I didn't know a lot about the squad I was with. I knew Sgt. Morgan,
who was my squad leader when I enlisted and remained throughout the war.
We had hit the beaches together at Normandy and had helped Captain John
Miller search for Private Ryan when we were fighting with paratroopers in
that no-name French Ville.
Although I had fought with him for over a year, I had no idea where Sgt. Morgan was from, if he had family, a wife or anything. He always said that such things had no place in warfare.
Pvt. Trout, the man that we had lost, was a bit more open about himself. He was one of three children of his parents that lived in Wisconsin. He always talked about his summer forages through the bush to shoot gophers and such, it made sense, he was the best marksman in our squad, after me of course.
Pvt. Horn was our unit's medic. He was in his second year of med school when he was drafted. He came into our unit with quite a fight, being insubordinate and disillusioned about the war. He absolutely refused to carry any sort of weapon or to fight at all, a German could be bayoneting the President of the United States and he wouldn't lift a finger to stop it.
Although Horn wasn't that great of a soldier, he was an excellent medic, and beyond that, he was useful for carrying extra ammo for us.
Cpl. Stankowitz was, needless to say, an idiot. He was from a Polish family who immigrated to the US before the war, and then he was drafted into the Air Force, then promptly kicked out for insubordination and 'accidentally' crashing a fighter during training. They had sent him into the army to try and straighten him out. Needless to say, it hadn't worked. He rarely spoke of his home or family, I figured that his parents probably forced him to go when he was drafted. I still don't know how he made it to Corporal. Somewhere along the line, he had picked up experience on the BAR, which made him the assistant gunner.
Pvt. Miller had been in our group almost as long as I had. We had been through most everything together. He was probably one of the best BAR gunners in the European Theater. He sometimes talked about his family, but tried to distance himself from it. The draft had ruined his marriage, he had told us once. Even though he had suffered because of the draft, he was still the one that kept the squad's morale up when it was on a down slope.
Pvt. Ben Doon was slightly slow. He had a knack for pointing out the obvious. He was new, we had gotten him just after D-Day, as far as I knew, he had never seen combat, and he was a translator, interpreting German low- grade intel. So far I hadn't seen him say more that two words to anyone.
Sgt. Morgan held up his Thompson and we moved through the main entrance to the barn. It was musty inside, smelling of hay and moisture being put together too long. Light filtered in through a window, giving the barn a dim light with which to see by. Several crates were stacked in the center of the room; along the walls were pegs with animal paraphernalia hanging for them, bridles and brushes and such, but no Germans.
"This is getting to weird." Said Sgt. Morgan. "Its an abandoned house in the middle of the French countryside. You'd think the Germans would be all over it, even just for reconnaissance, but there's nothing."
I slung my Garand over my shoulder. "I would assume that one of the patrols we intercepted would be residing at this place, but there are no signs of anyone being here before us. Maybe they packed up and moved when Allied patrols started coming through this sector."
While I said this, I pulled out my bayonet and was using the blade to pry the one of the crates open. The nails slid out revealing rows of wine bottles.
I picked one out and looked at the label. Chateau LaBar 1936. I held the bottle up and showed it to Sergeant Morgan, who nodded.
We walked back to the house. Inside, Ben Doon had started a fire and was heating a pot of water. "Hey Sarge, look what I found." He said, holding up a can of coffee.
"That's great soldier, why don't we invite the Germans in for a cup while were at it. Don't worry about calling them, I'm sure that they'll know were here, what with smoke pouring out the chimney. For those of you that just woke up, this operation was meant to be somewhat secret, and in case you haven't noticed, we are seven men, if word got out about us being here, you would probably bring the whole goddamn whermacht down on us. Nice job, now put out that damn fire.
Ben Doon opened the pot and poured the contents over the fire, putting it out with a strong hissing noise and plumes of steam.
He took the kettle off the fireplace and wandered off to make coffee with cold water or something. Sgt. Morgan shook his head.
