THE TEN THOUSAND

by Harold Coyle

  Doing so turned out to be almost as nerve-racking as sitting in one place for hours on end waiting to be attacked by enemy ground units or artillery. Fumbling forward into the darkness, Seydlitz's company managed to avoid contact with any American units. That soon became a problem. The routes into what he thought were the enemy rear areas were totally devoid of any sign of the enemy. It was almost as if the Americans had never existed. Slowly, as he pushed his exhausted company further and further north, he became bolder and bolder, picking up speed and heading for parts of the forests and countryside that looked like good places to set up rear area supply bases and facilities.

  Under normal circumstances, Seydlitz's thinking would have been correct. But these were not normal circumstances for the Tenth Corps. Rather than concerning themselves with setting up and operating, the Tenth Corps' combat service support units were only concerned with getting out of the trap that the 2nd and 10th Panzer divisions were still trying to close. So instead of hiding in the woods where Seydlitz was hunting, the prey he sought sat in the open, lined up and exposed on the roads as they waited their turn to continue the long march to the sea.

  Seydlitz's decision to leave the woods and begin to move along the roads was not based on any great revelation or protracted decision-making process. Rather, he was tired of screwing with the countless tree branches that slapped at him as his Leopard tank lurched back and forth over the heavily rutted trails now frozen stone hard. To hell with this, he finally said to himself shortly before 3 a.m. With a curt order over the company radio net that was almost a scream, Seydlitz ordered the lead tanks to halt while he took the time to study his map and decide where to go next. Satisfied that he had a good fix on his unit's location, Seydlitz noted with much joy that there was a hard-surfaced secondary road just a few hundred meters in front of his lead platoon. "There. That is what I want."

  Seydlitz's gunner, waiting for his commander's order, thought that Seydlitz was yelling for him. "What is it, Herr Hauptmann? Trouble?"

  "No, Ernst. No more trouble. We are going to get out of these damned woods and head east." Folding his map, he looked about. "If there are Americans here, then they are the best camouflage artists in the world. We tried as hard as we could. We went north, as ordered, and tried to find the Americans. Our duty is done. Now it is time to end this insanity." Keying the radio mike, Seydlitz contacted Sergeant Wihelm Zangler, the platoon leader of Seydlitz's lead platoon, and ordered him to make a left turn onto the next hard-surfaced road and follow it until they hit the first village. From there they would make their way to the autobahn and then, as per his orders, head east. Humans, even humans who were German soldiers, could only go so far. Seydlitz was reaching his end and suspected that his platoon leaders and tank commanders were collectively nearing theirs too. To continue would be a foolish waste of good men and machines.

  Glad to finally be free of the worry of tree branches, the tanks of Zangler's platoon made the turn onto the hard-surfaced road as ordered and immediately began to pick up speed. Though they should have known better, since this left the tanks further back in the column still in the woods and struggling to reach the road, tired minds never think of everything. So when Zangler's tank came swinging around the bend and smack into an American military police vehicle sitting in the center of the road, his platoon was alone and instantly in contact. There was no time to think, no time to pull back. Without any hesitation, Zangler ordered his gunner to open fire and passed the word down to the tank commanders in his platoon to close up, follow him, and attack.

  Hilary Cole had just reached the rear of the first ambulance when the chatter of machine-gun fire shattered the stillness of the night. Turning toward the sound, Cole watched as a great black lumbering form spewing orange tongues of flame came around the bend in the road and rammed the MP humvee without slowing down. In horror, she watched as the tank's left track rose ever so slightly onto the MP vehicle, then slowly crushed it under its full weight before any of the occupants, including the MP manning the machine gun, could escape.

  Transfixed by the sight, Cole watched as another tank came up next to the first, which was still in the process of crushing the MP humvee. It slowed when it caught sight of the line of engineer trucks. Hilary watched as the second tank lowered its long menacing main gun, took a second to aim, and then fired on the first target that looked worthy of a tank main-gun round. Its choice of target had been a good one, for the fuel truck sitting near the head of the engineer unit's column ripped itself apart, sending a huge yellow fireball into the air and lighting the entire length of the column.

