Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  There was a small rustling sound behind the wall. Krauss thought he could hear the limping footsteps of Heinz die away. Perhaps not. His butt was only a smoldering ember. He squashed it out between two work-hardened fingers and brushed the ashes off on his pants.

  For the first time he glanced quickly at the vine-covered wall. Then he walked off.

  The Road to Munich

  1608 hrs

  What the hell am I supposed to do? he thought with the bitter anguish of indecision. What what what? . . .

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a tight situation, dammit. Captain Robert Slater, tank commander, had seen plenty of action. He’d run into his share of bitchy situations. But not like this. Nothing like this . . .

  He had a mental flash of how the Seventh Army G-2 periodic would report it. Under “Enemy Operations During Period.” “Heavy enemy resistance encountered,” it would say, “vic Heidendorf (Q8714).” Nothing about the blood, the torn limbs, the death. Nothing about the stinking sweat of fear. Nothing about the agony of decision—when any decision would be wrong. He swallowed the bile that kept rising in his throat, burning and sour. He felt cold. He could feel the wetness trickle down from his armpits.

  He stood tall in the open turret. His Sherman tank was positioned off a narrow forest road, concealed by the natural growth of trees and shrubs. Desperately searching for an answer he knew was not there, he reviewed his situation once again. . . .

  The little evergreen forest bracketed the road less than a quarter of a mile from the village. Heidendorf. On the road to Munich. At the ruins of a farm on the edge of the woods the road made a bend and then continued straight through open fields to the village. The other tanks of his command were in concealment in the woods. And near the bombed-out farm, huddled among the trees, were the men of the supporting infantry unit.

  He lifted his binoculars. Bleakly he surveyed the terrain before him.

  The fields on either side of the narrow road, the only access to the village, were studded with crazily tilted signs, skulls and cross-bones on a black field with the words ACTHUNG MINEN! The soft shoulders of the road had been churned to a muddy mess by heavy traffic. Close to the village several strategically placed tank traps, dug in the soft, wet earth, could be made out. The skeleton of a broken, cannibalized German Wehrmacht truck stood in the field not far from the village itself. The little town, like so many Bavarian villages, had a fortresslike appearance. The houses and barns facing the surrounding fields were massive stone structures with small windows. They were connected by tall, thick stone walls, presenting an uninterrupted stone front toward the open fields. A heavy barricade had been thrown across the road where it entered the village.

  Halfway there, just off the road, sat a Sherman tank. Gutted, still smoldering.

  It had been his lead tank.

  Less than an hour before it had been lumbering toward the village of Heidendorf. There had been a sudden shattering explosion. A shell from a German panzer, a Tiger tank, hidden in the village. The shell had landed directly in front of the Sherman, shooting a geyser of dirt into the air. With a grinding roar of gears, the tank had veered crazily off the road, clattering into the muddy field—and almost at once a second round from the Tiger hit it broadside. The Sherman shuddered to a halt and began to burn. Two men had squeezed from the turret hatch. They’d tumbled to the ground, and in a crouched, broken run, shielded by the blazing tank, they’d made for the woods. They’d covered almost a hundred yards when they hit the antipersonnel mines. Their twisted bodies were lying in the mud where they’d been thrown by the blasts. Bob Slater had been watching it all in his field glasses. He’d been brought so close to the men, he’d seen the brief shock of disbelief on their faces before they died. . . .

  A soldier came running up to the command tank. Slater looked down at him. It was Sergeant Barker.

  “It’s no good,” Barker said. “We’ll never get through.”

  Slater again looked through his binoculars. Not because he thought he’d find a solution, but because he desperately needed to do something.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” he said. His voice was low and dead. He wasn’t speaking to anyone.

  From the village came the staccato burst of a submachine gun.

  Slater was suddenly aware of the rumbling, grating sound of laboring motors on the road behind him. He turned. A convoy of vehicles was grinding down the narrow road. Several GIs were flagging them down. The road was piling up with halted trucks.