The best thing was, there were potatoes in the cellar. Cold, uncooked potatoes were always the best, that what I say, anyway. After supper, we allowed ourselves to take a few draughts off of the wine we had found in the cellar, just enough to take the edge off.
Night had begun to fall and the sun dipped low in the sky. I was sitting inside over several burning candles. The air had acquired a bit of a nip, so I tried to pull my field jacket closed even more. I was using the candles to heat some water for coffee and a little stew that we could scrounge together,
We had returned to the forest and recovered Pvt. Trout's body, buried it and marked it for grave detail. The shrapnel wound in my arm had stopped bleeding and the sharp pain had faded to a dull ache.
We had buried Trout's body in the soft dirt of the garden, after stripping it of anything useful. We handed his ammo out evenly and then left two men, Hartmann and Miller in a pillbox that we had recently dug. The rest of us went inside. That was when we heard the shots. I heard three rounds from a Garand and then a lengthy burst from the BAR.
I was on my feet in a second and rushing for the door. By this time we could only see by the moon, but it was more than enough to see the Germans moving along the treeline. I ran out and took cover behind some barrels that we had rolled out to catch any rainfall. I took aim across the barrels and squeezed off several rounds at a German. Sporadic fire was returned at me, but nothing serious.
As I reloaded, Sgt. Morgan ran out with his Thompson blazing. He fanned automatic fire at the Germans, taking out several. He went down on one knee to reload while I covered him with my last clip.
I fired carefully, trying to conserve my last eight rounds, but they were quickly spent. I unloaded my last round into a German that charged at me, a bayonet on his Kar 98.
The action opened and the bloc clip popped out. I cursed and ran my hands over my pouches to make sure I hadn't missed any clips. Finally, I pulled out my Colt M1911, but I only had two clips for it, fourteen rounds. That's all that stood between the Germans and me.
The Krauts were becoming braver. They would charge us, and then see if we would be able to lay down enough fire to cover them. I would fire at them when they got close, but I was soon on my last clip.
One Nazi ran at me and I fired a single round into him, hitting him in the arm. It made it so he couldn't shoot me back with his MP40, but he still ran into me with full force, knocking me over and sending my helmet flying.
He was on top of me, laying into my sides with his fists, but I had the upper hand on him, I still had my .45 between him and me.
Being ever so gentle, I pummeled his face with my left hand, while I angled the barrel up against his stomach, then fired. Immediately the assault on my body stopped and the man tried to roll off me and to his machine pistol lying beside us. I grabbed his tunic and sent the rest of my clip into his stomach, sending blood onto me and the ground around us.
As the adrenaline wore off, I looked over and picked up the Kraut MP40 and holstered my Colt. I didn't like the Shmiesser, but it was the only weapon I had.
I snapped the bolt back and then sent a hail of 9mm parabelleum rounds into a running German. I kept firing, empting the clip at the Germans who were now retreating back towards the trees.
I ran out and fired some more. Hartmann and Miller were holding their own in the pillbox. Sgt. Morgan was lighting up some Germans with his Thompson. Then I heard something that chilled me to the bone, the burst of an MG42.
I dived for cover at bullets zipped by me, then searched for the source of the machine gun fire. I squinted my eyes and searched for the muzzle flare of the weapon. Then I saw it, firing from the treeline.
Then I saw Sgt. Morgan; he had been pinned down by the machine gun. He was ducking down in a slight depression as bullets threw dirt up around him. As I watched, he stood up and loosed a whole clip at the machine gun. I backed him up with the thirty-two round clip from my MP40.
The gun stopped firing for a moment and Sgt. Morgan used the break in time to rush back to the house for better cover. I reloaded the Shmiesser, jamming a clip in and yanking the bolt back.
"How we gonna get that gun?!" I yelled out to Sgt. Morgan.
"I don't know! Maybe a flanking maneuver or maybe from behind!" He called back.
Then Hartmann went totally crazy. He ran down from the pillbox, firing his M-1 as he yelled profanities in the German's direction.
