“Take the first one, Balthazar,” ordered the soldier, the commander.

“The half-track?” asked Wohl, incredulously. “It can’t hurt us.”

“I know. But by blocking the road it can help us.”

“Ahhh… I see, Herr Hauptmann,” answered Wohl, returning his attention to his sight. He whispered, “Come on, baby… just a little more…” then shouted into his microphone, “Target!”

“Fire.”

The eighty-eight millimeter, L56, gun belched smoke and flame. Downrange, at the head of the enemy column, a British half-track was thrown violently across the road, blocking it. The half-track caught fire and began emitting great plumes of smoke of its own.

Onward the Tiger roared, its gun belching death and destruction at a fantastic rate. Tanks, Bren Carriers and half-tracks were smashed with each round. At this range Wohl couldn’t miss. The enemy, blocked by the wrecked half-track, could not advance. Neither, given the narrowness of the road and its border of trees, could they easily retreat. Instead, they simply died.

A lone enemy tank swung into the path. In a race against time the two hostile turrets and guns swung towards each other. Though Wohl trembled slightly, the commander did not. The Tiger proved the faster of the two and yet another British machine went up in smoke and fire.

The way into the town was clear. Though built-up areas were death ground to a tank, the commander felt no fear. He directed his driver into the town. There the Tiger met three more British tanks. Boom… Boom… Boom… and they were reduced to charred, bloody scrap.

The road and the town littered with ruined fighting machines and dead and dying men, the soldier, the commander, withdrew to refuel and rearm. The Seventh British Armored Division had been stopped cold by a single tank, more importantly, by a single man’s will and daring. Soon, the commander would return with reinforcements to finish off the point of their armored spear.