Fury of the tiger, p.1
Fury of the Tiger, page 1
FURY OF THE TIGER
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2014 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Prologue
Slapton Sands, England, April 8, 1944
"This damn country, it's either wet, dark, or cold. Most often it's all three," PFC Wenceslas grumbled aloud, "I never did like boat rides. My old man always told me..."
"Shut up, you dumb Polack," someone shouted. The Lieutenant glanced at them, but he closed his ears to their moans. He had other things on his mind.
"Shut up yourself." Wenceslas snapped back. "I signed up for the Army, not the damn Navy."
"Gimme some quiet, please, you guys," another voice sang out from the darkness.
"Why's he want quiet? Where does he think he is, the local library?"
"He's praying the Rosary, can't you see?" Wenceslas spat back at the man next to him. "Leave him be."
Like most Poles, he was Catholic, so he had sympathy for any appeal to the Good Lord for support and intercession, especially now. Although he doubted any Deity would come calling for this or any other soldier. The man was kneeling on the wet, steel deck, his hands clasped around his Rosary beads. Vomit from last night's supper mixed with seawater surged around his legs, a stinking, miasmic mess that clung to his pants and boots like wallpaper glue. It would need a miracle for anyone to escape the dank misery. And right now miracles were in short supply on Lyme Bay. They just had to endure the spiteful, storm-tossed night, afloat on the English Channel, until the exercise was over.
They were huddled in the damp misery of a British Royal Navy LCA, a Landing Craft Assault. The bow pointed seaward, further out into Lyme Bay, toward open sea. The skipper of the boat, a young Royal Navy Midshipman, stared straight ahead, careful to follow his prescribed course. He seemed oblivious to the wind and waves; the stormy seas that broke sheets of icy spray over his command to drench its suffering passengers.
For Lieutenant David Grant, US Infantry, this was his first taste of action.
Not exactly action, he corrected himself. Just a rehearsal for the real event - the invasion of France. That will come later, probably in two or three months. When it does come, God help us all. The Germans are waiting a few miles to the south, guarding the French coast with millions of men, thousands of tanks, guns and aircraft. This is a just a pleasure trip. Kind of. At least there's no sign of the enemy.
Ike and his staff had put together Operation Tiger to give the soldiers and ships’ crews their first experience of a massed beach landing. The plan was simple, motor out to sea in the slow moving landing craft, turn around, head back for the beach, and wade ashore as soon as the flat keels hit bottom; all undercover of night to hide their activities from the Germans. A simple plan, so not likely to go wrong. He allowed himself to relax.
Lieutenant Grant threaded his way through the troops crouched on the stinking, puke-filled deck, trying in vain to avoid the worst of the chill spray washed over the vessel and drenched their uniforms. The stench of sour vomit was shocking, intense, foul and oppressive, and he felt himself hating even more the close, steel confines of the slow moving steel box that trapped them. When he reached the cramped steering position, he smiled.
Midshipman Raymond Winterton was sucking on a pipe. He had little doubt the intention was to make the young naval officer look older. More like a proper naval officer. He also sported an emerging mustache, though little more than a dark shadow on his upper lip. He looked more like a kid pretending to be a man. Which in a way he was, for it was unlikely Winterton was older than seventeen years.
Too young, much too young to be risking his life in a war zone. Although this isn't a war zone, Grant reminded himself. It's just a practice drill. No danger, nothing to worry anyone.
The Brit gave him a friendly nod and removed the pipe. "Nice night for it, old chap."
"Yeah, a real pleasure cruise," he grimaced, "How much longer does this go on?"
"We have a about a mile to go, maybe twenty minutes or so. I'm afraid this old tub is rather slow, and it's even worse fully loaded. We're also sailing against wind and tide, which doesn't help. However, we haven't far to go, so it won't be long before we return, and your men can paddle back out onto the sand to brew up a nice cup of tea." He smiled, "It's a lovely place, Lyme Bay. I took a vacation here once."
"I guess the sun didn't shine?" he replied, wondering what made these Brits so keen on their rain-soaked island.
"The sun?" He looked surprised, "No, as a matter of fact it didn't. How did you know?"
"Just a guess, Raymond. Just a guess."
David Grant looked out to sea, and for the tenth time that night, his thoughts turned to his brother, Josh, who was a lawyer back home in the US. They'd parted on bad terms, and he felt guilty. Men were fighting the Nazis, sacrificing everything they had, often their lives, to beat the Nazis and the Japs. While Josh was looking at a commission in the JAG, the Judge Advocate General's Corps. Military lawyers, faceless men who manned a desk while real soldiers faced the enemy across the barrel of a gun.
It was like most arguments. It started over nothing, and too much to drink. He'd made a stupid comment, and Josh hit back.
"Someone needs to do the legal work. Soldiers have to have legal representation. It's the way the military works, David. It's the law."
"It won't beat the enemy," he'd slashed back at his brother, "To beat them, we need men to do the dirty work. To shoot the guns, drop the bombs, do the killing."
"You also have to have a legal department, if it's..."
