Hello to you readers. Please know that this near year hiatus was not planned. From my last update of 8/1/18 to now, 5/18/19, I do apologize. I had a HUGE case of writer's block with this chapter, and my job as a new school teacher has been very overwhelming. Please know that I try to get these chapters posted as quickly as I can.
Thank you and enjoy!
The Sergeant II
July 14, D-Day + 38
"No one is more professional than I. I am a noncommissioned officer, a leader of Soldiers. As a noncommissioned officer, I realize that I am a member of a time-honored corps, which is known as "The Backbone of the Army"... Officers of my unit will have maximum time to accomplish their duties; they will not have to accomplish mine."
Able Company resided about 50 yards away from the base of Hill 192 in the village sector of the area. 3rd Platoon had based themselves near the outskirts of the village. Scuttlebutt had it that the Battalion was going to attack the critical city of Saint-Lô, and this time, it seemed for real. They could hear the distant thundering of artillery and the small quakes from air support dropping bombs on the German defenders.
But for Technical Sergeant Lloyd Crane, the platoon sergeant of 3rd Platoon, he could witness Saint-Lô's destruction from on top of the precipice of Hill 192. He could see the small ants of infantry rushing in mad scrambles in the ruins of a once beautiful city. He could see the bigger ants of tanks trekking forth and firing into already demolished homes. He noticed the incoming supply trucks pouring in from the south road, most likely filled with ammunition, medicine, and fuel cannisters. He took in everything from his sight, his brain calculating any and all full proof measures that 3rd Platoon will take in order to accomplish the mission.
Crane was from Gaithersburg, Maryland, he stood at 6'3 with hair shaved damn near to the scalp, but sported a bushy goatee on the bottom of his chin. He had been in the Army since the start of the War, when Germany invaded Poland. The Army had what he was looking for in his life, structure. Everything was so regimented and orderly, and he determined that was how he would run his platoon.
He was curt and held something of a mean-streak in the way he walked. Crane got what he wanted from his men, it was either his way or the high way; and none of his men ever wanted to go high with him. Crane didn't really bother getting chummy with anyone except for his buddy, Rhett Duhaney, the buck sergeant and squad leader of 3rd Squad. Duhaney was like him, a guy who appreciated order and structure; but alone with friends, the both of them would act like knuckleheads. Crane was thankful for what Duhaney did for him on D-Day. For all the planning for a pivotal invasion that was vital for the war effort, the execution was an utter shitshow. The weather was terrible, the Air Corps missed their bombing assignments, landing craft landed on the wrong parts of the beach; it amazed Crane how despite everything going wrong that day, the Allies still successfully invaded France.
Their landing craft stalled, and the Germans were pouring fire onto their boat. They had to jump over the sides to escape the onslaught. But as Crane was flipping over the side, a soldier who was killed in the boat somehow managed to snag Crane's boot. The snag caused Crane to fall head first into the raging water. He could still remember the stinging sensation of the salt water funneling in his nostrils and ears, his gear was so heavy that it was pulling him in the water. To his shame, he forgot his training and began to panic. Then Rhett Duhaney, an incredible swimmer, grabbed Duhaney and paddled through the surf and dragging him to dry land. It was during the drag that Duhaney was shot by a German bullet, hitting him in his butt. Crane would return the favor and dragged the wounded Duhaney behind a beach obstacle for safety. He owed so much to Duhaney for saving his ass, and speak of the devil…
Duhaney walked behind Crane, examining Saint-Lô, "Christ, is it bad down there, Lloyd?"
"Can't rightfully tell, Rhett. Looks like we're making progress on the eastern sector, but the south looks like we're stalling. And I would take a guess and say that the south is where Able will be attacking."
Duhaney gave out a long whistle, "Ain't nothing but goddamn rubble. I came late to Cherbourg, but was it like this?"
He lazily shook his head, "Nah, Cherbourg at least had a semblance of a city. But this… this is…"
An explosion ripped through the air, an orange flash rose in the distance which was slowly followed by black smoke.
"Tank," Crane announced surely.
"Ours or theirs?"
"I'll let you know when the wind blows the fuel over here."
"We're getting armor support, right?
"It would be foolish if we didn't. But I know the Captain is on top of that, so not to worry. Know what to do with your boys?"
Duhaney had a weak smirk, "Yeah, yeah. Point the boys in the right direction, let 'em loose, and don't let 'em get hit."
Crane smiled, "See? You do learn from your mistakes." He then smacked Duhaney in the ass, his hand swatting the wounded ass-cheek.
Duhaney winced sharply, "God—! Dammit, man! I guess my mistake was saving you!"
Crane remembered D-Day. Bullets and blood. Salt and sea. All of them blurred together as he was floundering in the water.
Crane winked playfully, "Hey that's for good luck. I'm surprised it still hurts."
He was tenderly rubbing the sore spot, "I can sit on my fanny pretty fine. It's just when a jackass wants to be cute and slap it, does it hurt…"
"Oh my darling, oh my darling, Oh my darrrrling, Clementine!"
Both men looked at each other, "What the hell is that?"
