The Germans' latest operation was a textbook example of a flawless assault. They'd clearly spent time tunneling several concealed firing pits, hiding heavy troop concentrations beneath the forest floor. As it turned out, every tactic we had assumed about their movements was completely wrong—and it left us dangerously on the back foot.
The soil north of Clécy's woods is sandy, making it almost effortless for German engineers to carve out secret shelters. Throughout the war, their sappers had earned a fearsome reputation: they could exploit any terrain to dig trenches or forge machine-gun nests so well camouflaged that you'd never know they were there until it was too late. Under a canopy of tall grasses, a few cleverly disguised pits were all they needed to spring this trap.
And spring it they did. Nearly a hundred Germans had been concealed behind our lines, catching us utterly off-guard and sending us reeling! At first I'd doubted their presence in the undergrowth. Then, as they harried us with feints at the front—always falling back just as I pressed forward—I funneled all my attention onto their frontal attacks, never suspecting their true plan: a subterranean strike on our rear. Only the fact that Turner's company had shifted from a lateral advance to marching in column saved us from complete collapse. Still, I knew the Germans must have prepped counter-measures for every contingency. Right now, though, we were dangerously exposed—and if we couldn't blunt this assault, we could only pray Turner's relief force arrived in time.
Joanner's scouts stood no chance against the German onslaught and were forced to fall back. Donovan's flank detachment and Winters's frontline platoon were cut off, leaving our forces scattered across three separate engagements.
"Gibbs, you take First Platoon and dig in on my left. Lieutenant Allan"—Turner's reinforced platoon commander—"you hold two sections on the right. Everyone else, fall in behind me!"
Chaos ruled the field. All I had in immediate support were Gibbs's two squads, Turner's reinforced platoon, and the returning scouts under Joanner. Donovan still held the far flank—but small German detachments were already infiltrating there. I had to pull another squad to secure that flank, while ordering Donovan to swing back toward our center. The heaviest attack, of course, was at Winters's front.
"Sergeant Kelly—send one of your armored cars to Winters. He's about to break!"
"Yes, sir!" Sergeant Kelly, commander of one Greyhound, barked orders to Rafael Harto, the next vehicle's driver. "Harto, you're on point for Lieutenant Winters. I'll handle these Krauts!"
"Winters! You son of a bitch, you hang on! I've sent you armor support!"
"Thanks, Captain," Winters panted. "I can hold for now… but if I had mortar support, it'd make all the difference. I've got at least a German company right on top of me." A shell-splinter had gashed his arm.
"Mortars—suppress those Germans up front! Spare no rounds!"
"Sir! Germans are hitting my left flank! Requesting MG support!" Gibbs's voice cracked with desperation.
"Gibbs, hold that line! Manning—take your gun team to Gibbs. Lankow—you plug in at Manning's position!"
"Incoming artillery! Down!"
Thud—crash! Thud—crash!
German mortars smashed our hastily dug positions, sending men flying and instantly cutting Winters's fire support.
"Goddamn it, Turner—I need you here now! Reinforcements, now!"
Colonel Herbert's voice crackled over the line. "Captain, report your status!"
"Sir, we're in dire straits. Their assault is relentless, and we're under-manned."
"Carter, hold fast! I've ordered Turner's brigade to reinforce you at any cost!"
Herbert's stiff-upper-lip façade cracked; sweat beaded on his brow. "Sir, my unit is fragmented and surrounded. I can hold—maybe twenty minutes more."
"Twenty minutes? Bloody hell, you hold that ground, or I'll court-martial you myself! Patch to Turner—where the hell are you?"
"Sir, German blocking detachments are fierce. We need five more minutes!"
"Five minutes? You'll get nothing but a bullet if you fail!" Herbert slammed his handset onto the console. The crash echoed across the command post; everyone flinched.
"What are you looking at? Get back to work!"
Shouts and crackling radios filled the room once again.
"Brothers, stand firm! Turner's tanks are just two klicks out. Hold a little longer and we'll smash these bastards!"
Their roar on the wire was a lifeline. Turner's lead elements were closing in, but it would be perilously close.
"Germans charging! I'm done for!"
Grenades rained down on our men, the detonations mingling with soldier's screams.
"Armored car—return fire!"
A German soldier half-kneeling with a Panzerfaust raised sights on our Greyhound. I braced for disaster—without that mobile fortress, my men stood no chance against a full assault.
"Bang!"
A sniper shot rang out. The Panzerfaust gunner lurched and dropped. His misfired rocket hit the earth, detonating and killing the German beside him. It was Zachary—Job's sniper—sent back with vital reports. If he hadn't held that position…
Our Greyhound crews didn't know how close they'd come to oblivion. Over and over, infantry gave their lives to shield those armored hulls. No steel plate could survive long without foot soldiers to watch its flanks. Tanks and transports are a godsend to infantry—but infantry are equally the steel beasts' shield.
That Greyhound—Harto's—raced point across the battlefield, quelling German probes with its 50-caliber roar. But machinery isn't invincible. Every foray brought it within range of German's highest-priority gunners. So far it had escaped destruction—thank God.
Zachary's sharpshooting paid dividends, felling several enemy machine-gunners. The Germans retaliated with mortars—brutal shelling that cost him a leg. He lay screaming, "Mama—my leg!"
"Medic! Status?" I barked, dragging him from the crater. Compassion had long since left me; casualties were a commodity here.
"Sir, his leg's blown off!"
"Damn it—another man to that MG nest!" I barked orders.
My Browning gunners cycled fresh casualties into the belts. Each loss was filled by another recruit, because I needed every round of fire we could muster.
"Another gunner—now! Move it!"
"Grenade! Get those bastards!"
Boom—boom—boom!
Though only roughly a reinforced platoon attacked my rear, the Germans had split their forces to block Turner's advance. My own defenses—once carefully prepared—had become death traps against our reinforcements. I alone was to blame for that. Yet with every round from Turner's flanking guns, the enemy's momentum slowed. My rear guard stabilized, and I could reallocate men to reinforce Winters.
"What? Harto's Greyhound's been knocked out by an AT gun?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Sergeant Kelly—your car to Winters, immediately!"
"Harto's gone? I'll avenge him!" Kelly's steely resolve rang in his tone—no tears, just grim purpose.
"Godspeed—may God watch over you."
The savage battle raged on. The Germans fought for annihilation; we resisted for survival.