Chapter 49 – The Battle of Cherbourg (Part 10)

As the Americans moved closer, Captain Ruman barked out the order: "Fire!"

From hidden positions, German light and heavy machine guns opened up in unison, their interlocking fields of fire suddenly hammering the U.S. troops caught in the open square. The forward elements of the American unit were instantly pinned down, forced into craters left by previous shelling, unable to advance or even lift their heads.

"Sergeant Clifford, what do we do? What the hell do we do?" a panicked soldier yelled, crouched down with both hands clamped over his helmet, curled up like a frightened ostrich, hoping Clifford would have an answer, a miracle, something.

Soldiers grumble about their officers. They curse them when things go bad. But deep down, they look to those same leaders to get them through hell. Whether it's a general or a grunt NCO, keeping their men alive is one of their most sacred responsibilities.

"Return fire! Hold your damn ground and keep shooting! Captain will get us out of this!" Clifford yelled, voice rising over the gunfire as he tried to pull his squad back from the edge of panic.

The men started firing back—barely. The German fire was so intense they couldn't aim properly, only manage blind bursts in the direction of the enemy muzzle flashes.

"Shaw! Don't stick your head out! Get down!" Clifford shouted, spotting one of his soldiers trying to peek out to spot the enemy.

Too late. A burst of German MG fire tore through Shaw's helmet and skull, sending him flipping backward like a ragdoll hit by a freight train.

"Goddammit!" Clifford growled, but there was no time to mourn—or to scold. Others still needed him.

From behind the armored bulk of a Sherman Crocodile, I saw the whole mess unfold. I turned to Brooks and said, "Get me artillery. Target the town hall. Quick barrage—now! Blow those damn machine gun nests to hell!"

"Yes, sir!" Brooks, never more than a step away with the radio pack strapped to his back, sprang into action.

"Artillery! Artillery! We need immediate fire support—target: town hall! Repeat, target: town hall!"

I turned to Joanner. "Take your squad, swing around left. Hit the Krauts in that building from behind. Take it, hold it. We need the left flank!"

Then to Luca, "You take two squads and hit the right side. Keep the pressure on, make noise. Draw their eyes away from Clifford's position. Just a feint, got it? Their main strength is dug in on the right—we're not breaking that with brute force."

"Mortar team, take out that MG nest on top of the town hall!"

Orders went out fast, and Joanner and Luca's squads sprang into motion. I couldn't give any orders to Captain Roberts' men—they weren't mine to command—but I spoke with him directly, suggesting they continue pressing the front to pin down the enemy.

But even as I said it, I knew the truth: Roberts' troops had lost their nerve.

He knew it too. His men fresh off the boats from the States. Sure, they'd seen some combat, but always with superior firepower and numbers on their side. In those battles, their morale soared. But now, pinned down and bleeding, with buddies dying all around them, their courage had cracked. They had fought hard during the ambush, pushing back with everything they had. But once we arrived and pulled them out of that kill zone, their fighting spirit drained away like water through a sieve.

I couldn't blame them. They weren't cowards—not by a long shot. Just being here, holding a rifle, returning fire—that took guts. Plenty of men never even made it that far. I'd seen it. Some guys hit the battlefield, hear that first thunder of artillery, and their fight is gone before the shooting even starts.

I've never had much respect for generals. They sit in their HQs, measuring battles by body counts and lines on maps. They talk about running out of men like it's a supply issue. But they never lie awake at night wondering if tomorrow they'll be cut in half by a machine gun burst. They don't have to crawl through mud with their buddy's blood on their boots. If a general screws up, he gets reassigned. If a soldier screws up—he gets a flag over his chest.

The guys at the front, the grunts, they've got nothing—no medals worth a damn, no dreams, no promises of glory. Just staying alive. That's all any of us really want. Doesn't matter what side you're on.

I looked at the battered men of 3rd Platoon—men who'd just been dragged through death's doorway—and I yelled, "Cover me! The rest of you, follow my lead! We're pulling Clifford's boys out!"

Gibbs was the first to move, leaping out and using the ruins for cover. A soldier with a light machine gun dashed out behind him, but as soon as they left safety, a German MG42 opened up, cutting the air like a buzzsaw.