  Cole, standing little more than a hundred meters from where the fuel truck blew up, could feel the heat of the fireball. As she watched the burning fuel run out from the sides of the ruptured fuel truck onto the road and into the ditch on the side of the road, Cole realized that she was standing on the edge of hell, and there was nothing that she could do about it. Without any further conscious thoughts, without any control of what she was doing, Cole turned and fled into the forest as a third Leopard tank came careening around the bend and began to charge down the road, machine-gunning anything and everyone who stood in its way.

  After having done it, Zangler realized that ramming the American humvee hadn't been a good idea. It had proven to be a little tougher than he had originally thought. Because of his preoccupation with the wreck that had once been a humvee, the two tanks that had come up behind him had passed his. Now looking down the road, he saw them come together, almost hub to hub, and begin to run march down the road, firing as they went. The Leopard tank on the left, with its turret traversed forty-five degrees in that direction, was busy machine-gunning American trucks and personnel at point-blank range with all the machine guns that the tank's crew could bring to bear. The Leopard on the right was concentrating on trucks and personnel further down the road. Since it had greater range, that tank began to alternate between firing its main gun and its coaxially mounted machine gun. Because the loader was busy feeding the main gun, he couldn't bring the turret-mounted machine gun into play. Not that it mattered. By the time it had fired its second 120mm high-explosive anti-tank round, the chaos and confusion, not to mention the destruction, were complete.

  Unable to lead, and seeing that it was not possible to get around the side of the line of American trucks and run down along the shoulder of the road, Zangler ordered his driver to slow down. Looking to his rear, he saw the fourth tank in his platoon finally come up. With a series of wild motions, Zangler directed the commander of the fourth tank to pull around and come up on the right side of his own tank. This formed a second pair of vehicles that stretched from one side of the road to the other. Ready, Zangler waved and ordered his own tank and his consort to begin moving down the road, following the first two at a distance of fifty meters and engaging any personnel or vehicles with their machine guns that the first two tanks of his platoon had missed.

  The fireball that had marked the destruction of the engineers' fuel truck was the first indication Seydlitz had that the lead platoon was in contact. He immediately attempted to contact Zangler. His calls went unanswered. Still not on the hard-surfaced road yet, Seydlitz listened to the steady rattle of machine guns, punctuated on occasion by a main gun firing. Frustrated, he ordered his driver to pick up speed and his loader to change the radio frequency of his radio to Zangler's platoon frequency.

  Pulling his head down to avoid the tree branches now wildly whipping over the open hatch above him, Seydlitz listened to Zangler's radio net for a second. To his surprise, Seydlitz didn't hear any of the excited chatter or confused orders that one usually hears on a radio during initial contact. Instead the radio was silent. Looking over to his own receiver-transmitter, Seydlitz made sure that it was on and set to the proper frequency. Satisfied that all was in order, Seydlitz keyed the radio and called to Zangler. "Leo One Five, this is Leo Four Five. What is your situation? Over."

  Zangler responded without a pause. "We've run into a co
lumn of trucks. An engineer unit, I think. We're engaging them now." Though his voice was calm, his failure to use full call signs or radio procedures told Seydlitz that he was either busy in an engagement or directing his platoon. Since he was already engaging, there was little that Seydlitz could add.

  Still he felt that he needed to say something. So Seydlitz rekeyed the radio. "Leo One Five, continue your attack and destroy everything on the road. Repeat, destroy everything on the road. I am coming up with the rest of the unit now. Over."

  With nothing more than a quick "Affirmative," Zangler accepted his commander's orders and passed them on down to his tank commanders.

