"The units march in a single file which would have been comical under different circumstances, but lives are at stake and jokes should not be made. Ever."
- mattzarella's Good Old Fashioned Fun
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| Leaders: 02 (conclusion) | | | Author: | | | IP: | cache-dhXXXX | | Date: | 04/27/03 12:04 | | Game Type: | Other | | Labels: | Great Writing(1), Long(1), Text Only(1), Series(1) | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 2, Max: 9, Min: 8
Lifetime Rating for SupeRc0pKr: 8.2353 |   |
Leaders: 02 (cont.)
This is the conclusion of part two. I'd like to thank those of you that have continued to read the story, and hope that you've enjoyed this part with the same level of enthusiasm as you had since it's beginning.
[Link-up]
[Objective Complete]
[Field Report]
Link-up
8 June, D+2
Patrols from the previous night had managed to establish contact with the 2nd Ranger Battalion on Pointe-du-Hoc, but for all intents and purposes the 116th RCT task force had remained in St. Pierre-du-Mont with the other half of 2nd Ranger. 2nd and 3rd Battalions of the 116th had been sent west along the coastal road to join 1st Battalion in the push for Pointe-du-Hoc, and by 1000 a battle plan had been formed. 1st Battalion and the returning 5th Ranger Battalion would assault straight down the coastal road again, while 3rd Battalion and a few tanks of the 743rd would swing around the road to hit the cliffs from the south.
A Company rode-in on the Shermans, almost oblivious, now, to their droning rumble. They had crossed the field in the town exit without incident. The Germans must have pulled pulled out of the area, fearing a stronger attack once American reinforcements had been brought up. Wayne felt a little relieved; his men would have a little bit of a breather from the constant combat they'd been tossed into since D-Day.
1st Battalion encountered no resistance on the way to the pointe, though gunfire could be heard as they continued westward into the battery. A Company broke out of the maze of hedges and slowed as they saw the cliffs on the pointe. A few of the Rangers there turned to face them, while the others stayed down, knowing that once they revealed themselves in the open, the Germans would call in an artillery barrage from their batteries to the west.
Wescott and Martin peered from out of their foxhole, submachine guns clasped tight to their chests, and saw the A Company troops dis-mount from their tanks. A Company men, as haggard and weary as the Rangers in the battery, greeted the remaining men of D, E, and F Companies of 2nd Ranger.
"Hey, buddy," one Ranger waved to Staff Sergeant Dunn, "glad you could make it."
"Glad I'm finally here," Dunn replied sardonically.
There was no cheer of celebration when 1st Battalion finally linked-up with the beleagured 2nd Rangers. The Rangers knew that they had only completed objectives that had been scheduled to be accomplished by the end of 6 June - they had some catching up to do.
Wayne watched a replacement take up position in a surprisingly empty foxhole. The Rangers nearby watched him, and nodded to him as he turned around to utter, "Hey, boys."
The replacement surveyed the pointe, then, taking in the defacement of the cliff, the total destruction that had reduced everything to a brown, burned field of craters and mutilated earth.
"Must have been some fighting out here," the replacement uttered to himself. He hadn't seen anything like it since landing ashore D+1 morning on Dog Green.
"Yeah," one Ranger replied.
"And don't think you're rescuing anybody. We didn't need to be fucking rescued from anything."
The replacement looked at the Ranger who had spoken. A blood-soaked bandaged was wrapped around his chest, and he cradled his arm close to his side, which was wrapped by another crimson-splotched bandage. His face was smudged with the black of powder, both from the supporting fire of the destroyers offshore and the German mortars which had shelled the cliff since D-Day. The expression on his face wasn't the stern, gung-ho grimace of a hero, but the replacement saw something just as awe-inspiring there - it was the look of someone who could have been mistaken for a corpse.
The Shermans held their positions within the battery, and the battle group awaited for the southern arm, 3rd Battalion and their tanks, to drive up. Wayne eased himself into a foxhole. 1st Battalion's CO had arrived in the battery, along with the remainder of 1st Battalion, and he made contact with 2nd Ranger CP, at the edge of the cliff at Pointe-du-Hoc. Wayne watched Lieutenant-Colonel Rudder and the Major converse and consult each other in the CP tent.
Rudder shook 1st Battalion commander's hand curtly. "What's resistance like?"
"Varies. In some places the Germans will put up a hell of a fight, even against superior numbers, and then in others they'll throw in the towel after a little shoving."
