The Replacement II
July 12, D-Day + 36
"One of the greatest discoveries a man makes, one of his great surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't do."
Private Clarence Franks was utterly amazed that artillery could be louder than fireworks. As a shell landed on the hill, he witnessed the explosion, heard the thunderous boom, and the magnified echo that leapt into the sky afterwards that could put the thunder god to shame. 105s were blasting Hill 192 to what seemed to be kingdom come. Thick blackish smoke rose from the hill and began to swallow the entire landmark as if it was a medieval nightmare of a devilish foe. Franks was sure that the Germans were dead, nothing on this Earth could survive that bombardment, but his veteran comrades always told him that the Germans could. If they survived the bombings on D-Day, then they could definitely survive this meager blasting.
His squad looked at the hill and stared intensely, Adair was the first to voice his opinion. "Well it looks uglier than Laz's face, but hey, at least it can't kill us, right?"
"Yeah, that's what Jerry's for." Lazzano replied, field-stripping his rifle to clean it.
These veterans were cool as ice, Franks couldn't truly fathom how. His throat was dry and began to constrict, his foot was tapping as he was squatting down. Why was he so nervous about this? He should have been calm like the movie stars in those war pictures who looked at the objective with cold glares and a wise-crack or two. Just like his veteran comrades, but maybe he had to survive a few battles before he became like that, maybe he just had to earn that state of mind.
All around Able Company were fields of dead grass and grey dirt that still carried the rank stench of death. When Franks looked over his shoulder to the right, he noticed several men of the Weapons Platoon reclining against a blackened Sherman, its hull split apart like an egg and its turret dangling off. Some patches of earth were stained red with blood and broken rifles and equipment laid scattered around the area. This was where the Germans came down from the hill to finish Charlie Company off.
He checked his watch, it was 0638. He wondered what time it was back home. He thought about what his family was doing at a moment like this. Did his parents even know that his son was going to face the first battle in his life? Did that even matter now? What could his family do for him at this moment? Prayer, probably. Oh how he hoped his parents were praying for God to protect him.
He stood up to pace along the dirt, hoping such would focus his mind. He noticed a very fat soldier with small glasses and who was wearing a radio strapped to his back was hustling to the CP where several Able Company officers were gathered. The fat soldier handed the radio receiver to an officer overlooking a map; the officer had the bars of a Captain on his helmet. That must have been Captain MacKay. This was his first time seeing his Commanding Officer; he sure did look dependable like everyone said he was. He heard stories about his bravery on Omaha and how reliable he was in the field. Beside him was First Sergeant Conti—no, "Top", he had to make sure he referred to him properly—looking at the map and probably offering his advice to the Captain.
Adair looked to Franks like how a lion looks to an antelope. "Today is the day, sucker. Today is the day where Jerry will chew ya and spit ya out like gum."
Franks tightened his lips; he was determined to not let Adair get to him. With Kingsley gone, he was all alone. No one to confide into and no one to turn to. Maybe Corporal Merrill, but he insisted yesterday that he wouldn't be his friend; and that's just what Franks needed right now.
The ground began to shake, his head snapped back to look behind the company. Three Shermans came creaking through the hedgerows; bulldozers were welded on the hull with an imposing menace to them. The Shermans continued to lurch forward until they pulled up by 1st Platoon and stopped. The tank sergeant nodded surely to MacKay, and he nodded back. On the cannon was stenciled in white the name 'Excalibur'.
The boys of 1st Platoon got off their butts and started whistling in astonishment at the new features of the tank. Corporal Santiago approached—Franks recalled him yesterday, the only veteran to really talk to him, and told him that if he was in the market to buy anything, Santiago was the one to procure it. "So, Wilcox, this dozer strong enough to go through these hedges?"
"That's what those engineers at the rear swore by, Santiago. They told me I got a free test drive or I can get my money back."
"Surprised you actually allowed them to put this on Excalibur."
"I wasn't happy, but orders are orders, ya know? First a flail, now a dozer? I'll be doggone if by the end of the war they won't try to fit some wings on this girl," he laughed with a hearty slap to the metal.
"There goes 2nd Platoon," Lazzano commented. A group of men that he vaguely remembered from yesterday walked forward through 1st Platoon, there gear dropped in the rear and all of them wearing the stone masks of indifference as they marched. Their officer broke off from their platoon, and with him was a raggedy and helmetless American soldier with bandaged arms and a limp. The two of them went over to the Captain and other officers.
"Hey, Franks!"
Wait, someone actually remembered his name? It didn't sound like Conti, though. Who was—?
"Hey Frankie!" a man was jogging over to him with a wide smile.
Franks returned the smile, "Cunningham!" Both replacements shook each other's hands.
"How's it going, Franks?"
"Uh, it's uh, well… you're with 2nd Platoon?"
"I am, I am. Interesting group of bastards, I tell ya what."
"They're talking to you, like a person?"
"Hmm, let's see about that." Cunningham turned around to his platoon and asked, "Hey Hefferman, can I ask a question?"