"Who the hell is singing? Crane asked.
"You are lost and gone forever, Dreadful sorry, Clementine!" the singing continued.
The NCOs traversed the opposite side of the hill and noticed two replacements, lying on their backs and singing with the suns in their faces. They could tell they were replacements with their new faces and spotless fatigues with clean rifles.
The first private sang boisterously, "Ruby lips above the water, blowin' bubbles soft and fine."
The second private finished, "But alas I was no swimmer, so I lost my Clementine."
Then they started up the chorus, "Oh my darling, oh my darling, Oh my darrrrr—"
"Hey peabrains!" Crane snapped with a glare.
The two stopped at once and scrambled to their feet to stand to attention. Duhaney was having a tough time holding back his snickering at first, but then quickly switched his expression to seriousness.
"You two! You are replacements, right? You came in yesterday?"
"Yes, Sergeant," both men said.
Crane mused on their names, so many of them came and went, but it was his job as Platoon Sergeant to remember them, "Hey, you two, uh, Pyle and Burns."
"Uh, Sergeant, I'm Lyle," said the first private.
"And I'm Bertz," followed the second.
"Whatever," Crane interjected, "want to do us a favor and knock that off. This is a war, not a damn talent show."
Bertz scratched the back of his neck, "Yes, Sergeant. Sorry 'bout . Won't happen again."
"Why are you apologizing, man?" Lyle said to Bertz. "We were just having some fun, Bertz."
Crane immediately moved to Lyle and eyed him down, "The hell you just said, boy?"
Lyle was shivering, "I-I-I-I just was saying, Sarge, it w-w-was just harmless fun. That be all."
"You must be the dumbass of the duo, cause your friend, Bertz, got more sense than you, Pyle!"
"Um… m-my name is Ly—"
"You backtalking me, Private?!"
"Sir, no sir!"
" 'Sir'?! Do I look like an officer to you?! Do you not see these chevrons and rockers on my arm?!"
"Uh-Uh-Uh, yes, Sergeant!"
"Since you don't have any brains between that helmet, allow me to educate you! I am your Platoon Sergeant, and you will follow any goddamn order I give you! When I tell you to shut up and stop singing, what the hell do you do, Private?"
"I shut the hell up and stop singing, Sergeant!"
"Damn right you do!"
Bertz stepped in with trembling legs, "We're sorry, Sergeant, it won't happen again. You can guaran—"
With eyes wider than the moon, Crane spun his head to the replacement. That shut the private up. Crane, without breaking his stare at the private, asked Duhaney, "Sergeant Duhaney, was I addressing Private Bertz?"
"No, you were not, Sergeant Crane," Duhaney replied without emotion in his face.
"I thought so. Which squad are you boys in?"
"1st Squad, with Sergeant Hollister," Lyle said.
"Do you talk this way with Sergeant Hollister?"
"No, Sergeant," both replacements said.
"Then why the hell are you talking this way to me?!" Crane suddenly shouted.
Both privates began to stammer together, their tongues twisting in fear. Climbing up the hill was Sergeant Hollister of 1st Squad. He waved to Crane and Duhaney, "There you two are! I was looking all over for you! The lieutenant came back from his briefing with Cap, he needs all sergeants to—" he stopped, noticing his two replacements standing at attention in front of the sergeants.
Hollister walked closer as he sighed, "What's all this about, Crane?"
"You got a bunch of Chatty Cathies here, Sergeant Hollister."
"Oh, I do, huh?" he said, looking at the men.
"Yeah, mouthing off when they're not supposed to," Duhaney added.
"Well we can't have that, now can we, Lyle, Bertz?" Hollister groaned.
Both privates looked to the dirt ashamedly, "No, Sergeant."
Hollister looked to Crane, "Sergeant Crane, please remind me to give Lyle and Bertz a work detail when we have captured our objective."
"I shall remind you, Sergeant Hollister." Crane replied. He could see the replacements sucking their teeth in disdain.
Hollister then barked, "Lyle, Burns, report back to Corporal Morgenstern, now!"
"Yes, Sergeant!" both men seized their weapons and ran down hill.
When they were gone, Duhaney started chuckling loudly, "Great men you got there, Hollister?"
He rolled his eyes, "Don't I know it, Rhett."
Crane eyed the replacements down the hill, "I don't have a good feeling about those two, when the hell are they going to bring us real soldiers?" He then sighed, "Come on, you two, let's go see the L-T."
2nd Lieutenant Eric Sleeman was an odd-looking man. His body was as fit as a collegiate athlete; yet his face had the beady eyes of a weasel with an extra bookish disposition of those teenagers who were picked on for reading books in their spare time. He wore no glasses, but one would assume so by looking at how hooked his nose was and how close his eyes were together. Upon meeting him when he came to Cherbourg, Crane blinked incredulously at the sight of this man.
Now here, on the fringe of Saint-Lô, this odd-looking man was leaning nervously against the wall of a cottage with a map in hand. Already present was Staff Sergeant Victor Hilberman, Crane gave him a mild glare. "Hissing" Hilberman was notorious in Able Company for being a hardass to the enlisted men, but a kissass for the officers; and that notion was the one thing that Crane couldn't stand about him. The only saving grace with Hilberman was that he was a damn good tactician and cool under fire.