"It's the same here. They hit us two nights ago, nearly over-ran our positions, then again in the morning, again that day. Today we send a patrol out and we've captured three kraut machine guns." Rudder shook his head and swore. "They could have been that timid two days ago."
"I've got seventy, eighty men ready for combat," he spoke again after a short nod. "Everyone else is a casualty. How're the rest of my companies?"
"They took some artillery yesterday around Saint-Pierre-du-Mont, but they're still a fighting force, Colonel."
"What about your men?"
"Took a beating on D-Day. I've got three companies, all twenty-percent under-strength."
"Well, Major, that puts us in the same fucking boat," Rudder replied, "But I've still got my orders, and you've still got yours. We're heading for Grandcamp once the rest of your battalion links-up here."
Some of the 1st Battalion troops nearby blanched. Two days of hard fighting at Pointe-du-Hoc, just so they could continue marching on to the Grandcamp-Maisy sector.
"Another goddamn maneuver."
"No," Dunn had overheard them. "It's the same maneuver, we just haven't finished it."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. Well, at least we're the eighty-percent that's still standing to do the job."
"Oh, so we're a fucking number, now, great, Sarge, just fuckin' great."
"Don't you have a brother?"
"What?"
"Truttman, he's your brother, right?"
"The fuck are you talking about?"
"Sergeant," an officer snapped. Dunn turned in his foxhole to look up at Wayne.
"Sir?"
"These Rangers say they've got a patrol out there with a few captured German machine guns, send someone to see if you can establish contact with them."
"Sir."
Wescott had turned to face a sudden burst of distant machine gunfire when he saw a lieutenant take up position in an abandoned foxhole. The officer had a similar description to Wescott - long enough to be called tall, dark eyes, a neutral frown. He was competent, intelligent, Wescott could tell that by the concise manner in which he addressed his men.
"Been a rough couple of days," the lieutenant said, not looking at Wescott but knowing that he'd know he was being spoken to. He was watching the sound, as well, trying to find the captured machine guns in their cover somewhere west of the battery.
"Yes, sir."
"Two days on the line and I've lost half the company."
Wescott only nodded his head. They had both seen a lot of action since D-Day, a lot of blood.
Wayne glanced at the sergeant and corporal watching the line. He seemed tired, grimly exhausted. So these were the Rangers that the regiment had been told to relieve. They were tough, very tired-looking but Wayne could tell these men weren't at the end of their rope yet. Whatever they had experienced in Normandy as of yet had obviously not been a surprise. These men had walked into Europe knowing that they were going to be killed.
"But then, we haven't been any easier on the Germans," the corporal beside the sergeant said.
"You think so?"
"Yes, sir."
He was a good soldier. A veteran, but still dedicated to the war.
"It doesn't seem like we've bothered them much," Wayne shook his head. "We've hit them as hard as we can, and they take it and turn and hit us right back. We're just trading blows."
"They'll break."
"You think so?" Wayne asked again.
"Yes, sir. They've got to. We're the United States Army."
Wayne looked away from the Rangers, then, back to the line. We're the United States Army. Yes, they certainly were. And those Germans to the west - they were the Wehrmacht. But they were all soldiers. Everybody broke, not just the Germans.
From the south-west, a single tank, gray and bulky, broke through from the hedgerows, treading towards the Americans in the battery. It took a moment for the men to identify it as a Sherman, and a few of the 1st Battalion troops rose to wave and shout. There was a sudden shell burst nearby, inside the battery, followed by an "Oh Christ," and Wayne saw the muzzles of the Shermans flaring, pointed at 1st Battalion and the 2nd Rangers, and it dawned on him for a moment that that was rather dangerous.
"They're fucking shooting on us!" a Ranger shrieked, and secured his helmet as debris clattered against the battery.
"Somebody contact them!" a 1st Battalion soldier suggested, but it was in vain. There was no immediate infantry-tank communication, and very few radios, none of which were on 743rd Battalion's net.
Dunn saw the private he'd sent out to contact the Rangers ahead dive for cover as tank fire hit the battery. HE shot flared near his position - a moment later a round hit him directly, and the private was gone, disintegrated to mist in the shower of dirt that fell around his former cover.
"Why are they shooting at us?" a replacement cried helplessly.
Wescott didn't think it mattered why. Somewhere, somebody had fucked up, and now men were getting killed because of it. Most of the fire was concentrated ahead of the battery, to the west, where the Rangers had captured the German machien guns, and then it dawned on him; the tank crews thought they were Germans, because they were firing German weapons, the distinctive brrrp of the MG-42 instantly recognizeable to anyone who had heard it.