  A jeep cut out from the stalled convoy and careened along the road shoulder toward Slater’s command tank. It bore a plate with a single star. Even as it came to a gravel-spurting stop at the tank, an officer, a brigadier general, leaped from the jeep and came striding up to the tank.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded sharply. “What’s the holdup?”

  He stopped at the tank and glared up at Slater.

  “This area should have been cleared long ago,” he barked angrily.

  “I’ve got a whole damned HQ unit back there. I’ve got to get through!”

  Slater looked drawn.

  “Sir,” he said. “We’re encountering heavy resistance.” He had a sudden, discordant impulse to laugh. There he was, speaking “periodic reportese”! “The village up ahead is held by SS troops,” he continued.

  “Well, get them the hell out!”

  “They have armor, sir. They—”

  “Tanks?”

  “Yes, sir, they—”

  “Have you requested artillery? Air strike?”

  Slater looked haunted.

  “No, sir. I—”

  “Why not, dammit?”

  Slater swallowed. His voice became tinged with resentment.

  “Sir,” he said. “There’s a Tiger tank—”

  “How many?”

  “One.”

  “One!” The general exploded. “Goddammit, man, you’re letting your entire unit be held up by one tank! Knock it out!”

  “Sir—”

  “You can reach it from here, can’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  “But, my ass! Blast it!”

  Slater stared at the general. His teeth were clamped so tight the muscles corded in his jaws. Stiffly he held out his field glasses.

  “Sir,” he said with grim defiance. “Maybe you’d better take a look.”

  Glaring at the young officer, the general climbed up on the tank. He grabbed the offered field glasses, angrily raising them to his eyes. For a brief moment he scanned the area. Then he stopped. He stiffened.

  “Good Lord!” he said. His voice was hoarse with shock.

  Slater knew what he was seeing. . . . The break in the massive wall; the ugly long snout of the Tiger tank poking through it, slowly traversing the area. And the people. The old men, the women, the children—so many children—huddled in terror against the base of the walls and the buildings; hundreds of them. All deliberately herded out there and exposed to any enemy fire. A living human shield protecting the SS defenders behind the wall; the scattered bodies sprawled in the dirt . . .

  “The Tiger is behind the wall, sir,” he said quietly. “At the break. You can just make it out.” He looked at the general, still staring at the chilling sight through the binoculars. Let him look, he thought, good and hard. He wants to throw his weight around? Fine! Let him pull rank. Let him make the decision! Aloud he said:

  “The whole damned population of the village must be out there. If any of them try to break away, the SS shoots them.” He couldn’t help sounding outraged. ‘Their own people!”

  The general lowered the field glasses. He was obviously shaken. He frowned.

  “We can’t bypass the place, sir,” Slater said. “And we’ve got to use the road. The fields are full of tank traps. And mined.”

  The general nodded. He looked toward the village, frowning in concentration.

  “It’s a helluva situation, sir. We either sit here”—he
nodded toward the village—“or we massacre them!”

  The general gave the field glasses back to Slater. He looked closely at the young officer. Quietly he said:

  “What’s your name, son?”

  Slater was startled.

  “Slater, sir,” he answered. “Robert Slater.”

  The general sighed.

  “Well, Bob,” he said. “When you’re confronted with an either-or situation, look for the third way. . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “The third way out, Bob. There’s always a third way out.” He was suddenly brisk again. “Do you speak German, Captain?”

  Slater shook his head.

  “No, sir.” He was puzzled. What’s he getting at? he wondered.

  “Any of your men?”

  “Afraid not, sir.”

  “Figures,” the general observed with resignation. “Well, I do.” He looked toward the village. “I’m going up there.”

  Slater gave him a quick, startled look.

  “You can’t!” he exclaimed. “Not you, sir.” He hesitated. “I’ll go, sir. If you’ll tell me what you want me to do . . .”

  The general shook his head.

