Chapter 50 – The Battle of Cherbourg (Part 11)

Bullets tore through the air, and shards of metal from explosions danced like angry wasps. Flesh—so fragile—was ripped, shredded, and blown apart. The screams of agony and the death-rattled groans didn't faze anyone anymore. We'd all gone numb. Out here, the only thing that mattered was oneself. No one had time to care about anyone else—not even a buddy dying beside you. A curse to the heavens was all we could offer, maybe a quick prayer that the next bullet wouldn't have our name on it.

Steel-hearted soldiers—maybe they had tears, but they were drowned in blood. Maybe they had feelings, but death had stolen them away. No matter how many prayers were whispered, fate mocked them all. Could a priest's blessing really open the gates of heaven? Who knew. We could only hope—hope and keep moving.

McCall, our machine gunner, was dead.

He never did get used to firing left-handed. He stuck his body out too far and caught a sniper's bullet—right between the eyes. The round was something special, maybe even armor-piercing. Blew a hole clean through his forehead, so big it nearly peeled back the top of his skull. Blood and brain mixed into the mud. You wouldn't even recognize him unless you knew the boots he wore.

"Chaplain—McCall's gone! He's dead, goddammit!" cried Eli Cooper, his voice cracking with grief as he grabbed the chaplain by the arm.

But the chaplain didn't even flinch. He shoved Cooper aside, calm and resolute. He'd seen this too many times. This was his duty now. There was no time to break down. He had to keep praying—for the living, the dead, and the damned. He was the only man of God on this blood-soaked strip of hell.

"The living know they shall die. But the dead—they know nothing. Their rewards are gone. Their names forgotten. Love, hate, jealousy... all vanished. Sin and sorrow under the sun shall no longer burden you. Your soul returns to the Lord. In His grace, you are born again. May the Lord keep you. Amen."

His voice was low and deep, like a current running under the chaos. Somehow, the hellfire around him didn't seem to touch him. Maybe his God really did shield him. But on this battlefield, there were no divine privileges.

"Where the hell's our tank?!" I shouted over the din.

"It's not here yet, sir!"

"Bullshit! I can hear a goddamn tank!"

"Sir, that's not ours—it's German! It's just up ahead!"

"What?! Speak up! I can't hear you!"

"I said—it's German armor, sir! It's right in front of us!"

Their machine guns and snipers had us pinned. I couldn't coordinate a real offensive no matter how hard we tried. Joanner's men on the left flank had managed to take a few buildings near city hall—but at what cost? Two of ours for every one of theirs. Everywhere else, we were stuck in the mud—literally and tactically.

And while we were fighting for our lives, command wouldn't stop barking at us over the damn radio—demanding progress, cursing our lack of results. I wanted to grab that handset and yell back, "You assholes wanna see how it feels? Come out here and take a bullet yourselves!"

They still couldn't believe the Germans were putting up this much of a fight. According to them, Cherbourg's defenders were just the scattered remains of four retreating divisions. No way they could mount a serious defense. But those arrogant bastards were dead wrong.

General Schlieben, the city's defense commander, had followed Hitler's orders to the letter—hold Cherbourg at all costs. The Germans had dug in deep: concrete fortifications, rivers and canals turned into tank traps, fields loaded with mines. Twenty artillery batteries hidden in bunkers—fifteen of them 150mm heavy guns—capable of pounding both sea and land targets. At every strategic choke point, they'd set up machine gun nests, anti-tank emplacements, landmines, and hidden AT guns. Every inch of this city was a death trap, built to bleed us dry.

Now, I had to worry about that goddamn German self-propelled gun stalking us—and their heavy artillery pounding our lines. The enemy's bombardment sent bodies flying and blood spraying. Our artillery responded fast, but the damage was done. Both my men and Captain Roberts' forces took heavy casualties. We had no choice—we had to fall back.

"HQ orders: Halt all forward movement. Dig in and hold your current position. Wait for artillery support before proceeding."

"Yes, sir."

June 22nd, 1944. The first probing attack by the U.S. First Army—three divisions strong—ran headlong into fierce resistance. The Germans held firm. Command scrambled bombers back into the skies. Over five hundred sorties were flown that day, dropping over 1,100 tons of explosives. Cherbourg disappeared under a thick veil of smoke and fire. The sky never cleared.

And yet, there was something in the air—something darker than smoke. A grim determination. A death-wish clung to the city like fog. We all felt it. You couldn't see it, but you could feel it settle deep in your gut.

I pulled a cigarette from my crushed pack and offered it to Joanner, who looked like hell. He didn't take it. I lit up, took a long drag, and said, "I smell more blood coming. When this one's over, we won't have many left standing."

Joanner gave a tired nod. "I just don't get it. They're surrounded. Why fight like this?"

"You don't know Germans," I said, smiling faintly. "They're a people built on discipline, pride, and stubborn resolve. You can't help but respect it."

He gave me a look—half skeptical, half resigned.

Maybe time would teach him.

Across the world, Germany's legacy of war is seen not just in the trenches they dug but in the reflection they dared to face afterward. Discipline and precision, sure—but what struck me most was their capacity for reflection. They committed atrocities, suffered consequences, and still chose to confront the truth of their past.

German historians separated wars into two categories: conventional wars—fought for power, following the rules of engagement; and wars of annihilation—fought with the goal of extermination, like the Holocaust, or the brutal suppression of the Boxer Rebellion in China.

I'd read a book once, written by a descendant of one of those German soldiers. Its title stuck with me: Ashamed to Have Come to China. That kind of honesty—owning up to a nation's darkest deeds—was rare. Maybe that's why postwar Germany earned a level of global respect that Japan never did.

The bombing went on all day.

That evening, I got summoned to Langford Colonel's command post for a strategy meeting. I didn't even make it inside before I heard him slam a hand down on the table and yell:

"You son of a bitch! Why aren't you dead like your goddamn men?! What the hell are you doing back here?! Half your company wiped out in a single meal's time! You got the balls to come back and face me?! Get this coward out of my sight! I don't want to see his face again!"

That fury wasn't for me—it was aimed at someone else.

I froze in the doorway. Didn't know if I should go in or walk away. Just then, Miller—the adjutant—came out with another officer: Captain Jack Morell of 3rd Company.

Morell gave me a weak smile. Said nothing. What could he say? I nodded back—just a silent gesture of sympathy.

Miller noticed me and stepped close, whispering, "Captain Carter, the colonel's... not in a great mood. Took the losses today pretty hard. When you go in, tread lightly. I don't think he called you up here for anything big—just wants to go over some operational stuff."

"Thanks, Miller."

He gave me a half-grin. "Don't mention it. If anything, I owe you one from last time."

He clapped me on the shoulder, then turned to walk off with Morell. Probably just killing time, waiting for Langford Colonel to cool off before they came back.