He felt the tanker’s unease of close terrain where his machine was vulnerable to hidden foes armed with panzerfausts – German shoulder-fired anti-tank rockets. He watched as the other three Shermans and both jeeps entered the square and spread out, seeking cover behind nearby shops. Finally Lindsey and his crew straggled in on foot, one clutching a wounded arm, another limping heavily. All five had escaped. He beckoned to Lindsey.
“Sounded like an eighty-eight,” said Cole. “Where’d it come from?”
Lindsey stared at him with a dazed expression, blood trickling from his nose and ears. The concussion of the shell had stunned him. His gunner answered for him.
“North, sir. We got hit in the right side as we rounded the bend. Shell tore right through us and knocked out the engine.”
“Guess the rumors were true.”
“No way he could see us, sir.”
Cole pondered the matter. “Heard a report about a new gun sight the Krauts invented to see at night. Uses infrared light. They equipped a few Panthers with it and there were rumors they also put it on some Jagdpanthers.”
The shaken crew limped over to the curb so the medics could administer first aid.
Cole got on the radio to the rest of the platoon. Interference forced him to raise his voice. “Anybody see anything? Over. Over!” He finally received a crackling series of negative replies.
Cole stood in the hatch and looked around. Oddly, the village lacked a church, normally a ubiquitous feature even in the smallest European hamlet. At two stories, the inn was the tallest building. He clambered out and got onto the roof. From here he scanned the area with binoculars. Nothing. The fog was just too dense.
Returning to his tank, he tried contacting Captain Hogue, but the company and battalion command channels were drowned out by torrents of static. Youngblood adjusted dials and double-checked the equipment, but was unable to clear it up.
“Where’s this interference coming from?” asked Cole.
“Don’t know, sir. Maybe we’re being jammed.”
He was still able to talk on the platoon channel so he called, “All TCs come to my tank.”
He jumped to the ground as the other tank commanders clustered around. Digging a cigar from a pocket of his olive drab overalls, he chewed on it thoughtfully as he unfolded a map and spread it out on the engine deck.
“Radio net’s jammed so we can’t reach anybody,” he said. “Krauts know we’re here and if we sit here they’ll move to another position and start picking us off – or use the fog to slip away.”
“So we’re on our own,” said Waters.
“Looks that way.”
This prompted head-shaking and muttered profanity from the others.
“No use complaining about it. Let’s just get the job done. They’re somewhere on this ridge.” Cole tapped the map. “Hill 207. We know it’s an eighty-eight so we’ll have to assume it’s a Jagdpanther. They may have night-vision sights.”
“So if we try to move they’ll nail us,” said Sergeant Jackson.
“Well, if we all move at the same time and go at full speed in different directions they’ll have multiple targets to deal with. And we’ll fire smoke as we go.”
“If they can see through fog, won’t they see us anyway?”
“WP burns hot so maybe it’ll blind them. And the fumes could make them bail out.”
The others exchanged skeptical looks. Brown voiced the others’ concerns when he said, “Sir, if it really is a Jagdpanther its armor’s thicker than ours and sloped. Our shells will just bounce off.”
“We’ll charge the ridge from both ends and outflank it. It doesn’t have a turret so they can only swing their gun back and forth so far. Beyond that they have to turn the whole vehicle around to aim. If we knock off a track they’ll be stuck and then we can circle around and hit them from the side or rear where the armor’s thinner. Lindsey’s crew will stay here in town. So will the medics and the CIC guy until we have the hills secured.” Cole folded up the map. “Any questions?” He raked dark eyes over resigned faces. “We roll in five minutes.”
Everyone returned to brief their crews, then ‘buttoned-up’ – closed hatches – and put steel helmet shells over their fiberboard tanker helmets. Loaders pulled shells off ready racks. The 761st had the Sherman with the 76-millimeter gun, inadequate against the heavy armor of late-war German tanks like the Panther and Tiger. It had to get close to penetrate and the fearsome panzers had long high-velocity guns capable of destroying it before it could get within effective range. It did have a hydraulic traverse and gyrostabilizer, allowing the crew to rotate the turret quicker and even fire with some accuracy while moving, but that did little good if they were out of range. High-velocity armor-piercing rounds had greater penetration, but HVAP was scarce and the platoon only carried standard APC.