David interrupted his brother, fueled by one too many bourbons. "It's a handy excuse for men like you to avoid the front line," he'd slashed back, "Any man with guts would pick up a rifle and fight."
He still remembered his brother's angry glare. "Are you calling me a coward?"
A pause, as he chose his words. "I'm saying you're deliberately avoiding the fight. What would you call it?"
Even as he spoke, he regretted the words. Josh jumped to his feet, overturning the chair, and the table began to topple as he staggered and then knocked it over. Glass, ashtrays and spilled drinks littered the floor.
"Fuck you, David," he spat out, "If you're stupid enough to go shoot a rifle, good for you. The Army needs men with brains, too, not just muscle. They need the JAG and people like me to serve. To protect and advise the military with legal help."
Their eyes met, only inches apart. David couldn't resist the final taunt. "What's the color of the JAG flag, Josh? Bright yellow?"
He watched as his brother bunched a fist, ready to throw a punch, and then thought better of it.
"It's an honorable posting, David," Josh had mumbled. Somehow, he didn't sound entirely convinced.
"Sure it is," he'd sneered, "Stay safe, Josh. Don't go near any real shooting."
They stormed out of the bar and went their separate ways. It was the last conversation they shared, and he wished it had been different. In a couple of months they'd be attacking mainland France, and he could end up wounded, even killed. He would have wanted to make his peace with Josh before anything bad happened.
Still, it isn't too late. As soon as this little jaunt is over, I’ll try to call him, assuming he’s still Stateside.
A flare suddenly lit up the sky about a half-mile away. He turned to Winterton.
"What was that?"
"I, er, I don't know."
"You don't know? Why the fuck would our ships be shooting off flares. This is supposed to be a night operation held in total darkness."
The midshipman worked to keep his voice nonchalant, although it shook slightly.
Maintaining the British stiff upper lip.
"It wasn't one of our shells, old chap. Different color."
"Whose, then? One of the Canadians, or the French?"
"It was a German, I believe."
Before he could reply, a shell fired from long range splashed into the water nearby. Then all hell let loose. Shellfire, machine guns, tracers, it was as if they were entering the gates of Dante's inferno. Fifty yards away a landing craft identical to theirs exploded, struck by a salvo of shells. Men screamed, and survivors began tossing life rafts into the water and jumping over the side. As he watched, the machine guns started chattering. German machine guns, churning the sea into froth as they punished the drowning soldiers.
A huge launch suddenly appeared out of the night, the deck lit by muzzle flashes, as their guns spat hate at the Allied landing craft. The flag flying at the masthead was red, with a swastika in the center.
Germans! Fucking Kriegsmarine E-boats! How come?
They were fast attack craft, capable of almost fifty miles an hour. Eighty tons of sleek, floating battle platform, designed to strike like lightning a nd escape before the larger, slower moving enemy ships had time to hit back.
It's an ambush! Where are our escort ships? They'd blow these bastards out of the water, but they're not here! The stupid, useless bastards!
He looked at Midshipman Winterton. The Brit was frozen, staring open mouthed at the conflagration.
"Start shooting, for Christ's sake," he shouted, "The Bren gun mounted on your boat isn't just there for decoration!"
"But..."
Grant ignored him. The Bren gun was mounted in a steel cupola at the side of the helmsman's position. Right now, just when it was needed, it was unmanned.
Another fuck up!
He darted across to the gun, grabbed the butt, and aimed at the fast moving German. He recalled the magazine only carried thirty or so rounds, and he hadn't a clue where they kept the spare ammo, so he fired in short controlled bursts.
The E-boat sliced through the water, racing past and turning away from them. Then it made a graceful turn, hurling up a huge bow wave as it swung back to come at them again. He waited, knowing he only had half a clip of bullets left, around fifteen .303 rounds. The only way to hurt them was to wait until they were close. His men were still huddled in the belly of the boat, numb with shock. It suddenly came to him they could all die. Unless they could do something about that E-boat.
He shouted, "All of you, shoot at that boat, murder the fucker." His voice rose to a scream. "Give it all you've got. Fire, men, fire!"
A few of them reacted, most didn't; they were too shocked by the unexpected violence. He concentrated on the German. Closer, closer, the boat was racing through the water at incredible speed. The deck guns were hammering out tracer rounds and shells, and he forced himself to ignore the streams of bullets that whistled past his head as he waited. The German machine gunner lowered his aim and emptied a score of rounds into the belly of the landing craft. Some of his men screamed, and he felt himself possessed by icy anger. This wasn't war. It was sheer murder. Still he held his fire. Nearer, nearer, and then the deck gun fired again, and a shell exploded amongst the packed men, causing scores more casualties. He had to close his ears to the screams and concentrate on only one thing. To nail the fucker who was killing his men.
The E-boat was only fifty yards away, and the landing craft was now reduced to little more than blazing wreckage, filled with dead and wounded, hot with smoke and flame. He felt a steel fragment, or maybe a bullet, slice a chunk out of his side, but he ignored the pain and concentrated on his prey. He could make out the German seamen manning the machine gun, and he aimed carefully. If he could kill them, it may cause the E-boat to veer away. Then the angles converged and he had a perfect shot. At the same moment, he saw the black, round maw of the barrel of the deck gun pointing right at him.
