rain.
A fine mist had begun to cover the ground and visibility was dropping. It was Nazi weather once again. Somewhere out in front of the American lines a German army had been rendered invisible. Morgan had read the reports and heard comments from both fighters and recon planes. A mighty host of German infantry and armor was heading their way.
The 74th Armored Regiment was across the Rhine and dug in a couple of miles east of the river. More men, tanks, and supplies continued to pour across the pontoon bridges that connected the two sides. Jeb’s Pershing tanks had crossed with little difficulty, although it had been a little nerve-wracking to see the mighty tanks rumbling across the shaking and shifting pontoons. Only inches on either side kept the tanks from sliding off the unstable bridge and into the river. Jeb was annoyed that they hadn’t seen any real action yet while the rest of the regiment had sustained serious casualties both in the crossing and climbing the hills where the Germans were dug in.
“They are out there and they are coming,” Stoddard said grimly. “We are going to live up to my nickname and dig in and make stockades like we’ve never done before. God only knows when the weather will break and our planes can begin killing the krauts again. In the meantime, we’re going to fight them all by our lonesomes.”
Jeb Carter raised his hand like a kid wanting to go the bathroom. “What you’re saying is that they could be on our asses before we even know it.”
“Correct and astute as always, Captain,” Stoddard replied. “Any way we can prevent it?”
“Obviously we’ve got to send out patrols and hope they don’t get overrun before they can signal back.”
“That’s being done, Captain.”
“Great, sir, but I’d like to take it a step farther. The krauts will doubtless come down the clear land south of that fairly large stand of woods to our left. I want to send my tanks through the woods and into a position where they can take the Germans in either the flank or the rear.”
Jack and Carter had taken a Jeep through the clear ground as well as the woods to their front the day before and when the weather was better. There were dirt paths snaking through the trees and both were confident that the Pershings could make it, stay hidden, and hit the Germans hard. Nor did they think the Germans would try to bull their own way through the forest. There was no need for them to do that and it would only slow them down. Speed was of the essence for the Germans. The sky could clear at any moment.
“Sir,” said Jack. “We have maybe forty Shermans and a dozen tank destroyers left and we are digging in to let the earth provide additional protection for their thin armor. The Shermans all have either the better guns or flamethrowers and could give German armor an unpleasant surprise, especially if Jeb attacks their rear.”
“That and the tank destroyers and our 105mm guns along with the infantry would help,” Jeb added.
In addition to their own armor, the regiment had been reinforced by several battalions from the 116th Infantry Division. That unit had been badly mauled crossing the Rhine and would not be functioning as a division for a while.
Stoddard smiled grimly. “Then let’s make it happen, gentlemen, and that includes you, Carter.”
“Sir,” said Morgan, “does that mean I get to fly and try to find them?”
“It does not. At this time you will be more useful helping with the defenses. We have other men who can fly those dinky little planes and besides, there ain’t much to see right now. Former air force Captain, you just became an infantry officer. Congratulations.”
Muddy, dirty, filthy, wet, hungry and discouraged. All these terms described Volkmar Detloff as he trudged eastward accompanied by thousands of other Volkssturm soldiers and a sprinkling of totally mad SS types who actually thought they could win the war.
He no longer had any illusions. He was a coward and his men hated him. His new platoon was as bad as his first. When Colonel Schurmer told him he’d never command troops again he hadn’t taken into consideration the Reich’s desperate need for officers of any kind. Ergo, Volkmar once again commanded a platoon of old men and boys far younger than he.
Rain and snot dribbled from his nose and he wiped them with his sleeve. Somewhere up front hundreds of German tanks were approaching the American defenses. The infantry was supposed to accompany the tanks, but no one had considered the fact that there were too few trucks to transport the infantry. Many of the trucks the army had possessed had been pulverized by the American planes. Tramping through the mud, the infantry were simply incapable of keeping up with the armor.
Thankfully, no planes were overhead this day. Volkmar had seen enough of burned trucks and charred pieces of bodies to last a lifetime. A lifetime, he giggled nearly hysterically. His own lifetime could end any second now.
The German army was a mob. Not only had so many been killed by the Americans before even reaching the front, but large numbers of older men had simply collapsed and refused to move on. At first he’d been inclined to call them cowards, but many were older than his father and they were simply too exhausted to move. When they found them, SS soldiers shot them in the back of the head and called them traitors.
No, Volkmar thought, they were not traitors. They were simply old men who were poorly fed, inadequately clothed, and so tired they were incapable of moving. Was this the Reich he’d been supporting? Something was wrong. Worse, in his opinion, so many soldiers in the so-called German army weren’t German at all. Instead, they were conscripts from various nations and whose loyalty was dubious at best.
Any unit coherence had also disappeared. Instead of a platoon, Volkmar was now followed by more than a hundred dispirited Volkssturm who had no idea who he was, only that he was an officer and he was taking them in some direction.
In the distance to his front, Volkmar could hear the sounds of cannon firing. He shivered. In a while he and the others around him would close up on the tanks and attack the Americans. Volkmar was sure he would piss himself again. This time, he didn’t care.
Joachim Pieper was a veteran of the war against the Soviets and, at thirty, commanded an ad hoc mixed corps of infantry and armor. His force was supposed to penetrate the American defenses, reach the Rhine, and then turn north, cutting off the enemy defenders. Other units had similar assignments. With luck and skill they would defeat the Amis and take many prisoners.
He initially commanded two hundred and fifty tanks and an infantry brigade. He now had only maybe half that many tanks thanks to the American planes. God only knew how many infantry still followed him. They were a mixed bag of SS, regular army, and Volkssturm, and he didn’t think the Volkssturm were capable of fighting. His armor was first rate, but many of the crews were inexperienced and had never worked together. It was a recipe for disaster, but he was hell bent on avoiding that. While he preferred to maneuver and attack simultaneously from several sides, his men’s lack of experience would not permit him that luxury. No, he had chosen the simplest way and would attack straight on and smash his way to the river. They would endure heavy casualties for victory, but that was a blood price that had to be paid if the Americans were to be driven to the negotiating table.
In an attempt to reach his goal as soon as possible, Pieper’s tanks had outpaced his infantry. It was unorthodox, but he had to hit his target before the sky cleared and the bombs began to fall anew. He particularly dreaded napalm. Fire from the sky had turned so many of his Panthers and T34’s into burning pyres. If the weather turned and cleared, he might quickly find himself without any tanks at all.
Pieper opened the turret hatch of his Panther. He’d been offered a repainted T34 but had rejected it contemptuously. He would command a German tank, not a fucking piece of Russian shit. He had named the tank Sigurd after his wife, who’d tersely informed him in a letter that she didn’t necessarily consider it a compliment. Pieper thought it was funny.
His driver looked up from his own hatch. “Any idea where we are, General?”
Pieper grinned. The driver was a good man who had served with him before. “Heading right towards the
