Chapter 48 – The Battle of Cherbourg (9)

I quickly emplaced our two M29A1 81 mm mortars in a concealed position, and in no time they began pounding the German forces dug in among the groves beside the town hall. But the Germans weren't without teeth—they had mortars too, hidden behind buildings, and they fired back fiercely in an attempt to suppress our position. The shelling came down hard and fast. To avoid casualties, I had no choice but to relocate the entire mortar unit.

Although we finally managed to link up with the battered remnants of Captain Roberts' men, the German positions had been carefully planned and expertly camouflaged. Every direction we tried to break through was met with overlapping fire from multiple angles. And once I saw what their Flakpanzer could do, I knew better than to pit our machine guns against that monster. Its firepower was overwhelming. I didn't want to send my men into a meat grinder, so I called for backup.

"Command, this is Captain Carter. I've reached the town hall and linked up with Captain Roberts. I repeat—we've linked up. But enemy fire is intense. Requesting armor support. Immediate armor support!"

A scratchy voice from the field phone came back almost at once: "You're facing a small enemy element. Proceed with your assault on the town hall. Armor will support shortly."

"Goddammit!" I muttered to Roberts, fuming. "Those bastards at command don't have a damn clue what's really happening down here. Telling us to assault like this—hell, I'd love to drag every one of those sons of bitches out here and let 'em see for themselves what a 'small enemy element' looks like!"

Roberts, visibly exhausted, gave a weary nod. "No use complaining, pal. We ain't getting through unless we take out that flak tank first."

"How do you plan to take it out?"

"I don't know—airstrike, maybe?" he offered, without much confidence. Ever since his company got shredded, the fight had gone out of his voice.

"By the time a bomber gets here, the damn thing'll be gone. And it's a fucking anti-air tank! If we screw it up, we'll lose planes on top of everything else."

"Then artillery. Hit it hard from range," Roberts said, his jaw tight.

"Not a bad thought—but they've probably dug out bunkers behind those buildings. Even a direct hit might do little more than kick up some dirt."

Urban warfare's a hell of a thing. In cities like this, shell trajectories are often too shallow to penetrate deep cover. Most of the time, the shells blast walls and rooftops, collapsing buildings—but not touching the Germans hiding in blast shelters carved into the rear. And Cherbourg, under General Schlieben's meticulous planning, was littered with those.

"Still," Roberts muttered, "better than doing nothing."

"You're right. Even if we can't kill 'em all, maybe we'll rattle 'em enough to keep their heads down."

Soon enough, the U.S. artillery positioned around Cherbourg began to speak with fury. The first wave of shells screamed in, crashing into the town square in front of the city hall. The explosions churned up clouds of dust and debris, turning the open ground into a storm of flying stones and blood. The German soldiers caught in the open were blown to bits—blood and bone splattered across the cobblestones, soaking into the earth.

"Scheiße! The Americans are shelling again!" Captain Luhmann, the German officer in charge, spotted the first few ranging shots and shouted for his men to take shelter in the bunkers they'd prepared earlier. Even the Flakpanzer pulled back, disappearing into a covered fallback position.

"Our Pak gun—has it been withdrawn yet?" Luhmann yelled.

"Yes, sir! Bahl's team's got it stowed away," one of the men called back.

Still uneasy, Luhmann ducked low and sprinted between positions, his bodyguard keeping close behind. "Get everyone under cover! Only leave the observers outside. Move, move!"

"Captain Luhmann! Over here! The Yanks are coming down hard!" another soldier called out.

Trying to keep up morale—or maybe just talking to himself—Luhmann muttered, "No worries. American shells won't land on me."

Boom! Another round landed close enough to rattle his skull. Luhmann hit the dirt, ears ringing. When he pushed himself up again, his bodyguard was gone—blown apart, nothing left but a few scraps. Killed instantly. Vaporized.

"Goddammit. That's what—my third? Fifth bodyguard?" He shook his head. He didn't want to count. It didn't matter. This was war. People died. Talking about the value of life out here was a cruel joke.

He jumped trench to trench, finally landing in Bahl's sector.

"You okay, Bahl?"

