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Johann leaned his unshaven cheek on the cool edge of the commander’s cupola of his Tiger. Speckled shafts of sunlight danced on him, helping to hide what was left of their unit from Allied air power. Just this morning bombers had hit them. He still was trying to get the image of a 56-ton Tiger being flipped over like a children’s toy out of his head.
To his right, the Major stood tall in the cupola of his own tank. Clean and neat. Even shaved! Johann knew he’d had no more sleep than any of them, but he still managed his appearance. Just setting an example, he’d say.
Ahead, a broad field in full summer growth. Green fronds, shoulder high could hide a lot of men, but couldn’t hide English tanks. On the right, the shattered shell of a village stood astride a dirt lane. It looked empty but they all know that von Luck’s men held it strongly and had dug PaKs into the rear embankment of the road. They were as ready as they could be. Distant engine noise echoed from their left, quickly covered by the dull crump of shells striking the village. They spewed geysers of thick white smoke. On cue the green Brit tanks began rolling through the field straight toward von Luck. PaK shells whizzed out blindly hitting nothing. Pre-planned artillery fire hit among the Tommies and got lucky as a Sherman started to burn.
‘Wait,’ Major Fromme called out. ‘Remember your targets and fire on my command.’
Johann ducked his head into the turret, ‘Peter! Like the Major said last night. We hit the third and fourth tanks.’
His gunner grinned, not taking his eye from the scope. ‘Already lined up!’
Fromme’s cool voice came over the radio. ‘All vehicles, FIRE!’
The huge 88mm gun rocked the vehicle and Johann watched as a blocky Cromwell turret sailed through the air on a column of flame. The turret was already moving as the loader slammed in the ready shell. The next tank came on line, slowing in surprise. ‘Fire!’
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