"God fucking damn it," Wescott cursed, and grit his teeth as a friendly 75mm shell hit nearby.
The friendly-fire incident lasted only a for a few minutes, but for many men, it was just as bad as the fight for Pointe-du-Hoc, or the hours spent on Dog Green near the D-1 exit to Vierville. They couldn't shoot back against friendly-fire, and there was no real way to defend themselves against it.
The battalion commanders set out almost immediately to organize the troops once the shooting had stopped. They called the company officers to them, and ordered them to move out immediately. Wayne and the other men of 1st Battalion watched the Shermans supporting 3rd Battalion continue on their path past Pointe-du-Hoc, circling to the west from the south, while their superiors briefed them on their objectives.
"Isigny, then the Grandcamp-Maisy area," the majors and lieutenant-colonels directed their subordinates. "That's the regimental attack-line. The one-hundred-fifteenth regiment will be pushing up shortly to come ahead of us, and once they've broken through Isigny, we'll be mopping-up after them."
A Company had fragmented during the friendly-fire shooting, and Burkeley bullied the men back into a rough formation of their platoons. Aidmen were already at work on the wounded, methodically assessing and treating and tagging in a sort of mechanical rythm. Wayne watched his company file into line wearily, and took note of the uneasiness that had over-taken the men.
Spooked. Spooked since D-Day, having to live through a hellish experience, particularly for an inexperienced unit.
"Let's get things moving, gentlemen," 1st Battalion commander pocketed his maps and nodded at his lieutenants. "We've got a war to win."
11 June; D+5
1st Battlion stood on the southern outskirts of the fields bordering Isigny, exchanging machine gun fire with an unidentified unit advancing in from the hedgerows. A Company lie in a skirmish line along an un-paved road, shooting into the hedgeline ahead of them, while a company of Rangers pushed on their western flank, maneuvering down a sunken lane in a flanking mission.
Mortars hurled a salvo of HE rounds down into the field, momentarily disrupting the infantry's line-of-sight with gouts of smoke and pieces of the field thrown skyward. Red tracers shot through the black, streaming back and forth in the field and disappearing behind the barrage of high explosive. Wayne heard a few of the men of first platoon shouting back and forth, crying for their BAR support to "hit those fucking krauts there, two o'clock, two o'clock!"
"Those are our Rangers!"
"The fuck they are, they've got overcoats!"
The Germans had mounted a surprise attack. Two days after Isigny had been captured and declared secure, the Germans continued to pressure the Americans there, counter-attacking, sneaking, infiltrating, inflicting heavy losses and in some cases gaining ground. Now, with 1st Battalion caught off-guard, and A Company at the forefront of the fighting, Wayne saw the men fumble desperately in a confused shock. They had suddenly forgotten their training, and all that they had learned in the five days they'd spent in Normandy.
"What the hell are you men doing?" Burkeley berated a machine gun team. "Change out your fucking barrels!"
A .30 Browning was "cooking-off" ammunition, the barrel red-hot, because the machine gun team had forgotten to switch-out their barrels. Since the weapon was air-cooled, it could only fire a few hundred rounds before the barrels over-heated, in effect melting the weapon.
Wescott and the Ranger company, twenty-four men strong, stalked through another sunken lane, advancing in short, leap-frogging bounds, putting down suppressing fire whenever they ran up against opposition. They'd ran up against two machine guns, both of which were by-passed with supporting fire from their BARs. Now they were holding behind a short hedgerow, lined with trees, just twenty or thiry meters away from the enemy hedgerow, where a machine gun positioned at the corner sprayed fire across the field. Wescott peered over the leaves of his cover, and saw another machine gun flashing from two hundred meters away, at the opposite corner of the field. There were more than just the two, however, because there were atleast six distinctive firing patterns, all MG-42s.
Wescott signalled for his men to grenade the machine gun, then split up into two groups; one would push through the cover here, and into the German-occupied hedgerow to hit them from the right, while the other would swing around from the left, to catch them in flanking-fire.
Martin and three others drew their grenades, and Wescott nodded - go.
Three blobs arced over into the next field, right on top of the machine gun there. There was a shuffle, and then two screams as the first grenade pummeled its shrapnel into the MG-42 crew. The other two grenades detonated shortly after, and Wescott sent the first group in. They leaped out, moving hard into the sudden screen of rifle fire that pointed their way, and tumbled into the former German position.
