Chapter 54 – The Battle of Cherbourg (Part 15)

Donovan was in charge of attacking the right flank of the city hall today—a section not unlike the left, filled with towering buildings. Even though Allied bombings had blasted the entire area to hell, reducing it to a mess of broken stone and twisted rebar, Donovan wasn't feeling any safer. During yesterday's daylight engagement, the German self-propelled flak gun—what we called the "Eastern Wind"—had been spotted multiple times in that very sector. And Donovan hadn't forgotten. Hell, just the thought of that thing made his scalp crawl. The 37mm automatic cannon mounted on it was way too damn powerful.

For reference, the American 25mm autocannons on our IFVs could tear through reinforced concrete like it was cardboard, turning bunkers into cages of exposed rebar. They could punch straight through thirty-six-inch thick bulletproof sandbags, leaving anyone hiding behind them nothing but dead meat. Brick walls? Forget about it—didn't matter how thick, they crumbled like crackers. But the Germans' 37mm rapid-fire cannon? That was a whole new level of terror. If that thing locked on to you, you were basically signing your last will and testament.

The German Eastern Wind self-propelled gun was so far ahead of its time, even modern anti-aircraft tanks had shades of its design. It was proof of just how far ahead German military tech really was. But for all that ingenuity, Germany's dwindling resources meant that even a few high-tech toys couldn't turn the tide.

To deal with the Eastern Wind and storm the city hall quickly, First Army HQ sent us six Sherman tanks as daytime reinforcements. I couldn't help but marvel—only the U.S. could treat tanks like they were handouts. "Need armor?We got it." "Call in the planes? Sure, why not." The brass were hell-bent on exhausting the Germans, never giving them a chance to catch their breath. So, orders came down: a full-scale assault at 0400 hours.

Even with armor backing us up, it wasn't exactly comforting. The night was pitch black, and unlike the Krauts, we didn't have any of that fancy night vision gear. The best we had was a good set of eyeballs and nerves of steel. When the Allies finally overran the German night vision manufacturing plant in '45, we could only shake our heads in disbelief at how advanced their optics tech really was. But here and now, in the dark, sending Shermans too far forward was a death sentence. Tanks were always the prime target. One well-placed shot and every poor bastard inside got a one-way ticket to the pearly gates. So I ordered the tanks to hang back and support the infantry—rolling firepower, not battering rams.

I assigned two of those Shermans to Donovan, tasked with clearing out enemy strongpoints. His men moved in a staggered assault formation, advancing block by block. But the Germans? It was like they'd vanished into thin air—not a peep from their side.

"Sir, we're sure those bastards were holed up here yesterday. Where the hell did they all go?" one of Donovan's boys muttered, voice laced with unease.

"Goddamn it," Donovan grumbled to himself, then raised his voice slightly. "Keep it tight, boys. Maybe the Krauts are still catching up on their beauty sleep."

Sergeant Alden and his squad crept along a wall, rifles raised and eyes scanning every shadow. Even with a Sherman tank rumbling behind them, keeping pace, Alden wasn't about to relax. A veteran like him didn't get lulled into a false sense of security that easy. Donovan's warning was aimed more at the veterans, while the wisecrack about the sleeping Germans—that was for the greenhorns, a little morale boost to keep the shakes at bay.

"Sergeant, you think them Krauts really went to bed early?" asked Private Grayson Cole nervously, sticking close behind Alden.

Alden didn't answer right away. He paused near a busted-up window, pressing himself against the building's facade. He listened hard, but the constant growl of the tank's engine drowned out everything else. After a few tense seconds, he unclipped a grenade from his chest, yanked the pin, counted off two beats, and lobbed it through the window.

Boom. The blast echoed down the room—no screams followed.

Alden exhaled slightly, then turned to Cole. "Forget what the lieutenant said. Just follow my damn orders when the bullets start flying. That's how you stay alive."

"Yes, Sergeant!"

Alden wasn't fond of babysitting rookies. To him, it was just another burden. But I'd laid down a standing order: every seasoned vet had to take a new guy under their wing. Alden had no choice but to follow through.

He figured as a squad leader, his job was to make sure everyone in his unit knew the drill and followed the infantry playbook to the letter. That should be enough. This whole "mentor the rookies" thing? He wasn't buying it. Bullets and explosions would teach them faster than he ever could—just like they'd taught him.

"Sergeant, up there—second floor, see that tiny window?" Cole whispered.

