The colonel’s heart pounded at the prospect. Here it was, a chance to win the real prize, to shorten--hell, maybe to win--the war. “We can do it, sir!”
“Yessir, General!” Lorimar added.
“Good men. There’s risk, but I think you can all see what we stand to gain.”
“Say no more, General--we’ll be on our way by the crack of dawn.”
The Somme, South of Abbeville, France, 19 August 1944, 1115 hours GMT
As Pulaski saw the rippling waters of the river glittering before him, he felt a rising sense of disbelief and elation. He told Keefer to drive the command half-track off to the side of the road at the crest of the hill leading into the river valley. Leaning with an easy slouch, he watched Ballard’s tanks roll past, racing along the rural lane above the river. The column halted when the lead tanks reached a hillside where the ground sloped steeply away before them. Colonel Pulaski pulled out the map.
“We’re no more than ten miles south of the highway,” he realized, speaking aloud. “What we need is a good track on this side of the river, running north. Keefer, move us up a bit.”
The half-track rumbled through the field beside the lane, which was currently blocked by a column of Shermans. When the big vehicle reached the crest Pulaski looked in the direction he wanted to go and grimaced as he saw a wet valley, flat and slick like a bog, extending far inland from the riverbank.
For the last two days they had swept toward the northeast, leaving the rest of Third Army behind as they raced toward the Somme and the road that was key to the German retreat. General Wakefield had argued with General King and at first tried to put the brakes on his aggressive Combat Command, fearing they were getting too far ahead of themselves. Wakefield had wanted to wait long enough for three divisions to advance abreast, but in the end Pulaski had convinced Jack King of the opportunity that beckoned to them--and reminded them both of the Germans who were getting away every hour. Now they had an open flank before them, a chance to sweep deep into the enemy rear. By all accounts they were attacking a defeated foe, and it only made sense to keep him on the run.
There was one thing Pulaski learned about Henry Wakefield in that encounter. No matter what his initial feelings on a matter, when he made a decision, he stuck with it all the way, working to get his men all the air support and fuel that he could get his hands on. His respect for the man had increased--and for the first time, he found himself caring that he earned Wakefield’s respect in turn.
Patton himself had heartily endorsed the intended encirclement. He had ordered the rest of the Nineteenth Armored, including the reserve combat command, as well as Third Armored and a couple of infantry divisions, to advance in support of CCA. Those troops remained some distance to the rear, and Pulaski knew that it was up to him to carry this attack as fast and as far as it could go.
An armored car came racing along a trail at the bottom of the hill, tires skidding on the dirt road, kicking up a small plume of dust from an excess of speed. Pulaski watched the racing vehicle with a thrill of pride--in some ways, these underarmed and weakly armored little combat cars reminded him most valiantly of the cavalry that was the inspiration for Patton’s armored tactics. The recon patrols drove around the flanks of his command, often rushing into villages and strongpoints in advance of the first Shermans--just like the bold horsemen of an earlier century.
Now the M8 Greyhound raced up the hill, veering around the Shermans. The hatch on the armored car was open, and an officer was waving wildly as his driver steered toward the command half-track.
“Colonel! Colonel Pulaski!”
It was Captain Smiggs, the cocky young cavalryman who commanded the CCA recon company.
“Whatcha got, Smiggy?”
“Down there, around the shoulder of the hill. Sir, it’s an old roadbed, probably Roman--made of stone. And Colonel, it looks dry, and seems to lead clear across the swamp. I’ve sent a platoon ahead to check it out, but there’s tracks... farm stuff, and trucks, too. I’d guess it’s good as gold!”
“Fine work, Smiggy. Keefer, you heard the man--let’s get down there and have a look! Frank!” he shouted to Ballard, who was sitting on the rim of the hatch on his Sherman’s turret. “Keep an eye on things here--but be ready to move!”
“Sure thing, Colonel.”
His driver, by now well attuned to Pulaski’s sense of speed, wasted no time in maneuvering the big half-track onto the narrow lane. They rumbled and lurched along at twenty miles an hour, chasing after the racing armored car.