"Shut the fuck up, Cunningham," a voice came back.
Cunningham looked back to Franks with pursed lips and bitter nodding, "Yep, that's about right."
"Wait, they know your name?"
"Yeah they do. The first thing I did was crack jokes and kept reminding them of my name and how I can be a comedian in the USO. I expected applause, but they gave me jeers, but they remembered my name. Your guys don't keep track of your name?"
"Nope. My sergeant says if I survive through day three, he'll consider it."
"Yeesh. My sergeant is an alright guy, it's just everyone else except for the translator who pisses me off. My Sarge is a funny guy, he calls himself 'Duck'."
"Why the hell does he do that?"
"Says everything comes natural to him like a duck on water."
"Weird."
"Yeah, but like I said, he's alright."
"Hey, Cunningham, who's that wounded man with the officers over there?" Franks pointed.
"Oh, that Sergeant Hernos, he's one of the few guys from Charlie?"
"Really?"
"Yeah, we scouted out a little while ago and found some survivors from Crazy Charlie, and uh… Christ man, they took a hell of a lickin'. All their officers are dead, their Captain took a MG bullet to the skull. We only found seven of them left."
"Only seven?"
"Yep, the Sergeant over there is probably talking about what his outfit had been through to the Cap. Yeah… anyway, I came by because I heard that a new guy from 1st Platoon stepped on a landmine. The two other guys that came with us are in 3rd Platoon. And seeing as you are still here…"
"Yeah, Sergeant Hernandez switched Kingsley up to point and he uh… he…"
Cunningham sighed, "Shit…"
"Yeah…"
"Cunningham, get the fuck back over here!" a surly private yelled.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it, Saywell! Alright, Frankie, let's do our best out there today."
"Yeah, be safe, Cunningham." And there went his only friend in the entire company. His only friend? He only met him yesterday for 20 minutes.
"1st Platoon, gather round!" barked Staff Sergeant Fischer.
He noticed two other Sergeants with the platoon sergeant as well, he figured them to be the other squad leaders. The officer that was approaching them was pretty tall yet thin and had a noticeable Irish accent. The First Lieutenant got on both knees as the platoon crowded around him in a circle. The officer unfolded a moderate size map of the area and drew a big swastika at the corner of the map and circled it.
Lieutenant O'Leary looked to his platoon, "Alright, listen up, here's the deal. For three days our battalion and the 2nd Division have been trying to capture Hill 1-9-2. The German 352nd Grenadier holds it here," he said, pointing to the swastika. "The hedgerows are heavily defended all along the area. We're going to be clawing uphill under intense fire so do watch your flanks." He then drew two circles on the far left and the far right of the map, both circles on the same line of a detailed road. "That's not all, Jerry is reinforcing from these two towns. If we can secure these areas, it'll stop them from attacking our line of advance. For 1st Platoon, we're going to hit the left flank and capture this village; and we're going to have us some armor support. 3rd Platoon is going for the right flank, while 2nd tries to draw the German fire up from the center of the line. Apparently, Crazy Charlie had made a direct assault up the center, the Germans swept down from both flanks and encircled them and then…"
The lieutenant's words trailed off, he looked up at the faces of his men. Franks' heart was bobbing up and down in his chest. O'Leary sighed, "Taking this hill won't be easy, we know what happened to Charlie. Able is leading the assault from the south, whilst a company from the 2nd Division will hit the hill from the north. It's up to us. Always Able."
"Always Able," the men repeated.
"Alright, get ready, we kick off in twenty minutes."
"Sir." The crowd then dispersed.
O'Leary walked over to Hernandez, the squad leader got his attention. "Sir, which tank is coming with us?"
"We drew the good straw, Hernandez, we got Wilcox and Excalibur with us."
The lieutenant turned his head to Franks, his eyebrow shooting up. "You're new, aren't you?"
"Uh, Uh…" Franks clicked his heels and his arm shot up to a salute. "I am, si—"
With lightning reflexes, O'Leary seized Franks' wrist before he could fully salute. Franks was startled, but took note of Hernandez's sneer of disgust. O'Leary looked on Franks with surprise, but chuckled awkwardly, "Uh, Private, uh, when we are this close to the MLR—you know, the Main Line of Resistance—please don't salute me. I rather like my head and I don't want a sniper to put a hole in it."
Damn it! How stupid of him! Of course he shouldn't salute an officer! He then instantly recalled how Conti grilled Kingsley for verbally shouting Conti's rank. How could Franks just do that? What a crappy first impression!
"I'm sorry, sir! So, so sorry! I-I-I-I didn't mean—"
"Easy. Easy, just breathe. Just trying to remind you of the dangers of a salute out here. It ain't like in the movies, alright?"
"Yeah. Yes, sir."
"What's your name, Private?"
"Franks, sir."
"Franks… you were the one who found the trail with Conti yesterday, right?"
"I was, sir."
The Irish lieutenant nodded with pursed lips, "Then I guess you saw that grave of casualties."