A BAR began lighting up along the hedgerow, and cries erupted from farther into the field, as German riflemen dropped alarmedly to cover or limply onto their sides.
"MG-forty-two, twelve o'clock!" Wescott heard a Ranger shout, and then he took the other dozen men forward, staying on the sunken road. Behind him, the metallic brrrp of a German machine gun ripped through the field, and American mortar fire dropped a few last parting salvos - they couldn't continue shelling the German positions or they'd hit the counter-assaulting Rangers.
The Rangers behind Wescott had already run into trouble. There wasn't just one machine gun concentrated in the immediate area, but two; and ample infantry support behind these. The three BARs the men had between them were soon over-whelmed, and they realized that they had completely lost fire superiority. As far as the NCO in charge was concerned, there was only one option available - grenades and close-in.
Four Rangers rose to toss their munitions, with the Germans not more than fifty meters off, the automatic fire storming past them and pattering into the broken earth, and when they came back down, two of them were dead, chest and belly ripped open like slaughtered animals. All four of the grenades blasted the forward German machine gun, however, and a half-dozen Rangers staggered forward, the BARs behind them shooting over their shoulders. Sixteen, seventeen, as many as twenty German riflemen materialized through the hedgerow, and the Rangers seized the destroyed machine gun position to fire from cover.
"Krauts at three o'clock!" a Ranger from the back row abruptly alerted. "Krauts on the right!"
"Doesn't matter," the NCO ahead of them called back, and waved his hand. "Move up!"
The Ranger teams reversed roles, and the six Rangers twenty meters ahead threw their last grenades into the German rifle positions, to provide shock support. Fire from the right enveloped the advancing men, but they continued their dash forward, passing their comrades and charging into the German position, Thompsons chattering and thumping into their shoulders as they emptied their magazines into the stunned riflemen shooting blindly.
The Rangers jumped down into a muddy ditch, but even as they did three were hit by sweeping MG-42 fire, both from the detachment to the right and those enemy troops further down the line.
"Christ, Christ, Christ," the un-wounded Ranger sputtered, and he called to his comrades.
"Fucking Christ, tell me you guys are all right, Owen, Ericson, are you okay?"
Only one Ranger was alive, hit in the hip and elbow. The others weren't breathing. Another burst of machine gun fire pelted the Rangers, hitting the two dead men, and the men shoved their bodies up ahead of them to protect themselves.
Wescott's team broke out of cover, then, charging the Germans shooting from the right, and the Rangers worked quickly, first shooting the machine gun team, then the four grenadiers around it, Thompsons clicking dry as the last German twisted back and fell face-down in the field.
"Take that machine gun and spray those krauts down there," Wescott snapped and pointed at the other two MG-42 positions visible along the hedgerow. He could see the Rangers huddling down in a ditch, two firing with submachine guns against some advancing German infantry, and the other six crawling forward from their support position twenty meters behind.
Three of the men with Wescott, equipped with rifles, fired onto the advancing Germans, and one-by-one, the grenadiers dropped, folding into the ditch and slumping against the hedgerow banks, weapons sliding like black shadows from their hands as single, separate shots jammed into them, stabbed them repeatedly.
Wayne stood with first platoon, directing their fire against an advancing German detachment, what seemed to be a company. The German assault was well-organized and determined; they were maneuvering against the fire from the .30 Brownings and rifle expertly, driving straight for an isolated 2nd platoon that had somehow left a gap open to its right.
"It's second platoon, sir!" a radio operator clutched at Wayne's shoulder. "They say they can't hold!"
Wayne took the radio receiver and spoke curtly into the static. "Second platoon must hold. If we lose ground Isigny will be in shelling distance by enemy mortars."
"...tenant, there's no -ay...charging straight in...machine guns...disabled," the reply was broken by the chatter of close-range fire and intermittent white noise.
"Hold, Burkeley," Wayne's speech was clipped. "Even if it kills everyone in the platoon."
Burkeley was not exagerrating. The Germans had concentrated their machine guns on the unit's position, and mortars had sent smoke rounds over onto the opposite side of the field, to screen their movement from enemy fire. Both Brownings were now unserviceable, crews out-of-action - killed - and barrels completely over-heated, collapsed inward.
Burkeley relayed Wayne's order to his squad leaders without his usual gusto - "Orders are to hold, nobody breaks contact."
