hey, if we survived the beaches, then we can survive this!"
Blackwell smiled at him. But it was not a smile of pride. "That's right. Embrace that fear."
"Alright, get back to your men!" Wilcox ordered. The two riflemen jumped off and scurried back to the platoon. "Marco, we gotta take out a Panzer. My tank's gonna move forward and find one of them in the smoke, I'm gonna give you coordinates of where the bastards are, you reading me."
"Yeah, just don't get killed."
Torrents of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He stared at the men of 2nd Platoon who stood at a crouch in the ditch, ready to charge the smoke on Wilcox's command. Wilcox swallowed his last stick of gum. "Here we GO!"
Hitler's Bane fired one last shell of smoke an interval after Excalibur slowly lurched forward, Wilcox standing tall firing the Ma Deuce rounds through the smoke, hoping to suppress the AT gun that was in the general vicinity.
Through the firing, Wilcox heard the grunts of an animal. Savage and loud. It resembled the screeching of gorillas who were about to attack. He remembered that sound clearly; it brought him back to his youth when his family took him to see Tarzan the Ape Man. That set of screeching grunts brought Wilcox's mind out of the fight, out of his precious tank. He traced the origin of the sound back to the 2nd platoon and Dog rifleman entering the smoke through the drainage ditch. Leading the men was Blackwell, possessed by the spirit of Tarzan, grunting like a gorilla with the smile of death, firing from the hip into the smoke with a bayonet on his rifle.
Shrooom.
An A.T shell screeched from the smoke, missing Excalibur before bouncing off the ground near Hitler's Bane and exploding in the distance. The Panzer treads were still creaking forward with movement.
"Russo load an A.T round now! Marco, load an A.T. round into Hitler's Bane!"
"Roger that, but be advised I can't see the bastards in the smoke!" Marco radioed back.
"Don't worry, I'll spot you!" Wilcox reassured with a thumbs-up.
"Wilcox, we're loaded!" Russo said.
"I can't see 'em, I can't see 'em!" Adrian barked.
"Don't worry, just trust me and do what I say!"
This was new to him. Trying to hit two tanks coming at you while they're obscured in smoke, he had to think smart, not hard.
Through the smoke, 2nd platoon and elements of Dog Company slammed hard against the Wehrmacht infantry. The smoke obscures everything, except for the sound. M1s and Tommy Guns are whacking and rattling and Mausers and MG42s are popping and burping and the four sounds collided, blending together in an unending roar like the passing of a train on a rickety track. Through the chaos, he heard the blessed words, "Sticky out!" followed by a screech of nails on a chalkboard—explosion on metal. The sound of two sets of grinding treads stopped to one; and the one Panzer that was still moving was right in front of him.
Wilcox ordered his men, "Adrian, keep the cannon front, up 10, no wait…up 20, left 15." Wilcox remembered how Excalibur was on the far left of the road while Hitler's Bane was on the far right. "Marco, traverse left, 11 o'clock! Down 5, left…" Wilcox looked behind him and measured, "Left 10."
"This better work, Wilcox!"
"It will, goddamn it! Trust me, Marco!"
"Wilcox, ready to fire! Give me the order!" Adrian announced.
"Not yet, wait for it…Steady…"
He could hear the creaking gears turn…
"Steady…Steady…"
From his own tank, he could feel the vibrations of the earth shaking…
"Steady…"
"Fire, Adrian!" Rook yelled in hysteria.
"Give me the damn command, Sarge!" Adrian begged.
"Steady…Steady…"
He saw the barrel of cannon exude from the smoke…he saw the evil before him and he smiled, for he was going to smite it.
"Adrian, Marco, FIRE!"
"On the way!"
Both 76mm cannons belched their shells in unison, punching through the hull of the Panzer like a pencil through paper. The Panzer sputtered to a stop with a dying wheeze. Then flames erupted from within and the tank exploded.
"Marco, I got a plan!"
"Lay it on me!"
"Let's try that same trick the first Panzer used. Squirt some .50 rounds through the smoke let it catch your tracers.
"You setting us as bait?!"
"We need to flank around that bastard! I don't know how close he is, so Excalibur is going through the smoke! We're goin—"
The Panzer's cannon fired a 75mm shell that soared a foot over Marco's head. Marco jumped back inside his tank, his voice a higher octave, his loins now seeping with moisture.
"Jesus Christ!" he yelped.