"I did… sir. I try not to think about it."
O'Leary sighed and removed his helmet, "Listen, Franks. What was in that pit was damn horrible, but you can't drown that out and pretend that you never saw it. I guarantee you, before this war is over, if God graces you to still be alive by the end of it… I guarantee you shall see much worse than this. Don't run away from horrors such as this, embrace it."
"W-What?"
"Embrace it until it numbs you. I know that sounds backwards to you. Yet that is the only way you can function out here. Embrace the horrors to numb your fear. Wear that like armor, okay? You'll be alright, Franks. Just don't run away from it."
"Yes, sir."
O'Leary placed his helmet on his head and gave a comforting pat to Franks' arm and left.
Embrace the horrors. He was a nice man, especially for an officer. Hernandez looked to him, "Salutin' an officer on the front line? Were you born without a brain or did your parents smack it out of your head when you were little?" The sergeant left with a shake of the head.
O'Leary was solid in planning and kind to him. Conti had scary eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor but he was benevolent when he agreed to walk with him. Even Merrill showed a gentle streak to him and Kingsley. But why was it that Sergeant Hernandez treated him with utter contempt?
"Remember, new guy, point your weapon at Jerry and when you see one in decent range, pull the trigger back softly. Don't jerk it, messes up your aim."
"Yes, Sarge."
"Are your sights straight?"
"Yeah they are, Merrill."
"Ammo squared away?"
"Uh, uh yeah. Yeah, it is, Lazzano."
They were squatting in the burnt grass and dirt, several Sherman tanks lined up with the sergeants at helm of the Ma Deuce, 105s slamming into the hill, radio chattering with terms that he couldn't possibly comprehend. His stomach was in knots, the humidity of the Norman summer exacerbated his already sweating form, and his hands seemingly strangled the anatomy of his wooden rifle. The veterans around him all held eyes of iron in their sockets, ready to gulp down the German menace and ask for seconds. And here he was, knees knocking and palms sweating. Oh God, this is it… His first battle to tell his grandkids in how he fought against the Nazi threat, but, Kingsley flashed in his mind, as did the pit of Charlie Company. Would he live to have grandkids? Remember what the lieutenant said, Embrace the horror…
MacKay checked his watch and was readying his hand to swing down like a referee. Franks felt his teeth chattering, his heart was in his throat, the sounds of artillery seemed to be crashing louder. He turned back and the Captain swung his hand forward with the order, "Go!"
The tanks lurched forward with mechanized creaking. The riflemen took off in a low, silent, and controlled pace. His heart was thumping hard, Franks followed the soldiers forward; his feet heavy as lead. The two platoons split up down the fork in the road, his lungs seemed to clench tighter. He was told to keep his spacing and not to just look straight, but look everywhere for Jerry, also to keep his weapon forward with the rifle butt near his armpit to aim quicker, also to check the dirt for any mines, to make sure—so many things he had to follow! All of the veterans seemed to know what to do; he wondered if it would come natural when he came under fire. And not twenty seconds later, he heard a long protracted burping rip into the air.
"Get down!"
"That's a damn '42!"
Several men ran behind the Sherman for safety. Others dove into the ground and crawled under the suppressive fire. Bullets raked the dirt, sending clumps shooting up into the air. Franks' squad managed to run behind the Sherman, but Franks did not possess that luxury. There was a lone tractor in the middle of the field and Franks sank behind it, he could hear bullets smack against it. Someone had seen him and was actively try to kill him.
"Where the hell is it?"
"Hedgerow, 10 o'clock!"
Franks heard the mechanical whirling of Excalibur beginning to rotate its cannon, Wilcox shouted to his loader and gunner, "Is the H-E set? Good! Open fire, MG, 10 o'clock!" The cannon roared with a boom, the replacement felt the ground shake, the fire died away from Franks' cover.
"Are they down?" he heard someone ask.
"Plug some holes in 'em," came the response.
A slurry of American rifles cracked, followed by, "Let's move, c'mon! Hurry!" The ground shook once again as the tank began to drive forward.
It was Lazzano's voice, "Hey, replacement! C'mon, get away from that tractor and let's go!"
By the time he got to his feet, the platoon was already ahead of him. By God they were moving quickly. He realized they had to. Speed was the key during an attack. He had to be quick or he would be left behind. He turned to the hedgerow and beheld a blackened patch of the hedge that had embers burning in the remains, with charred and blasted bodies looming out of the hole.
They came across a menacing hedgerow that blocked their approach, standing nearly six feet tall and at least three feet thick. The squads scattered away from Excalibur, O'Leary wave his hand to Wilcox. Excalibur lowered the bulldozer and charged at the hedge. The vegetation was ripping and crunching as it was being upended by the tank, then it began to snap as the medium tank forced its way through. The 2nd Squad behind the tank crossed through quickly and began moving to the left.
"Alright, they're through, let's go!" Hernandez shouted.