"SSSir! SSSergeant Crane and the other NCOsss are pressssent, sssir!" Hilberman announced.
Crane sighed, "Thank you, Staff Sergeant. But I am pretty positive that the lieutenant has eyes."
Sleeman cleared his throat, "Right then, thank you guys for coming. Uh… the Captain gave us the skinny. At 1430, we are to take Saint-Lô."
The lieutenant looked up as he finished, seemingly gauging the reactions of the NCOs. Yet it seemed that the lieutenant was the only man surprised by the announcement.
"All right, what are we looking at, sir?" Crane said surely
"Right." Sleeman unraveled the map as the NCOs gathered around him, "Okay… so, what's left of the German 352nd has turned Saint-Lô into a fortress. The entire city's center is a concentrated defensive ring. The Captain says that MGs, anti-tanks, and entrenched infantry positions have been reported all over the city; along with armor from the Panzer Lehr Division. Baker and Dog Company are attacking up in the center, and Able will be on the left flank of the battalion attack."
Crane picked up on what was going to happen. He placed his finger on their current location on the map, "So we are here, by Hill 1-9-2, best place to start the attack would be from this field about two hundred yards out to the west, correct L-T?"
"Uh, yes, and we—"
"We should be able to push up from this field and enter the outskirts of Lô and try to encircle them. By cutting off the Germans, we'll force them to try and breakout, or surrender. Either way, Able gets to break a hard nut."
"Uh, yeah, exactly Sergeant Crane…"
"Where's 3rd Platoon going to be in all of this, L-T?" Duhaney asked.
Crane subtly turned his head to Sleeman. The officer's face looked like he was trying to hide that he crapped himself.
"Uh, we'll… um, be on the far-left flank, uh… here in this section of trees. I believe the treeline should offer us good cover. Then we'll have some armor support in our advance, yeah, they'll be with us to help us out… yeah, that'll be a good idea."
Crane noticed the squad leaders eyeing each other. Duhaney turned a concerning eye to him. Crane motioned with his face to pay attention and hoped that all of them would focus up without him telling them to.
"Are we going to have covering fire on our approach, sssir?" Hilberman inquired.
"Uh yes! We should, no— we will. Sergeant Paine will lend us some machineguns covering the flanks for covering fire. But we'll have to move fast."
"How sssshould we move in the advance, sssir?"
Crane spoke up, "We have tanks with us, but we don't know if they got AT guns protecting the outskirts. We move in a line and keep our formation solid to overwhelm the defenders. We jog, no walking fire, the Shermans shall take care of that."
The other sergeants nodded. Crane looked to Sleeman, "Anything else we should know, sir?"
Sleeman was looking as if he swallowed a billiard ball. "Nope… get to your men, dismissed…" his voice was near a damn whisper.
The men looked quizzically at the back of their officer, but Crane dismissed them to go back to their squads. Yet Crane's eyes still lingered on Sleeman, something was off with him today.
If Crane could describe Sleeman's performance as a platoon leader it would be, adequate. When he first came in, he was confident. He made some tactical mistakes a few times, something that new platoon leaders always did, and fortunately these mistakes weren't too serious where a soldier was wounded or killed. But they did get men in unneeded situations with the enemy, but Crane or the other NCOs would get them out. Nothing too major, yet it wasn't minor either. But at the same time, Sleeman listened to Crane. When he came in, he hung on every word that his platoon sergeant told him, just like how a platoon leader should.
Everyone in the platoon understood that Lieutenant Sleeman was in charge, but they all knew the man who really ran the show.
After the NCOs dispersed, Sleeman was seen squatting underneath the shade of the tree, his back against the bark and his eyes focused on his boots. Parts of him were shaking and he had beads of sweat glistening on his helmetless forehead.
"Lieutenant, are you okay?" Crane asked.
Sleeman was still looking at his boots.
"Lieutenant!" he said louder.
The startled officer Sleeman brought his head up quickly and muttered, "Uh… y-yeah? Oh, uh, Sergeant Crane, what do you need?"
Crane rubbed his jaw, "I, uh, asked if you're all right, sir?"
"Yeah, I am."
You're sweating like a whore in confession. "You sure, Lieutenant?"
Sleeman's bottom lip parted from his mouth, his eyes were now focusing on the great beyond.
"Lieutenant?"
"You ever… S-Sergeant…. you ever have one of those dreams… li-li-like you see something in your dreams and then you wake up. Then you go on and forget about 'em… Yeah, like that. But then something happens later on exactly as it did in your dream and then it freaks you out! You ever have that happen, Sergeant?"
What the hell was he talking about?
"I don't really know, sir."
A frown fell on the officer's face. "It's just…" he paused for ten seconds and flung his hands up defeatedly.
"Just what, sir?"