I could see in slow motion as the bullets began to track him. Both Sergeant Morgan and myself opened up on the machine gun nest with whole clips to allow him to get closer, but it was futile, after a brief break in firing, Hartmann was blown onto his back as he took a burst right to his chest.
Steam exploded from his back as he took multiple hits, blood became a fine mist in the air around him. He went down and didn't move. The Germans sent one more long burst into his body, mutilating it with more holes. Sgt. Morgan's head sunk and he looked away.
I took aim at the shadowy helmeted figures that were illuminated by the almost constant muzzle flash from the machine gun. I started squeezing off bursts at them. One man went down, then another. The machine gun fire tracked towards me, so I dropped back under cover as the rounds zipped by me.
Then someone dropped down beside me. Franticly I tried to bring my MP40 around to shoot the German, but stopped when I saw that it was Stankowitz. "It's me Stone." He said as he reloaded his Garand.
Morgan barely noticed and instead turned to me. "Any ideas?" He asked.
I shook my head. "It's too dark to shoot and it's too far for grenades." I commented.
"Oh, not for me, Blake, I played football at home, watch this." He yanked his last grenade off his belt and pulled the pin on it.
He jumped up to throw it, but accidentally dropped it back in between him and me.
"You idiot!" I screamed, I frantically grabbed it and tossed it into the field. The small bomb detonated and I felt a fragment ricochet off my helmet.
Stankowitz smiled, "Sorry, that was an accident. I'll try again."
He reached over and before I could protest, used his claw-like hands to snatch one of my grenades from my belt, pull the pin and throw it would as hard as he could. It fell about twenty yards short of the machine gun, then exploded, doing nothing to the Germans.
The sound of the grenade exploding faded into silence, then I heard a sound, a sound that was laughter. The Germans were actually laughing at Stankowitz.
Stankowitz's face got all red and then he yelled, "Take this you Tommy Bastards!" Then fired until his Garand was empty. I looked at Sergeant Morgan; who was valiantly trying not to laugh.
The Germans returned a volley of their own, hitting nothing. I hated stalemates, then I heard the distinctive sound of an M-1 Carbine being fired, then a grenade blast. Then silence.
We stayed low and listened, then a distant voice sounded off, "First Infantry, were coming out!"
Although I had fought with him for over a year, I had no idea where Sgt. Morgan was from, if he had family, a wife or anything. He always said that such things had no place in warfare.
Pvt. Trout, the man that we had lost, was a bit more open about himself. He was one of three children of his parents that lived in Wisconsin. He always talked about his summer forages through the bush to shoot gophers and such, it made sense, he was the best marksman in our squad, after me of course.
Pvt. Horn was our unit's medic. He was in his second year of med school when he was drafted. He came into our unit with quite a fight, being insubordinate and disillusioned about the war. He absolutely refused to carry any sort of weapon or to fight at all, a German could be bayoneting the President of the United States and he wouldn't lift a finger to stop it.
Although Horn wasn't that great of a soldier, he was an excellent medic, and beyond that, he was useful for carrying extra ammo for us.
Cpl. Stankowitz was, needless to say, an idiot. He was from a Polish family who immigrated to the US before the war, and then he was drafted into the Air Force, then promptly kicked out for insubordination and 'accidentally' crashing a fighter during training. They had sent him into the army to try and straighten him out. Needless to say, it hadn't worked. He rarely spoke of his home or family, I figured that his parents probably forced him to go when he was drafted. I still don't know how he made it to Corporal. Somewhere along the line, he had picked up experience on the BAR, which made him the assistant gunner.
Pvt. Miller had been in our group almost as long as I had. We had been through most everything together. He was probably one of the best BAR gunners in the European Theater. He sometimes talked about his family, but tried to distance himself from it. The draft had ruined his marriage, he had told us once. Even though he had suffered because of the draft, he was still the one that kept the squad's morale up when it was on a down slope.
Pvt. Ben Doon was slightly slow. He had a knack for pointing out the obvious. He was new, we had gotten him just after D-Day, as far as I knew, he had never seen combat, and he was a translator, interpreting German low- grade intel. So far I hadn't seen him say more that two words to anyone.