Franks hustled behind his squad as they penetrated the broken hedgerow. To his left he saw figures moving in the distance about 50 yards down, men with camo helmets and jackets. His heart leapt in his throat, was that the enemy?! There were about ten of them, some of them opening fire, the others scampering away at the sight of the tank.
"Krauts making a dash!" someone shouted.
"Where?"
"Left side!"
"I see them, open up!"
A chorus of rifle and carbine fire snapped Franks out of his daze. He forgot how loud their weapons really were, especially up close. 2nd Squad was crouching in the dirt and their barrels sparked with life. Franks saw several men in camo jackets falling down in the distance as dirt kicked up around their feet and bodies. His breath stopped in his chest.
"Jerry down!" someone announced.
"I got two of them bastards, man!" a soldier cheered.
"The hell you did! That one was mine!"
"Bullshit! I drilled him in the—"
"Shut up, both of you keep moving!" Staff Sergeant Fischer snapped. "Let's move to the town."
"First Squad," it sounded like the lieutenant's voice, "Move now! Take that bend!"
"Let's go! Move!" Hernandez ordered. "Adair, you're first!"
Adair grumbled with a grunt and heaved his BAR in front of him and took off with the rest of the squad behind him. Franks jogged past the body of the slain Germans; he sucked his teeth and tried to steel his insides from the grisly results of bullets that tore through the flesh. Adair stopped at the very edge of the hedgerow as the rest of the squad stacked up behind him.
"What do you see?" Hernandez asked.
"A little town, with open windows and a lot of open ground. Perfect place for a goddamn ambush."
The ground shook as the tank moved closer to the edge of the hedge with O'Leary right behind it. Hernandez explained what they saw, to which O'Leary said to his platoon, "Jerry's reinforcing their left flank from here! We can't have them coming in and cutting off our advance!" He looked to the tank, "Wilcox, get ready to penetrate the hedge, put some rounds in the buildings once you get through. 1st Squad get right behind the tank and rush for cover when you get close."
"Yes, sir!" the squad said.
Excalibur pivoted and crushed the entangled growth of the hedgerow as the Sherman crashed through. Several cottages stood in this area on two sides of the dirt road that ran to the east and up to the north. A sharp crack from a Mauser split the air. Franks noticed Wilcox turtling his head back into the tank. "Shit!" he cried out. "There's a damn sniper somewhere over here."
"I saw something move in the left cottage, top floor!" Merrill announced.
"Thanks!" Wilcox said. "Hey, Adrian, give me some H-E on the top floor on that sumbitch!"
The cannon boomed. Bricks and smoke soared in the air. The Germans from within the homes began firing at the tank. Excalibur raised its bulldozer and its coaxial machine gun started squirting rounds into the buildings.
"Go, let's move!" Hernandez ordered.
The squad ran behind the tank, the surprised Franks was in the back as usual playing catchup. The tank was slowly driving forward, Wilcox grabbed the M2 and started peppering holes into the structures. Excalibur fired a shell into a house, Franks swore he was deafened from the boom. His squad then dipped behind a low wall for better cover, Franks scrambled then fell and slammed into the wall, his mind a tornado of fuzz and confusion. Everything blended together in a disorient ring; shouting, firing, cursing, anguished screaming, explosions. If someone had asked him what his name was, he wouldn't be able to them.
As 1st Platoon rushed the town, the lieutenant came down to the squad, "Hernandez, get your squad out to the road to open up a flank!"
"Yes, sir. C'mon guys, let's move!"
Adair gave Franks a sharp kick, "Off your ass and go!"
Franks forced himself up on his heavy legs and trailed his squad, dodging through crackling bullets until they left the town. All this stopping and running, then stopping and running. He finally realized why he was drilled to improve his stamina at Basic. They walked down about 50 yards and up a small grassy incline, until the sound of heavy scraping metal broke into the air.
Franks' mouth shot open, "TANK!"
A menacing Panzer was lurching forward along with a squad of Germans. The sounds of its creaking treads seemed to engulf the world. Two Germans heaved two grenades at the direction of 1st Squad, Franks stared on hypnotically at the thrown explosives. At the apex of their lob, Franks felt a yank on his shoulder and he was running backwards before he knew it. Over his shoulder, the face of Sergeant Hernandez was screaming into his nose, "Move, goddammit!"
His feet were moving before his brain could register, everything around him was a blur. The earth belched twice loudly behind him, stench of gunpowder rose in the air. Rifles cracked louder than thunder behind him.
"Fall back, keep moving!" Hernandez shouted.
A louder, mechanical belch erupted from behind. Something sharped whistled as it sliced through the air. The house fifteen yards away from them exploded, black smoke and dust enveloped the squad, bricks rained down on them, narrowly missing.
"Shit! That tank almost got us!" Adair cursed.
"Keep moving!" Hernandez repeated.
"How the hell we going to take that thing?!" Franks shouted.
"We ain't!" Lazzano answered.
"But I know who can!" Merrill said. "Quick, guys, take this corner!"