"I'm fine, sir!" Bahl was a little stunned to see his once-pristine commander now caked in dirt, looking like he'd clawed his way out of a grave.

"We're holding together, Captain!"

"You've done good, all of you," Luhmann said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Especially you, Sergeant Bahl. If you hadn't taken out those American tanks with your first salvos, this would be a whole different fight."

He looked around, his voice growing heavy. "If the situation were better, I'd be recommending you for a medal right now. But you know how things stand." Luhmann gave a bitter smile, then added, "I've sent a full report to General Schlieben. He knows what's happening here. And he asked me to pass on his words to you."

The men leaned in.

"He says this: Cherbourg cannot be held much longer, and we all know it. But that's not the point. We are to fight—to the last breath, the last drop of blood. Not for me, not even for yourselves—but for Germany. For your wives, your children. If we can make the Americans pay in blood today, if we can leave a mark they won't forget, maybe—just maybe—the next time they fight Germans, they'll hesitate. And maybe, if those who come after us do surrender, it will be met with mercy, because of what we've done here."

Silence. The men stood still, listening.

Luhmann swallowed hard, throat dry from days without water. Supplies had run dangerously low under the constant shelling and blockade. Even a sip of clean water was rare now. He managed a smile.

"General Schlieben will die with us if it comes to that."

"To live and die together! For Germany!"

Luhmann snapped a sharp salute to his men. They returned it with pride.

The artillery barrage was nothing short of ferocious. Captain Roberts seemed genuinely pleased with the results. Despite the danger of shrapnel flying everywhere, he kept pointing toward the most heavily shelled sections with animated gestures.

"Look at that! Damn artillery sons of bitches really know how to light it up! Makes me wonder why the hell I didn't join the artillery instead of slogging it out here as a damn infantryman!"

"If you had, you probably wouldn't be a captain right now, would you?" I said dryly.

"To hell with the rank! I'd trade it in a heartbeat if I could tear those Krauts to pieces. I mean it. I'd throw myself into hell if that's what it takes—as long as it's for my men. For the brothers we've lost," Roberts shot back, his voice catching slightly. There was a shimmer in his eyes.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "We're not doing this for medals or glory. We're doing it so our guys make it out alive."

Joanner, sensing the shift in mood between Roberts and me, quickly jumped in, trying to steer the conversation away before it spread tension to the rest of the troops.

"So... once the shelling stops, we move in together for the counterattack?"

I glanced over at Roberts. He gave a curt nod.

"As soon as the barrage ends, we hit them hard," I confirmed. "Push forward, secure a foothold—and if we get the opening, we go straight for the town hall. No hesitations."

"Roger that!"

Securing the town hall was a critical objective. Unlike modern warfare, back in World War II we didn't engage in indiscriminate bombing of occupied zones just to clear them. No, it was all about taking control of key tactical points. Capturing symbolic buildings like broadcast towers or banks didn't make much sense compared to holding ground like city squares, parks, bridges, tree-lined avenues, major roads, and rail stations. These positions allowed us to place anti-armor units in strong defensive setups, making it suicidal for enemy tanks to charge through. If they were forced to attack with only infantry, they'd pay dearly in blood.

More importantly, once we held such positions, we could expand outward and secure entire districts. That's why the Germans were clinging so stubbornly to the town hall—it was the heart of their local defense.

The shelling lasted a solid ten minutes, tearing through everything around the town hall like a steel hurricane. The building itself looked like it might collapse at any moment, groaning under the relentless pounding. Then, after the final thunderous blast, silence fell.

From a bunker dug for cover, Captain Ruman sprang out.

"Move it! Get to your firing positions! The Yanks are coming!" he shouted. "Gunners—get those damn machine guns set up, now!"

He scanned the area, eyes darting, frustration rising.

"Where the hell is my armored support? Where's my damn assault gun? Goddamn it—why isn't it here yet?!"

"The Americans are on the move! Hold your fire till I give the word!"

At that moment, a dozen U.S. soldiers emerged from their concealment, using the terrain and debris to edge closer to the enemy lines. The lead man suddenly stiffened—he had clearly sensed something was off. Without a word, he turned and gave a quick hand signal.

Instantly, everyone dropped lower, melting into the ground, inching forward with practiced silence.