Sgt. Morgan held up his Thompson and we moved through the main entrance to the barn. It was musty inside, smelling of hay and moisture being put together too long. Light filtered in through a window, giving the barn a dim light with which to see by. Several crates were stacked in the center of the room; along the walls were pegs with animal paraphernalia hanging for them, bridles and brushes and such, but no Germans.
"This is getting to weird." Said Sgt. Morgan. "Its an abandoned house in the middle of the French countryside. You'd think the Germans would be all over it, even just for reconnaissance, but there's nothing."
I slung my Garand over my shoulder. "I would assume that one of the patrols we intercepted would be residing at this place, but there are no signs of anyone being here before us. Maybe they packed up and moved when Allied patrols started coming through this sector."
While I said this, I pulled out my bayonet and was using the blade to pry the one of the crates open. The nails slid out revealing rows of wine bottles.
I picked one out and looked at the label. Chateau LaBar 1936. I held the bottle up and showed it to Sergeant Morgan, who nodded.
We walked back to the house. Inside, Ben Doon had started a fire and was heating a pot of water. "Hey Sarge, look what I found." He said, holding up a can of coffee.
"That's great soldier, why don't we invite the Germans in for a cup while were at it. Don't worry about calling them, I'm sure that they'll know were here, what with smoke pouring out the chimney. For those of you that just woke up, this operation was meant to be somewhat secret, and in case you haven't noticed, we are seven men, if word got out about us being here, you would probably bring the whole goddamn whermacht down on us. Nice job, now put out that damn fire.
Ben Doon opened the pot and poured the contents over the fire, putting it out with a strong hissing noise and plumes of steam.
He took the kettle off the fireplace and wandered off to make coffee with cold water or something. Sgt. Morgan shook his head.
The best thing was, there were potatoes in the cellar. Cold, uncooked potatoes were always the best, that what I say, anyway. After supper, we allowed ourselves to take a few draughts off of the wine we had found in the cellar, just enough to take the edge off.
Night had begun to fall and the sun dipped low in the sky. I was sitting inside over several burning candles. The air had acquired a bit of a nip, so I tried to pull my field jacket closed even more. I was using the candles to heat some water for coffee and a little stew that we could scrounge together,
We had returned to the forest and recovered Pvt. Trout's body, buried it and marked it for grave detail. The shrapnel wound in my arm had stopped bleeding and the sharp pain had faded to a dull ache.
We had buried Trout's body in the soft dirt of the garden, after stripping it of anything useful. We handed his ammo out evenly and then left two men, Hartmann and Miller in a pillbox that we had recently dug. The rest of us went inside. That was when we heard the shots. I heard three rounds from a Garand and then a lengthy burst from the BAR.
I was on my feet in a second and rushing for the door. By this time we could only see by the moon, but it was more than enough to see the Germans moving along the treeline. I ran out and took cover behind some barrels that we had rolled out to catch any rainfall. I took aim across the barrels and squeezed off several rounds at a German. Sporadic fire was returned at me, but nothing serious.
As I reloaded, Sgt. Morgan ran out with his Thompson blazing. He fanned automatic fire at the Germans, taking out several. He went down on one knee to reload while I covered him with my last clip.
I fired carefully, trying to conserve my last eight rounds, but they were quickly spent. I unloaded my last round into a German that charged at me, a bayonet on his Kar 98.
The action opened and the bloc clip popped out. I cursed and ran my hands over my pouches to make sure I hadn't missed any clips. Finally, I pulled out my Colt M1911, but I only had two clips for it, fourteen rounds. That's all that stood between the Germans and me.
The Krauts were becoming braver. They would charge us, and then see if we would be able to lay down enough fire to cover them. I would fire at them when they got close, but I was soon on my last clip.
One Nazi ran at me and I fired a single round into him, hitting him in the arm. It made it so he couldn't shoot me back with his MP40, but he still ran into me with full force, knocking me over and sending my helmet flying.
