Trouble in the Wind

by Chris Kennedy

  “And, in today’s ‘modern,’ ‘new,’ army,” said Spataro, “that’s apparently something we care about.” Spataro spat into the sand.

  “What kind of weapons are those?” asked Fritz.

  “I don’t fuckin’ know, what am I, a gun encyclopedia?” said Spataro. “Get back to work.”

  Herrera and Fritz just looked at him. Spataro groaned.

  “Oh, so we’re not doing any more work until Uncle Alex tells you guys his most valued-fuckin-opinion. I’m a fucking tank gunner, you numbskulls.”

  “Got it, Corporal,” said Herrera. “But what’s your read on them?”

  “They’re infantry,” said Spataro. “Same in any language—idiots who carry heavy stuff long distances on foot and think they’re elite because of it.”

  “Think they’ll be worth a damn in a fight?” asked Fritz.

  Spataro watched as two of the Japanese troops conducted movement drills. The SNLF men were quick and aggressive. They didn’t fight like the Americans Spataro had witnessed, nor the Germans he had shot at. In each team of four, three carried bolt-action rifles, while the fourth carried an unusual MG with a side-mounted magazine that Alex didn’t recognize.

  “I think they need our help, and Sergeant Kurtzhals thinks they need our help, and we’ve done all the thinking there needs to be on this topic. Now shut up and make sure we’ve got all our shells onboard.”

  * * *

  The Outskirts of Cairo

  April 4, 1944

  The movement was quick enough—mostly straight forward travel, through the lines of forward units, the Japanese riding on the back of the tanks, or in borrowed trucks. As the unit passed through the forward line of troops, the Japanese dismounted, and the trucks returned to their other duties. In the distance, Cairo loomed, its visage foreboding in the bright light of midday.

  Grizzly rumbled, slowly, into the outer belt of the outskirts, past the final observation post. Kurtzhals nodded professionally to the scout NCO on watch as the tank moved in.

  “Alright kids,” Kurtzhals said. “We’re in the Wild West now. Keep a look out for Jerry.”

  The tank moved forward, the Japanese SNLF in double file behind it.

  “Can you believe the Russkies are fighting this shit all the time?” asked Spataro, his face glued to his periscope. “Up in Stalingrad, Leningrad, Kiev…just all urban combat. What a fuckin’ nightmare. Bad guys could be anywhere. Above us, below us, just one Kraut with a bazooka could end our whole fuckin’ world.”

  “Technically, the Kraut bazookas are called ‘panzershrecks,’” offered Fritz.

  Spataro groaned.

  “Shut up and scan your sectors,” Kurtzhals called from the commander’s hatch. “We can chat when we’re all back at the bar after we crush these bastards.”

  Kurtzhals kept scanning the horizon. The rough desert had given way to the urban sprawl of Cairo—all simple, tan, drab houses, a couple of stories tall, max. In the distance, the sounds of combat echoed. Behind Kurtzhals, the sun was just coming up. Grizzly crawled forward slowly, edging toward the enemy.

  Matoi talked hurriedly with Petty Officer Shimada on the field phone, exchanging a few sentences in Japanese.

  “Sergeant,” said Matoi. “Shimada says we are at the RV.”

  “Yeah?” asked Kurtzhals. “Well somebody fucked up. There’s nobody here to rendezvous with.”

  They pulled up on the edge of a simple town square around a well. It was empty. The Japanese Naval Infantry fanned out, securing vantage points and taking cover. Kurtzhals didn’t like this. Something felt rotten.

  Suddenly, one of the doors burst open, and a burst of machinegun fire rippled across the square. Kurtzhals dropped down into the tank hatch.

  “Fritz, halt,” said Kurtzhals. “Let the dismounts circle around outside.”

  As he said this, the SNLF troops fanned out around the tank. One of the most dangerous parts of combined arms operations, Kurtzhals recalled from training. One wrong move, and his tank could kill one, or all, of his dismounted companions. I just wish I could move around a little, sitting still makes me nervous.

  “Spataro, swivel left, check for that machinegunner,” Kurtzhals said, looking back out the tank hatch. It was risky, but it was the best way to make sure his gunner would hit correctly.