In another few minutes he saw it, a narrow span across the marsh, clearly ancient, and apparently undamaged by the vagaries of twentieth-century warfare. A few lonely marble crosses marked a small cemetery on the near shore, but then the road extended over trackless greenery. In several places stone arches carried the road across swaths of open water.
“Will it hold a tank?” he wondered as Smiggs climbed out of his car and used his binoculars to scrutinize the far bank.
“Five armored cars and a Stuart drove across it with me, and it didn’t seem to shake much,” offered the captain. “But I guess there’s no telling if it will hold a Sherman until we try it.”
“How big is the marsh?”
“Goes several miles inland from here,” Smiggs reported. “The combat command can get around it, but it might take an extra hour. I’ve got Lieutenant Mitchell up ahead, scouting the road to Abbeville. We found one route with the bridge blown, but he was on another track that looked promising.”
“Good.” Pulaski scrambled out of the half-track and spread out a map across the front of Smigg’s Greyhound. Sergeant Dawson held the map down while the colonel next took out the folder of aerial recon photos he’d been given the day before. “That bridge?” he asked, indicating the span over a small tributary creek flowing into the Somme.
“That’s the one, still intact here.” Smiggs looked at the date and time on the photo. “They must have blown it in the last twenty-four hours.”
Pulaski frowned in concern. “I wonder if they know we’re coming... lots of woods over there. They could have a nasty surprise in our way.”
Smiggy nodded. “It’s possible... but Mitchell’s been along this road near the river, and it was clear.” He pointed to another swath of forest, a mile to the west. “Any concentration of force would have to be gathered here.”
“And those guys will have their hands full with Task Force White, as soon as Whitey gets into position.”
Pulaski thought of his orders, and the opportunity that lay before him. It would take several hours just to move his lead task force along that single-lane Roman road. And he knew that route through the marsh could lead Ballard flush into the flank of the retreating Germans, with a prime opportunity to sever the lifeline of the Abbeville bridge. Then, if Task Force White took the more circuitous route, they should arrive at the destination in perfect time to support the armor. They could make an attack first thing in the morning. The calculations took only a minute, and once his mind was made up there was no question about a decision. Conscious of seconds ticking by, Pulaski gave his orders. “Let’s go for it.”
“Sarge!”
“Here it is, Colonel.” Dawson anticipating the order, had the radio warmed up and handed him the mike. “Low power.”
“All Crimsons,” he said, using the code name they had established, “this is Crimson Eight. Move forward, pronto... do not acknowledge.”
Ballard’s tanks started down the hillside immediately, and in a few minutes the first of them had reached the Roman road.
“Frank, I want your boys and Smiggs’s company to head across this stone road, here... send one of your Shermans ahead to make sure it checks out as sturdy. Whitey and I will bring the rest of CCA around the marsh. We’ll meet you south of the bridges--but when you get your battalion across, you should attack if the opportunity’s right. We’ll be up in support.”
“You got it, sir!” replied the ex-boxer, his jaw locked in a scowl of deter
mination.
The column of M4s started across the track, leaving fifty yards between tanks, while the rest of the command gathered at the base of the hill. By the time Lieutenant Colonel Lorimar came up with his self-propelled guns, CCA had received another visitor, and Pulaski clambered out of his half-track to greet General King.
“I had to ride hell-bent for leather to catch you, Ski,” said the general with a broad grin. “Good work.”
“I’ve got a chance here, Jack--looks like this track might take us all the way to the Abbeville bridges. I’m sending the tanks across here, and the rest of us are coming around the marsh.” “Excellent!” declared King, clapping one fist into the palm of his other hand. The division CO looked up at the half-track while the mechanized infantry battalion moved onto the Roman road. “I’ve got a fresh set of recon photos for you, taken this A.M. Looks like the Krauts still don’t have any idea we’re here. Make a little extra room in there, OK? I’d like to ride along.”
Approaching the Somme River, West of Abbeville, 1700 hours GMT
“Hey you, in the panzer!”
“Ja?” Carl-Heinz stuck his head out of the hatch.