Cole’s bass voice boomed over the radio. “Move out!”
The platoon burst from Teufelsdorf, the two tanks under Cole and Jackson heading northeast and the two under Brown and Waters going northwest, all charging full speed across fallow farm fields, smashing through hedges and fences. Their cannons hurled a salvo of phosphorous shells up into the heights above and white pillars of smoke immediately rose.
Cole stood in the turret, unlit cigar still clenched between his teeth. A loud clang deafened him as he felt the hot rush of a passing shell. It had grazed the top of the turret, barely missing him and tearing off the 50-caliber anti-aircraft machine gun. He hissed profanity. Despite the fog and smoke, the enemy could still see them.
Kinkaid shifted into high gear and worked the steering levers, trying to zigzag and make the tank as difficult a target as possible. A second shell gouged a crater in the earth just behind them, throwing up a geyser of dirt and smoke.
Finally they reached the foot of Hill 207 and drove into the protection of a draw. Kinkaid downshifted and followed by Jackson’s tank they slowly crawled uphill.
The mist thinned somewhat as they ascended, but this was countered by dark, melancholy stands of pine and fir covering the slopes. At the top of the draw they halted. The forest was dense and the only way through was a dirt trail snaking along the crest. Brown and Waters radioed that they had reached the other end of the ridge unscathed. Cole ordered them to stay put for the moment. Cannons were reloaded with armor-piercing shells.
“Got a bad feeling about this, sir,” said Kinkaid.
Cole grunted agreement. “For sure he turned around and is aiming right down that trail, just waiting for us. Youngblood, grab your grease gun and come with me.”
They climbed out, Youngblood holding an M3 submachine gun. He paused to snap in a 30-round magazine, pull back the bolt, and flip open the dust cover. Then the two crept through the wet brush alongside the trail, silently cursing the bramble thorns tugging at them. Water dripping from the needled branches pattered on their helmets. The trees stood like ghostly sentinels in the murk, silent and watchful.
Youngblood pointed. Brush had been crushed and earth churned up by the passage of a heavy vehicle, bigger than a Sherman, with wide tracks. Cole nodded. They continued on.
Cole abruptly froze, listening intently. Up ahead he heard the low, throbbing growl of a powerful engine, like the breath of a monstrous, mechanical beast.
The stillness was shattered by a stuttering roar he recognized as an MG34, a machine gun commonly used on German armored vehicles. 7.92 millimeter bullets slashed through the foliage, punching through tree trunks, clipping off branches, and sending splinters flying like shrapnel asthe pair flung themselves into a muddy depression and hugged the ground. They hastily squirmed behind a fallen pine as a second burst whipped overhead.
“No tracers,” hissed Youngblood. “Can’t see where he is.”
“We know which way he’s pointing and that’s enough. Let’s go!” Keeping the windfall between them and the enemy, they crawled back down the trail until they were far enough to safely get to their feet and run the rest of the way back to their tank.
Cole jumped inside and grabbed the microphone. “Able Two Two and Two Five, move in! He’s pointing away from y’all!”
“Wilco!” Soon Cole heard roaring engines and crashing guns.
Brown’s triumphant voice came over the radio. “He’s tracked! Got the son of a bitch as he tried turning back toward us. His gun’s stuck pointing away from all of us now!”
“Step on it, Kinkaid!” said Cole. “Able Two Four, follow me!”
The Sherman swung down the trail, followed by Jackson’s tank. Cole discerned a vague, menacing bulk ahead. It was the sleek casemate of a Jagdpanther, armored skirts protecting its interleaved road wheels, the long barrel of an 88-millimeter jutting from its angled front armor. Painted in splotches of green, brown, and tan, evergreen branches further camouflaged it. The left drive sprocket had been hit, blowing off the track and immobilizing the 45-ton vehicle.