"Shit," Brown spun around to his squad and told them to continue fighting. "Things are going to get hot."
Dunn crawled out of Burkeley's foxhole and moved into his squad's position ten meters away, cringing underneath the blanket of incoming rounds that smothered second platoon's position. "Everybody get ready for a fight, it's going to be rough."
Charging directly into the determined rifle fire of Brown's squad, the lead enemy platoon grenaded the area ahead of them and sprinted into the hedgerow, those German troops with bayonets fixed stabbing a few resisting Americans and then shaking their relaxing, dying bodies from the blades while they jumped from the squad's position into the next line of foxholes, Dunn's line.
Dunn turned to watch Burkeley crumple to the ground, the crack of the German carbine butt against his skull still echoing in the sudden silence that took the squad over. To his right, a shocked soldier dropped his weapon and threw his hands up in surrender - only to topple over the bank of his foxhole as a carbine round ripped into his face. He had the distinct feeling that men were fleeing past him, not Germans but American, and then he saw three Germans slowing to a halt around him, carbines and submachine guns pointed bewaringly at him. Dunn felt a boot kick him roughly to the dirt, and as he caught himself with his arms before falling, he saw other boots, dozens of them, sprinting ahead of him, past second platoon's position into the field behind A Company, towards Isigny. He turned slowly, hands up in a half-hearted fashion.
The iron cross clasp of a German collar dangled before him as he looked up, while a tall German sergeant glowered down on him.
"You will forgive us for shooting your comrade," he spoke in careful, precise English. "We are not like the Russians, but we cannot also keep complete control over our new recruits."
After a moment, the German pulled a small packet from his pocket and offered its contents to Dunn. "Cigarette?"
"HQ, HQ, this is Able, enemy elements are in imminent threat of breaching our lines, I say again, enemy elements are in imminent threat of - and may have already - broken our lines," Wayne was rapping off his latest report into the poorly functioning company radio, which hissed angry static in reply.
"Able, this is -Q, hold enemy counter-attack...armor...again, armor on the way."
"Lieutenant," Wayne's radio operator cautioned him, "we've lost contact with second platoon."
"HQ, HQ, our lines have been broken, enemy forces are now pushing to our rear."
The next message from battalion HQ came in clear: "Restore your line, lieutenant, and get control over the situation. HQ out."
Wayne dropped the radio receiver back into its cradle and picked up his rifle in disgust.
"First platoon, hold your positions here. Third platoon, with me, we're going to re-establish second platoon's line."
Across the field, the machine gun fire stiffened again while another German company lined up for an assault.
Ten other men of second platoon had been taken prisoner. They were sitting in a ditch, while a squad kept watch on them, preparing to hand them over to a relief company. The Germans were offering them water and cigarettes, as though the bullets and grenades they'd been trading the past week were insignificant.
"You Americans," the sergeant said to them, "You are doing okay. Some mistakes, yes, but you learn quickly."
None of the men answered. Burkeley nodded his head curtly, not out of politeness but simply because he agreed.
"You are ready for the war to end, yes?" Dunn looked into the sergeant's face and realized he seemed to be perhaps in his early twenties.
"Yes," Dunn answered before he could catch himself, and the sergeant gave a small smile before looking away.
"I do as well, friend. My comrades - that is what keeps me fighting. Killing Americans, I do not like that about the war. You are nice boys, I like you."
There was a rustle in the branches nearby, and as the German squad turned about to face the noise, shooting erupted through the leaves, heavy rifle fire. The German sergeant dropped back, shot in the skull and chest, and Dunn saw soldiers - A Company soldiers - sprinting forward from a sunken lane, zig-zagging through the hedgerow, evading return fire from the German squad that now lie huddled in second platoon's foxholes.
The Germans fired single shots, expertly snapping the bolts on their rifles as they returned the finger-jerking fire from the Americans, their magazines jumping away one after another, pinging almost in sequence. Burkeley and the others heard incoming rifle fire zipping above them as they watched the Germans nearby, ducking away when rifle rounds concentrated on their position, popping up to snipe several shots once they sensed an opening.
"Zuruck! Zuruck!" one of the Germans shouted, and two soldiers rose to head for the rear. Two paces later, a BAR stitched across one's back, then the other's, dropping them both into foxholes occupied by second platoon.
