Breakout, p.4
Breakout,
p.4
* * *
Ray looked back at the pursuing Germans. He then glanced forward to see how far they had to travel before they were out of the field and out of sight, at least for a few vital seconds. He guided them between the markers, and they come through unscathed. The leading Panther charged across the field, and several half-tracks followed in its wake, along with the rest of the Panthers streaming along behind. Heading toward the center of the field, taking the shortest distance from one end to the other. And they were getting closer. Any moment now, the shit was going to hit the fan.
The M10 had started to veer across the field, the driver trying to take a shorter route across. He glanced at Cornwell. “Tell him to stay on course. Line up with the markers we left.”
“Why?”
He explained about the German mines. “We replanted them.”
“The field is mined? Now you tell me.”
“We left markers to show the way through.” A mine exploded in a half-track, throwing Panzergrenadiers into the air, and the heavy vehicle toppled over on its side with smoke pouring from beneath, “The Germans didn’t see the markers.”
A second half-track exploded, and then a mine exploded beneath the track of a Panther, which veered over into the path of a second Panther following behind. Somehow, the two huge tanks became entangled, the engine stalled, cutting off power to the main gun, and another Panther ran over another mine. The half-tracks had picked up speed, outstripping the lead Panther, and they were close. Too close.
“Now would be a good time to use that .50 caliber,” Cornwell grated, “I hope you know how to use it.”
“Point and shoot?”
“It’s a good start.”
He cut loose, raking the vehicles rushing toward them with heavy .50 caliber bullets that caused devastating damage to the unarmored vehicles. Their tracks could carry them across soft and muddy ground, but their flimsy steel sides were no proof against the Browning. Harry found spare ammunition belts inside the turret, and as one belt emptied, he was already lacing in the next so Ray could keep firing. Two half-tracks swung around and fled to the south, another half-track overturned when his raking burst tore the driver into shreds, and two more Panthers ran into mines. Suddenly, the swirling mass of enemy tanks and half-tracks had diminished to a single heavy tank. Still rushing toward them, and outnumbered by the Shermans, it became easy meat for the guns Obersturmführer Reitz had sneered at.
Cassidy was fighting with a jam, and Byrd struggling to free a belt that fed at the wrong angle. But they were okay, they’d disposed of the soft targets, and the Shermans were handling the Panther. Eleven guns fired shell after shell, and most slammed into the tank. It was too much even for the much-vaunted Panther, and the inevitable happened. A shell tore into a track, two more chewed into the base of the turret, making it unable to bring the gun to bear. The wrecked track caused it to make a half turn before it came to stop, with the vulnerable rear facing the Shermans and the M10.
Too inviting a target to pass up, and Cornwell fired first. The three-inch armor-piercing shell tore through the thin armor, the hatch opened, and smoke began to pour out. Incredibly, a man climbed out, and instead of fleeing he ran toward them. He carried a long, thin tube, one that Cassidy recognized.
“It’s a panzerfaust!” he shouted.
“A what?”
“An anti-tank rocket. If he gets close enough, we’re toast.”
“Damn, they never told us about those, so the others won’t know what’s about to hit them. If we don’t do something, he’ll blow us into little pieces.”
Morales shouted a string of curses in Spanish, cranked his gun around, took aim, and fired. The armor-piercing shell merely slammed into the soft ground, and he bellowed for HE, high explosive.
Cornwell shook his head. “They didn’t issue high explosive shells. They said they were waiting for them to arrive from England. It’s armor-piercing or nothing.”
More Spanish curses flew from his mouth, and Cornwell looked at Cassidy.
“Use the Browning.”
“It’s jammed!”
“Give me a second,” Harry gasped. He gave the belt an almighty wrench, and it fell away from the breech, complete with a misshapen bullet. He snatched up a replacement and fed it into the slot, “You’re good to go.”
He lined up the barrel of the Browning .50 on the man running toward him. He got so close he could see the death’s head badge on his uniform, and the twin lightning runes on the collar tabs of his black uniform. A suicidal charge of a desperate man, and Ray saw he was red-faced with fury. But still determined to take down the M10, the vehicle he blamed for the loss of his tank. He was close, and he dropped to one knee.
“For Christ’s sake, fire!” Harry and Cornwell shouted together.
“Madre de Dios,” Morales shouted even louder, “We’re dead.”
But not as loud as the hammering noise of the .50 caliber; not the most accurate weapon for precision shooting, but firing the massive slugs accuracy was less important. With the Browning, it was quantity that counted, not quality. He walked the long burst into the SS officer, and a second before he pulled the trigger on the panzerfaust, the bullets chewed into his body, almost sawing it in half.
They didn’t need to check he was dead, and Cornwell let out a long sigh of relief. Morales was crouched on the steel floor of the turret, giggling hysterically, and a short distance away the men riding on the Shermans let out a mighty cheer. The officer they’d first encountered, Captain Feldman, opened the hatch of a nearby tank, climbed out, and walked across to them. He stepped up to the turret of the M10 and held out his hand.
“I want to offer my thanks. That was close, and planting those mines was sheer genius. We all owe you a lot. What can I do for you?”
They shook, and Harry pointed at Ray. “Captain, it was his idea. He deserves the credit.”
“Private, what do you want right now, more than anything in the world.”
He didn’t answer, but Harry answer for him. “He wants to eat in the best restaurant in Paris.”
He grinned. “I can’t get you to Paris, not yet. But we have a gunner who was a chef in a Manhattan restaurant. How about when we get back to our lines he cooks you a slap-up meal.”
“As good as a Paris restaurant?”
“No question. Before the war started he was considering an offer to work in the restaurant of the Hotel George V, the finest hotel in Paris. You won’t be disappointed.” He looked at Cassidy. “How does that sound?”
“Sir, I say that’s worth knocking out a few tanks for.”
“You should know I intend to recommend you both for medals.”
“Instead of the meal?”
“No, as well as the meal.”
Ray nodded. “It’s appreciated, Captain. How about you forget the medals and make that two meals.”
He chuckled. “It’s a deal. I happen to have a couple of bottles of fine French wine we liberated from a German supply truck. They were taking it back to Germany, but I’m sure you can put it to better use. You can toast the success of the Normandy invasion, unless there was something else you had in mind.”
“We heard a rumor they tried to assassinate Hitler. Is it true?”
“It’s true, although we believe he survived.”
“In that case there’s no contest. May the bastard rot in hell.”
“Private Cassidy, that’s a toast I’ll join you in. But right now we need to cross back into our lines. And again our thanks.”
“Anytime, Captain.”
Eric Meyer, Breakout