“That’s good--stay there while I get your picture.”
“Why?” wondered the driver, though he obliged the aristocratic-looking photographer with a smile and a wave.
“Danke. It’ll make a good shot for the folks back home.” Craning his head around, Carl-Heinz was not surprised to see something like two dozen German soldiers, mostly panzer-grenadiers, perched on the tank’s hull and turret, almost as if his tank had sprouted hair. It had been like that for many kilometers, all these footsore warriors willing to take advantage of one of the few vehicles rolling toward der Vaterland.
“Did you ride all the way from Normandy?” asked the photographer, speaking to a cocky feldwebel on the left fender.
“Better than walking--and this young fellow makes a fine chauffeur!”
“Say, you were with Panzer Lehr, weren’t you?” asked the photographer, catching a glimpse of the division designation on the hull turret. “I know someone who’s going to be glad to see you.”
Ulrich, who had risen from the radioman’s hatch, regarded the man warily. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Oh, forgive me... Baron von Esebeck, at your service. I am a correspondent for the German news service.”
“And who will be glad to see us?” Carl-Heinz asked.
“There he is now.” Von Esebeck turned and waved, shouting loudly. “General Bayerlein, I have found some of your lost souls!”
The commander of the Panzer Lehr division was standing at a crossroads just before them, but he hurried over to the tank and casually returned the crewmen’s brisk salute. Ulrich was clearly embarrassed at being around generals and aristocrats; he slid back into the tank, letting Carl-Heinz do the talking. Carl-Heinz wasn’t intimidated by anybody.
“You were with Schroeder’s company, yes?” Bayerlein asked, clearly delighted to see a vehicle from his old division.
“Ja, mein General,” Carl-Heinz replied. “I am sorry to say that the lieutenant was killed by an enemy aircraft.”
Bayerlein shook his head. ‘Too many of my brave men fell that way...but listen, I need you. Follow that road, there. You’ll see where to wait--and I will be along by this evening. And you panzergrenadiers, stay with the tank. I have work for you, as well.”
Carl-Heinz guided the Panther into a narrow lane and soon saw a young hauptmann waving him over to the side of the road.
“Do you have an officer?”
“He’s dead.”
‘These are your orders--take your tank down the road down to the landing on this bank of the Somme. You’re to form up as part of a new kampfgruppe.”
Carl-Heinz saluted, moderately grateful that there was some semblance of order returning to the German Army. A kampfgruppe was not a division, but it could be a formidable force of armor, and the name implied they were assembled for a specific combat task. He followed the directions and quickly found himself lining up in a camouflaged swath of relatively open woodland. Leafy nets were stretched overhead to conceal a large area, with lots of space between the trees.
Before long there were no less than fourteen Panthers, two dozen Panzer Mark IVs, and even six lumbering Tiger tanks all gathered here. The men emerged from their vehicles and gathered around a truck near the edge of the woods. They exchanged bits of news, all-too-similar tales of retreat and narrow escapes, especially when it came to dodging the bombs of the hated Jabos. Nor could they help speculating on whatever it was that had brought them together here.
Still, to judge from the elaborate extent of the camouflage, someone had put a lot of work into hiding a strong force here. Frequently Allied planes droned overhead, but none flew low enough to seriously inspect the grove. More tankers showed up, including a young captain, Schmitz, who strolled up to inform Carl-Heinz and the crew that he had been given command of their panzer and several others.
“A new company,” he said with a wry smile. “We might have six Panthers before we’re through.”
An hour later General Bayerlein arrived in a command car, quickly emerging to move among the men with an easy familiarity that went a long way toward making them comfortable and reminding them that they were still soldiers in a proud army.
Carl-Heinz didn’t know the man personally, but Bayerlein’s reputation--earned at first under the Desert Fox in North Africa and solidified by his handling of Panzer Lehr in Normandy--was good. And in his stint as division CO he had never caused any unfair difficulties for his troops, which to most enlisted men was the best sign of a good commanding officer.
The tank crews began to gather in the center of the clearing, while officers separated them by the type of their vehicles.