A second company had started its move across the field, and this was met by a stubborn 1st platoon of A Company. They deployed their .30 Brownings in rapid-fire, firing almost continuously into the loose skirmish line of German infantry that pushed forward into the field, dropping the forward screen of advancing men, so that it disintegrated away, the Germans there simply crumpling to the grass, soundlessly, their bodies disappearing in the tall cover. The Brownings would not last long in rapid-fire, however - at best they could manage two hundred rounds before the barrels would overheat, and so the Germans would have a window of opportunity to push the advance through the American lines.
MG-42s from their end of the field had sustained their brutal fire, sweeping the machine guns across key American positions - mainly automatic weapons - and throwing 1st platoon under a heavy barrage of suppression.
Tanks from Isigny had already engaged the Germans that had broken through. The infantry had come into an open field, moving in well-rehearsed leap-frogs, and halted as they saw the silhouettes of armor cresting a small hill just on the outskirts of Isigny. The church spire loomed above the thick cover surrounding the city; the hedgerows lining the road, and the trees scattered throughout the nearby orchards and fields. Shermans, six of them, fired down into the field, driving down a heavy carpet of heavy machine gun and high explosive fire. The Germans scattered, rushing out of the field in small teams now, even as the Shermans cut down man after man as they retreated. Gunners inside the compartments caught sight of small glimpses of the fleeing German infantry as they peered through their gunsights, watching as clusters of men somersaulted as shrapnel raked into their backs, thrust them into the air, and let them flop like discarded dolls into the grass while the black and falling earth settled around them.
"Good kill, Terry," the company commander droned on the radio.
Third platoon had re-taken 2nd platoon's line; the German squad had been run off with heavy rifle fire, and Wayne ordered the remaining men of 2nd platoon to re-acquire their weapons and get back into the fight. They had secured the position just in time to meet the next German charge, fighting with grenades and point-blank-range submachine gun fire. Dunn took cover for a moment and saw Schmeisser rounds patter into the limp body of the German sergeant who had taken him prisoner, while the 2nd platoon soldier taking cover behind it cowered and grasped the corpse's collar tight, as though that would make it protect him. Dunn came up from cover, rifle raised, and shot the MP-40 gunner twice; the first round staggered the big German to a halt, the second threw him to the ground.
Wayne threw a grenade into an oncoming group of men, seven Germans, a squad, and saw the blob of the munition bounce off a soldier's chest. They were not more than twenty meters away, and when the grenade exploded, two men of 3rd platoon suddenly slumped as they were shooting prone. The Germans had all been blasted away from each other, the grenade burst punching their bodies away in an arc so that the Germans lie on the ground almost in a row, a grave, the sickening steam of freshly-cut flesh rising from some of their shrapnel wounds.
Two hundred meters away, Wescott's Ranger company maneuvered away from the MG-42 detachment firing on them from the right. They had stopped two German platoons, probably reducing the supporting element of the assault by three or four machine guns, and had lost a third of the company in the process. Sixteen Rangers in two teams laid down covering fire and crawled back to A Company's line, keeping close to the hedgerows. Ahead of them, they saw a second assault engaging heavily on the line, with 1st platoon utilizing flanking fire to hit what part of the German company they could without endangering Wayne and his platoons. Wescott saw the A Company men hurling grenades into the incoming Germans, the Germans hurling grenades into the American foxholes, and the explosions of those grenades ripple back and forth in the fight, some sending men into the air to drop dead a moment later, others giving their victims a moment to stagger in mortal agony before collapsing without a sound, unable to scream because of the wind leaving their lungs and the shrapnel tearing out their throats. Thompsons and Schmeissers ripped into each other violently, sending multiple rounds into bodies so that the rounds cratered into organs and sent those men who did not die immediately writhing in their cover in agony, blood welling up in their throats and then coughing out as they tried to suck in air.
The Shermans from Isigny drove past the open field into the cover of tree branches and hedgerows, dividing themselves in two parallel sunken lanes that nevertheless rendered the tanks isolated from each other. Not long after they had entered the constricted area, the crews heard thumps from outside, followed by the unmistakeable pattering rip of shrapnel - grenades. The German infantry had suddenly materialized from their cover, assaulting the Shermans rapidly, shooting those tank commanders that had their heads out of the turret to give themselves better vision.
In one Sherman, Terry's, the tank commander slammed the hatch down and screamed, "Full reverse! Ambush!"
