two Stuarts to the attack. A company of infantry mounted in half-tracks would accompany the tanks. Jack had been close enough to the colonel to hear him say that a dozen tanks would be enough to handle any resistance from what appeared to be a small force seeking merely to delay the American advance. The German force had to be small. St. Theresa of Something just wasn’t that large a village.
Delaying the American advance was something the Germans were proving to be quite skilled at. Bridges were blown, roads cratered, and mines were strewn everywhere. Some were hidden, but others just lay there, daring the Americans to advance. Houses, corpses, and anything that could be booby-trapped were tied to explosives. Everything, therefore, had to be cleared, painfully and with exquisite slowness.
The regiment’s advance was less than a crawl. Jokesters said they’d be in Paris by the end of 1980. Others said they’d be collecting Social Security before they reached the Rhine.
The entire American army was barely moving as the Germans fought a masterful defensive withdrawal. Intelligence said that the krauts had successfully withdrawn their Seventh and Fifteenth Field Armies from vulnerable positions in southern and western France and were moving east towards the Seine where they would dig in and make a major stand. Nobody liked the idea of crossing a major river under fire.
With Hitler dead, there was grumbling among the troops, both enlisted and officers, about why they were still fighting. Hitler was dead, they said, then weren’t the Nazis dead as well? Let’s get the hell out of Europe and stick it to the little yellow bastards who’d bombed Pearl Harbor. And then let’s all go home where we can drink ourselves silly and make babies.
Jack supported the idea of going home, although, like everyone, deep down he knew that nobody was going to leave until the German government had been toppled and that didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon. Also, as the advance slowed, some of the older officers and NCOs had a horror of refighting the murderous trench warfare of World War I. Therefore, they had to keep moving before the krauts established a new line of trenches.
Major Tolbert would command the assault. Jeb Carter’s tank company was in reserve. It felt funny to Jack to watch people he knew go into combat and know some would not return. It was a most unpleasant feeling and unlike anything he’d known before. He also felt strange being so useless. The overwhelming majority of the regiment was not going to be involved in the attack. He and Levin were merely spectators.
An artillery shell landed in the village and exploded, sending up a cloud of smoke and debris. “Ranging shot,” Levin said.
Seconds later, shells from a half dozen 105mm howitzers began to paste the village. Roofs collapsed and great plumes of smoke and dust rose skyward, although most of the thick stone walls remained intact. The sound waves rolled over them. Colonel Stoddard might have had a reputation of being paranoid about security, but he was very careful with the lives of his men. He was not one for sending men charging hell for leather into enemy fire, which was greatly appreciated.
Colonel Whiteside crawled beside them. A secondary explosion ripped the village. The shelling had hit either ammunition or fuel, and some men cheered.
The tanks started to roll out and the barrage, on schedule, stopped. “Now they’ll crawl out of their hidey-holes,” Whiteside muttered, “and either fight or run to Berlin.” Jack was incredulous. People were still alive in that smoking hell?
The armor fanned out and began their own firing. At about a hundred yards from the ruined stone buildings, a projectile streaked out and just barely missed a tank.
“Panzerfaust,” snarled Whiteside. The German Panzerfaust was a self-propelled rocket, their equivalent to the American bazooka and, some said, far more lethal.
More Panzerfaust rockets
Delaying the American advance was something the Germans were proving to be quite skilled at. Bridges were blown, roads cratered, and mines were strewn everywhere. Some were hidden, but others just lay there, daring the Americans to advance. Houses, corpses, and anything that could be booby-trapped were tied to explosives. Everything, therefore, had to be cleared, painfully and with exquisite slowness.
The regiment’s advance was less than a crawl. Jokesters said they’d be in Paris by the end of 1980. Others said they’d be collecting Social Security before they reached the Rhine.
The entire American army was barely moving as the Germans fought a masterful defensive withdrawal. Intelligence said that the krauts had successfully withdrawn their Seventh and Fifteenth Field Armies from vulnerable positions in southern and western France and were moving east towards the Seine where they would dig in and make a major stand. Nobody liked the idea of crossing a major river under fire.
With Hitler dead, there was grumbling among the troops, both enlisted and officers, about why they were still fighting. Hitler was dead, they said, then weren’t the Nazis dead as well? Let’s get the hell out of Europe and stick it to the little yellow bastards who’d bombed Pearl Harbor. And then let’s all go home where we can drink ourselves silly and make babies.
Jack supported the idea of going home, although, like everyone, deep down he knew that nobody was going to leave until the German government had been toppled and that didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon. Also, as the advance slowed, some of the older officers and NCOs had a horror of refighting the murderous trench warfare of World War I. Therefore, they had to keep moving before the krauts established a new line of trenches.
Major Tolbert would command the assault. Jeb Carter’s tank company was in reserve. It felt funny to Jack to watch people he knew go into combat and know some would not return. It was a most unpleasant feeling and unlike anything he’d known before. He also felt strange being so useless. The overwhelming majority of the regiment was not going to be involved in the attack. He and Levin were merely spectators.
An artillery shell landed in the village and exploded, sending up a cloud of smoke and debris. “Ranging shot,” Levin said.
Seconds later, shells from a half dozen 105mm howitzers began to paste the village. Roofs collapsed and great plumes of smoke and dust rose skyward, although most of the thick stone walls remained intact. The sound waves rolled over them. Colonel Stoddard might have had a reputation of being paranoid about security, but he was very careful with the lives of his men. He was not one for sending men charging hell for leather into enemy fire, which was greatly appreciated.
Colonel Whiteside crawled beside them. A secondary explosion ripped the village. The shelling had hit either ammunition or fuel, and some men cheered.
The tanks started to roll out and the barrage, on schedule, stopped. “Now they’ll crawl out of their hidey-holes,” Whiteside muttered, “and either fight or run to Berlin.” Jack was incredulous. People were still alive in that smoking hell?
The armor fanned out and began their own firing. At about a hundred yards from the ruined stone buildings, a projectile streaked out and just barely missed a tank.
“Panzerfaust,” snarled Whiteside. The German Panzerfaust was a self-propelled rocket, their equivalent to the American bazooka and, some said, far more lethal.
More Panzerfaust rockets
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