Suddenly the Germans were inside the woods.
“Cover!” A burst of fire scythed the air right over his head and the crack-boom of a close explosion shoved him into the ground.
Spitting out blood and dirt, Reynolds looked up from his hole at a German Marder only fifty meters away. The APC was pointed off to their left.
The tracked vehicle was steeply sloped in the front, but boxy and high in the rear where it carried its squad of infantry. A clumsy-looking turret on the top held a 25mm cannon, a launcher for antitank missiles, and a thermal imager.
The Marder’s turret was slewed in their direction, but aimed over their heads. The gunner must have fired a suppressive burst in their direction on general principles, but now the barrel moved slightly from side to side as he searched for real targets. Its rear ramp fell open and German soldiers in camouflage gear poured outside. Some were already firing their assault rifles from the hip, pumping rounds into 2nd Platoon’s positions.
Still prone, Reynolds grabbed his M16 and opened up. Adams did the same thing, firing in short, aimed bursts. Although that turret pointing their way was intimidating, the shot was too good to pass up. Besides, the panzergrenadiers would spot them at any moment.
One man went down instantly — knocked off his feet by two or three hits. Another screamed and slid backward against the Marder, clutching a face that had been torn apart. The rest went to ground, flattening themselves behind tree trunks or in the tall grass beside the APC.
The instant the Germans disappeared, Reynolds and Adams also dove for cover — just in time. A 25mm burst rippled overhead and exploded behind them, showering them with dirt and bits of wood. The autocannon dipped lower, still firing.
Whooosh.
An antitank missile visible only as a streak of light from the left hit the Marder in the side. Sparks flew out from the point of impact, and part of the explosion inside vented out through the vehicle’s open troop compartment. Moments later, a ball of gray-white smoke cloaked the APC — luridly lit from inside by the flames consuming its fuel and ammunition.
A few more German troops appeared, bailing out of the vehicle — trying to get clear of the flames. Reynolds and his RTO shot at them, but their targets vanished in the smoke, apparently unscathed.
Firing surrounded them on all sides, mixed with sounds of diesel engines. Clouds of exhaust, woodsmoke, and dust cut visibility to almost nothing, allowing only glimpses of the combat. Inside the smoke, bright flashes of light marked a weapon firing or a vehicle being hit. Forms moved through the trees, firing, running, falling.
A storm of gunfire from their left drew the two men, and crouching almost double, they ran in the direction of 2nd Platoon’s positions. A crashing roar from the right turned into a German tank, breaking through a thicket of small trees. They threw themselves back behind a tree, watching helplessly as the armored behemoth passed close by and then rumbled into the murk.
“Shit!” Reynolds whipped around as bullets snapped past his face. There were five German infantrymen following the Leopard. Muzzle flashes stabbed out of the smoke. He snapped his M16 up and squeezed off a long burst, but recoil pulled the barrel up, and his shots went wild. The bolt clicked on an empty chamber.
He rolled right, trying to get behind the tree while frantically fumbling for a new magazine. Too late, his mind screamed. The Germans would be on top of him in a fraction of a second.
Adams popped up beside him and lobbed an egg-shaped fragmentation grenade into their midst.
The grenade went off with an ear-splitting whummp. Two of the Germans went down, bleeding and dead or unconscious. The others, stunned, stopped moving long enough for Reynolds to slam his new magazine home and fire.
Hit several times each, the panzergrenadiers stumbled backward and fell in a heap. Still holding his aim, Reynolds moved out from cover. One good look told him they were dead. He nodded his thanks to the tall, skinny corporal and then scanned the scarred woods around them, desperately trying to reorient himself. He still felt the urge to run, but just to 2nd Platoon. He had to regain control of this battle.
Sprinting, pausing, ducking occasionally, Reynolds and Adams worked their way toward 2nd Platoon’s fighting positions. At times the smoke and trees cut off all view, so that they were surrounded by a gray-green wall. The sounds of firing were no help, either, as omnipresent as the smoke.
They kept working their way east, meters seeming like miles and seconds like days. Finally Reynolds spotted Sergeant Robbins, crouched with two other soldiers. With Riley gone, the short, dark-featured sergeant was now in charge of 2nd Platoon.
Robbins spotted the captain and corporal as they ran up. “They’re past us, sir!” Frustration and fatigue filled his voice as well as his face. “We’ve knocked out ten tracks, maybe more, but they just keep coming.” The crack of cannon fire to the south announced the arrival of more enemy tanks.
“What are your casualties?” Reynolds demanded.
“Three dead I know of, probably more. Eight — no, nine wounded.”
Reynolds grimaced. Even out of a full-strength platoon of thirty-eight men, that would have been a heavy toll. But 2nd Platoon was badly understrength when the battle started, and the battle was far from over. On the other hand, his troops had already destroyed a lot of enemy armor. Was it worth the cost, though?
He couldn’t tell. From what little he could see, they’d blunted and disorganized the first wave of the German attack. The woods were full of burning vehicles and German stragglers, either tangled up with Alpha Company or pressing on to the northeast, and he was sure there were follow-on forces moving up. Alpha Company couldn’t stop them anymore. He needed more firepower.
Reynolds leaned over, speaking carefully to Adams. “Get Brigade. Tell them to shift the arty.” As the corporal picked up the handset, he pulled out the map he’d marked earlier. “New reference point is seven four, time on target, airburst. I want everything they’ve got for five minutes.”
Sergeant Robbins, standing next to him, looked at the marked spot and paled. He grabbed the two kneeling privates by the shoulders and spoke urgently. “Find the 1st and 3rd platoons. Tell them there’s incoming mail, airburst. Everyone go to ground. Move!”
The two soldiers disappeared, one to the east, one west. Robbins moved off himself, passing the word down his shattered line while Reynolds and his radioman took cover under a wrecked Leopard 2. Two privates also arrived to share the space, and all four of them kept scanning the woods.
The sounds of tank guns and light cannon mixed with machine-gun and rifle fire. They spotted men running to the southeast, but Reynolds stopped the others from firing. It was impossible to tell which side those shadowy forms belonged to.
The freight-train roar of heavy artillery suddenly drowned out the gunfire around them and the woods exploded in fire and smoke.
This was no ranging shot, no ragged one-battery barrage. The shells cascading into the narrow band of forest had been carefully timed to arrive on target almost simultaneously.
The air itself exploded, suddenly filled with millions of lethal fragments. Crouched beneath the tank, Reynolds was stunned by the ferocity he’d unleashed. This was more than the brigade artillery battalion firing. Guns from the division, maybe even the corps, must be in on the act.
Tree after tree went down with their tops blown off.
The American shells were detonating ten to twenty meters off the ground, sleeting the air with fragments and shredding anyone caught in their path. Pieces of leaves and pine needles poured down, thick enough to cover the ground like a rug.