.50 Brownings were chattering a moment later, but the German infantry came on, hopping onto the lumbering Shermans and shooting into the gunports with Schmeissers and pistols. The radio net was filled with screams and shouts, but Terry tore his headset off and bailed out, dropping through his escape hatch, somehow crawling out from under the Sherman with pistol drawn. Two Germans were on his tank, firing bursts repeatedly down the hatch, and he heard somebody scream from inside. Terry emptied the Colt into both of the Germans, causing them to slump against the Sherman in a cold embrace.
The fight had already degenerated into chaos. Two tank commanders had manned their .50 Brownings and were shooting into any men out in the open, and at this range there was no opportunity to miss; the Germans stumbled and fell against the Shermans, sliding down with grenades still in hand, with Schmeissers still stuttering, with fleeing tankers still in their arms. Of course, some of the tankers that had bailed out were caught in the violent crossfire, and these men fell just as the Germans did, sidearms flying from their hands, blood streaking against the sides of the still-motoring Shermans that growled in the sunken lane.
Then the Germans were gone, and Terry peered around him from his viewpoint on the ground, at the score or so of men that lie unmotionless against the Shermans, hands on on-board handles, or resting against the dust-caked tracks.
"Get back in," the company commander's voice said after a moment. "Net-in and move out."
Terry's tank commander had been killed - he had been the voice that screamed. Later, as the Shermans, now three strong, all with under-strength crews, drove towards A Company's line, he was told that there had been two screams - one from inside the tank and another outside, and Terry, now noticing his grainy and strained throat, realized that he had been screaming as well.
By the time the Shermans had driven up to A Company, the assault had been halted, and the Germans that had broken through and assaulted the tanks were now under custody of 1st platoon. Wayne and the remainder of A Company held their positions on the other side of the field, sighting several German snipers in the hedgerow. Wescott and the other Rangers had made their way back to the line, and they immediately sat down against the banks of the hedgerow to light up their cigarettes.
"Fucking Jesus," Martin swore softly, and Wescott nodded in agreement. Mop-up hadn't been this hard back in Sicily.
1st platoon's lieutenant counted the German prisoners and nodded at the four men who would march them back to the rear. "All right, send 'em off."
Wayne and a sergeant from 2nd platoon had appeared around then, and they caught sight of the prisoners, fourteen of them, straggling away, weapons and helmets discarded. Some of them were smoking cigarettes, offered to them by the Rangers, and this made Wayne stop the men taking them away.
"Are you sending these men to the rear?" and before the men could answer, Wayne had drawn his Colt and shot one in the skull, the expression on his face remaining constant as he asked the question and then pulled the trigger. He brought the pistol down to bear on his comrade, then on the next one, and the next one, each prisoner simply looking in dumb shock before jerking back, then falling to their knees, dead before they lay their heads against the ground. Beside him, the sergeant could only watch as Wayne felt the Colt click dry, then reach around to bring his Garand up to finish the job on the standing file of Germans. They had started running, scattering, and Wayne sighted each of them in and killed them with seven clean shots into the bases of their skulls. They had been running roughly abreast of each other, and they fell nearly limb-to-limb. The others lie in a solemn line, the cigarettes still glowing in their hands.
1st platoon leader said nothing, only "Jesus Christ," and Wayne turned to face his men with a cool expression and said, "What's everyone looking at? Take up your positions and stay alert."
Wescott watched as Wayne walked away, then, and pulled his un-open pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He tore the package open, took one of the white rolls, and asked Martin to give him a light. He watched the end of the cigarette burn, turning to ash as it glowed, and heard some of the men muttering "Jesus Christ" all around him.
Field Report
1st Battalion Commander was not happy when Wayne reported that day.
"You allowed the Germans to break through your lines, so that the supporting armor had to engage the without infantry support. Three tank crews are now out-of-action, because they were ambushed on the way to help. Elements of your platoon broke and ran because of a lack of discipline. Not only this, but the prisoners that were captured during the attack have all been 'lost.' This is a pretty big fuck-up, lieutenant, and I don't want to see any more of it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's your situation?"
"Moderate casualties," Wayne spat "moderate" out almost vehemently, "but not enough to threaten our position or combat ability."
"And ammunition?"
"We don't need any ammunition, sir," Wayne said, "We have enough from the dead and wounded."
A Company noticed a certain change in 1st Lieutenant Wayne's demeanor. He no longer told men "doing a great job, boys, I'm real proud of you" with a friendly, hopeful smile. That night, when he inspected the lines, he nodded at his the men and simply said, "Good job, gentlemen. Keep it up." The company had not lost respect for him; in fact, their respect for him grew that day. They all thought that the company was going to be totally over-run, but Wayne had kept them fighting, and re-established their line. He was a hero to the company.