Alden had already clocked it. That was a sniper's dream perch. He raised a clenched fist, halting the squad. The distance—twenty-odd meters—made it a tough toss for a grenade. No margin for error.

"Window. Second floor. Eleven o'clock. Tank, light it up."

One of the Shermans slowly turned its turret, the barrel rising to match Alden's direction. Then—boom. The building, already on the verge of collapse, coughed up another storm of rubble as the shell smashed into it.

"These damn Yanks," hissed a German lieutenant hidden in the shadows. "Any spot that looks suspicious, they just shell it to dust. If this keeps up, our ambushes won't be worth a damn."

Captain Ruhmann stood beside him, frowning. Their anti-tank capability was thin—a single AT gun and a few rocket launchers. Not nearly enough to stop an armored push. And rocket launchers? Those weren't rifles—you couldn't just pop up and take a shot. You needed the right angle, the right distance, and enough cover to survive the backlash. Miss once, and you'd be buried under a hailstorm of return fire.

"Did you lay the anti-tank mines?" Ruhmann asked.

"We planted over a dozen."

"Good. Let them come closer. The moment one of those tanks goes up, their infantry'll panic. That's when we strike. And make sure our self-propelled gun joins in the second we open up."

"Yes, sir!"

"Remember—we've got limited manpower. One strike, then we fall back. Let the defenses handle the rest."

Back on the American side, Donovan's squad kept inching forward, every step slow and tense.

"Goddamn it," Donovan muttered, "What the hell are these Krauts up to?" He waved over his radioman. "Get word to HQ. Tell them we haven't made contact with the enemy yet."

When I got Donovan's report, I was pissed—and suspicious.

"What? No contact? That can't be right," I snapped. "During yesterday's probing attack, the right flank was crawling with enemy fire. It was their strongest sector—because if we cut through that, we'd slice off their retreat path. No way in hell they're just handing that over."

"You think they're setting something up?" Miller asked.

"Setting something up? Damn right they are. A big one. Tell Donovan to stay sharp—no freelancing. Stick to the plan. And keep those Shermans on overwatch for that goddamn flak tank. As long as we've got eyes on it, we'll be fine."

Then it hit me—tanks. Could the Germans really knock out our tanks with the limited force they had?

Anti-tank guns? No chance. The only one they had was pinned down in front of my position. So that left only one option—rocket launchers. But even those needed to get close, and in this faint pre-dawn light, getting past our infantry screen was near impossible. Plus, after yesterday, I'd drilled it into every officer's head: don't be stingy with the shells. Any building that looked remotely suspicious got leveled. We weren't here to preserve city blocks—we were here to win. With that doctrine in place, the Krauts couldn't rely on static positions, and without a solid anti-tank plan, they'd have no choice but to pull back eventually.

Still, I muttered aloud, "Besides direct hits from AT guns and rockets... how else do you stop a tank?"

Miller didn't hesitate. "Mines, sir. Anti-tank mines."

Of course. A well-placed mine didn't need numbers—just timing. One explosion could stop a Sherman cold, and that alone would force the others to halt. Without armor support, our infantry would take heavy losses.

"Tell Donovan—there's gotta be mines up ahead. Have him change his assault route and adjust his tactics." I paused, then added, "And inform Joanner—they can begin their part of the operation."

Even though I'd figured out the German plan, executing a proper counter wasn't simple. Every unit had to be redeployed, every movement recalculated. The Germans weren't idiots. The moment Donovan made a move, they'd respond. Everyone knew it—even the Krauts—that holding the city hall was just a matter of time. The only question was how steep the price would be. Too steep, and neither I nor Allied command would be happy.

Back on the line, Donovan was listening to my updated orders over the radio.

"Don't worry about the mines, sir," he said. "My engineers can handle that."

"Good. Just keep your boys safe—and watch out for snipers."

"Understood!"

Combat engineers. Unsung heroes of the war. Every army had them, but ours? They were everywhere we needed them to be. When the line faltered, they picked up rifles and fought like grunts. When we hit minefields, they were the first in. They weren't just brave—they were builders, sappers, road crews, and bomb defusers all rolled into one. They didn't come to kill. They came to make sure others could push forward and stay alive. Every path cleared, every bridge built, every obstacle removed—that came at the cost of their sweat, blood, and sometimes, their lives.

They may not fight the enemy head-on, but their contributions and importance should never be forgotten. They will always deserve our respect and gratitude.