"All this fighting that we've done since I got here… the Captain said that Saint-Lo might be worse than Hill 1-9-2. Oh my God, worse than that?! That was a meatgrinder, I lost good men… I-I just don't know, all this fighting… And I saw more of it, I saw so many Able boys dying in this future of mine, even the Captain… I saw so much d-death… I don't know if… if I can…"
No… Crane clenched the stock of his weapon tighter. No… do not be doing this to me. Not right now. You better not be cracking, Sleeman!
Crane looked around, fortunately no one was paying attention to them. Crane took a knee next to the officer and whispered, "Sir, with all due respect, I'm gonna need you to get it together and set your shit straight. Sir."
Sleeman looked at him like a disheartened puppy. Crane continued, "Focus on the objective and do what needs to be don—" Crane stopped. Wait a minute… "Sir, if you're having second thoughts, then speak to the Captain, now."
"The Captain?"
"Yeah, yeah. Sir, if you feel like you're not up to this, you need to let me know. Now."
Sleeman could only stammer a single letter. His eyes refused to me that of Crane's. The platoon sergeant decided that must have been a yes. He stood to rise. MacKay shouldn't be that far ahead. He took four steps, maybe the Captain could pull him out. Six steps, all measures should be taken to save his men. Seventh step, eighth step, Crane had led these men since the beginning and up to Cherbourg, he could do it again if he had too. On the ninth step, he stopped cold.
The men…
How would they react seeing their Platoon Leader being taken off the line mere moments before an attack? All those questions and confused stares directed towards Crane. That second guessing in the pit of their souls during combat action when they need to be focused...
He pressed his feet firmly in the dirt with a sharp inhale through the nose. "Goddamn it…" he slurred through his teeth.
He did an about-face and walked back. "Sir, you need to get up on your feet."
"What? Why?"
"C'mon, sir. Just do it for me."
He moved like a grandfather, but finally got to his feet, "What is it, Crane?"
Crane took out a pack of Lucky Strikes and held them out to the despondent officer. "Here, smoke."
"I-I-I'm good, Sergeant."
Crane's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't an offer, sir."
Sleeman's eyes shrunk in his head at the glare Crane was giving him. He timidly shook his head and took out a cigarette with his small fingers and placed it in his mouth. Crane lit it for him and then lit his own smoke.
"Sleeman," he said, his voice was gravelly, but he refused to clear his throat, "Listen to me now. You need to calm down, and focus. You understand me? We've done this before, remember St. Fromond? Yeah, we've done that, and we took Hill 1-9-2. This isn't your first outing, calm down and remember your training, sir. You need to lead these men, and not quake in your goddamn boots, sir. You understand me, L-T?"
It seemed like the smoking was doing the trick. His body language looked so much looser, though his eyes still shined with the fragility of a wimpy schoolboy. Despite this, he did look better than he was.
"Yeah, I understand, Sergeant."
"You sure, sir?"
"Yeah, I believe so."
"Good. Now finish that smoke, count to thirty, and make sure everything is in place, sir."
"Yeah, yeah I think I ought to do that." He scampered away smoking the cigarette frantically. All Crane could do was sigh.
What the hell happened to you? Crane's eyes narrowed at the back of the feeble officer. Weeks ago, he was ready and willing to kick ass and take names. But now? Olivia, Crane's six-year-old niece, seemed to have had more of a spine than he did. He acted like he was a buck private, no, worse; he acted as if he was a replacement buck private. Frightened like a caged animal. He looked as if he was going mad.
Whatever. Crane had been running this platoon damn near a month without an officer before Sleeman arrived. Even after Sleeman came, he was still running the show. No command was issued in 3rd Platoon without Crane's approval. He didn't rightly care if a platoon leader offered commands to him or not, he would either follow the orders to the letter or give the orders himself. What he did care about was the look of the platoon leader. If the officer was confident and calm, the men would be that way as well and 3rd Platoon would look strong. But if he was sniveling and weak, then the men looked pathetic, and so did Crane. And Lloyd Crane would be damned if that was to be his and Third's image in the entire battalion. To hell with that. But… something had to be done about Sleeman…
"Duhaney, on me!" Crane called out to his friend.
Duhaney nodded to him, telling his squad to continue getting situated without him, then walked over to the Technical Sergeant.
"Everything good, Lloyd?" he asked.
"No, not quite, Rhett." Rhett didn't need to know everything about Sleeman, But then again, Crane could trust him, couldn't he? Would this truth or omission affect his performance in the field? He took a solid look at Sergeant Rhett Duhaney and recalled that this was the man who had saved him from drowning and took a bullet for him on D-Day.
"This thing with the L-T is bugging me, Rhett. You saw how he acted during the briefing."
"Yeah I know. Man looked jumpier than a turkey the day before Thanksgiving. You going to be keeping an eye on him once we enter Lô?"
"Hell no. I ain't babysitting that man. We need an experienced person to… what about Hilberman?"
"Oh yeah. That'll be a great job for the Hisser."
"Knock it off."
"I'm serious. Hilberman already kisses ass enough to other officers. Why not give the man the job?"