He was on top of me, laying into my sides with his fists, but I had the upper hand on him, I still had my .45 between him and me.
Being ever so gentle, I pummeled his face with my left hand, while I angled the barrel up against his stomach, then fired. Immediately the assault on my body stopped and the man tried to roll off me and to his machine pistol lying beside us. I grabbed his tunic and sent the rest of my clip into his stomach, sending blood onto me and the ground around us.
As the adrenaline wore off, I looked over and picked up the Kraut MP40 and holstered my Colt. I didn't like the Shmiesser, but it was the only weapon I had.
I snapped the bolt back and then sent a hail of 9mm parabelleum rounds into a running German. I kept firing, empting the clip at the Germans who were now retreating back towards the trees.
I ran out and fired some more. Hartmann and Miller were holding their own in the pillbox. Sgt. Morgan was lighting up some Germans with his Thompson. Then I heard something that chilled me to the bone, the burst of an MG42.
I dived for cover at bullets zipped by me, then searched for the source of the machine gun fire. I squinted my eyes and searched for the muzzle flare of the weapon. Then I saw it, firing from the treeline.
Then I saw Sgt. Morgan; he had been pinned down by the machine gun. He was ducking down in a slight depression as bullets threw dirt up around him. As I watched, he stood up and loosed a whole clip at the machine gun. I backed him up with the thirty-two round clip from my MP40.
The gun stopped firing for a moment and Sgt. Morgan used the break in time to rush back to the house for better cover. I reloaded the Shmiesser, jamming a clip in and yanking the bolt back.
"How we gonna get that gun?!" I yelled out to Sgt. Morgan.
"I don't know! Maybe a flanking maneuver or maybe from behind!" He called back.
Then Hartmann went totally crazy. He ran down from the pillbox, firing his M-1 as he yelled profanities in the German's direction.
I could see in slow motion as the bullets began to track him. Both Sergeant Morgan and myself opened up on the machine gun nest with whole clips to allow him to get closer, but it was futile, after a brief break in firing, Hartmann was blown onto his back as he took a burst right to his chest.
Steam exploded from his back as he took multiple hits, blood became a fine mist in the air around him. He went down and didn't move. The Germans sent one more long burst into his body, mutilating it with more holes. Sgt. Morgan's head sunk and he looked away.
I took aim at the shadowy helmeted figures that were illuminated by the almost constant muzzle flash from the machine gun. I started squeezing off bursts at them. One man went down, then another. The machine gun fire tracked towards me, so I dropped back under cover as the rounds zipped by me.
Then someone dropped down beside me. Franticly I tried to bring my MP40 around to shoot the German, but stopped when I saw that it was Stankowitz. "It's me Stone." He said as he reloaded his Garand.
Morgan barely noticed and instead turned to me. "Any ideas?" He asked.
I shook my head. "It's too dark to shoot and it's too far for grenades." I commented.
"Oh, not for me, Blake, I played football at home, watch this." He yanked his last grenade off his belt and pulled the pin on it.
He jumped up to throw it, but accidentally dropped it back in between him and me.
"You idiot!" I screamed, I frantically grabbed it and tossed it into the field. The small bomb detonated and I felt a fragment ricochet off my helmet.
Stankowitz smiled, "Sorry, that was an accident. I'll try again."
He reached over and before I could protest, used his claw-like hands to snatch one of my grenades from my belt, pull the pin and throw it would as hard as he could. It fell about twenty yards short of the machine gun, then exploded, doing nothing to the Germans.
The sound of the grenade exploding faded into silence, then I heard a sound, a sound that was laughter. The Germans were actually laughing at Stankowitz.
Stankowitz's face got all red and then he yelled, "Take this you Tommy Bastards!" Then fired until his Garand was empty. I looked at Sergeant Morgan; who was valiantly trying not to laugh.
The Germans returned a volley of their own, hitting nothing. I hated stalemates, then I heard the distinctive sound of an M-1 Carbine being fired, then a grenade blast. Then silence.
We stayed low and listened, then a distant voice sounded off, "First Infantry, were coming out!"