Cole ordered Kinkaid to veer off the trail to provide a clear field of fire for Jackson. Both Shermans lurched to a halt; gunners lined up sights and stomped firing pedals. The tanks rocked from the recoil. Shells punched through the Jagdpanther’s flank, ripping deep into its metal insides. The others mercilessly pounded it from the opposite side. Black smoke poured from grilles; orange flames licked out. A series of sharp explosions blew it open as ammunition overheated and exploded. The Jagdpanther sat there gutted, reduced to a burning wreck.
The tanks trained their machine guns on it to shoot down the crew as they tried to escape. Fog and drifting smoke made it difficult to see. At length the fire died down.
“Didn’t see anyone,” said Kinkaid. “Reckon they’re all dead,”
“Check to make sure,” said Cole.
The crew dismounted, fingers on submachine gun triggers as they warily approached. The reek of cordite and burning rubber and oil hung thick in the air. As they got closer they could see the Jagdpanther’s top and rear hatches were open.
Cole, holding a grenade, peeked inside through a shell hole, bracing himself for the sickening sight and stench of human beings torn apart or burned alive. The compartment was roomy compared to a Sherman – and the five seats surrounding the gun breech were empty.
“They’re gone!” he said.
“Must’ve bailed out just before it blew up,” said Youngblood.
One of the medics drove up in his jeep, followed by Rosenthal in his.
Cole scowled and stepped back as he stared at the wreck, arms akimbo. “There’s no infrared apparatus. How the hell could they see us?” He looked inside again and saw charred remnants of uniforms, socks, field caps, boots, even underwear. “They left their uniforms behind.”
“So what the hell are they wearing?” asked Robinson.
“Don’t know. Left their guns behind too. I can see a Schmeisser and four pistols, They had to bail out so fast they didn’t have a chance to grab them,Good, that means they’re unarmed. And there’s no sign of any other Germans so those five are it.” Cole turned to face the others. “All right, let’s track them down. Jackson, bring your crew with me. Waters, Brown, stay here.”
The two crews fanned out into the forest. Those left with the tanks relaxed a bit, slinging weapons over their shoulders. The Shermans were parked in a circle, facing outwards.
Rosenthal lit a cigarette and circled the Jagdpanther. It bore the black-and-white German cross on the sides, the white tactical number 101 on the sides and rear, and the white tactical symbol for a tank destroyer unit on the glacis plate. Next to it was a yellow wolf’s hook, a heraldic symbol he recognized as the unit insignia of the 2nd SS Panzer Division.
The wreck was still smoldering, so he fetched a fire extinguisher from his jeep and put out the remaining flames. Then he gingerly climbed onto the hot, mangled engine deck and swung inside, eyes watering in the smoke. He examined scorched seats and hatchways minutely with a magnifying glass, picking off samples he placed in an envelope.
He inspected the burned uniforms. Tank destroyers were considered artillery in the German Army, so their crews wore panzer uniforms of field gray instead of black. The jackets bore the collar runes and sleeve eagle of the Waffen-SS, but no unit cuff title. For security reasons SS soldiers had been ordered to remove these. A General Assault Badge was pinned on the left breast indicating combat experience. These were veterans. He searched for paybooks, wallets, or letters, finding nothing.
Climbing out, he studied the muddy ground nearby, kneeling to take a closer look.
Finally he returned to his jeep. He drew his Colt M1911 automatic from its shoulder holster, ejected the magazine, and loaded one of the special magazines he had brought with him. Then he picked up a Thompson M1 submachine gun and swapped its magazine too. He cocked both weapons.
Brown looked at him, curiosity written on his face. “What’s up?”
Rosenthal flicked away his cigarette. “I don’t think these are normal Germans. I have to find the lieutenant – and I’d suggest getting back in your tanks.” He hurried off into the woods.
At length he found Lewis, who directed him to Cole.
“Sir, pull your men back,” said Rosenthal.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
They were interrupted by the harsh chatter of automatic fire, followed by yells. It came from back where the tanks were. The two crews dashed back up the slope.
Near the top they stumbled over Waters. His throat had been ripped out.