  “Won’t do, Bob. Heroes are a waste. Always use the best man for the job. I’m it.” He was giving an order. “I want two men. To give me fire cover.” He gestured toward the field. “From that tank out there. Close enough for accuracy. Get them!”

  Slater at once called to Sergeant Barker.

  “Sergeant! I want two men. With tommy guns. On the double!”

  “Okay, sir.” Barker turned to a group of GIs sitting on the ground nearby.

  “Kowalski!” he barked. “Davis! On your feet!”

  The two men looked at him.

  “Aw, Sarge,” they chorused.

  “Move it!”

  They got up. The general turned to Slater. He studied him closely.

  “Keep your eye on that Tiger, Bob,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’ll have to play this one by ear. But you’ll know when you get your chance. Grab it!”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll try.”

  “Dammit, soldier! You’ll do better than that!”

  He looked toward the village and grinned ruefully.

  “They tell me my job’s supposed to be getting things moved.” He glanced at Slater. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  He jumped from the tank. He beckoned to Kowalski and Davis.

  “Stick to the road. Use the ditch. Any cover you can find. Move fast. Don’t get your asses blown off in the fields. When you get to the tank, open up. Give me all the fire cover you can. Make them pull their heads down. Got it?”

  The men nodded.

  “Got it, sir.”

  They started off. Slater used his intertank radio.

  “Armadillo Three. This is Armadillo One. . . . Joe, you’ve got a shot at that Tiger, haven’t you?”

  The radio crackled.

  “Sure do, but—”

  Slater interrupted.

  “No buts. Stay with it. When I fire, you fire. Don’t hesitate for a second. Out.”

  “Got you. Out.”

  There was a sudden burst of automatic fire from the field. Slater started. He grabbed the field glasses and looked.

  The general and the two GIs had reached the smoking tank. The men were firing at the top of the village walls and at the windows in the buildings over the heads of the cowering civilians, giving cover to the general, who was making for the wrecked German truck. They were placing the fire well. Slater could see the puffs of shattered masonry where they hit.

  Sergeant Barker walked up to the general’s jeep. He stared toward the village. He turned to the driver.

  “Who the hell’s he?” He nodded toward the village. “He ain’t no combat officer.” His voice held a grudging respect. The driver looked self-important.

  “That’s General Thurston. Howard Thurston. Quartermaster Corps.” He paused for effect. “That’s ‘Third Way’ Thurston himself.”

  “Who?” Barker looked blank.

  “ ‘Third Way’ Thurston. That’s what they call him. If they get him stymied—man, he’s always got a third way out!”

  The fire from the guns of Kowalski and Davis was suddenly joined by other firing. Both men looked toward the sound.

  “Some damned funny third way out he’s picked himself this time,” Barker commented dryly.

  Slater was watching intently through his binoculars. General Thurston had reached the shelter of the German truck. Suddenly he broke cover and hurled himself into the defiladed area of a tank trap. The German gunfire probed insistently for him.

  “Armadillo Three!” Slater ordered, his voice tense. “Hold your fire! Mike! Give them one round—over their heads! Make the bastards duck!”

  Almost at once a tank gun fired—and immediately an answering round came screaming from the Tiger tank, searching for the hidden Sherman, crashing into the trees a short distance away. Slater stayed glued to the field glasses.

  “Sit tight!” he ordered grimly.

  Thurston had used the exchange of fire. He was at the wall, pressed with the others against the base, out of the line of fire from the SS troops. Kowalski and Davis kept up their fire cover. Slater kept his binoculars trained on the general. He could see him gesticulating animatedly with an elderly man and several other civilians.

  Suddenly there was a thunderous explosion on the road behind.

  Barker at once hit the ground.

  “Mortars!” he shouted. “Hit the dirt!”

  Slater whirled toward the blast. One of the last trucks in the piled-up convoy had been hit. It was blazing fiercely, vomiting black smoke. The GIs were scurrying for cover even as two more mortar shells carrumped into the ground on either side of the road. He heard the deep-throated sound of one of his tanks starting up. Three more mortar rounds fell—this time in front of him. Slater felt a hot surge of dread. They’re bracketing us! he thought wildly. They’ve got the road already zeroed in! They’ll blow us to pieces!

