DINANT, BELGIUM, 1202 HOURS GMT
Lieutenant Colonel Frank Ballard’s command Sherman rumbled out of the narrow alley, long barrel extended toward the cross street. He shouted the order over his intercom. “There’s a Tiger right in front of us! Fire!”
The tank lurched as the M4 spat its armor-piercing load at point-blank range. As the round slammed home, the Tiger’s ammunition cooked off in a chaotic eruption of smoke and fire. That tank was gone, but there seemed no limit to the numbers of the advancing German armor.
Ballard’s role—the role of the Thirty-eighth Tank Battalion, Combat Command A, Nineteenth Armored Division, United States Third Army—was to delay the advance enough to allow Combat Command A’s engineers to destroy the bridges across the Meuse, and sever the German spearheads from their bases in the Westwall. He would either succeed or die in the attempt.
The latter option looked increasingly likely. Ballard stuck his head up. The street was thick with smoke and rubble, and the sky grew darker by the minute. Filtered by clouds and the fires smoldering throughout the small Belgian city, every bit of color had been drained from the landscape. Only a pervasive gray remained.
More gray: German soldiers—infantry—moving from another narrow alley. Ballard saw one man kneel down, looking in his direction.
Panzerfaust!
The reaction registered in his mind in an instant. He shouted a warning down into the tank, the sound moving terribly slowly in contrast to the fire that flashed from the weapon’s mouth, the missile that sputtered toward him like a meteor.
The impact came with a deafening explosion. Ears ringing, he felt a blast of heat below him. By reflex action he scrambled up, rolling over and down into the street as an ugly blossom of black smoke shot through with hungry yellow fangs surrounded him. Time seemed to slow as he rose to his feet, struggling to comprehend the effect of the tank-killing missile.
Shards of turret sprayed the air where his body had been only moments before. In the smoke, he could not tell whether any of his crew had escaped. Vaguely, he tried to take inventory of his own injuries. His body had thudded against the hard, jagged concrete fragments that covered the narrow streets and sidewalks. His left arm had taken the brunt of the fall, the skin tearing as fragments tore through his jacket. It was painful, but the limb didn’t seem to be broken.
Ballard’s right hand unsnapped the leather holster containing his .45 sidearm, and he moved forward in a crouch. Briefly sticking his head around the front of the tank, he saw the other soldiers of the panzerfaust squad readying potato-masher grenades, studying his crippled Sherman. They looked like menacing shadows, dark black silhouettes against the flames still coming up from the Tiger he’d destroyed seconds before. Ballard fired his automatic once, twice, again, and a German fell.
The first grenade splattered against the tank’s front armor, but its explosion merely darkened the metal plates. The driver, Sergeant Tim Brown, his face black and dripping blood, pushed open the forward hatch and began to crawl up from the body of the ruined tank. Ballard spared him a brief look, eyes questioning if anyone else had survived, and Brown shook his head.
Ballard fired again and the large German carrying the panzerfaust toppled forward. Two more shots from his pistol forced the remaining Germans to drop and take cover. He reached out with his good arm to help Brown scramble down the tank’s hull. The sergeant was a mass of small cuts and soot, stunned but able to walk.
“No one else, Colonel,” he mumbled, confirming what Ballard already knew. With his good arm, he patted the sergeant’s shoulder and the two men backtracked into the alley, using the burning Sherman to screen them from the German panzergrenadiere.
There was a flash of pink in the corner of his eye and he whirled, his automatic at the ready, only to see a female mannequin, armless like the Venus de Milo but headless as well, standing in the rubble of what once had probably been a clothing store. This was the first sight of a female form Ballard had seen in weeks, and he found the image jarring.
There were more of his tanks nearby, and as he moved steadily in their direction he waved his right arm at them.
“You okay, Colonel?” came a shout from the nearest M4 as Ballard and Brown approached. Lieutenant McCullough’s head poked up through the turret hatch.