The squad took a sharp turn and hid behind a low stonewall to catch their much needed breath. From the sounds of Germanic shouting and the rumbling of the earth and creaking of metal, the Germans were right on their tail.
"What plan do you have, Merrill?" Hernandez asked.
"We get Excalibur to take out that bastard. One of us leads Excalibur to hide in wait to shoot the Panzer in the ass."
"Fine, you get on it, Merrill! Make it happen."
Merrill nodded and dashed off like a sprinter, Kraut rounds following behind him.
"Oh that's great, Vince, now what the hell about us?" Adair asked.
"You got that big fucking weapon, use it dumbass! Get its attention."
Adair groaned, and then popped out a cover squeezing a long burst, most of the bullets smacked weakly against the hull of the Panzer. Lazzano tossed a few grenades whilst Hernandez fired his weapon.
The Panzer rotated its cannon to them. "Relocate!" Hernandez cried. "Back to the platoon!"
Franks gritted his teeth and ran back. His chest was heaving as his feet slammed against the ground to pick further speed. His lungs were on fire, yet strangely, he did not feel fatigue. Another thunderous explosion erupted behind him, over his head he saw the low wall blasted to dust. He could hear the Germans laughing at them.
He could see the members of the platoon still engaging with the Germans in the town, yet Excalibur was nowhere in sight. The squad dipped down by a destroyed cottage. A German automatic raked the dirt by Franks, he hesitated and tumbled away down to an adjacent house away from the squad. He was pulled into cover by another soldier. Franks thanked the man, then noticed Excalibur was right next to him, lying in wait beside the house.
The Panzer drove on past the hidden Sherman, its mind occupied on the infantry in cover. Excalibur swiveled its cannon and belched as its shell smacked the Panzer directly in the hull.
"Once more, hit it again!" Franks heard Wilcox yell into his radio.
The Panzer rotated its cannon and fired its shell against Excalibur's front hull, obliterating its tree logs that it wore as armor. Franks tumbled from the blast, his head was throbbing, his cheek was in pain. Someone was screaming behind him. The man who pulled him into cover was clutching his chest and thrashing his legs. Franks waddled over to him and asked if he was alright, but blood seeping from his wounded chest gave him a reply.
"Oh God, uh-uh-uh… H-Help! Help!" Franks shouted. "You'll be alright, buddy! Uh, oh shit! Uh… Medic! Medic!" Franks recalled his training and placed his hands on the wound in his chest and provided pressure. He never knew blood was so warm and slick. "Medic! Medic!"
A sprinter came dashing down the line—the Red Cross labeled on his helmet and arm—asked him where he was hit. Franks replied in the chest and it was pretty big. The medic gracefully slid down to his knees and asked Franks to remove his hands so that he may examine the wound. The blood was exiting quickly, pieces of shrapnel burned through the cloth and jutted out grotesquely. The medic gave him encouraging words before he slipped him some morphine. The medic looked at Franks, thanked him for helping and ordered him to get back into the fight.
Excalibur fired another round and this shell did its damage. Sparks shot out from the German tank and it slowed to a halt. The Panzer was a flaming wreck and screams could be heard from inside the hull. The hatch opened and two men hopped out, their limbs and torso engulfed in fire.
"Put 'em down!" Hernandez ordered.
"C'mon new guy, shoot 'em!" Adair demanded.
"Who?"
"Those burnin' Nazis, you dumbass!"
But… they're on fire, they're trying to run…
Adair propped the bipod of his BAR on top of the stone wall and gave nice controlled bursts. The flaming screams of the men died away as the heavy slugs tore through them. Lazzano and Merrill shot up their still corpses.
"Good work, gang." Hernandez said, lowering his rifle.
"All except the new guy," Adair sneered.
Franks found his voice shrinking, "B-But they were on fire and—"
"Cut the shit! They'll do the same to us. If they breathe, they could still kill us!"
All he could do was make a grunt that had the volume of a whimper. Was it really that simple? He was trained to shoot the enemy when he saw them approach. But he didn't believe he was trained to kill Germans who were about to die, or were running away… was he?
A sharp burst of a FG42 ripped into the top of the stone wall. The veterans ducked instantaneously, Franks flopped backward in surprise. His helmet went tumbling down the grass and he crawled like a worm to fetch it.
"Grenadiers! 12 o'clock!" someone announced.
"They ain't happy we knocked out their tank!" Lazzano remarked.
"Open fire, don't let 'em flank!" Hernandez shouted.
Two Germans appeared behind a cottage, one was armed with a long golden tube, it looked like a bigger version of a bazooka… Like lightning, he recalled seeing that in training and its purpose.
"Shit! Panzerschreck!" Franks hollered.
Wilcox looked down at him from the hatch. "Where?! Where is it, kid?!"
"There!" he pointed frantically. His brain was trying to determine a more accurate direction than "there." He took a quick gulp and said, "By the house, uh, 3 o'clock!"