"The bastard's shooting blind, Marco!" Wilcox reminded him. "We're going in the smoke. Squirt some tracers and at him and get his attention. We're going to flank that fucker!"
"If we die, I swear to God…"
"Yeah, yeah. You got my permission to haunt me for life."
Excalibur fired one more smoke shell into the fray before entering. Wilcox's flesh rebuked him, shivering with the fury of winter as they entered the thick, white smokescreen. The last thing he heard as his tank entered was Hitler's Bane opening up with all the guns they had. And to his joy, he discovered where the Panzer was hiding. His perceptive ears picked up the Ma Deuce rounds pinging off the hull of the Panzer's front armor and then the roar of its cannon firing.
"Adrian! Traverse right! Traverse right! He's right on our side about 25 yards. Traverse right, 3 o'clock on the dot! Russo load an A.T. now!"
"Loaded!"
"Adrian!"
"On the way!"
Excalibur's shell slammed against the side of the second Panzer with great force, the sound of the explosion nearly broke Wilcox's eardrums, but he powered through it, hoping the shell penetrated. Since both tanks were 25 yards apart, the exploding shell blew away most of the smoke, only to reveal the horrid truth that the Panzer was still operational, worse, it had seen Excalibur entering the smokescreen and its cannon was already trained on Excalibur's turret…trained on Wilcox.
Wilcox's mind froze, however, his body took over on instinct, instantly ducking inside the tank and closing the hatchet, screaming to his crew, "BRACE!"
The Panzer fired, and Excalibur shook with a twisted scream that resembled a man gored by a bull. The crew was violently rocked against the metal interior, all of them hearing the ringing of bells, their vision became cross-eyed, the Rookie screamed, he believed the walls were closing in on him.
Wilcox smelled something burning and heard the sparks of destroyed wires cracking around his head. His dazed mind returned to his disoriented body, the knight had fallen off his horse but he quickly mounted it once again.
"Everyone alright?" he shouted.
"I'm good," Grits said, not knowing how he heard Wilcox's voice. He shook the panicking rookie, "Goddamn it, Rook! Knock that shit off."
Rook took a few breaths and regained himself, "I'm alright! I'm alive! I'm good!"
"Holy shit…I'm good!" Russo said, turning to Wilcox.
"So am I," Adrian added.
"Those bastards," the tank commander sneered, "Russo, plug an A.T. into the cannon, Adrian, get ready to fire."
"On it!"
"Excalibur! Come in! Wilcox, anybody, come in now!" the radio, Marco's voice coming out. "Are you still in commission?"
"Copy that, Hitler's Bane, it'll take more than that to take us out! I'm in the hatch. How is our tank, any damage?"
"You kidding me? The Panzer knocked ou—"
"Our gun!" Adrian said, his jaw threatening to fall off his mouth.
Wilcox's eyes fell to the cannon; he dropped the radio in his hand. His mouth followed Adrian's in dropping. The Panzer's shell tore a huge hole inside the 76mm cannon, rupturing the breeches of the long neck at the middle. The damage was so bad that the crew could see it from the inside of the tank. In that moment, Wilcox felt something inside him die. His holy sword has been chipped.
"Main gun destroyed! We're screwed!" Russo yelled.
"Oh God! Oh God!" the Rookie cried.
"I'm getting us outta here," Grits shouted, slamming the driving stick forward with everything he had.
Adrian turned to his Sergeant, "What are we gonna do?" But Wilcox's eyes remained on the useless cannon. "Wilcox!" But he was still silent.
"Hold on, Excalibur, we have a clear line of fire! Standby!" Marco yelled into the radio. Hitler's Bane fired a shell at the second Panzer which connected with authority. Small fumes of black smoke began to rise from the hatch, but the tank was still operational, the turret was moving, this time moving the cannon directly at the hull of the vulnerable Excalibur in its rear.
Marco was furious. "Damn it! Reloading! Wilcox, get out of there now!"
Wilcox froze, his next words were stuck in his throat. He looked at his crew, his precious crew and the first words that went through his mind was the unforgivable phrase that one says when they lead others to their unforeseen demise, I'm sorry…
A sudden hollering screech shot through the air and exploded in the Panzer's rear, engorging the tank in fire and smoke. Wilcox opened the hatch, his eyes wide as the German tank on the cusp of destroying him was now out of action. Two German tankers hopped out of the hatch—one's right arm was on fire—and began running away. Instinct kicked in, Wilcox grabbed his Grease Gun from within the tank and mowed both Germans down with a long, singular burst.