  When they came across the red crosses on white backgrounds on vehicles further down the column, Zangler's tank commanders didn't hesitate. Why they didn't was lost in the confusion and panic of the night. For the moment, Zangler's tank crews had become mindless killing machines. Perhaps they simply looked at the trucks and personnel fleeing from them as nothing more than the enemy, someone to be acquired, engaged, and killed. Perhaps they saw this as an opportunity to repay the bastards who had attacked them the day before with artillery while they had sat buttoned up in their own tanks shitting their pants every time a round detonated nearby and praying that they would live for another minute. Perhaps some even had higher, loftier thoughts such as defending Germany against invaders. Perhaps.

  CHAPTER 17

  21 JANUARY

  By now Jan was used to listening to Colonel Edward J. Littleton, Jr., U.S. Army, retired. Littleton, located in a separate studio, was explaining the military situation in Germany. Jan, with a well-practiced smile on her face, sat and watched Littleton's face on a monitor while he explained the situation in central Germany as he saw it from Washington, D.C. Over the tiny earphone hidden in her right ear, the director whispered that they were ready to cut to the live feed from Germany. Excited at being given the chance to cut the pompous ass off, Jan jumped in while Littleton was in mid-sentence. "Excuse me, Colonel, but I've just been told that we have a live feed from Bob Manning, our correspondent in Germany."

  With the camera focused on Jan's face, she leaned forward and with a look of concern spoke to the camera. "Bob? Bob, can you still hear me?" The man she was trying to talk to was Robert J. Manning, a British correspondent who was working for WNN. Right now Bob and a camera crew, using a satellite shot, were attempting to give a live feed for Jan's morning report.

  In a flash, as soon as the technicians in the control room had a good clear picture of Bob, the video image was switched from Jan to Bob. "Jan, yes, I've got you now, thank you." Attired in a British Army camouflage smock with a black wool watch cap pulled down over the tops of his ears, it was obvious that Bob was more concerned about life and limb, not to mention protection against the cold, than he was about what his image looked like on the television screen four thousand miles away. The idea of wearing camouflage caught on very quickly when the losses amongst front-line correspondents began to mount. The bright yellow or international orange jackets and parkas, it seemed, drew far too much fire. The thought that a correspondent would be given special consideration vanished, along with many other illusions about war, as the viciousness and intensity of battle escalated.

  "Bob, it's midafternoon there, isn't it?"

  Before he could answer, the report from a small-caliber automatic cannon not far from where he stood caused him to flinch and look over to his right. When he saw that he was in no immediate danger, Bob looked back to the camera and responded to Jan's question trying to look as if nothing had happened. "Yes, Jan. It is afternoon. Of course, the time of day really doesn't seem to make any difference in this battle. The German mechanized infantry unit I'm with has been continuously engaged with elements of the American rear guard since early yesterday, day and night. The American cavalry unit that it has been playing a deadly game of tag with since then is now located just across the river behind me in a town named Burghaun."

  Looking down at her computer-generated map of central Germany, the one used to show the home audience where the battles were taking place, Jan noted that there were no towns of that name shown. "Excuse me, Bob. But where exactly is that?"

  "Jan, we're about four or five kilometers northwest of Hünfeld. If you recall, the Germans seized Hünfeld on the 19th but weren't able to go any further west due to the Tenth Corps' rapid redeployment of blocking forces. Now it seems that the elements of this German unit will be able to finally make it across the Fulda River here and link up with the 10th Panzer to the west."

  "Is that due," Jan queried without betraying a hint of the deep concern she felt, "to a collapse of American forces?"

  Jan could see Bob shake his head. "No, Jan. On the contrary. The American units that the Germans had hoped to bag have made it north and out of the trap. This is due in great measure to the skillful and valiant efforts of cavalrymen, like those across the river. It's almost become a regular drill these past two days. The American cavalrymen will set up in a town or blocking position and wait for the Germans in pursuit to catch up. Sometimes the Germans detect the Americans first and approach with caution. Most of the time, however, it is the Americans who initiate the action, usually with an ambush. This morning was a case in point."

