Chapter 53 – The Battle of Cherbourg (Part 14)

Night in Cherbourg was anything but quiet. American artillery pounded the German positions around the clock, lighting up the darkness with relentless flashes and deafening thunder. But to be honest, nighttime shelling didn't do much in terms of real damage. Still, if it managed to keep the Krauts from getting a good night's sleep, then that alone was worth it. As for me, I wasn't particularly nervous. I don't think the Germans will launch any sort of counterattack under cover of darkness.

Counterattacks require more than just willpower. The idea that a small force could launch a surprise attack and rack up big kills—that's the kind of stuff people either exaggerated or lifted straight out of rare cases. Sure, if it were a special forces-style raid—hit fast, hit hard, and get the hell out—that might have a shot. But even that wouldn't change the tide at this point. And unless God himself gave the Krauts' assault teams some kind of divine cloaking device, they'd be spotted by our boys and get swarmed. The moment they got made, we'd punch straight through their weakened lines, and that'd be it. One breakthrough, and their whole front would collapse like a house of cards.

That's the situation the Germans were in.

Once I made sure the night watch was in place, I leaned against a cold stone pillar and tried to catch some sleep—just enough to make it to the next phase of the assault at 0400 hours.

Artillery boomed in the distance. Gunshots crackled from time to time, but none of that stopped the GIs from grabbing whatever shut-eye they could. They slept holding their rifles, slumped over one another, dozing like worn-out farmhands. Even the slightest sound nearby would jolt them awake—just a twitch of the eye or a shift in breath—then, seeing nothing wrong, they'd drift back off.

I don't know how long I nodded off. When I opened my eyes again, there were hardly any stars visible in the sky. Maybe clouds covered them, or maybe it was the thick war smoke choking the heavens. I glanced at my watch—just past one in the morning. I rubbed my face hard to wake myself up and headed toward one of the outposts. Call it an inspection, or maybe just a restless stroll.

The two men manning the hidden sentry post were wide awake, crouched silently inside a pitch-black dugout. They whispered back and forth in low voices, eyes scanning the shadows, fingers tight on their triggers. From the look of them, if anything so much as twitched wrong, they'd let loose without hesitation.

Their position was cleverly chosen: no background light, tucked away in a corner with a wide field of view, camouflaged so well that unless you knew exactly where to look, you'd never spot them. Even if the visible sentries were silently taken out, these guys would buy us precious seconds to respond.

"Who's there? Password!"

"Sleeping in tonight," I replied.

That was the actual password. Earlier that evening, a duty officer had asked me what the night's code would be, and I just pulled that one out of thin air. I wasn't in the mood to dream up some grandiose, badass phrase every night like some of the guys in HQ. Whatever popped into my head usually became the password.

"Your countersign?" I asked.

"Can't sleep," both sentries replied in unison. We all chuckled—couldn't help it.

"Hell of a password, sir," one of them grinned.

"Oh yeah?" I said, stepping closer. They'd already recognized my voice and eased their fingers off the trigger.

"Yes, sir," one said, laughing. "We were just talking about it a minute ago."

"Well, if it keeps you awake, then I call that a damn good password," I said, letting out a laugh.

"Sir, you should use ones like this more often," the other added. "The ones from HQ are nuts—'Green Dog,' 'White Dog,' 'Red Dog'… then there was something like 'Green Easy' the other night? What the hell does that even mean?"

"Beats me," I replied, shaking my head. "God knows what those brass types are thinking half the time. Anyway, you boys holding up all right? I can take over your watch if you want to get some shuteye."

They laughed and waved me off. "No need, sir. Sergeant Cooper's squad's coming to relieve us soon."

"Good. I don't think Jerry's gonna be bold enough to try anything tonight. Just stay sharp and keep your ears open."

"Don't worry about us, sir," one of them said with a grin. "If any Krauts try something, we'll blow their asses wide open with the MG."

The other groaned. "Huxley, for God's sake! Can't you say something without making me wanna puke up dinner?"

"Ah, come on, Ferguson! You're such a damn lightweight!" Huxley chuckled.

We all kept our voices low—not just out of respect for the sleeping men around us, but also to stay under the radar. The Germans might not be launching a full-scale attack tonight, but those damn snipers of theirs never rested.

Nothing much happened for a while after that. Time slipped by, and before I knew it, it was creeping toward 3 a.m. That's when a low, sharp voice cut through the haze of half-sleep:

"Everyone up! Get ready to move!"

That short order was enough to jolt every soldier out of his daze. Most of them weren't really asleep, just stuck in that limbo between wakefulness and dreams, trying to snatch a few moments of rest.

"Keep it quiet! Check your ammo—every last round! We go at 0400 sharp!"