"Fine, do that. Find him and tell him to stick on Sleeman. 3rd Platoon is a well-oiled machine, Rhett, and I'm not going to have a single cog out of order. I shit you not."
The attack was close to beginning, 3rd Platoon was positioned within the treeline that stretched into a field which connected to the broken city wall of Saint- Lô. Blown-out windows and caved-in roofs of buildings overlooked the walls and could be seen from the outskirts. Smells of smoke and burning diesel was wafting from within the town. Crane could notice the bobbing helmets of the Germans who were entrenched on the outside of the walls with MGs and mortar emplacements. The riflemen knew that if the outside of this town looked horrible, then the inside must be far worse.
Excalibur was positioned in the middle of 3rd Platoon, with Hitler's Bane holding on the left flank. Crane told them to lurch forward at pace with the jogging speed of the infantrymen, this attack had to be synchronized. He checked his watch; the attack would be kicking off any moment. He looked down the line to his left; Sergeant Duhaney gave him a subtle thumbs-up in reassurance that his squad was good, as did Sergeant Hollister on the right. Hilberman was all too happy to be beside the lieutenant with his squad.
The lieutenant… Crane couldn't believe the one person in the platoon he had to worry about was the man who was supposedly in charge of it. After their "talk", Sleeman seemed less nervous than he was before. Seemed. Crane noticed his wide eyes and frantically looking at his watch, the slow bobbing of his head from nerves, and he incessantly kept licking his lips. Crane thought that Sleeman may be right after all, perhaps he wouldn't make it. But Crane was damn sure that 3rd Platoon would, with or without the lieutenant.
1430 hours struck on his watch. The Shermans' cannons boomed with authority and then lurched forward. The machineguns on the flanks ripped into action with long bursts. Crane looked to the lieutenant who nodded back and forced himself to say, "3rd Platoon, let's move!"
"Off your asses, damn it! Let's go!" Crane shouted.
Crane was the first one off his feet and ran in front of the men, the platoon then stood up as one and moved out. German bullets came cracking overhead, followed by sporadic mortar fire that fell randomly on the field. But 3rd Platoon kept moving with the tanks.
The tanks were their lifeline. They drew some of the heavy fire away from the infantry and were chewing up the entrenched Germans in the distance. They moved at a brisk jog to conserve their energy and kept pace with the tanks in front of them.
"Don't move too far from the tanks!" Crane shouted to some replacements.
It looked as if 1st Squad was drifting behind. "Hey! 1st Squad! 1st Squad, hustle goddamn it! Hustle!"
Sergeant Hollister heard Crane and told his men to make the adjustments, and like that, the formation was back in proper order. So far, the attack seemed to be going smoothly. They already crossed most of the distance and not a single casualty. Plus, from what Crane could see, the 76mm cannon and .50 cal machine gun of the Shermans were taking effect on the Krauts. Their MG positions were being taken out and the German skirmishers were falling back. They just had to keep pressing forward, they had to.
"Keep moving," Crane kept urging, "Don't stop! Keep moving! Go! Go!"
They finally reached the outskirts of the city, the platoon stopped behind two sections of partially destroyed wall. The men were panting from their harrowing dash; and though his face didn't show it, Crane was quite proud of them all, even Lieutenant Sleeman. Even so, they could stop to catch their breath for a quick moment, but they can't lose momentum.
"All right we did good getting here, but we ain't done yet," Crane announced to the platoon. "We need to move through this here wall and actually penetrate this damn city." He looked around and spotted someone near the end of the wall. "Ruby! Take a peek around the wall and give us a spot."
Ruby sucked his teeth but complied and prairie-dogged his head to the side "Uh, okay, I can se—" An MG42 erupted, "—e an MG4—!" Crane noticed Ruby's helmet fly into the air as he fell backwards. The rest of the automatic burst smacked against the inside of the wall.
His squadmates panicked and quickly dragged Ruby back into cover behind the wall, the whole platoon was stunned—even Crane was taken aback. Ruby suddenly sprang up in a frantic daze, eyes wide as dinner plates, hysterically patting himself down to see if he was all right. He was breathing hard and shaking.
Crane found his voice, "Ruby! Corporal Simmons, are you all right?"
Badmouth checked him over, "Fuck me, he's fine. The goddamn bastard is fine, no mark on him!"
"They were waiting for us!" Ruby finally exclaimed. "There's goddamn infantry everywhere out there! A lot of them! They got a machine gun at the approach! Goddamn, that thing near took my head off, Sarge!"
Shit… of course they would be protecting the approach. Crane counted himself fortunate that he stopped his men when he did, or a slaughter would have inevitably occurred. But they had to get through, the attack cannot falter.
"Ruby, did you spot any armor?"
The panicked veteran began to slowly calm down, "I-I-I don't, Sarge. I don't think so."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't know."
Great… Badmouth was standing next to Ruby and he was closer to the side of the wall. Crane called out to him, "Jagger, look over the side and see if you can spot any armor or heavy weapons."
Badmouth blinked incredulously and looked down at Ruby, then shook his head furiously. "Oh, fuck that! Hell no, I ain't doing that goddamn shit!"