Through the black smoke, he saw the German AT gun in the distance, but its crew wasn't targeting him. In fact, the gun crew was extending their arms and waving at Wilcox. He took out some binoculars and focused in on the crew, and lo and behold, they were Americans, men of 2nd platoon and Dog Company who killed the German AT gun crew, seized the weapon, and shot the Panzer in the ass.
Wilcox exhaled a breath that he felt he held on for ages. He slumped back down his hull and told his crew what had happened. His crew gazed at one another with relief and started chuckling, including Wilcox. Their roles as tankers were to aid and rescue the riflemen, but now they were ones who were saved by them. Wilcox looked over at the Rookie who was sweating profusely and was silent during the whole affair.
"Rook, what's wrong?"
The Rookie looked over with a flustered grin and chuckled in relief with tears in his eyes and stammered, "I-I-I…I pissed my trousers."
The crew broke out in a hardy laughter. Wilcox heard something soft pounding against the metal hull, the sound of someone climbing the tank. He grabbed his M3 in anticipation of a Kraut soldier trying to drop a grenade down the hatch. As he opened the hatch to blast the mounter, the face of Sergeant Mercer of the Engineer Squad reared his head.
"Jesus!" Mercer said, recoiling back from the barrel of the Grease Gun shoved at his face. "Damn it, Wilcox, I survived this far, I don't wanna die by friendly fire!"
"Christ, Mercer! Say something before you mount the tank!" Wilcox fired back.
Both men glared at one another, it was Wilcox who spoke first as he placed his gun down, "You want a drink, buddy?"
"Please," Mercer said with a sigh. Wilcox handed him a bottle of wine that he aided in "liberating" from Carentan, and watched him gulp it down like it was water.
"How's Hitler's Bane? Can you get him moving?"
Mercer gave him back the wine bottle. "The Krauts knocked out its treads to hell. Busted several bogies."
"Shit. How are repairs coming along?"
"Slow, it was pretty bad, but we need to get an assessment on Excalibur."
"Here it is, assess away." Wilcox said bitterly as he pointed to the torn cannon. The engineers' eyes shot open.
"What the hell happened there?" an engineer said.
"That's gonna be a tough repair, Mercer," the other engineer stated.
"No shit," Mercer said as he inspected it closely, "This is pretty fucking bad."
"No shit, see what you can do, Mercer."
"Will do, Wilcox."
The radio chimed with life, a haggard voice coming from the other line with the sound of combat raging in the background, "Excalibur, Excalibur, come in, come in, this is Able Six, over?"
Wilcox hopped back down the hull and took a swig from the wine bottle. The warm liquid caressed his throat and soothed his nerves before he answered back. "Able Six, this is Excalibur, what do ya need. Fats?"
"Excalibur, standby for Able Six, over." The Captain's voice came on the radio; his tone was distraught. "Excalibur, where the hell are you?"
Wilcox placed the bottle down, wondering what was the matter. "Sir, we're on the main road getting repairs, we ran into Panzers that caused us trouble. Hitler's Bane is immobilized. Over."
"Goddamn it! We need support ASAP at the crossroads, Able and Dog are under heaving fire and the roads are mined. We—Conrad, set the wounded in the cemetery, get behind the headstones!—Bishop already lost several good men to Schu mines. Since you have the flail we need you over here now!"
An odd surge of annoyance coursed through Wilcox, "Damn Krauts, what of Vigi—"
In the briefest of moments, MacKay's stern voice softened as if an owner was comforting a dying pet, "Vigilance and Black Flag were destroyed in the neutralizing of the Panzer Lehr HQ. There were no survivors. Over."
The annoyance had now bubbled into rage. He saw the faces of Hickman and Saffold in his mind. "I…I understand, sir."
MacKay's sternness returned, "Finish those repairs and get over here now! The Red Ball Express is en route, the Allies can't—Conti! Shift your base of fire to the house—the Allies can't move forward unless we do! You have the only mine flail and we need to clear these roads!" Then the Captain's voice softened again, "Hurry Wilcox, we need you up here now. Over."
They need me? They need me. "Understood, Captain, we're moving out!"
"Hurry! Able Six, out!"
"We're still moving forward, Wilcox?" the Rookie asked with saddened eyes.
