German Infantryman Faced US Mortar Team —Watched Them Fire 30 Rounds Per Minute vs Granatwerfer's 12

German Infantryman Faced US Mortar Team —Watched Them Fire 30 Rounds Per Minute vs Granatwerfer's 12

September nineteenth, nineteen forty-four. The hills above Futa Pass, Italy. Gefreiter Klaus Hartmann pressed his face against the cold stone of the observation post and watched the American infantry company moving up the valley below. Through his field glasses, he counted maybe eighty men, spread out in good tactical formation, moving cautiously through the olive groves. His hands moved automatically to the fire control panel of his eight centimeter Granatwerfer thirty-four. The mortar sat in its prepared position behind the stone wall, its tube angled at sixty degrees, the baseplate firm in the rocky soil. Next to him, Obergefreiter Ernst Vogel was already stacking rounds, arranging them in precise rows the way they'd been trained at Wünsdorf. Klaus had crewed this mortar for eighteen months. He knew its specifications like he knew his own heartbeat.

Caliber, eighty-one point four millimeters. Weight, sixty-two kilograms broken into three loads. Maximum range with full charges, two thousand four hundred meters. Rate of fire by a trained crew, fifteen rounds per minute. Perhaps as many as twenty-five if you pushed it, if the barrel didn't overheat, if the ammunition bearers could keep up. It was, by every measure, an excellent weapon. Rheinmetall had built it in nineteen thirty-four, based on the French Brandt design, and German crews had made it legendary. At Monte Cassino, mortar teams had held off entire battalions. In the Rapido Valley, they'd turned river crossings into slaughterhouses.

Klaus had fired over three thousand rounds in combat. He'd seen what this weapon could do. The Americans were six hundred meters away now. Still moving. Still exposed. Klaus adjusted the elevation handwheel with practiced precision, his eye finding the crosshairs through the panoramic sight. He could drop rounds into a fifteen meter circle at this distance. He'd done it a hundred times in training, fifty times in combat. Leutnant Werner's voice crackled over the field telephone.

All positions, weapons tight. Wait for the signal. Make every round count. We don't have ammunition to waste. Klaus's stomach tightened. That phrase had become more common in recent weeks. Don't waste ammunition. Every round matters. The supply convoys from the north were running less frequently.

The dumps were running low. But it didn't matter right now. Not with eighty American soldiers moving into his kill zone. Ernst handed him the first round, a three point five kilogram high explosive shell with a percussion fuze. Klaus checked it automatically, the way he'd been trained. Propellant charges correct. Fins undamaged. Fuze armed. He dropped it into the tube and stepped back, covering his ears.

The round hung for a split second on the firing pin, then launched with a hollow thump that Klaus felt in his chest. Through the binoculars, he watched the shell arc through the clear morning sky and impact thirty meters ahead of the American column. White smoke blossomed. The Americans scattered, diving for cover behind trees and stone walls. If you're enjoying this deep dive into the story, hit the subscribe button and let us know in the comments from where in the world you are watching from today! Klaus loaded the second round without waiting for orders. Adjust left twenty meters, down fifty. The math came automatically after eighteen months. He fired.

The shell impacted right on target. The Americans weren't moving forward anymore. They were pinned. Klaus fired again. Then again. Each round took four seconds to load, aim, and fire. Fifteen rounds per minute. He could keep this up for as long as his ammunition held out. Ernst fed him shells methodically, his hands steady despite the noise.

Round seven. Round eight. Round nine. And then Klaus saw something that made his breath catch. Through the smoke and dust, he spotted movement on the opposite ridge. Americans setting up equipment. Two teams, maybe three. He raised his field glasses and felt ice water run through his veins.


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