"Do it now!"
"No, Sarge, I ain't fucking do that! I like my head on my fucking shoulders!"
"That's an order, Jagger! Now do it."
"Lieutenant?" Badmouth whined to the officer who was kneeling in the dirt, who was silent the whole time.
Sleeman looked up to the Platoon Sergeant, Crane gave a glare of fire back at the officer. Sleeman cleared his throat and softly said, "D-Do as the Sergeant commands. Everyone needs to follow his command."
Crane stepped off from the wall and took three steps closer and pointed at Badmouth madly and roared, "This ain't a fucking debate, Private! You're going to do as your goddamn told! Now look over the side and spot some armor."
"The Lieutenant and the Technical SSSergeant gave you an order, Jagger!" Hilberman sneered to his subordinate.
Crane could see defiance still in the eyes of the foul-mouth lad, but Badmouth ultimately relented with an audible, yet an indignant accepting, "Fuck."
He leaned out of the corner for a moment then retracted his head back as bullets tore off chunks of the wall.
"Those sadistic assholes! There's no goddamn armor over there, Sergeant, nor any fucking heavy weapons! Don't ask me to do that shit again, Sarge!"
"Shut up, Badmouth!"
Excalibur lurched forward and the top hatch opened with Wilcox pointing his head out, "What's the word, Lieutenant?"
"We got more infantry past this here wall, Wilcox," Crane told him. "They got us pinned, they got MGs but no armor or AT support."
"You sure?"
"I am, go ahead and punch through here to take the fire off of us, will ya?"
"Can do!" Wilcox closed the hatch and the tank moved forward with considerable speed.
The tanks came crashing through the wall, ripping off a long burst of .30 and .50 cal machinegun fire. The Kraut fire against the wall dwindled away. Crane waited ten seconds for good measure, turned to his men, and shouted, "Third Platoon, on me! Let's go!"
He clutched the frame of his weapon tightly and charged past the wall. The tanks were pouring lead into the ranks of the German defenders. Crane dashed into a large crater for cover, roaring for his platoon to move their feet. The 3rd Platoon funneled inside the town and the squads started finding whatever available cover they could find amid the debris and rubble.
The platoon sergeant spotted some movement on the left, Germans were filling in a blasted-out house.
"Rhett, go clear out that sector on the left!"
"On it, Lloyd. C'mon boys, on me!"
Explosions rocked the dirt around them as they moved. Crane could spot two squads of Germans beginning to pull back amidst the fire.
"1st Squad, form a base of fire by those sandbags!" Crane ordered. "Don't let those Krauts get too far!"
Hollister's men moved up fifteen yards, reaching cover behind debris, and put up an impressive rate of fire with their Garands and BARs. Crane noted that even the two replacements from earlier were firing with confidence. Several Germans were dropping from the base of fire, but what really stopped the withdrawing Krauts was Duhaney's squad, coming around the corner in a flanking move, firing into the exposed squads. The Sherman was firing HE shells against the emplacements inside the buildings and cover. Hilberman brilliantly conducted a flanking maneuver on the right on his own initiative, taking along the lieutenant with him, and broke the defending Germans with hand grenades. And with that maneuver, the defense quickly wilted away.
Crane rose to his feet, "Sound off!"
"1st Squad, we're good!"
"2nd SSSquad, sssame."
"3rd Squad, all clear over here!" Duhaney called out.
Sleeman looked around quizzically at his men as they began to regroup, and stated, "All right team, come back in for—"
A mortar barrage came crashing down behind the platoon, followed by the scorching nebelwerfers, and then followed by the heavier artillery shells of the 88s. The barrage was encroaching on their position from behind; and no man from 3rd Platoon decided it was wise to stay in their current location. They all rushed forward in shouts of panic and urgency to escape the bombardment that seemed to follow them. Excalibur veered off to the right to avoid the bombardment. The platoon kept running until they reached an open courtyard surrounded by desolated houses; then, the bombardment ceased. And all of Saint-Lo went quiet—as if they entered another world. The puzzled men looked around as they caught their breath.
"God, who turned off all the noise?" someone remarked.
"I don't like this."
"Hey, don't bunch up!" Crane said in a curt whisper. "3rd Platoon, sound off! Any hit?"
"Nope! All accounted for with 1st Squad!" Hollister gasped.
"2nd SSSquad, we're okay," Hilberman panted.
"Same with 3rd Squad," Duhaney exhaled.
No casualties and so far, so good. God was looking down on them, for sure.
After the engagement ended, Crane took a better look at his surroundings. Cherbourg was more intact by the end of the battle than Saint-Lo was in the present. At least half the homes and buildings were destroyed into large clumps of rubble, and the other half were still standing but barren with blasted out windows and doors. There were no signs of any civilians within the ruined city. The only thing that could have shown previous occupants were some scattered bodies of Germans.
Corporal Gettle snorted, "There's nothing left but rats." He kicked a German corpse in the back of the head, it didn't move. "And Krauts."
Ruby spoke openly, "This place is a ghost town."
"More like a tomb," Gettle retorted.