  Spataro used the turret’s power to move, and pulled away from the periscope, checking instead on the Sherman’s gunsight. His crosshairs were lined up neatly over the muzzle flash of the MG42 machinegun. Spataro smiled as he depressed the coax, putting suppressive fires on the enemy, as well as making sure he was lined up as well as he hoped.

  Outside, Shimada aimed his Thompson and fired. To his right, a pair of Naval Infantry fired rounds from their Arisaka rifles, but the enemy machinegunner kept up, unabated.

  Rounds pinged harmlessly off the Sherman.

  “Herrera, load high explosive,” ordered Kurtzhals.

  “Roger!” Herrera shouted. In three rapid movements, Herrera slammed the breach release lever, ejecting the unfired armor-piercing round. He slammed in a fresh HE round.

  “Up!” the Californian said as he scurried to secure the loose armor-piercing round in the ammo box.

  “Fire,” Kurtzhals ordered.

  “On the way!” said Spataro.

  The round left the barrel off the M4’s 75mm gun and flew across the firefight, straight toward the simple home the German machinegunners were in. The machinegun team never registered what happened—a flash of light, a deafening noise, and a fire that consumed them, stopping their fire.

  “Up!” said Herrera as he loaded a fresh HE round.

  Kurtzhals saw the wreckage of the enemy MG nest. He couldn’t see any bodies, but the gun had stopped firing, its barrel pointed skyward.

  “That’s a kill,” Kurtzhals said. “Good shooting, Spataro.”

  “Easy at this range,” said Spataro. “Think they got any friends out there?

  “Keep looking,” said Kurtzhals. “The Krauts never come alone.”

  Spataro went back to his periscope, trying to aquire a new target.

  The tank crew scanned their sectors. Kurtzhals went to a chest defilade in the turret, allowing himself to see more, though also making himself even more vulnerable. He saw Shimada run toward the back of the tank.

  Matoi picked up the field phone, and conversed hurriedly in Japanese.

  “Sergeant Kurtzhals,” he said. “Shimada reports no losses, thanks you for the work.”

  Kurtzhals grinned. “Holy shit. Grateful dismounts! I like the Japanese already. Tell Shimada we’ll check the map and then head out, and have his boys keep their eyes peeled. This place is a bazooka paradise.”

  The tank crawled forward. In the distance, the sounds of gunfights echoed. Kurtzhals tuned to the platoon frequency on the radio, and listened in.

  “Blue 4, Blue 1, over,” came Haskins’ voice, crackling.

  “Go for 4,” said Kurtzhals.

  “4, heard some contact down your way, everything ok?”

  “Roger, 1, engaged and destroyed enemy dismounts.”

  “Excellent, 4. 1 and 2 have linked up with our American dismounts. Proceeding on to the objective. See you there. Out.”

  Kurtzhals pulled out his map. He made a quick note on where they were, and what they’d encountered, in case he needed to report it later.

  “Alright, Matoi. Tell the sailors we’re moving out. We’ve still got another mile to go before the objective, and it’s looking like the infantry did as good of a job of clearing shit out as they ever do.”

  Matoi acknowledged and relayed the orders in Japanese.

  Grizzly rumbled forward, and the Japanese followed behind in a double file, Petty Officer Shimada checking off his men as they went.

  Hours passed as the soldiers advanced through the northern outskirts of Cairo, encountering minimal resistance, though the sounds of gunfire, both small arms and artillery, echoed throughout the city. Kurtzhals returned to the unbuttoned positio
n, keeping watch on every alleyway. As the sun got lower and lower, it was in his eyes.

  May as well be blind, Kurtzhals thought.

  Four streets west, Kurtzhals found his first real problem.

  It looked simple—a dead camel, strewn in the middle of the road, along with a stopped truck with British markings. The intersection was flanked on all sides with simple two-story homes, which appeared to be abandoned. Kurtzhals didn’t see movement in any of them, but it was dark inside, and the afternoon light unhelpful. On the far side of the square, over the truck and the dead camel, Kurtzhals could make out a sandbag roadblock—it wouldn’t stop Grizzly, but it could be problematic for the infantry, and would provide ample cover to any German soldiers behind it. Kurtzhals imagined German AT teams, or SS men with radios, calling in artillery fire.

  Kurtzhals shouted back at Shimada. “Phone! Phone!” and made the phone signal with his hands.

  The tall sergeant ducked back inside the tank.