Mercer popped his head down the hatch, "We can't fix the cannon with our tools right now; we need to go back to a motor pool for proper repairs."
"Shit, well here's hoping that the engineers with mine detectors can reach Able Company in time," Adrian said earnestly.
"Yeah, shall we go back, Wilcox?"
"No, we're moving forth."
"What?" the three experienced crewmen said in unison.
Wilcox gulped which was followed by a sigh, "Y'all heard me. Get situated so—"
"Sarge, the cannon's busted." Grits reminded him.
"I know."
"The cannon is split like a tuna can!" he emphasized.
"Thanks for telling me twice! You have something new to contribute?"
"You wanna secure the crossroads with a fucked cannon?!" Adrian uttered.
"No, I don't want to do it, but it's what we're doing, goddamn it!"
"What if they got some more Panzers by the crossroads? How we going to fight without our gun?" Russo asked.
Wilcox rose from his seat and reloaded the .50.
"What are we going to do, Wilcox? Huh? What if we see another tank?!" Russo shouted.
"Damn it, I don't know! What you want me to say? Able Company will have to handle any tanks we see. What I do know is that we need to hurry on up and open up that road for the rest of the Army."
"What the hell can we fight with?"
"Y'all shitting me? Look at us! We got three working MGs, three cases of ammo, a slicing-dicing flail, bullet-proof armor, and we look like something that'll give the devil a goddamn nightmare! We are a literal goddamn war machine! We don't have the luxury of waiting for full-scale repairs; the Red Ball is right on our ass, and Able is in distress right in front of us. And I will not let them die as I sit here weeping over a broken cannon!"
Mercer sighed before speaking, "Alright, Wilcox, what would you have us do?"
"Weld the battered hull as best you can. Then work on Hitler's Bane and get that bastard moving."
"You got it, this will take a few minutes."
"We're really doing this?" the Rookie asked.
Grits leaned over to him and patted him on the shoulder, "Yeah kid, I guess we are." Grits looked back at Wilcox and exhaled, "Cause we're knights, right?"
Wilcox nodded with a smile, "Fuckin-A. We're the knights who shall slay evil and save our comrades."
Russo shook his head with a genial smirk and said lowly, "You motherfucking crusader…"
Within minutes, the engineers had restored the hull of the Sherman to its peak efficiency. Wilcox stood within the hatch and placed his hands on the M2 grip. He turned to Mercer and gave him a thumbs-up, in which he returned.
"Marco, Excalibur is moving out to assist Able."
"Roger that, Wilcox. If the engineers get us situated, we shall join you. Make 'em pay for Hickman and Saffold. Happy Hunting. Out."
Hickman and Saffold. He would wreak havoc upon those men who killed his friends and damaged his tank, his beautiful sword in the war against tyranny. He would make them pay.
"Grits, floor it!"
"Copy that!"
Excalibur's engines roared, the giant metal death machine shot forward on the dirt road, its edgy occupants apprehensive at what they might encounter, but their resolve was as strong as the plating on their tank. The once distant exchange of rifle fire grew closer with each passing second. Wilcox squeezed the handle of the .50 tighter, his teeth gritting in anticipation. Screams in English became more audible until Excalibur finally hit the crossroads and soared down the road.
Excalibur found Able fighting hard against the remnant of the German forces, holding fast to the remainder of the crossroads. A good portion of the men were pinned down by heavy machine gun fire that was sheltered in brick French houses on the right flank, raking across the crossroads. To the surprise of Able Company—and the Germans, Excalibur came running down the crossroads, battered yet intimidating, much to the pride of Wilcox.
Conti came running out to meet the tank, German bullets following his heels. Conti dove behind a low stone wall and waved for Wilcox to stop the tank. He pointed out that the road had been heavily mined—the only thing that intelligence got right Wilcox thought to himself—and that Able lost some good men to the hidden Schu mines. Wilcox gave the simple order.
"Adrian, lower the flail!"
A cascading ripple of grinding gears followed as the giant cylinder creaked downward towards the ground and began to spin. The heavy flails rake the earth with terrible pounding, and occasionally an explosion erupting from the dirt as Schu mines were smashed to smithereens while Excalibur moved forth; all the while Excalibur was taking fire from the front and the side. Wilcox pulled back the hammer of the .50 and squeezed a long burst that was enough to scatter some of the Wehrmacht.
"Tear 'em to shreds, goddamn it!"