The hour before dawn is always the hardest. Everyone knows that's when the enemy might strike, but knowing and staying alert are two different things. The body just wants to shut down. It's that time when even your bones feel tired, and no amount of willpower seems enough to hold off sleep.

At 4 am, our assault teams began to creep forward, inching toward the town hall that we hadn't been able to take in the daytime. Thanks to earlier fighting, we had a solid grasp on the German troop layout. Even if their commanders had shifted things around, there wasn't much room to do so—they were clinging to the most defensible positions they had.

The soldiers selected for this push moved with the utmost caution. No one dared make a sound louder than a breath, afraid of giving away their presence. What they didn't know was that Captain Rumman, the German officer on the other side, had already caught on to our movements.

"Look at those damn Yanks. Can't sleep like decent folks—always gotta crawl over here and get themselves killed," A German muttered.

"Shut it. Let 'em get closer first," another German whispered.

"Everyone, hold your fire until I give the order to fire," Rumman ordered, hand tight on a flare gun. He squinted into the murk, barely lit by faint starlight, watching the ghostlike shadows of American troops moving in the dark.

Nearby, the German sniper Klaus Mohr had already picked out his target—an American point man. Through the scope, he had the soldier's chest locked dead center. Mohr whispered to himself like a man saying grace before a meal:

"One more... just one more. You're mine now, buddy. No one's stealing this one from me."

A young German soldier nudged the guy beside him and whispered, "Mohr's thinking about that damn watch again."

"How many's he killed now?"

"He said earlier—just needs one more for the reward."

"Guy's a born killer," another murmured, a mix of awe and unease in his tone.

The Germans, from the Führer himself down through the ranks, placed a high value on snipers. To encourage precision shooting, they didn't just hand out medals—they had a whole system of rewards.

Kill 50 enemy soldiers, and you earned a special commendation and a wristwatch.

Reach 100, and they gave you a hunting rifle.

Bag 150 and survive—got to go on a deer hunt with Heinrich Himmler himself.

For an ordinary grunt, that kind of incentive was irresistible. Sharing a table with one of the most powerful men in Nazi Germany wasn't just about prestige—it meant promotion, privilege, maybe even escaping the mud and blood of the front lines. For men stuck grinding out an existence at the bottom, racking up kills became the shortcut to the top.

"Fire!" Rumman finally barked, launching the flare into the air. The night lit up in a ghostly bloom—and Mohr took the first shot.

His bullet punched clean through his target's chest, sending up a tiny splash of blood in the glow of the flare.

"Ha! That watch is mine!" Mohr cried out, gleeful. Without wasting a second, he swung his sniper rifle toward another American soldier. Crack! A second shot rang out.

"Sniper! Sniper! Goddammit, watch for the sniper!" someone in our assault team shouted, panic in his voice.

The second man had been a little slower to react. Mohr's bullet tore into his gut, and he dropped to his knees, howling and clutching his stomach in agony. Mohr didn't even glance at him again. His scope was already scanning for his next target.

Our advance ground to a halt under the crisscrossing hellfire of German machine guns, snipers, and mortar rounds.

"What the hell do we do now?" Miller asked, crouched beside me. It was his first time under this kind of full-blown enemy fire.

 Compared to sitting in a command tent, this was a different world—a hellish, chaotic place, where maybe every bullet had your name on it.

German machine guns spat fire like dragons, sweeping across the street with brutal efficiency. Wherever those guns aimed, they chewed through the landscape like a farmer threshing wheat.

We were so close to their lines, I could hear their voices between bursts. Rounds hissed past our helmets, close enough to part your hair. Miller was finally learning just how fragile life could be out here—like holding a paper lantern in a hurricane.

"Their firepower's insane! Maybe we should pull the lead element back for now?" Miller said, eyes wide as he watched the pinned-down men frozen in place.

"No way!" I barked. "Have the mortars and AT guns start pounding those damn machine gun nests!"

I leaned sideways against a chunk of blown-out wall, scanning the battlefield with quick glances. The German positions were lit by tracer fire, their muzzles glowing like devil's eyes.

Miller realized instantly he'd screwed up. You don't talk about retreat—not in front of the troops, not when they're bleeding in the mud trying to push forward. That kind of talk spreads like poison.

He understood now—an assault team isn't just there to punch through. Even if they don't break the line, they serve a vital role: forcing the enemy to reveal their positions. That's how command identifies strongpoints, figures out where to hammer next, and decides what tactics to bring to bear.

"Has Joanner's team reached the planned position on our left?" I asked.

"Yes, sir!" Brooks, my signalman, replied loudly.

"What about Donovan's unit on the right flank? Why the hell haven't we heard any gunfire from that direction?"

"Sir, they went in through the street on our right, but… there's been no word since."

"What the hell is he playing at? Don't tell me the Krauts haven't spotted him!" I snapped, fury boiling over.