Wilcox tracked the direction and saw it, yelling into his hand radio. "We got a Schreck at 3 o'clock, Grits, back up about 15 meters, drift 20 degrees right! Rook, quickly squirt that bastard!"
As the turret swiveled, the tank lurched backward. The launcher fired a puff of smoke, in a brief moment, Franks witnessed a fireball exit the tube. The ground exploded in front of the tank, dirt and smoke filled the young man's nostrils. The coaxial spurted a long burst into the home and raked the bazooka team down. His mouth dropped at the aftermath of a .30 cal bullet punctured flesh, it looked as if someone took a rain bucket full of red paint and threw it against the wall.
"Open fire! Now!"
It seemed to the replacement that the entire platoon was firing at the enemy. Multitudes of smoke puffs were exploding against the homes where the Germans were in. His ears felt like they were about to burst from the noise, yet he could clearly hear one defined voice.
"Keep a constant rate of fire on them! C'mon! Pour it on them! C'mon! Hey, you!"
Franks turned to witness the contorting face of his platoon leader, "C'mon, Franks, raise your rifle and start firing back." The Irish officer shouldered his carbine and started squeezing off rapid shots.
My weapon! My instrument! My life! He squeezed the frame of his Garand and groaned as he quickly shouldered it. He saw a body pop up from cover, he aimed down the sights. His mind drifted to the rifle range and to the sergeants shouting to all of them. 'Squeeze, don't jerk!' He held his breath.
"Fire your weapon, Franks. Open fire! C'mon!"
Franks gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger. His M1 barked. The rifle slammed into his shoulder. He finally exhaled. The stench of gunpowder was in his nose. His mind grew fuzzy. He fired again. Then again. And again. His eyes focused down the sights at the Germans in front of him, he fired. And like the four other shots he fired, he didn't hit any Germans. It truly was just like on the rifle range. Just plain difficult to hit a moving target, especially one that constantly ducks behind cover, moves to the left then jolts to the right, and how it also shoots back at you.
"Keep up the fire! Keep up the fire!" Staff Sergeant Fischer bellowed.
"Medic! We need a medic!"
"We got two making a break for that wall!"
"Shoot those bastards, then!"
Ping! The clip ejecting startled him. Franks patted himself down fervently to find another clip on his webbing. Merrill yanked him down behind the low wall, saying, "What are you thinking?! Get down when you reload, don't just stand up in the open and do it!"
"Sor-Sorry!"
He placed his clip into the feed of his rifle and made sure to clear his thumb before he locked it back into place. He popped back up ready to fire again at the enemy, and then something caught his inquisitive eye. A large grey looking thing was speeding down the road. It looked like a steel grey soapbox derby car, with treads instead of wheels. He had never seen this thing before, but it was heading directly for their Sherman tank.
"Uh—hey, hey, hey! Look, it's uh-uh-uh a car! A car-toy thingy!" He stammered loudly. "A grey toy car is coming down the road! Look! Look!"
Hernandez sneered, "What the hell are you talkin' about? What car— oh shit! GOLIATH!"
Everyone started screaming, repeating what Hernandez said. Even Wilcox was screaming for his tank to back up, he swiveled his .50 cal over and tried to shoot it away. Franks looked on at that contraption; this was called a 'Goliath'? Why was it named like—
"Everyone, target the Goliath!" the lieutenant ordered.
"Why are we shooting at that?" Franks asked his squad.
"Just do it before it hits the tank, dammit!" Adair yelled.
Franks gulped and shouldered his weapon and tried taking shots against that thing. Excalibur was backing up more steadily, yet the Goliath was gaining on the tank. About two meters away from the treads, a bullet managed to penetrate the vehicle, a large detonation ensued. The tank shook violently, Wilcox fell back into the hull of the tank, black smoke and dirt shot up in a cloud around the Sherman. The men around Franks cursed.
Wilcox came up through the hatch and radioed down to his crew to aim at another German tank coming for them. Excalibur rotated its menacing cannon and blasted the last Panzer good, it was still operational but it was falling back with a busted cannon down the western road. With their tank retreating, the German forces by the cottage began pulling back in a disciplined fashion.
"They're falling back!" Santiago announced in a cheer.
"Keep on 'em! Slow and steady now!" Fischer answered back. "3rd squad with me! Let's not give them a chance to reorganize." The men followed their platoon sergeant as they cautiously skirmished against the retreating Germans.
Was it truly this quiet as soon as a firefight ends? Franks thought astonishingly. His ears were still ringing hard from the rifles crackling, his palms were glued to his rifle so tightly that not even a crowbar could pry them free, his right trigger hand was numb from firing, his fingers were still sticky from the blood of his wounded comrade, his blood rate was at an all-time high, and now it was completely quiet in the immediate area. So silent… He caught the sight of the twisted German dead by the cottages. By God, they beat the Krauts back, they had won. He wasn't smiling, but he was excited. He never felt a bigger rush like this in his life.