Even the rumor - the word had got around from 1st platoon - that Wayne had shot a platoon of Germans taken prisoner served to strengthen his image. The men felt sick and awed at the same time at the sheer ruthlessness of it, the brutality, and felt a part of themselves wish they could be just as cold.
Burkeley noticed it, too, and when Wayne returned from his inspection to sit in his covered foxhole, he watched him. He had a map in his hands, and he snapped his flashlight on to study it a while, with the cover on his foxhole blocking the light out so a German mortar team wouldn't pinpoint his location by the flickering movement.
"They came in from here," he whisper, referring to the Germans, "and the Rangers tell me that during their counter-assault they mauled the lines around here. The tanks stopped one company here, and we stopped another in the field in front of us. That means it was a battalion-level attack, Burkeley, a battalion against this one company. And they told me to hold my lines, hold my lines against this."
Burkeley heard a barely restrained anger in Wayne's throat.
"The Major didn't even congratulate the men. Didn't even come down to check on them and see the situation for himself."
Burkeley was silent. He knew why the battalion commander hadn't checked the line companies. There were too many things to organize, the flow of replacements, the distribution of equipment and supplies, especially now, only five days after D-Day. He had pressure coming from regimental HQ, Regiment had pressure coming from Division. The commanders wouldn't always have time to see to the smaller field units. But he also knew that Wayne knew this as well - he was just angry.
"They want to march us to death in Normandy," Wayne whispered to himself. "And they want me to try and keep as many of the men alive so that they can march them to death again across France, and into Belgium and into Germany. Fine. They want me to be a good company commander and win the war, I will. I'll win the goddamn war, Burkeley."
And Burkeley knew that he meant that the entire company would be bled to death so that the war could be won.
Burkeley returned to his platoon's position, leaving Wayne to study his maps alone. Tonight was dark, very dark, with a few clouds partially blocking the moon so that the only light came from the stars. The field ahead of the trees and cover was blanketed in a soft blue, but here and there were a few glints; steel German helmets.
"How's the lieutenant?" the squad leaders asked Burkeley once he returned.
"He's fine," Burkeley replied. "He's tough, you know that. You've got a real soldier in charge."
"Dunn's in his foxhole," Brown said. He'd been there almost all day.
"Is he all right?"
"Yeah, sure. He's just shaken up, that's all."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Sarge."
A squadmate clasped a hand on Dunn's shoulder. Dunn had wrapped his arms around himself, keeping his rifle tucked close, and he shrugged it off.
"Come on, Sarge, it'll be all right."
"The fuck it will. A man took a look at us today and said, 'You are nice boys. I like you.' And the next thing that happens we're killing each other again. When we were in that fight today, when the lieutenant brought third platoon to us, I was praying to God that I'd be able to kill all the Germans before they made it to our line again."
The young soldier didn't answer. He turned away at length and watched the line, eyes scanning over the glints in the starlight.
"I was a good kid when I enlisted," Dunn told his squadmate. "I was a good kid after basic. But ever since I've walked into Normandy..."
Dunn didn't talk for the rest of the night. He was thinking of the German sergeant who had told him that he liked Americans, and the way he lie there with half his face blown away and a hole in his heart. Dunn thought that even then, the sergeant would have told him the same thing - that he was in it to keep his friends alive, but he still didn't like this killing business.
Wescott watched the cigarette burning again, not really smoking. Everything had gone stone-cold. He didn't think he would ever see anything like a man gunning down an entire row of prisoners, unarmed and defenseless, and Aster's words kept coming to mind - "No one belongs in Normandy." Wescott felt odd, because for some reason he was utterly untouched by what Wayne had done that day, as though he expected it to happen at any time.
He probably would have done the same, after all this.
There was something nipping at him though, some realization. He didn't care about the Germans that had been murdered in cold blood. Why should he? Human life had been insignificant for the past five days in Normandy. Fourteen more dead bodies was just another gunfight, another ambush. It was the realization that he didn't care that he didn't care, that he was truly becoming de-sensitized to it all that bothered him. He could systematically formulate an attack plan against machine gun positions, out-flank them, and then defeat the troops supporting those machine guns with a tactical adeptness that he'd acquired through years of combat. He knew the fastest, most efficient ways to inflict casualties with any organization of small arms. He had made himself an instrument of war.
Wescott felt like a killer, and it didn't bother him at all.
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