North Reich (59 page)

      
He quickly realized he was being unfair.
 
There had been no fighting yet, only preparing for a fight.
 
He and his men had been on the so-called front lines, but had barely skirmished with the Germans.
 
They had trained, but he didn’t think they were very well prepared.
 
He’d been told to have his men dig in where they were when they got the order to halt and that left some big gaps in their lines.
 
Maybe Truscott would kick some butt and get things cleaned up.
 
As it was, the only reason Canfield knew who was to his left was that he’d sent out some patrols.
 
He was looking down a road that led to the interior and it would be a prime highway for the Germans.

      
Canfield heard some rustling and whispering behind him.
 
He turned and saw Truscott climbing into his trench.
 
“Don’t even think of saluting.”

      
Canfield chuckled.
 
He had earlier given orders that there would be no saluting which would identify the recipient as someone important and, thus, a sniper’s target.

      
“Welcome to the front lines, general.”

      
The gravelly-voiced forty-nine year old Texan merely grunted.
 
He was wearing his trademark leather jacket and didn’t need someone’s salute in order to be noticed.

      
“How far away are the Germans?”

      
“Hard to say.
 
My orders were to stand down any patrols.
 
I’ve sneaked some boys out but they haven’t seen anything much.
 
They’ve probably got snipers looking at us so please don’t expose yourself.”

      
“Consider those patrol orders rescinded.
 
Send out scouts and patrols.
 
I believe they will attack tonight.”
 
      
Canfield was surprised.
 
“Really?
 
If they’re coming, they haven’t had a chance to get themselves organized.”
 
      
Truscott was not perturbed that a lower ranking officer had just questioned his opinion. “First off, colonel, we’ve been hitting them hard from the air, so they will want to hit us before they run out of an army. Second, the weather forecast is for a major wind and rain storm coming from the west, and that’ll keep our planes on the ground.
 
They’ll attack us just before first light because they don’t have any choice.
 
It’ll be now or never.”

      
“What are my orders, general?”

      
“Hit them, hurt them, and try to hold them for as long as you can.
 
You’re going to lose men, maybe a lot of them, but that can’t be helped.
 
In the meantime, we’ll be setting up a second line of defense.”

      
Canfield looked over Truscott’s shoulder and saw Grant who nodded.
 
“General, I see you brought over that poor fish my men dragged out of the river just a few months ago.”

      
Truscott laughed.
 
“So that was you?
 
Hell, you should have left him there.
 
He’s been nothing but trouble since then.
 
All he does is shoot Germans and try to catch spies and his wife is just as bad.
 
Grant, you can catch up with me in a few minutes.”

      
When Truscott departed, the two men left Canfield’s bunker, staying carefully in the rear and out of sight of any snipers.
 
At least they hoped they were.

      
“They’re going to come straight down this dinky road, aren’t they?” Canfield asked.

      
“Unfortunately, it makes sense.
 
As does their coming tonight.
 
I don’t envy you.”

      
Canfield laughed harshly.
 
“And where the hell will you be?”

      
“I have no shame.
 
I’ll be as far away as I can.”

Field Marshal Heinz Guderian wanted information and not just what he referred to as the sanitized crap that sometimes filtered its way up the chain of command.
 
He wanted someone on the ground who could talk directly to him and give him a sense of what was happening.
 
He anointed Koenig to keep him informed.

      
After getting his general safely back to his headquarters, Koenig drove to the start point for the armored attack.
 
He had planned to be in a Panzer IV but could find no tanker willing to take him.
 
If he’d been in command of a unit he could have forced the issue, but as a mere captain, he had no such influence despite being on the field marshal’s staff.
 
Thus and incongruously, he found himself and a driver in a 1938 Packard sedan.
 
It seemed as strong and as heavy as a tank and even came with a rumble seat.
 
At least it had been re-painted and had German military markings, so that he didn’t look like some doctor out on a house call.

      
It was raining heavily, turning the fields into mud.
 
The tankers were confident they could make it, but trucks and Packards, they laughed, would have to stick to the roads.
 
At least they would not have to put up with attacks from American planes.
 
The Americans had savaged their columns when the sky was clear, and the dwindling number of Luftwaffe planes had been unable to defend against them.

      
The artillery bombardment began at three in the morning.
 
Again, the absence of American planes meant that the barrage rained down on American positions without interference.
 
Koenig was surprised that there was little in the way of counter-fire from American guns.
 
Guderian had surmised that the Yanks hadn’t had the time to land their big guns and, without a naval presence, there was no danger from battleship and cruiser guns.

      
The tanks rumbled forward, aided by armored cars and the German version of troop-carrying half-tracks.

      
Finally, the American guns opened up.
 
They had drawn the Germans in close so their smaller 105mm howitzers and the medium velocity 75mm guns on their Sherman tanks would be effective.
 

      
Koenig abandoned the Packard and moved forward on foot, aided only by a soldier with a radio.
 