"Suppress that bastard! Now!" Gibbs shouted, diving for the nearest cover.

The gunner hit the dirt, crawling to a corner of a crumbled wall, propping his weapon and returning fire.

Gibbs glanced over and immediately saw the problem. The man was firing right-handed from the wrong angle—too much of his body exposed.

"McCall, you goddamn idiot! Use your left hand!"

"I'm used to shooting this way, sir!" McCall called back, not looking up from the sights.

"Well, ain't that just fucking grand. What, your drill sergeant never beat that habit outta you in basic?"

"No, sir!"

"McCall, hear me loud and clear—next time I see you firing like that, I'll personally assign you to assault a German pillbox with a bayonet."

"Sir, that sounds like you're tryin' to get me killed on purpose!"

"Hell yes it is! You keep shooting like that, you'll be dead anyway. You want your death notice to read: 'Killed due to improper shooting stance?'"

As he yelled, Gibbs laid down suppressing fire, all while hollering over his shoulder.

He wasn't being a bastard—he was saving McCall's life. There's a line in the infantry field manual: If your position doesn't allow safe use of your dominant hand, switch to your weak hand to minimize exposure. It's hard as hell for right-handed shooters to adjust, but it might just keep them breathing another day.

McCall took the scolding and rolled back behind the wall to reload.

"Sir, I ain't in any rush to get killed, believe me!"

"Good! Then use your damn training!"

"Roger that, sir!"

On the German side, Captain Ruman could already tell something had changed. These weren't the same Americans his men had ambushed earlier. These were sharper, more coordinated—maybe even elite.

"Stay sharp, everyone!" Ruman shouted. "These Yanks might be their top dogs!"

"Larry, keep hammering that squad stuck in the crater! Maeder, your MG supports the left—don't let them flank us! I need a few men to reinforce the right!"

Ruman's unit was still called a "company" on paper, but in truth, it barely had the strength of a platoon. Holding such a wide front with so few men was pushing them to the limit.

"Where the hell is our Wespes?"

"Sir, they're over on our right!"

"Bring them forward now! The Yanks are pressing hard on my sector—I need more firepower!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Moni! You've got a steady hand—get to the roof with Nigel. See if you can take out a few of their officers!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Anti-tank crews—watch for those Shermans! Don't reveal your position unless you have a sure shot. Make it count—we're depending on you!"

"Understood, sir!"

My Sherman Crocodile finally began moving forward again. Its range wasn't great—definitely not artillery—but the hull-mounted machine gun in front could still lay down some suppressive fire. At least it worked as a mobile bunker. We'd picked a decent position to attack from, but the Germans weren't just going to sit there and take it. The moment we got into place, their counterfire came roaring back.

What worried me most was whether that German anti-tank gun had survived the barrage we'd just called in. Had it been knocked out or was it still lying in wait, ready to blow my tank to hell? I had no way of knowing yet—and that uncertainty gnawed at me.

On our left, Joanner's squad was having a hell of a time trying to dislodge the German position. Their machine gun nest wasn't working alone—a sniper had them covered, and the two together were tearing our guys apart. Joanner had tried everything—frontal assaults, flanking moves, smoke cover—but nothing stuck. The Germans had the high ground, solid cover, and damn good aim. Every attempt got chewed up before it even got going.

And sure, I'd seen movies, same as anyone. That classic war film scene where the brave officer waves his men forward and they all charge through bullets like heroes, charging toward glory. But this wasn't a goddamn movie.

Out here, you try that kind of crap and your whole platoon's wiped out in under a minute. Those German machine guns were laying down intersecting fire with perfect discipline—like a pair of scissors waiting to cut anything that stepped into the kill zone. I could imagine it, but I wasn't suicidal enough to act on it.

I leaned out from cover and shouted to the men pinned down nearby, "Goddammit, keep your damn heads down! Don't go sticking your necks out like you're bulletproof! We're not made of steel, boys!"

They needed reminding. In this hellhole, even standing up wrong could earn you a one-way ticket home in a pine box.