“You are now one part of a new kampfgruppe--yours being the Panther Regiment,” declared a Wehrmacht major, with no trace of irony.
“And that’s the Tiger regiment, and the Panzer IV regiment,” Fritzi whispered, amused at the grandiose title for this ragtag assemblage.
Ulrich laughed dryly, and Hauptmann Schmitz silenced him with a glare.
The major continued, taking no note of the interruption. “Field Marshal Rommel, the Desert Fox himself, is our new army commander. He has a job for us.”
General Bayerlein climbed onto the back of a truck, and outlined the objective of this ad hoc formation. They would be attacking, for a change, and were promised supplies of fuel and ammunition, as well as replacements for all tanks who had lost crewmen. They listened to him earnestly, and Carl-Heinz couldn’t help but feel a rush of enthusiasm as the plan was outlined.
“Where’d all these tanks come from?” wondered one officer, a lieutenant, speaking out loud.
“I don’t know how much you know about Rommel,” declared the general, with his first trace of humor. “But he ordered them to be here, and he doesn’t take no for an answer. And another thing... our field marshal hates the Jabos as much as you do. Therefore, he has ordered rain for tomorrow.”
That got a good laugh from all the men.
“You think I’m kidding?” smiled the general. “You all know the Desert Fox. He’s got fingerspitzengefühl, intuition in his fingers. He knows these things.”
And indeed, in a few minutes the tanks had been fueled from some trucks that had appeared, perhaps conjured by the same magic that had brought about this gathering of armor. Some of the Tigers were unable to top off their fuel tanks before all of the trucks had been drained, but Bayerlein explained that the big panzers wouldn’t be driving far. “The Tigers will be the anvil,” he explained, “while the rest of you will be the hammer, sweeping around the enemy’s flank.”
There was also a shortage of armor-piercing ammunition, but Hauptmann Schmitz made sure that Pelz stowed more than two dozen of the tank-killing rounds. Carl-Heinz learned that they were, in fact, the command tank for a “company” of five Panthers. All around men were checking equipment, cleaning
and lubricating fittings, polishing gunsights, and checking radios.
By then night had fallen, and the clearing rumbled and roared to the sound of tank engines.
A few minutes later, the new kampfgruppe moved out.
West Bank of the Somme, Abbeville, France, 20 August 1944, 0923 hours GMT
Ballard’s task force was in the lead, and that was how he liked it. The tank commander had met Smiggy on the north side of the marsh, and the captain and lieutenant colonel had both agreed that as they drew closer to the Germans, the Shermans should be at the front of the column.
“They’ve got a couple of A/T guns sighted on the track to the left, but the road along the river is clear all the way to the Abbeville highway.”
“Is Task Force White up yet?” Ballard asked.
“Not yet... I’ve got a platoon back there to lead them in.” “How much farther do we have to go?”
‘Two miles to the highway, no more,” the captain of the re-con company shouted upward. He was standing in the hull of his armored car, while Ballard leaned out of the hatch in his Sherman’s turret. “I got a good look at it from the cover of some trees.”
“What kind of traffic?” Ballard wondered.
“Mostly foot... I saw a few cars, trucks, horse-drawn carts. You name it, they’re using it. But no sign of any unit cohesion. This ain’t a march, Colonel--it’s a rout.”
“Not for long,” the armored commander vowed. He twisted to look behind him, though the view of the road was blocked by the two trailing companies of his medium tanks. How long would it take for the rest of CCA to circle the marsh and join him? He knew he’d have to guess. Already some of the armored cars had made the trek--surely the rest of the Pulaski’s men couldn’t be that far behind.
He looked north, picturing the Germans getting away along the road to Abbeville. He knew what his colonel wanted, what his general wanted, and his general’s general wanted. And it was what Ballard wanted, too.
Speed. It was the thing that had brought them this far, and it was the thing that would win the campaign for them. And he remembered a lesson from his boxing days at the Point: When you had your opponent on the ropes, never let him off, not even to draw a breath. The final connection was obvious, because right now the Germans were on the ropes, and CCA was an armored fist poised for a knockout.
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