  Another tank started up. Slater shouted into his mike.

  “Stay put, dammit! Keep your eyes on that Tiger! Joe! Hold your position!”

  He squinted through his binoculars. Come on, General, he thought fiercely. Whatever the hell you think you’re going to do—do it!

  Sergeant Barker came running up to the tank.

  “We’ve gotta get outa here,” he shouted. “They’re putting them down the chimney!”

  The radio crackled. “Bob! Shall we give it to them?”

  “Hold it!” he snapped.

  Two more mortar shells crashed into the ruined farmhouse. Cries of “Medic! . . . Medic!” came from the rubble. More rounds exploded toward the rear. Barker cried:

  “That convoy back there’s a bunch of sitting ducks! The road’s blocked behind them!”

  Slater strained to look back. The road was dense with smoke. One truck, hit by the mortar fire, burning and belching smoke, was across the road; another, attempting to turn on the narrow road, was stuck in the ditch. The road was effectively blocked.

  Slater felt stricken. Betrayed. Fuck the sense of relief he’d felt when General Thurston arrived and took over. Now the ultimate decision was still his, only more impossible, more desperate than ever. He raged against the injustice of it all. Dimly he was aware of Barker shouting.

  “We gotta break out! Now!”

  There was only one course of action. He had to knock out that Tiger tank, or he wouldn’t have a chance of reaching the village to stop the mortar fire. The whole convoy would be wiped out. He had to open fire. Kill the civilians. The women. The kids. And now—the general . . .

  Ashen-faced, he stared toward the little village that had become his personal hell. The strain was a chilling mask pulled tight over his face. More shells exploded. He felt a sudden icy shiver knife through his body. He knew what he had to do. Kill. He knew that his decision would kill him as well. The wound he would inflict upon himsel
f would not bleed, but neither would it heal. . . . He looked at the target through his field glasses. The deadly Tiger snout poked obscenely through the break in the wall. Directly below the villagers huddled in terror, the general in their midst.

  Slater’s knuckles were bloodless as he gripped his binoculars.

  “Stand by to fire!” he ordered. To his own ears it sounded like a croak.

  The scene at the distant wall was inexorably etched on the cold

  lenses of his field glasses. He fought an overpowering urge to hurl them away and with them the hellish sight he knew was about to erupt. He opened his mouth to give his command.

  Suddenly he saw the general jump to his feet. He stood tall among the cowering Germans. Rapidly he pumped his arm, fist clenched, up and down above his head. At once the villagers scrambled to their feet, all as one. Splitting into two groups directly under the Tiger tank, still hugging the protection of the wall, they raced away in opposite directions, leaving the area around the Tiger clear and empty, stripped of its human shield.

  “He did it!” Slater shouted, his voice shrill with exultation. “He moved them! Fire! Fire! Get the bastards!”

  His last words were drowned by the roar of the firing Sherman tanks. Round after round of armor-piercing shells tore into the Tiger tank, robbed of its terrible protection. Only a split second, and the Tiger exploded in a ball of fire. . . .

  The Shermans broke from the cover of the woods. Clanging, clattering, rumbling and triumphant, they made straight for the barricaded village. The GIs followed close behind. Shells from the tanks ripped into the exposed stretches of wall and buildings, crumbling them.

  The German civilians were huddled at both ends, unharmed.

  Heidendorf

  1712 hrs

  The black-and-white barber-pole-striped signpost on the road out of Heidendorf read: MÜCNHEN 37 KM.

  The battle for the village was over. The SS troops had resisted fiercely and tenaciously but had been routed by the tanks and the GIs.

  Slater’s tank unit was regrouping just off the road on the far side of the village. In a field on the other side of the road Barker’s men were sprawled on the ground, resting. The road to Munich was clogged with advancing U.S. troops and vehicles streaming toward the Bavarian capital.