Lieutenant O'Leary hustled to the battered Sherman. "Hey, Wilcox, your left tread is blasted to hell."
"Yeah, I figured after that bastard blew up that close. God help us if it got even closer. Is Mercer coming, sir?"
"Yeah, I put in the call, him and his engineers should be here soon. Luckily, you're positioned where the .50 and your cannon can take out anything coming down the north road."
"Yeah lucky us, right? That also means they can take us out from just peering down the road, ain't that right, L-T?"
"Well you better blast them first before they blast you, huh?"
"Yes, sir." The tanker swiveled his head and took notice of the scrawny Franks. "Hey, kid! You the one who yelled out for the Panzerschreck and Goliath?"
"Uh, yeah, I did."
The tanker gave him a firm nod, "Good looking out for us, kid!"
"Yeah, you bet! Any-Anytime!" Franks noted Lieutenant O'Leary gave him a solid nod as well. A smile crept on the young man's face, he felt like a titan.
O'Leary whistled for everyone's attention, "Alright, we're not done yet. Everyone check your ammo. 2nd Squad, check out these buildings. 1st squad, set up a perimeter by the edge of town. Bring the wounded over by the stone wall. Let's go."
1st squad was sent to task, their eyes peering on the road and hedges for any Kraut willing to pop out. For Franks, his eyes were glued to the terrain, but his mind drifted back to his first taste of combat. The question that kept bouncing off his head was, 'How did I do?' The tank sergeant and the lieutenant seemed pleased with him, but he remembered how his own squad members chided him out during the fight and not one of them had complemented him. What did it mean when the leader approved but the soldiers disapproved? He cleared his throat, and realized how dry it was. He took out his canteen and placed it in his lips, only four drops were in there. He shook it to determine if he was truly empty. When the hell did he drink it all?
Sergeant Fischer had returned with 3rd squad and announced to O'Leary, "They're definitely pulling back, but there's several bunkers amid the hedges, sir. They formed a nice defensive line for them about a hundred yards out to the right. We need engineers, bazookas, and tanks knock them out."
"You think they'll be coming back, Fischer?"
"Don't believe so, sir. But I can't say for sure."
Sergeant Luce of 2nd squad exited out the last house in the small town. "Homes are cleared, sir. Nuthin' but dead Krauts."
And on cue, three men from the engineer squad came rushing into town. The lead engineer walked to the battered Sherman and barked in an annoyed voice. "Again, Wilcox? Shit, man, I ought to start charging you."
Wilcox looked down at him with a smug smirk. "Well maybe if you fixed it right for once in ya life, Mercer, this wouldn't keep on happenin'."
Staff Sergeant Fischer came over to 1st Squad, "Hernandez, we need a few men to scout out the north road ahead of us and the outskirts of the hill."
"On it, Fischer. Hey, Laz, take the new guy with you!"
Lazzano groaned, "Really?!"
"Yes!"
"Why me?!"
"Hurry the fuck up!"
"Fine! Hey replacement on me!"
"Uh ye-yeah!"
The two men ran down the road at a controlled crouch past several lines of hedges that lined up the road. Franks felt so exposed just being out here with no tank or other soldiers behind him, all he had was Lazzano, who he tried his best to emulate. "C'mon, this is the outskirts of the hill. Follow me and stay low, kid"
The flat dirt ground began to slope upwards into the grassy Hill 192, divided by thick lines of hedgerows that reminded Franks of labyrinth puzzles. The trees in the immediate vicinity had obscured the top of the hill, yet Franks could hear armor moving from on top of the summit. At the foot of the hill where he and Lazzano stood, was pockmarked with artillery craters from the American guns. Within and around the craters was a ghastly sight that gave the young man a horrid flashback to just yesterday—at least ten Germans laid dead, several of them with their entrails ripped out and their grey uniforms burnt into a crisp brownish-black. How many times was he going to see corpses, friendly and enemy alike, strewn within several craters?
Lazzano wrinkled his nose, "Their organs are still pink and not too many flies are on them, they must have gotten hit recently. Hey, Stay here, and guard this way, I'm gonna scout up on the right. I'll be back in a lil' while. Blast anything that comes down this way. Got it? Don't fuck up now."
"What? You're leaving me?"
"It'll be fine, man. You're doing alright so far."
Franks held his breath as his comrade ran off to the right and disappeared within the vegetation. Why did he have to be left alone? What the hell was he supposed to guard here in this great open space? This was just like yesterday, how he was walking through the vegetation by himself after Kingsley died. Oh how he hoped that Conti would come to aid him. But fat chance of that. But there was some comfort. He said I'm doing alright so far… Does he mean that? All we did was just walk quietly? Is he messing with me, he can't be serious, or—
He had better things to do than contemplate Lazzano's words. The area immediately around him was so quiet. He walked over to the pit of dead Germans, he remembered O'Leary's words. As horrible as a sight this was, he felt somehow different… He felt relieved in a sense that these were Germans instead of his own countryman. A rogue artillery round suddenly blew several dozen meters behind him and he dived onto the bodies on instinct. One of the Germanic "corpses" rose up with a horrid scream and bloodshot eyes, sending a quaking holler from Franks. The face of the man was blackened to the point that Franks thought he was indeed a monster from the pits of hell. He carried a long, menacing bayonet in his bloody hand and brought it down on top of Franks. Yet the young man caught the arm and was wrestling with him for control of the bayonet.