“Just ducky,” Ballard snarled. “There was a bastard with a panzerfaust in the next block. Brown and I are it from the command tank.”
“Shit.” McCullough shook his head. “Colonel, we’re holding, but those fucking Tigers keep coming.”
“We’ve just got to keep hitting ’em until the sappers blow the goddamn bridges,” replied the colonel.
McCullough nodded in response. They all understood that the opportunity to bug out would probably come too late for most of Combat Command A.
“I need communication, and I need it now,” ordered Ballard.
The tactical situation was grim. Ballard’s Thirty-eighth Battalion consisted of a hundred tanks when at full strength—eighty medium and twenty light, all
the tanks of Combat Command A organized into three companies. Ballard’s flank attack against the advancing German armor of the Panzer Lehr division had used A and B companies, a bit more than half his strength, including all the upgunned Shermans, those with the 76mm guns. These were the only American tanks that had a decent chance to take out the German armor. The third element, C Company, was in the lower city with Colonel Jimmy Pulaski, the commander of CCA, shooting up the wharf and opening the way for CCA’s other assets to do their job.
Those other assets included an armored infantry battalion of an authorized strength of about a thousand men, and the engineers and sappers whose job it would be to wire the remaining bridges with satchel charges and blow them to pieces. The artillery battalion, under Major Diaz, had set up in a park on the south side of Dinant where it was in easy support range of the entire combat command.
The problem was that Combat Command A had injected itself right into the path of the entire German Fifth Panzer Army. Ballard had no idea how his boss Pulaski was faring in the lower city, and he needed to know now. His flank attack had slammed into a substantially stronger force. His forces were suffering steady attrition; how much longer was it necessary for him to hold out? Did he need to husband his steadily decreasing force, or advance with cannons blazing for a final blow? There were two unknown variables: whether or when the bridge would be destroyed and when Colonel Bob Jackson’s Combat Command B would reach Dinant. Last he’d heard, they were a couple of hours away.
Mindful of his torn-up arm, Ballard scrambled up onto the tank. McCullough handed him the radio handset. “Popcorn Ten—this is Popcorn Eight,” he announced, giving the code for Colonel Pulaski. There was a pause. “Popcorn Ten, this is Popcorn Eight. Come in.” Still nothing. “Popcorn Eight to all Popcorns.”
That led to some replies. Two of his three company commanders responded—the third was with Pulaski in the lower city, and no reply. The infantry commanders also checked in, and then came real news. “Ducky Six to Popcorn Eight.” It was Diaz with the artillery battalion.
“Go ahead, Ducky Six,” responded Ballard.
“Okra Ten has met up with our position,” crackled the radio.
That was very good news indeed. Okra Ten was Bob Jackson of Combat Command B, the other armored fist in Nineteenth Armored’s one-two punch. Jackson, an unregenerate Southerner, actually claimed to like the slimy vegetable. “Put him on, Ducky Six.”
“Hold on” was the response, and about a minute later, “Popcorn Eight, this is Okra Ten. What’s the situation?”
Quickly, Ballard briefed Pulaski’s CCB counterpart, concluding with “No
word from Popcorn Ten or anyone in the lower city. And no sign that the bridge has blown yet.”
“Roger,” came the reply.
Ballard pushed down the Send button again. “Okra Ten, if you can reinforce into my position, I can move in the direction of the bridges to handle any unfinished business.”
“Roger that, too,” came back the drawling reply from Jackson. “Start your move; we’ll come in behind you and keep those Tigers in their cage where they belong.”
“Thanks, Okra Ten, will comply,” replied Ballard. “Popcorn Eight and remaining Popcorns heading downhill.”
“Say hello to Popcorn Ten when you see him, and tell him to get his radio fixed,” came the reply.
“Roger. Popcorn Eight out.” Ballard knew it was more likely that his commander was a casualty, but the reassurance and calm confidence of the lanky Southerner was just what he needed to hear.
