Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) by David Healey (great books for teens TXT) 📕

But the tank wasn’t just a punching bag. The Sherman could punch back. Its machine gun blazed, making the Germans who had been advancing toward the tunnel scramble for cover.

Still, the Sherman was fighting with one hand behind its back, considering that it couldn’t use its main gun for fear of civilian casualties. The lack of fire also emboldened some of the Germans, who crept closer, using outbuildings and ditches for cover.

With the tank hatched closed and the limited field of vision that the machine gunner had to work with, it was hard to see the Germans approaching or the fact that two of them carried Panzerfaust, their antitank weapon. Unseen by the Americans, one of the Germans set up behind a shed with the weapon, planning an ambush, waiting for the tank to come into range.

As the tank rolled closer, the German settled the sights of the weapon on the American tank. He was aiming for the sides of the Sherman, where the armor plating wasn’t as thick.

The tank passed the spot where Mulholland and Bigelow lay in the ditch, then stopped. From the shelter provided by the back of the tank, Vaccaro waved at the two men. “Come on, sir! It’s time to go!”

“Vaccaro, I never thought I’d say this, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Mulholland didn’t need to be invited twice. He didn’t attempt to get to his feet, but rolled out of the ditch and behind the tank. The soldier followed his lead. In the lee of the tank, the lieutenant stood.

“We ought to try to advance into the village,” he said to Vaccaro.

“I don’t know about that, sir. There’s a hell of a lot of Germans. The plan is to back this puppy back to the mouth of the tunnel and regroup.”

“All right. Let’s do it.”

The tank crept forward, still firing, and the soldiers behind it didn’t have much choice except to follow it or be exposed to enemy fire.

“Where’s he going?”

“They’re blind inside,” Mulholland said. “They can’t see that we’re out of the ditch.”

The lieutenant used the butt of his rifle to give the tank two quick whacks. The forward motion of the tank stopped. They heard gears shifting, and then the tank began to reverse. The reverse speed was faster than expected and the three men had to trot to keep from being run over.

Down the road, the German with the Panzerfaust saw the tank starting to retreat, and figured it was now or never. He lined up the sights and fired.

There was a tell-tale whoosh of smoke and flame, so fast that there was no time to dodge the deadly Panzerfaust round. The subsequent explosion made the tank shudder.

Whether it was a lucky shot or skill, the German’s Panzerfaust round had scored a crippling hit.

Mulholland and the others just had time to throw themselves flat in the snow. Lucky for them, it was the right front quarter of the tank that took the brunt of the explosion. Nonetheless, Bigelow cried out as a splinter of shrapnel caught him in the leg.

To their horror, the wounded tank came to a halt, engine clanking and shuddering. Thick, black smoke began to pour out of the Sherman.

Unfortunately, the security offered by the tight steel confines of the tank also turned it into a death trap. Exiting a tank filled with roiling, choking smoke was no easy task—if any of the crew had even survived the initial blast.

“Those poor bastards!” Mulholland shouted. “We’ve got to help them!”

Without thinking, the lieutenant scrambled onto the back of the tank, headed for the hatch.

On top of the tank, the hatch started to open, then fell shut again. Whoever was in there seemed to lack the strength to lift it from within.

When the hatch started to open again, Mulholland was there, getting his fingers under the lip and yanking it open. A soot-stained face appeared, coughing and choking on the thick smoke that boiled out.

Mulholland started to help the tanker, who suddenly slumped lifelessly in the lieutenant’s arms. From the village, they heard the solitary crack of a rifle. A shot from the sniper in the church steeple had finished the work that the Panzerfaust had started. Mulholland had no choice but to let go of the dead weight, and the body slid back into the smoking maw of the tank.

“Anybody else in there?” he shouted.

He waited a moment, bullets slicing the air around him, but no one else emerged. Flames began to lick upward from the interior of the tank.

Vaccaro had climbed up on the tank and grabbed Mulholland by the back of the belt, trying to haul him down from the top of the Sherman, where he was a target.

“Sir, it’s no use! They’re gone!”

It took another forceful tug from Vaccaro, but Mulholland finally got the message and slithered down off the tank, keeping low. Heavier smoke now poured from the crippled Sherman, helping to screen the soldiers from the gunfire in the village. It was as if in death, the crew of the defeated Sherman tank was making one final act of defiance against the Germans.

Benefitting from the bulk of the wrecked tank and the smokescreen, the three soldiers were able to run back to the cover offered by the tunnel.

Finally safe for the moment, Mulholland punched the air in an angry gesture. “Son of a bitch! They were just trying to save my ass and I got them killed.”

“Wasn’t your fault, sir. You didn’t kill those boys. The Jerries did.”

Mulholland knew it was true, but it wasn’t much consolation. He shook his head. He seemed to notice Cole slouched against the tunnel wall. “Hillbilly, are you hit?”

Cole raised his head, but didn’t seem to have the strength to respond. Whatever energy that he had managed to summon earlier was gone. His eyes looked glassy and bright with fever.

“He’s just sick, sir.”

“I’ll be damned. All right, let’s get out of here. Somebody grab Cole. It’s going to take more