Tinker smiled as he heard Munro called a fucking idiot. Jed must have been a little drunk because he yelled back. What he said didn’t make much sense, but the gist of it was that Neumann wasn’t Jed’s father. No, thought Tinker, Jed’s father was a swine.
Jed was clearly not at all upset at the uproar and anger he had caused. He yelled that Neumann should have let them do much more, that they couldn’t enforce the laws of the Reich without breaking heads and spilling blood. Jed raged that he’d lost two brothers to the cause and that gave him privileges. Neumann vehemently disagreed, causing Munro to storm out. Tinker continued cleaning the office. When he left, all was quiet and well.
When his shift was finished, he left the building and went to a bar a couple of blocks away. He drank a beer, a Molson’s, and went out the back door. A few buildings down the alley he went into a warehouse, where Detective Sam Lambert waited.
“Well?”
“I may have found a new career,” Tinker said. “When this war is over I’m going to become a private detective who doubles as a janitor.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ll clean up.”
Tinker laughed, “Wouldn’t think of it.”
He proceeded to give Lambert all he knew and focused on the argument between Munro and Neumann.
“The fight was ugly and I think it’ll be a long time before they talk nice to each other. I think it’s nice that our two enemies aren’t talking.”
Lambert agreed, but not entirely. While it was pleasant to think of their enemies dividing among themselves, there was also the fact that Neumann and his Gestapo actually functioned as a kind of restraining influence on the Black Shirts. If they wouldn’t obey Neumann, what would they do now?”
Chapter Eighteen
Tom ducked as another German artillery round landed uncomfortably close to his position. It shook the ground and sent dirt clattering down on his helmet. In Tom’s opinion, Patton had again gotten far too close to the front. The general had not agreed. He felt it was his duty to show his troops that their commander was not afraid. Their small convoy of jeeps had headed out towards the front lines when all hell had broken loose as German artillery pounded the American lines.
Tom tried to make his body smaller still as more shells hit around him. There was no doubting Patton’s personal courage. He had proven that several times in the First World War. His litany of medals included the Distinguished Service Cross with one Oak Leaf Cluster, the Distinguished Service Medal with two Oak Leaf Clusters, the Silver Star, the Bronze Star and, of course, the Purple Heart. It was proof that you don’t pick up that many medals without getting hurt.
Tom wondered if the men really were inspired by Patton’s being close to the front, or if they felt that he was drawing attention and enemy fire on them.
Tom had arrived at Patton’s Ontario headquarters by plane the preceding afternoon. He’d had an immediate conference with Patton who’d accepted the report with a laugh.
“Tell me, colonel, did anyone in their right mind think that Guderian wouldn’t attack me? Hell, he hasn’t any choice. If he just sits there and allows my army to get stronger, which is happening every day, we’ll attack him ourselves and run right over his Nazi ass. No, he has no choice but to try his luck by hitting us first. You can go back to Lucian and say thanks, but we are ready for anything the Germans can throw at us.”
Tom had decided to stay the night and now regretted that decision. The Germans had launched a massive attack on a twenty mile front just north of Lake Erie. Even though Patton had planned a defense in depth, it was clear that there had been a number of penetrations, and some were several miles deep. It was also rumored that German infiltrators were operating behind American lines. There were other rumors that some Germans or Canadian Black Shirts were wearing American uniforms. It was scary enough that Tom wondered if he could pick up a Canadian accent if he heard one.
What worried Tom even more was that he’d lost contact with Patton’s vehicles when the bombardment began. He had no idea whether the general was safe and sound or had been blown to pieces by an enemy shell. It then occurred to him that he might not make it back to the relative safety of American lines. He might be killed or even taken prisoner.
“Tank,” someone yelled.
Tom peered over the lip of the depression in the ground where he and a score of others had taken shelter several hours earlier. Jesus, he thought. Not only was there one tank, but he could see the dim shapes of at least five more. He got a clearer view when a shell burst and momentarily illuminated the area. He identified them as Panzer III tanks. Although not as good as the Panzer IV tanks, they weighed in at twenty five tons and had an upgraded 50mm main gun, along with three machine guns. This was a lot more than he had to fight with, which was absolutely nothing.
Someone in the lead tank must have spotted motion in the ditch. Its machine guns opened fire, spraying the top of their hole. The German wasn’t going to bother to use his main gun. It wouldn’t be necessary. They’d been trapped without any weapons heavier than their rifles and some grenades and the.45 Tom carried.
“What do we do, colonel?” asked a terrified buck sergeant. The young man was the next ranking soldier in their hideaway.
How the hell do I know, Tom thought. “We hope he passes us by as unimportant,” he said, trying to sound confident.
The sound of the tank got louder as it clanked its way closer. A moment later the green metal monster was perched on the edge of the depression. Tom didn’t think the driver or commander could see them very well, but that didn’t matter. The tank lurched down into the depression and began to spray the men in it with machine gun fire as they screamed and tried to run away. Tom watched in horror as a GI was shot in the leg and then run over by the tank and squashed like a bug. I’m going to die, he thought as he tried to fight off panic.
“Give me a grenade,” Tom yelled and the sergeant flipped him one and he clipped it on his belt.
The tank stopped only a few feet away from him. Its turret moved slowly as it searched for more prey. Tom crawled behind the hull, and clambered up. How the hell do I get the turret hatch open, he wondered desperately?
The problem was solved for him as the hatch opened a few inches. The commander wanted to see more clearly. With his left hand, Tom grabbed the hatch and yanked it all the way open. An astonished German soldier stared at him. Tom shot him in the head with his pistol. He dropped it and then yanked the grenade from his belt, He pulled the pin, nearly losing his balance as he did so. He recovered and dropped it down the hatch. He immediately threw himself off the tank, landing on something hard and sharp on the ground. He screamed in pain as the grenade exploded in the tank. He visualized metal fragments chewing through the German crew and shuddered at the thought.
“I got you, colonel,” said the sergeant. “You just saved all our lives.”
The sergeant and a couple of others they dragged him away from the burning and exploding tank. The pain in his chest was intense and he was certain he’d broken a couple of ribs as he’d fallen to the ground.
They heard more tank engines nearby, but these were different sounds. Tom managed a smile. “Those are Shermans, boys, the cavalry just arrived.”
They counted heads. Of the men in the depression, only three were unhurt. Four others, counting Tom, were wounded and five were dead. Others must have run off. He didn’t blame them and could only hope they were safe.