"Get off of me! Get off of me! Help!" Franks cried out frantically. His attacker was still screaming, his eyes seemingly to glow with fire as his mouth blabbered incoherently in the foreign language.
"No! No! Help! Lazzano! Lazzano!" he said louder. With everything he had, he punched the blackened man off of him and crawled like an animal to his M1 Garand.
He seized the rifle and rose to one knee and pointed the weapon at the madman's face and roared as he fired thrice. A pink mist blossomed from the back of the man's head. He fell backwards with a thud and didn't stir.
"Hey, new guy! What happened?" shouted Lazzano, rushing to his side with his weapon at ready.
"Him! It was him! Him-Him-Him!" Franks stammered in a cold sweat, his shaking finger pointed to the headless man. "He was alive! Nearly killed me!"
Lazzano took a look. "Damn, you sure got him good." He turned back to the sweating Franks. "Now let's get gone, Krauts would have sure heard the shot and your screaming! I saw what I needed up there. Let's go."
Lazzano rushed back down the foot of the hill, yet Franks didn't move. His trigger hand was numb from the vibration of the shot. I did it… I actually… he was breathing harder.
'Embrace it, do not run from it.' He shuddered hard at the thought. Embrace it, do not run from it. He took a strong swallow and looked at it, etching the brainless figure into his mind.
"C'mon man, let's go!" Lazzano called for him.
Franks used his rifle to stand to his feet, his eyes glued on the slain man. The man's reddened eyes sunk backwards into his head and through the opening at the back of the skull. The pink membranes of brain matter littered the dirt, resembling earthworms that he used to collect after a rainfall when he was younger. They were just worms, not pieces of brain, just worms… Embrace it, do not run from it.
"Let's go, dammit!" Lazzano shouted louder.
"I— Yeah, I'm coming, Lazzano!"
"Movement on the road!"
"Hold up, it's Lazzano!"
The two men came at a brisk trot and hooked up with their squad. Hernandez asked them what they found out, Lazzano did all the talking.
"We can hear a whole bunch of creaking and grinding behind several hedgerows up there. Sounds like they got a whole damn assembly line of tanks. I don't think our bombs did jack-shit up there except pepper the landscape, knock over several trees, and piss off all the Krauts. I also spotted several bunkers up the hill and a wooden OP that might house a few spotters for artillery. They got a few Krauts hiding within the hedges, I couldn't see them but I sure as shit heard them, Vince. I also spotted several guys from Charlie lying exposed to the sun, field-stripped as well."
"The sons of bitches," Adair cursed.
"Laz, how did the kid do?" Merrill asked.
Lazzano looked at Franks with uninterested eyes for a moment. "A'ight. He did a'ight." Lazzano nodded slowly and gave Franks a smirk. "Kid got a kill."
"He did? Huh, will wonders never cease." Adair mused.
"Yep, blew a hole in a Kraut's head, all by his lonesome."
"Well one less to worry about, good job," Merrill said. He didn't smile but he gave a nod of acknowledgement.
"Finally did some good, replacement," Adair laughed, not looking at him but focused on his own weapon.
"Hell yeah, he did." Lazzano affirmed.
Only Hernandez didn't say anything, he just kept his gaze on Franks until he had to turn away to relay the info back to the lieutenant. But Franks tightened his lips and thanked the squad. His throat was parched as he squatted down.
"Can I have a drink from someone's canteen?"
"What happened to yours?" Lazzano asked.
"I drank it all."
The three of them laughed. "Yeah, that seems about right," Merrill said, "I'm pretty sure we all drank our canteens dry in the landing craft before we hit the beach, just from nerves alone."
Lazzano tossed him his canteen, "Don't drink too much next time, a'ight? And don't finish mine, ya lil' bastard."
"Thanks." Franks had a soft grin on his face. The water felt heavenly, but the softening company felt better. He exhaled and his mind returned to the Kraut he killed. He had done a good thing, his duty as a soldier, now there was one less German to face them up the hill. He looked to 192, he envisioned the pit of Charlie Company and the pit of Germans entwined together, and he was lying dead at the epicenter.
"Lazzano?" he asked.
"Yeah, what?"
"You got a good look up there, right? What are we in for up there?"
"Hell's Meatgrinder." Lazzano turned to him, "You think you're ready?"
"Now I am, I think so." He forced some bass into his voice and pursed his lips tightly, his hands were trembling. "Yeah. I am now." After all, he survived the first phase of combat today, and he took a life. He could do this.
The veterans stared at him, Lazzano replied. "Good, we hope so, because in a few moments, we'll really see what you're made of."