As the tanks came into uncertain view Rosenthal spotted a dark, shaggy figure on top of Brown, trying to wrench away the man’s M3. Rosenthal saw Brown hold down the trigger and pour 45-caliber slugs into the belly of his attacker – with seemingly no effect.
Rosenthal whipped up his Thompson and squeezed off a burst. This time the figure let out a shrill howl and toppled over. A twig snapped; he ducked behind a Sherman as bullets ricocheted off the steel. Rosenthal leaned out and fired back, blindly spraying the tangled vegetation. He was rewarded with a yelp of pain and heard brush crash as someone ran away. Then silence.
They searched the area for more lurking foes, but there was no sign of anyone.
Rosenthal and Cole ran over to Brown. Dark blood spilled from a severed jugular vein. There was nothing they could do as Brown gave a final gasp and slumped lifeless in Cole’s arms.
Corpses were strewn all over the bivouac. They had literally been torn apart – dismembered, disemboweled, or decapitated. Heads and limbs and entrails lay scattered on ground that was red and soaked with blood.
The only survivor was Brown’s driver, Jones, who stood dazed, holding a bleeding arm. Kinkaid opened a first aid kit, dusted the wound with sulfa powder, and began bandaging it.
“What the hell happened here, Jonesy?” he asked.
“It bit me.”
“What bit you?”
“I don’t know.” Jones swayed and slumped against the tree. He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily. “I don’t feel so good.”
“You’re gonna be all right, man, just hang in there.”
Rosenthal examined the enemy he had killed. The dark shaggy figure was actually a blond white man riddled with dozens of gunshot wounds. He was totally nude. Rosenthal lifted the body’s left arm, revealing a black letter tattooed on the underside.
“SS blood group tattoo,” said Cole.
Hanging from a cord around the dead German’s neck was an identity disc, the Wehrmacht equivalent of dog tags. Made of zinc alloy, it was stamped with the wearer’s replacement unit, personnel number, and blood type. Rosenthal opened a notebook, compared the information with a list, and grunted confirmation. He scribbled a few notes with a metal mechanical pencil he drew from his pocket.
“Why’s he buck naked?” asked Cole.
Behind them a clamor rose. Jones writhed on the ground, gripped by violent convulsions. Kinkaid and two crewmen struggled to restrain him. With a shout he hurled them back and sprang to his feet. His eyes were wild and distended, saliva dripping from his gaping mouth, his face contorted. His overalls began
bursting at the seams as his body bulged with pulsing muscles. Horrified, the others recoiled.
Rosenthal switched his Thompson to semi-automatic and stepped forward. Without a word he raised it and shot Jones once in the forehead.
“What the hell you do that for?” asked Jackson, snatching the Thompson away. His crew seized the CIC agent, jamming their gun muzzles against him.
“I had no choice,” said Rosenthal calmly. “He was turning into one of them.”
“One of them what?”
“Werewolves.”
Jackson stared at him in stunned disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
Angry protests came from the others. “You’re saying that dead Kraut’s a werewolf?” said Jackson. “Bullshit!”
“Look around. You’ll find wolf tracks all over the place.”
“Yeah, it’s a forest.”
Rosenthal shrugged free of the tankers holding him. “The last wolves in this part of Austria were killed almost a century ago. I found wolf hair in the Jagdpanther. The dead man’s dog tags match a list I have. And look what happened to your buddies. How could unarmed men tear them to pieces? Why were your guns useless?”
“You were able to kill him,” said Cole, pacing around looking at the carnage.
“My guns are loaded with silver bullets. They’re severely allergic to silver. It sends them into anaphylactic shock.”
“Why isn’t he a wolf now? And why’s he naked?”
“When they die they revert back to human form. They have to undress before shape-shifting or the transformation tears apart their clothes. That’s what was happening to Jones. If their saliva gets in your bloodstream you get infected. He’d have tried to kill us.” Rosenthal sighed with exasperation. “We’ve got to get out of here. They didn’t capture our tanks, but they’ll try again. We have to get clear of this radio interference and call for reinforcements.”
SNAFU: Wolves at the Door: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 8