"Hey, where did the tank go?" Hilberman asked.
"He's right, it's gone," Duhaney declared.
"Must have bugged out with the artillery, Kraut bastards must have had a spotter on us." Crane told them.
A high-pitched scream sang out in the sky. The G.I.s' faces went cold.
"Mimis! Incoming!" someone announced, their voice quaking.
"Oh God, not again!"
But Crane listened closer. "Wait! Wait! That ain't coming for us."
His words proved true. The screech soared past overhead of them and the explosions rocked out in the distance towards the southeast. From the origin of the sound, the guns couldn't have been far. Crane could only see demolished houses and broken high walls that were around them.
Private Vinton answered the call on his radio backpack, "Able Six, Able Black, standing by… understood, standby for Black." He handed the receiver to Sleeman, "Sir, it's the C.O., sounds urgent."
Crane noticed Sleeman's lips tightening as he listened in, "Able Six, this is Able Black… uh…" Sleeman did a complete 360 spin around him, "We are in the courtyard to the uh… uh-huh, yes, sir. I believe we are—… oh… yes, sir, we'll get on that. Able Black, out."
Those eyes of his… Sleeman looked as if to steel himself, wary of all the eyes on him, "The HQ is being established and is in range of the arty. The Captain tasked us with locating it and neutralize them. He th-thinks it's somewhere close to us in the area."
Now it was Crane who felt the eyes of everyone on him. They were all mentally asking him the same question that he was wondering: why was the Lieutenant's legs shaking the entire time he said that?
They've been combing through the maze of ruined rubble for the better part of ten minutes. All of these demolished and empty buildings were all perfect spots for the defending Germans to lie in wait. Crane didn't like it, especially without any armor support. He wanted his platoon to be spread out wide enough to not get mowed down by automatic fire within a narrow corridor, but not too wide where they would lose contact with one another in this labyrinth of buildings.
The distinctive firing of a Nebelwerfer goes off once more, and its not too far away. The platoon halted and got in cover. Crane gave them a silent command through hand signals. 1st Squad would be the point-squad, and Crane would be right behind them. Usually, the platoon sergeant would bring up the rear of the platoon, but Crane was right near the lead, and Sleeman was near the rear. Crane had to see what was going to happen.
A sniper fired his rifle, and a replacement in 1st squad crumpled to the ground, dead. From amidst the debris, and standing buildings, it would be impossible to locate the sniper. Then MG42s began to rake the area around 1st and 3rd Squad, they dived behind houses, rubble, and a partially busted fountain.
"My God, Jerry was just waiting for us!" Hollister yelled to Crane.
"No shit!" Duhaney replied back, burying his body into cover.
"Can the chatter and return fire!" Crane ordered as he popped out of cover to fire his weapon.
The Germans were in a defilade within some destroyed buildings, their automatic weapons were beginning to suppress the platoon.
"Don't get bogged down! Find some cover and return fire!" Crane shouted out.
Momentum. Momentum was everything in combat. And 3rd Platoon ran into a brick wall of German defenders. They needed 2nd Squad and the L-T up here to assist.
The squad was moving up, with Sleeman in the rear. Crane turned back around, with an additional squad, they could maneuver around and eliminate the Germans before they bring in their heavy weapons to—
Someone yelped loudly behind them.
"Lieutenant!" someone cried.
"Medic!" Hilberman shouted.
Crane stopped and spun around, there Hilberman was, standing over a wincing and thrashing Sleeman. The air was caught within Crane's chest.
Hilberman kept calling for a medic until Conrad arrived from seemingly nowhere. He slid down to his knees next to the lieutenant.
"Where's he hit?" Conrad asked Hilberman.
"I don't know! He won't tell me, he keepsss sssaying he'sss in pain! I think a sssniper got him!"
Conrad bent over, "Lieutenant! It's Conrad, the Medic. Where are you hit, sir?"
"My hand! It burns!"
From what Crane could see, Conrad grasped the right hand of Sleeman and examined it, but quickly put it back down.
"Lieutenant, your hand is fine!" the medic told him.
The officer screamed louder and curled up, "It hurts!"
"Lieutenant, nothing is wrong, it's just a very shallow cut!"
"Oh God, it burns!"
"Sir, there's nothing wrong with you!"
Sleeman made the wailing of a dying animal. Conrad and Hilberman exchanged looks of utter confusion.
"SSSir! Lieutenant SSSleeman! Oh, boy…"
Somehow the screaming of Sleeman was louder than the gunfire. Some of the men swiveled their heads from the Germans to Sleeman and then back to the Germans. Crane noticed one private turn his head around, and at that moment, a German was leaving cover and ran to a safe distance; and that German was once in the private's line-of-sight.
Goddamn it! "Keep firing! Keep your eyes on the damn, Krauts!" Crane roared.
He bolted up to his feet and dashed back to the crying Sleeman. "What the hell is going on here?!" he demanded. He was looking at the lieutenant but was clearly asking the men around him.
"I don't know, Crane! One minute he'sss fine and the next he'sss sssaying his hand isss on fire. But he'sss fine."