He was at the point of attack, the spot where two American divisions joined.

      
American resistance was fierce and tank after tank from the German force was disabled, some spectacularly, blowing up after hits from American guns.
 
The Americans were also using bazookas, and brave Yanks would position themselves so that they were able to fire them against the less heavily armored flanks of the German tanks.
 
Frequently they were cut down by accompanying infantry, but many Panzers were damaged or destroyed.
 
It was particularly galling to Koenig to see so many of the precious Panzer IVs burning.
 
He wondered when Guderian would release his small supply of Panthers and concluded that it would not be this day.

      
The sun was trying to rise and clear away the haze and the smoke of battle.
 
Koenig choked on the smoke, realizing that part of the scent was human flesh cooking.
 
The battle was moving forward and in front of them.
 
They walked carefully around the ruined tanks and the dead and dying soldiers.

      
His radioman jabbed him on the arm.
 
“Sir, I just heard a report that we’ve broken through to the lake.”

Canfield had decided that his spot was at the front.
 
In part this was because the rear area was so constricted, but mostly because he felt he belonged at the point of danger.

      
Like everyone, he’d hunkered down when the shells began to fall.
 
The trenches and foxholes had been well designed and only a direct hit was likely to kill.
 
Still, there were numerous casualties from near misses, and from men running in panic from the relative safety of their holes and into a land where flying metal could skewer them.

      
He heard the tanks well before anyone could see them.
 
His battalion’s position had been reinforced by four Shermans, a pair of 105mm howitzers, and a pair of 57mm anti-tank guns.
 
These were all courtesy of General Truscott and had arrived only minutes before the German barrage started, which meant they were not all well placed.

      
Someone yelled that he could see the tanks and, sure enough, they were emerging from the fog and mist.
 
American guns opened up.
 
A howitzer firing over open sights managed a direct hit that blew the turret off a Panzer, while an anti-tank gun disabled another.
 
Canfield watched with awe as two soldiers with a bazooka attacked the flank of another.
 
They killed it but were cut to pieces by German machine gun fire.

      
The Panzers opened fire at close range.
 
Shells and machine gun fire killed wantonly.
 
Canfield felt something hit his arm and he saw that he was bleeding.
 
A medic slapped a bandage around his arm and said it was a flesh wound.
 
“Flesh wound, my ass,” he snapped and the medic grinned.

      
German infantry washed around what remained of his position. Their goal was the lake.
 
Canfield’s advanced position had been neutralized and could be wiped out at a later time.
 
Canfield watched in impotent fury as tank after tank rumbled by him.

      
A German appeared in front of them and hollered, asking them in badly accented English if they wanted to surrender.
 
“Fuck you,” said Dubinski and shot him.
 
The German grabbed his leg and staggered back.
 
A fusillade of gunfire swept over the trenches and someone screamed.

      
“I shouldn’t have done that,” muttered Dubinski.
 
“I just didn’t like being asked to surrender.”

Grant’s feet were in the water.
 
Small waves lapped at his ankles.
 
In front of him, he could see shadows in the mist.
 
They began to take shape and become enemy tanks.
 
He took a couple of steps forward so he could lie at least part ways on the ground along with a few score soldiers who were ready to fight.
 
Clouds of smoke blew through them and the sounds of battle were becoming deafening.
 
It occurred to him that the perimeter was not even ten feet deep at this point.
 
He shifted in the wet sand so he could fire his carbine before he retreated into Lake Erie. He had no idea what he would do then.

      
Hundreds of American soldiers, perhaps more, milled around on the water’s edge.
 
Only a few were, like Grant, preparing to fight.
 
Too many were rear echelon troops who should have been farther back, but the narrowness of the beachhead had trapped them.
 
German artillery shells landed in their midst, adding to their confusion, terror, and panic.
 
With the German tanks bearing down on them, they ran to either side, some actually screaming in fright.
 
A number of them splashed into the water, wading and swimming.
 
They were going to try to make it to the transports, dimly seen a mile or so off shore.
 
They wouldn’t make it.
 
Grant and others yelled at them to come back.
 
Some did, but others continued out.
 
He watched in horror as bobbing heads disappeared.

      
Truscott plopped down beside Grant.
 
“Think we can swim to Buffalo?” he asked with a satanic grin.

      
“Are we going to have to, general?”

      
“Not if I can help it,” he said as he gestured to another aide who then picked up a radio and gave orders.
 
Seconds later, artillery fire from the transport ships anchored offshore erupted and began to land among the approaching Panzers, killing still more of them.
 
It occurred to Grant that the Germans were paying too high a price to reach the lake.
 
It was also apparent that American artillery was hitting many American soldiers who were trying to hide. A terrible price would be paid if the Germans were to be stopped.

      
A
 
German tank appeared only fifty feet in front of him.
 
Shells from the transports landed around it.
 
They were almost on top of him and Truscott.
 
The concussions rocked them and showered them with dirt and debris.