He squeezed the trigger, bullets hurtled out of the Bren gun, and as they arced toward the enemy, he saw the flash as the deck gun fired. He had the satisfaction of seeing the two men manning the machine gun crash to the deck as his fusillade cut them down. It was the last thing he ever did see. The German shell smashed into the front of the LCA, and his world exploded in a searing hell of heat, smoke, and shards of white-hot metal. His last thoughts were of his brother Josh, a wave of sadness as he lost consciousness. He'd never get a chance to make it up, to say sorry for his harsh words. The blackness, when it came, was a mercy.
Chapter One
The English Channel, 04.30, June 6, 1944
"Bocage."
Sergeant Josh Grant glanced at his driver, PFC Angel Montalban, who hailed from Spanish Harlem, New York City. His normally Latin face had paled to the color of putty. It was no surprise. The LCT, Landing Craft Tank, was pitching and rolling like a Coney Island rollercoaster. Angel was normally a good-looking, macho, Hispanic male, all broad shoulders and slim hips, a snappy dresser who sported a neat pencil mustache. He never appeared anywhere without his hair slicked back with a gallon of hair oil, except now. The testosterone had evaporated, and he looked sick. They all looked sick, riding in frail metal boats that tossed around the rough seas of the English Channel like discarded corks.
"What's that about bocage?"
"That's what you college boys call it, yeah? When you're puking your guts out. Bocage."
He smiled. Angel was pulling his leg. He was the crew joker, most of the time. When he wasn't wisecracking, he talked about his plans to open up one of those new fangled pizza shops in a big city. Somewhere like New York City, maybe even Los Angles. He dreamed of selling his product to celebrities, like movie stars. Grant wasn't sure if it would catch on, this new 'fast food.' The cautious lawyer inside him doubted it would appeal to enough people.
Then again, if that’s his dream, I won't disillusion him.
The violent motion of the LCT carrying the platoon that included their Sherman M4 affected all of them, leaving them in unimaginable misery. They were in a temporary purgatory, their lives on hold. The vessel was a Mark 4, and it wallowed like a drunken pig when fully laden, like now. The two big Paxman diesel engines pushed the steel box through the choppy waves of the English Channel at a sluggish eight knots. Someone had suggested they could do better if they got out and pushed. Probably it had been Angel.
So far, the Krauts didn't seem to know they were coming, which was as well. Even though a New York radio station had let slip the secret of Operation Overlord, the coming invasion of Europe, in a broadcast at 03.32. The station even read out Eisenhower's Order of the Day.
'The tide has turned. The free men of the world are marching together to victory.'
Thank Christ the Germans weren't listening. So much for the 'master race.' They were probably too busy sleeping off their sausage and sauerkraut.
They were all nervous, every soldier, every sailor. He still wondered what he was doing in command of a Sherman M4 tank. Grant was a freshly minted New York lawyer, not a soldier, yet here he was. He'd even volunteered to join the slaughter. A sudden roaring noise interrupted his thoughts and made him look up, but there was no sign of enemy aircraft. He glanced at their anti-aircraft defenses.
The gunners on the two Oerlikon 20mm cannons constantly scoured the skies, alert for the Luftwaffe. He doubted they knew their popguns would be worse than useless against a determined air raid by Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs. Probably. Although the biggest problem they would face this day had yet to come. The shore defenses, the huge guns mounted in hardened, concrete bunkers on the cliff tops. 88mm flak guns, or so they reckoned, their barrels pointed seaward and big enough to blow an LCT out of the water with a single well-aimed shell. That was the scuttlebutt. Every man hoped they wouldn't find out the hard way.
He leaned down to make himself heard over the howling winds, the roar of the engines, and the rapid chatter of nervous men trying to lie to themselves; trying, and failing, to pretend they weren't terrified. No one was fooled.
"Bocage isn't vomit. It's the kind of terrain we're going to encounter over there, Angel. You remember those tall hedgerows we talked about. They'll make it difficult to spot the enemy."
"Is that right? How high are those bocage things? I mean, they're just hedges, right? How big could they be?"
A pause. "Our intel says they could be up to sixteen feet high."
"Sixteen feet! Sonofabitch! So what do we do, get our stupid heads blown off if a Kraut anti-tank unit is hiding behind one of these 'bocage' things?"
"I hope not. They'll send a recon unit ahead of us to scout out the routes."
"So the poor guys get their heads blown off just so we don't, is that right?"
He smiled. The driver was winding him up, just his way of dispelling his fear.
"Tell you what, Angel. You go ahead and recon the hedgerows for us. That way, if you get your head blown off, I won't have to answer any more stupid questions."
He heard a ragged cheer behind him. The crew enjoyed Angel Montalban's joshing, but they also liked it when someone turned the tables on him. They were all sheltering from the bitter wind and freezing waves behind the solid, dark-green painted steel hull of Minnie Mouse, the nickname for their Sherman.