  Pointing over to a partially demolished bridge, Bob cued his cameraman to focus on the smoldering hulk of a German Marder infantry fighting vehicle sitting on the bridge.

  "When the German unit I'm with lost contact with the American rear guard before dawn this morning, they took off and followed, as usual. For some reason, when we got here, they thought that the bridge was clear. Two Marders, the German equivalent of your Bradley fighting vehicle, rolled onto the bridge and began to cross. That's when the Americans in Burghaun blew up the bridge and fired on the Marders. You can clearly see, Jan, the results of that surprise."

  While Bob talked and the camera continued to focus on the wrecked Marder, Jan felt a cold shiver. It was becoming harder and harder to watch those shots and talk as if they meant nothing to her. For while others viewed the film footage coming in with an eye to whether it supported their story or made a bold statement, Jan looked for anything that might give her a clue as to where her husband was and how he was doing. This was not easy, for some of the film showed wounded Americans and on occasion a corpse left sprawled on the ground in its own blood. Though she didn't know how well she could deal with seeing Scotty like that, Jan couldn't not look. She had to. It was there, and there was no denying it. So she looked and prayed in silence that she wouldn't find what she sought.

  Just as Bob was finishing up his explanation, a series of loud screeches passed overhead. Automatically the cameraman, recognizing them for what they were, swung the camera away from the Marder on the bridge and over to a view of the town across the river. His reaction and timing were perfect, catching the impact of half a dozen German artillery rounds that had caused the shattering noise overhead. Looking over to where the camera was aimed, Bob then began to ad-lib. "What you're seeing, Jan, is an artillery barrage going in on what the Germans suspect to be American positions."

  Watching her monitor, Jan shook her head. "Yes, Bob. We've got that here. Can you see any of the American vehicles or personnel from where you are?"

  "No, Jan. And I doubt that the Germans can either. In fact, there's the very real chance that the Americans who blew up the bridge and destroyed the lead Marders are long gone. These cavalrymen are quite good at giving the Germans the slip."

  With a look of mild surprise on her face, Jan asked, "If the Germans can't see the Americans, then why are they firing on the town, a German town that no doubt still has people in it?"

  Bob pointed back to the Marder on the bridge. "It didn't take too many incidents like that to convince the young soldiers of this unit to shoot first before they stick their necks out."

  Before she realized what she was saying, Jan asked, "Well, Bob, are you in danger of being fired on by the Americans?"

  Jan cursed herse
lf. That, she thought, was a dumb question, a really dumb question. Of course he was in danger.

  "Well, Jan, of course there's always the danger that the odd shot will wander in our direction, but for the most part, no, we're in no real danger. The Americans have been very selective about how they use their artillery and where they shoot, so far. Though no one will admit it, the only times I've seen populated areas shelled by artillery have been when the Germans did it themselves."

  Before Jan could ask her next question, the image of Bob disappeared from the screen. Jan pulled back, looked at the screen, then glanced over to the control booth. Over the earphone a technician announced that the feed had been cut from Bob's location. The German Army public affairs officer controlling the video feed hadn't liked his last comment. Jan looked up at the camera and did what most news anchors do when faced with a sudden interruption of their lead story. "It seems that we're having some technical difficulties with our live feed from Bob Manning in Germany. We'll continue to update you on the latest from Germany after this commercial."

  While they waited, Jan sat back watching the commotion in the control booth while wondering what to do next. The logical thing was to go back to Littleton. The question was, however, how to tie Bob's interrupted report into a conversation with Littleton. As she pondered this, Jan heard the director suggest that she go back to Littleton and tie her questions into the last video somehow. Looking up at the director, Jan was about to say, "No shit, Sherlock," but decided not to. She could tell from where she sat that he already had more than enough on his mind and his hands full. He didn't need her smart-ass comment. Instead Jan simply smiled, nodded, and prepared to go back live.