September 16th, 1944.
We've been ordered to move in and secure Luneville as our forces push onward through France to the Siegfried Line. Our hatches are all open as we drive down the dirt road in front of us in our Sherman Easy Eight. Thankfully we're not the lead tank for the day. The last time we were the lead tank, we got ambushed and flanked by a Panther that shot us in the side of the hull which spalled the hell out of it and killed my assistant driver and nearly tore my f*cking leg off. I can't even remember how many assistant drivers we've gone through at this point, and we're barely 2 months into this godforsaken campaign. I don't know how they can keep sending me more. Maybe it's the 2 silver stars and 3 purple hearts and 2 promotions I've somehow earned so far.
"Driver, halt. Let's have a look around."
We stop and survey the area in front of us. Light resistance.
"Someone must have told them we're coming!" says my gunner. He gets a chuckle out of the loader.
"Alright, enough messing around. Load HE," I say.
"HE up!" says my loader.
We advance and expend about 5 HE rounds. Suddenly, we're ambushed.
"Driver, get us hull down," I order.
The radio crackles to life. "Anti-tank gun at 12 o'clock, far range! Light weapons infantry at 8 o'clock, close range! Self-propelled gun at 2 o'clock, medium range!"
We move forward but our driver is unable to achieve a hull down position. Suddenly, a shell comes whizzing in and hits the lead tank in our platoon, blowing the turret off the hull and sending shrapnel hurtling in all directions. The report from the gun arrives about a second later, and it is deafening.
"That sounded like an 88mm!" shouts our gunner.
"Yeah no sh*t, it's a f*cking 88. Driver, get us hull down," I order again.
Our driver finally gets the tank hull down. I give the order to batten down the hatches. All of the hatches on the tank slam shut, except mine. I'm not going to close my f*cking hatch. I need to see where that shell came from. I barely pull out my binoculars before our tank takes small arms fire. Bullets from enemy infantry all around us plink off our tank. One of them grazes the side of my head. I pull my handkerchief out of my pocket and use it to staunch the bleeding with my right hand. F*cking krauts.
"Gunner, get on the co-ax. Light these motherf*ckers up," I say through clenched teeth.
I direct my gunner's coaxial machine gun fire. He manages to pin the infantry in front of our tank, but not kill them. Friendly infantry flank them and wipe them out shortly afterwards.
Another shell whizzes towards us and clips the side of our turret, ricocheting away from us. The hit stuns my driver but otherwise doesn't penetrate, thankfully. The report comes in about half a second later.
"That sounded like a 75mm!" shouts my gunner.
My loader spots him. "Unidentified self-propelled gun spotted!" It's the one the radio called in at 2 o'clock.
"Bullsh*t, that's a f*cking Hetzer," I shout back.
Luckily, the Hetzer gets smoked out which gives me a few seconds to figure out how I'm going to deal with this situation. I don't get much time to think about it before another shell comes whizzing in. This time, it hits the dirt in front of us and explodes. Good thing we were hull down. The report rolls in after about a second. It's the 88 again, this time it's for us. I look roughly the direction it came from and determine it's the AT gun that was spotted while we got ambushed. I'm able to spot it with my binocs and determine it's a PaK 43, which is just about our worst f*cking nightmare.
"Gunner, traverse right! Target - AT gun, far distance. Send HE, area fire!"
"On the waaay!"
I look down my binoculars and watch our shell make its way to the target. It lands short by about 20 feet.
"HE up," shouts my loader.
"Gunner, again. Up 20."
"Firing!"
I watch the shell fly out towards the AT gun again. This time it hits right where I want it to. In front of all the dirt that gets kicked up by the blast, I can make out a faint red mist. Looks like those f*ckers won't be going home.
"Good hit, gunner, cease fire. Traverse right. Load AP."
I check the direction where we spotted the Hetzer. The smoke has dissipated and he's looking roughly in our direction. He fires a shot and it whizzes past our tank, hitting the tank behind us and blowing all the hatches open on it. I watch 2 crewmembers jump out. One of them runs back in and grabs another crewmember who's unconscious and drags him to safety. Just as they exit the tank, the ammo rack burns down and sends a pillar of flame blazing into the air.
"Gunner. Target - Hetzer. Medium distance. Fire when ready."
"On the waaay!"
The shot hits the Hetzer in its front armor. I watch sparks fly as the AP round goes careening off into the distance.
"Again!"
The second shot flies in. It goes sailing over the Hetzer and kicks up some dirt behind it.
My loader pipes up. "Sir, the breech is stuck closed, the shell casing won't eject!"
"Godd*mmit, f*ck!" I pound the rim of my open cupola in a fit of anger. "Get it fixed, now, or we're dead."
My crew attempts to repair the main gun. Various knocking and clanging sounds abound as they try to extract the shell casing, which puts me on edge. Meanwhile, an enemy half track rolls up and dismounts an MG team. I watch them set up their MG42 and start spraying at friendly infantry. I get on the Browning .50 cal machine gun and unload in their direction. All of the shots I send miss. The MG team wipes out a friendly infantry squad before I can finally gun them down. The half track retreats.
"Is that gun fixed yet?!"
Before my crew can respond, I hear artillery shells incoming on our position. They slam the ground next to us, wiping out 2 friendly infantry squads as shrapnel flies over my head. I clutch my pocket bible during the ordeal, and miraculously, I manage to avoid getting hit. Something tells me that if I weren't a God-fearing man, I'd be dead a long time ago.
"Gun's fixed, sir!" reports my loader. I hear a thud as the breech rocks open.
"'Bout damn time. Gunner, target-"
I'm about to give the order to fire at this damned Hetzer again when another AP shell comes in. This time it hits our tank in the turret again. It penetrates. I'm knocked unconscious.
I come to, and immediately, my eyes are watering from the smoke. Our tank is on fire, and I can feel it with how f*cking hot it is. I look around and see my loader and gunner, or what's left of them. My loader's head and torso are in multiple pieces, scattered about the inside of the turret. My gunner's legs are missing, and I can tell he's bled out by now. Would have taken less than a minute. I start to hoist myself out of the cupola when I feel massive pain in my abdomen. I look down and see a sizable piece of shrapnel jutting out of the left side of my torso. I'm wondering if I'm going to make it or not when my driver shouts at me from above my open hatch. I give him my hand and he pulls me up and out of the burning tank.
"Thanks, I owe you one," I manage to croak out.
We start moving to safety. I glimpse back at what just this morning was our perfectly functional tank. The driver and assistant driver's hatches are sprung open. I see our umpteenth assistant driver slumped over the side of the hull, on fire. Smoke billows into the air from the 75mm hole just below the gun mantlet on the tank's turret ring. I grit my teeth knowing that if that round hit the mantlet instead, it would have ricocheted off. Life and death really is just a matter of f*cking inches, and fate is an unsympathetic b*tch.
They manage to patch me up. I'll live, for now. During the debrief I'm awarded my 4th god d*mned purple heart medal. This time I get assigned a Sherman Jumbo, as well as a new loader, gunner, and assistant driver.
I barely compose myself and hold back tears. I can't let my rookie crew see me cry.
September 19th, 1944.
Another day, another mission.