“Good hunting, Popcorn Eight. Okra Ten out.”
Changing frequencies from the command channel, Ballard began issuing orders to his remaining forces, starting the slow move down from the upper city toward the riverbanks, the lower city and harbor still occupied by German troops.
Then Ballard heard a new noise, a thunderous boom that overwhelmed the normal cacophony of battle, the explosions and whines of bullets and shrapnel, the rumblings of powerful tank engines, the crashes of falling masonry from ancient and historic structures collapsing under the rude violation of modern weapons of warfare. The new explosion shook the entire valley, even rocked the massive iron vehicles themselves. It was the sound of powerful demolition, which meant that the engineers had finished their dangerous job on the bridges. A huge smoke bloom billowed above the town—but what Ballard couldn’t tell for sure was whether the explosion had done its job.
Lieutenant McCullough’s Sherman, now serving as Ballard’s mobile command post, rumbled down narrow medieval streets. Parts of heavily damaged buildings collapsed as the leading tank passed; as the long 76mm gun swept around street corners it barely missed obstructions ranging from window boxes to streetlamps. Lumbering over wreckage and other obstacles, the tank growled through the narrow pathways that moved it down the bluff and into the lower city.
It was getting too dark to see, even though it was not yet 1600 hours local time. The tank’s headlights and the fires that raged unchecked through the swaths of military destruction were the only illumination, and it was difficult for Ballard to pick out the correct route through the destroyed town.
In the irregular illumination, he was surprised to see a square open up, an
unusually wide space for this narrow city. He saw burned-out Shermans and soldiers sprawled in the rubble, recognized the grotesque postures of death. And then he saw a half-track, its armored door shredded like confetti. It was the command half-track of Colonel Pulaski, almost certainly his tomb. Frank Ballard was the remaining senior commander near the bridge. If that span was not already destroyed, it was his job to eliminate it once and for all. He decided to make his command post in the square, and issued orders for his tanks to take up positions blocking all the routes converging here.
As his tanks moved into position, a growing trickle of CCA troops from the lower city began to arrive. He stopped one young man, who looked hypnotized by the bright headlights of the tank, wearing the poleaxed look so common among the men—the boys—who had stared death in the face for hours. “Corporal! Report!”
“The bridge is blown, sir.”
“Thank God. Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal’s voice was thin, distracted, numb. “Saw it collapse. About four panzers went down with it. One had been spraying us pretty good.”
“How many of you are left?” Ballard asked. There was an increase in small-arms fire off to his left. One tank responded.
“Just me, sir,” said the corporal.
Ballard pointed in the direction of what seemed to be a tavern except that its front wall had mostly disintegrated. “Get checked out by the medics over there.”
“I’m not wounded, sir,” replied the corporal.
“Go,” Ballard ordered. The corporal moved off.
Ballard regretted that he couldn’t send the corporal into the tavern for a beer or two. He didn’t even know if his highly improvisational hospital had water for patients to drink. The aid station had been put together by several of the company-level medics as the remaining lower-city CCA soldiers began to center around the new field headquarters. Realizing those men, all of them, were now his responsibility, Ballard felt the full weight of command come to rest upon his shoulders.
Over the next hour, as ragged fire continued in isolated parts of the dark and freezing town, Ballard improvised a headquarters. The medics shortly had a growing collection of wounded awaiting safe transport out. Many could wait, even though in pain. Many could not, but had to anyway.
Making contact with General Henry Wakefield, commanding general of Nineteenth Armored, was luckily straightforward, and he was able to coordinate more closely with Bob Jackson of CCB. The situation was defend and wait, wait to discover what the enemy would choose to do, and only then to know the final fate and disposition of his dwindling force. Ballard listened as
the occasional bursts of firefight steadied, became regular, and then … faded away to silence.
“King Popcorn to Popcorn Eight!” barked the radio peremptorily. It was General Wakefield.
“Popcorn Eight,” acknowledged Ballard.