The three heavy machine guns on the Shermans rang in a beautiful chorus as invisible darts and green balls of tracer fire spat from the barrels into the Wehrmacht. The Rookie bellowed like a Banshee as he fired the .30 cal bow gun, Russo fired the .30 cal coaxial, and Wilcox topped off the three layer cake of death with his .50 cal. German riflemen who were cursed by misfortune were ripped to chunks in the face of this maddening fire, pieces of flesh were sent flying into the air, painting the ground with buckets of blood. The Germans began a steady retreat from this onslaught of firepower.
Every now and then, several German bullets would crack and dance off the M2 gun itself and around Wilcox, causing the man to flinch several times, but his spirit was indomitable. He stayed on the gun, squeezing the gun for so long his hands and arm went numb from the vibrations. He fired his rounds at the emplaced MG42s inside the brick homes. Wilcox clenched his teeth, watching the heavy rounds of the .50 penetrating the bricks and silencing the MG crews.
"Let's go, Able! Let's go!" MacKay rallied.
The Captain stood from his cover and began following behind the tank, firing his SMG from the waist, gritting his teeth as he did so. His men began to join their CO and they too initiated a marching fire, firing their automatics and semiautomatics from their hips. Through the thundering of his machine gun, Wilcox could hear the chorus of Able Company's weapons firing in unison with Excalibur's machine guns. And as before, the only voice he could somehow here was Blackwell who howled like a wolf as he squeezed the trigger from his rifle. "Fuck you!" he screamed with a twisted grin. He squeezed the trigger once more, and another German fell, "And fuck you too!"
The Germans were reeling, many turned and fled, and some dropped their weapons and stood up in a panic, getting mowed down by waves of rogue bullets. MacKay bellowed from his chest, "Able Company, let's go! Let's go! Let's go! Follow me!"
The crossroads had never seen so much traffic when the Red Ball sped down. Supply trucks and huge-eyed drivers passed by the wreckage of German vehicles and strewn German corpses littering the area. As supply trucks raced northward, scores of German prisoners were marching southward, hands on their heads as they were escorted by MPs and were jeered at by the triumphant soldiers of Able Company. Among the jeering throng were Wilcox and Captain MacKay, who silently watched the unending parade of supplies speeding down the road.
"Christ, this convoy never ends, sir," Wilcox shouted down to MacKay from his tank.
"They're moving the entire front, they can't afford to stop. Every minute they spare, the Germans dig in deeper. Anyway, glad you came by when you did, Sergeant Mercer tells me that Hitler's Bane suffered serious tread damage, but its crew is safe and catching a ride in a truck."
"That's good. Hopefully their tank will get patched up before the next fight."
"You ran into two Panzers and an A.T. gun, right?"
"We did sir, but thanks to 2nd platoon, my crew made it out."
"Any commendations?"
Wilcox rubbed his jaw, "Yes sir. Corporal D… uh, I think he called himself 'Duck', sir. Once his officer was killed, he took command of the platoon. And there was Blackwell, he—"
"Blackwell? You sure?"
Wilcox saw the uncertainty and surprise in MacKay's eyes. Who was Blackwell? And why did he have that reaction with others? "Yes sir, I can't forget someone like him. He came up with the plan."
"I see…surprising to say the least."
"Sir, who is Blackw—"
Conti came by with his Thompson slung over his shoulder, a lit cigarette dangling from his cracked lips, "Sir, the men are accounted for."
"Good." MacKay patted Excalibur's hull and smirked, "Wilcox just volunteered to give us a free ride, so let's get moving ou—"
MacKay shifted his head to the right, his warm smile faded away. His eyes were looking out into the distance. Wilcox and Conti traced his gaze, but could not see what he was staring at.
"Sir, you okay?" Conti asked.
MacKay believed it was his nerves, or maybe combat fatigue was setting in already. But he felt something. That someone, somewhere, was watching him with sinister intent.
"Yeah…Yeah I'm fine Conti, never mind. Let's go."
Wilcox helped MacKay onto the tank, but stared at Conti; both men concerned at what their Captain was staring at in the distance.
Like I stated above, I'm glad I was able to get this out on Memorial Day. This chapter is so late coming out, I planned for this to come out December 2015 and now it's May. I suffered from MASSIVE writer's block for this chapter and my new job as a teacher kept me busy. But I'm glad I finally published this chapter.