  “Matoi, tell the Petty Officer we need his men to push forward, check this out. This smells like a trap.”

  “Fuckin’ A, Sarge,” said Spataro.

  “It’s Sergeant,” said Kurtzhals. “Scan the second floor of those buildings. If they’ve got AT, that’s where it’ll be.”

  “Roger,” acknowledged Spataro.

  On the ground, the SNLF men spread out. Shimada’s squad was 13-strong—there hadn’t been a set size for shore parties prior to 1941, but after training with the USMC, the SNLF had copied their organization—three fire teams and one squad leader. Shimada ordered his first and second teams to either side, the men taking up positions near mailboxes, rubble, and whatever else they could find.

  Shimada spotted movement in the truck.

  “Enemy spotted!” he said.

  His first team confirmed and conducted a recon by fire. From his tank hatch, Kurtzhals watched three riflemen and a Johnson gunner open up on the truck. The truck’s door opened, and a man in German camouflage slumped out.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  From the second story, as predicted, gunfire blazed down on the infantrymen.

  “Gunner, HE, second story,” ordered Kurtzhals as he slammed the hatch down.

  “On the way,” growled Spataro as he pulled the trigger. The round streaked toward the second story, but missed the window, exploding outside, showering the street with rubble.

  Herrera slammed in another HE round.

  “Up!”

  “Repeat target. Fire.”

  Spataro shot again, and this time, the round struck true, blowing out the room.

  Outside, Shimada’s ears were ringing, but he could see the enemy had stopped shooting from that location, though bullets poured down from the other building across the square, as well as the muzzle flashes of Germans behind the secondary roadblock.

  It was then he heard the rumbling—an engine, like Grizzly’s, but bigger. Much bigger.

  He ran over to the field phone and picked it up.

  “Grizzly, Grizzly, there is an enemy tank approaching! Unclear what direction.”

  “Understood,” came Matoi’s voice. “Use a signal flare if you spot it.”

  Shimada barked the order in response, getting acknowledgement from his NCOs, in between bursts of gunfire.

  The German infantry on the second story paused in fire. Shimada heard something in German, and the enemy tank made its presence known.

  The Panzerkampfwagen V “Panther,” variant D, bulldozed its way through one of the simple structures to Grizzly’s right.

  Shimada pulled the flare, and threw it, rushing to grab the phone.

  “Enemy, 3 o’clock!” Shimada said. “3 o’clock!”

  Inside Grizzly, Matoi furiously relayed the order.

  “Gunner right,” said Kurtzhals. “Loader, load armor piercing.”

  Herrera picked up the ready shell—an M72 Armor piercing round. He slammed it home.

  “Up!” he shouted.

  There was no time to fire.

  The Panther spoke first.

  The Panther’s gun slewed toward Grizzly and fired. The round smacked into the front facing hull armor. The enemy gunner had fired too quickly—the round hit at a nearly 45 degree angle, and pinged off the front, but the hit was right in front of the driver’s position.

  Fritz screamed in pain.

  “Matoi, check Fritz,” Kurtzhals said, calmly.

  Matoi scrambled out of his position to see if Fritz could still drive. The young private wasn’t bleeding, but kept screaming, and looking disoriented. Matoi couldn’t pull him out of the position, not easily, but Fritz was in no position to drive.

  From the commander’s position, Kurtzhals was determined to make this count.

  “Gunner, AP, tank.”

  Spataro swiveled the turret, and looked through the sight. At this distance, he could practically read the bumper number on the Panther. He aimed it toward the front side of the hull—the Panther was pivot-turning to put its heavy frontal armor toward Grizzly, but rubble stopped it from moving as quickly as it should’ve. Spataro wasn’t about to let that opportunity pass.

  “Identified,” said Spataro, over Fritz’s screams.

  “Fire!”

  “On the way!”

  The round hit the enemy tank on the hull at a better angle than Grizzly had received. The AP round penetrated the side armor of the tank, and killed the enemy driver instantly. The Panther ground to a halt, and its hatch opened up. An enemy tank commander, clad in black, was barely visible on top.

  Kurtzhals cursed. The enemy tank’s turret was still moving. Maneuver with those sailors around is gonna be hell. Still, I’ve got to do it.

  He unbuttoned the hatch and pulled himself out. He pulled his M3 “Grease Gun” up with him, just in case, and scanned the tank. He saw Shimada on the field phone.

