Winters led a forced march to Nuenen, about 5 kilometers, encountering no opposition but once again cheering Dutch, offering food and drink. Webster remarked that this was the village in which Vincent Van Gogh had been born.
“Who the hell’s that?” Rader asked.
Beyond Nuenen, the picnic ended. The Germans had recovered from their surprise and were beginning to mount counterattacks. “Kraut tanks! Kraut tanks!” Webster heard Pvt. Jack Matthews call out.
Oh, Jesus Christ! Webster thought to himself, as he and the others jumped off the Cromwells to dive into a ditch.
Less than 400 meters away the first in a column of German tanks “slithered through the bushes like an evil beast.”
The 107th Panzerbrigade, stationed in Helmond, was attacking west, toward Nuenen, with some fifty tanks—
“more than we had ever seen at one time,” Winters recalled. Sergeant Martin saw a German tank almost hidden in a fence row about 100 meters away. A British tank was coming up. Martin ran back to it, climbed aboard, and told the commander there was an enemy tank just below and to the right. The tank continued to move forward. Martin cautioned the commander that if he continued his forward movement the German tank would soon see him.
“I caunt see him, old boy,” the commander replied, “and if I caunt see him, I caunt very well shoot at him.”
“You’ll see him damn soon,” Martin shouted as he jumped down and moved away.
The German tank fired. The shell penetrated the British tank’s armor. Flame erupted. The crew came flying out of the hatch. The gunner pulled himself out last; he had lost his legs. The tank, now a flaming inferno, continued to move forward on its own, forcing Bull Randleman to move in the direction of the enemy to avoid it. A second British tank came forward. It too got blasted. Altogether four of the British tanks were knocked out by the German 88s. The two remaining tanks turned around and began to move back into Nuenen. Easy Company fell back with them.
Sergeant Rogers had been hit. He was bleeding badly. “They kinda pinked you a little, didn’t they, Paul,” Lipton said. “Rogers let out a string of profanity that lasted a full minute,” Lipton remembered. “Most unusual for him.”
Lt. Buck Compton got hit in the buttocks. Medic Eugene Roe went to Compton’s aid. Malarkey, Pvt. Ed Heffron, and a couple of others came forward to help.
As Heffron reached to help, Compton looked up and moaned, “She always said my big ass would get in the way.”
He looked at the five men gathered around him. “Take off,” Compton ordered. “Let the Germans take care of me.”
He was such a big man, and the fire was so intense, that the troopers were tempted to do just that. But Malarkey, Guarnere, and Joe Toye pulled a door off a farm outbuilding and laid Compton face down on it. Then they skidded him up the roadside ditch to one of the retreating British tanks and loaded him, face down, onto the back end.
The bullet that hit Compton had gone into the right cheek of his buttocks, out, into the left cheek, and out. Lipton looked at him and couldn’t help laughing. “You’re the only guy I ever saw in my life that got hit with one bullet and got four holes,” he told Compton.
Compton growled, “If I could get off this tank, I’d kill you.”
Other men joined Compton on the backs of the withdrawing tanks. Strohl and Gordon, who had been out on the flank, Strohl with a mortar and Gordon with his machine-gun, had to run across an open field to rejoin the outfit. The weight of their weapons slowed them down. Bullets were kicking up the dirt at their feet. There was a 3-foot-high wooden fence between them and the road. “We hurdled it like two horses,” Strohl said. Safely on the other side, they paused to catch their breath.
“That’s one thing you and I will never do again,” Strohl said.
“I don’t think we did it the first time,” Gordon replied.
They took off again for the tanks, caught up, and Gordon pulled himself onto the back of one. But Strohl was dead beat. He put his hand up; Gordon grabbed it as Strohl passed out. Gordon hauled him aboard and got him secured.