  “Matoi,” Kurtzhals shouted down into the tank. “Tell him to clear out, we’ve got to maneuver!”

  Matoi acknowledged, and the big Petty Officer dove for cover. Shimada looked at the enemy Panther.

  “Petty Officer Shimada!” one of his team leaders said. “What do we do about that tank?”

  Shimada grunted. “Kill that tank commander.”

  The team leader coordinated, ordering his Johnson gunner to open fire. Shimada himself sighted in his Thompson, spraying rounds. He’d expected the enemy commander to be suppressed, but one of the sailors had gotten lucky—an Arisaka round clipped through the German’s head, blowing his brains into the nearby rubble. The commander slumped over.

  At the same time, the German infantrymen spotted the American tank commander, and adjusted fire. Rounds pinged off the top of the Sherman just as Kurtzhals closed the hatch.

  “The sailors are clear,” he said. “Reverse. Spataro, fire again.”

  Spataro fired a second round at the Panther, but it glanced off the armored glacis.

  “You’re too far right, Spataro,” said Kurtzhals, his voice loud, but calm. “Adjust left, then fire. Fritz, why are we stationary?”

  The Panther returned fire. The enemy round banged off Grizzly’s front turret armor, but as Spataro moved the power traverse, a hideous creaking sound reached out. From the driver’s compartment, Matoi tried to retrieve Fritz.

  “Can’t reverse!” said Matoi. “Fritz is real fucked up!”

  Kurtzhals cursed again as Herrera announced the next round was loaded. Over in the loader’s position, Herrera got the second set of rounds ready—five rounds left easily available. A reload of extras into the turret was nearly impossible in a firefight once those initial crates were empty.

  Spataro switched to manual traverse and brought the gun to the left. He looked back down his gunner’s sight, and had a good side shot on the Panther.

  The enemy Panther wasn’t firing again—its crew had yet to realize the tank commander had been killed, and was struggling to make gunnery adjustments.

  “Fire,” said Kurtzhals. This time, Spataro’s round struck true.
The Panther had heavy armor, but even the heaviest of armor has its weaknesses.

  The M72 Armored piercing round was a little high—it cracked the Panther right in its turret ring, fragmenting inside, killing the remaining two crew members. The Panther ground to a full halt.

  “I think we got him, Sergeant,” said Spataro.

  “Fire another for insurance,” said Kurtzhals. Lost too many wingmen to tanks we knew were dead, he thought.

  On the ground, Shimada watched as his first team fired down on the Germans. His second team stayed with him, while his third team crossed the street. They didn’t make it—a flurry of gunfire from enemies behind the sandbag roadblock cut them down. The four sailors lay dead. Shimada cursed.

  In the tank, after putting one more round into the turret, Kurtzhals ordered the vehicle forward. Fritz, still concussed, was rocking back and forth in the assistant gunner’s seat. Matoi reversed, awkwardly, back out of the linear danger area. Spataro manually traversed the turret, and fired coax rounds at the enemies behind the sandbag barrier.

  From his position, Shimada knew what must be done. His first team continued to suppress the enemies on the other side.

  “Sailors! On my mark, move!” he said, gesturing across the danger area. He hoped, for the sake of his men, the enemy was properly suppressed this time.

  He gave the signal, and sprinted across with his five men. One, Seaman Yamaguchi, took a round through the leg. Shimada paused and ran back into the fire to drag him out. The simple building had a flimsy door on it. After dropping off the wounded sailor, Shimada motioned for his men to fix bayonets. The three riflemen affixed their blades. Shimada leveled his Thompson. The rifleman kicked open the door, and Shimada fired a burst before the four sailors ran in, screaming. A pair of Germans hustling up the stairs with machinegun ammunition were caught unaware and shot to pieces. The sailors stabbed their corpses to make sure. One of the sailors primed a grenade and ran to the top of the stairs, where a door was cracked. He tossed the grenade and closed the door.

  Outside, Kurtzhals, in the open hatch, saw the explosion and watched as the second story fell silent. He heard commands in German and saw movement as the enemy abandoned their roadblock. He wasn’t about to let them get away—Kurtzhals acted in a moment of recklessness, hopping out of the turret and manning the Sherman’s .50 cal. He fired a burst into the retreating Germans, cutting them down.