"Sleeman, on your feet, now!"
"My hand! My hand!" he was trembling as he blubbered repeatedly.
Crane forcefully grabbed the man's hand. The cut was truly shallow, only a few drops of blood were escaping from the two-inch-long wound on the back of his hand. This cut was from a bullet graze, it would burn for a moment, but then it would pass quicker than a thought. Yet this man was squealing as if someone had lopped-off his genitals.
"Sleeman, your hand is fine, dammit, now get the hell up!"
"No, it isn't!" he wallowed.
"The hell is going on back there?" Crane heard someone say from the front.
"I think the L-T got hit pretty bad," someone else said.
A mortar crashed ten yards down the line. "Medic!" someone cried. Conrad immediately bolted to the crier.
"Sleeman! Stand up!" he roared. He grabbed the officer by the arm, trying to drag him to his feet. But the lieutenant was planted firmly in his cover. An abnormal blubbering whine was the only reply that the lieutenant gave his platoon sergeant.
The jaw of Crane slowly lowered. He stood to his feet, his eyes hanging on the cowering man. Without taking his eyes off him, Crane sneered, "Sleeman, as God as my witness, if you don't get your ass up and move…"
"My haaaaaannnnnd! Oh God!"
You son of a bitch! You useless son of a bitch! Crane took off back to the men in a dash, anger being his fuel. "God-fucking-damn it! Fucking Sleeman! Fucking officers!"Fine, he was going to do this himself.
"Hey what's with Slee—"
"Forget it! Focus on Jerry!" he replied with a curt shout.
The Americans and Germans were locked in a stalemate. Both sides were in cover and were unable to flank one another's position. This was a battle of attrition to see who would get lucky and kill the other before they get killed themselves. And Crane had to figure out a strategy to break this deadlock, immediately.
He repeatedly screamed for Vinton to work his radio to call for armor support from anywhere, but his response was always, "They're engaged with Krauts, they can't help us." Crane gnashed his teeth at that, and at the growing calls for medics. Jerry was dug in tight as a tick and for all he knew, they were probably just getting more reinforcements from within the city, while his platoon is just being whittled away. And all because his lieutenant failed them in their hour of need. To hell with that asshole, Crane was determined not to fail.
At that moment, God began to laugh at him.
Screams came down from the heavens, and fire and smoke rose up from the earth in front of them. The nebelwerfers had return, along with mortars and rifle grenades. His soldiers were scattering out of cover to dodge the artillery and were being picked off by German rifles.
Corporal Julius Morgenstern, a good man and a great soldier, had to leave the cover of a demolished wall to evade the artillery. Two Kraut bullets entered his back. Morgenstern dropped his rifle and fell to his knees in an agonized gasp, doubling over in pain. Then came Private Dale Deane from Winchester, Virginia, who ran out to help Morgenstern up from his feet. Both men wore torn apart by a single mortar round. One second, they're there; the next second, they're nothing but flying pieces of arms, legs, and torsos. Both were there since Omaha, both were good soldiers, and both of them were good men.
If they stayed there any longer, they would all be wiped out. This position was too strong without support. The world spun around Crane. For the first time, in a long time, his heart had ached. He had failed.
"Fall back! Fall back now!" Crane ordered. His throat stung from how loud he was yelling.
Duhaney slid into Crane's cover, Kraut bullets were dancing behind his feet as he moved. "Where the hell should we go, Lloyd?" he asked him frantically.
"Anywhere but here! Now get—no! No-No-No! Wait! Fall back to the courtyard near the outskirts of the city! Rhett, make sure you organize it, we need to stay together!"
"Fine, but what the hell are you going to do?!"
"Just go!"
Without warning, Crane darted out of cover and began moving forward into the chaos. He was waving for his men to fall back and picking those who were suppressed by hand and pushing them back to the rear.
"Scatter! Scatter! Hit the dirt!" the call went out.
"No! Don't pause, just move! We're falling back, now!" Crane countered in a shriek.
The earth quaked, his steel helmet bounced around his head, he felt as if he was springing off the ground. Fire shot out from the dirt and leapt onto whatever it was close, engulfing it in searing fury.
He had to get his men out of this.
"Fall back! Fall back!" he shouted as he raced forward against enemy fire. The constant burping of the MG42 thundered through the explosions. His feet kept moving, he felt weightless and heavy all at the same time. He dived or tripped over something—he couldn't tell—and fell behind a partly demolished fountain. The German rounds shot off chunks of the stone as he hid in cover. He sporadically popped out of cover to trade shots with the bobbing grey helmets in the distance.
Behind him, Rhett Duhaney was doing a spectacular job in leading an organized retreat; the men were leapfrogging behind as squads would alternate laying down a base of fire. It looked like the wounded were getting pulled out. But now there were two braindead replacements in front of him. Bertz and Lyle, the singing duo from earlier.
Both men were out in hand grenade distance of the German position, yet their cover was seemingly shielding them, and they were so close that the artillery wasn't dropping on them. But Crane called for them to come back.
Lyle was in cover and squeezing off shots from his M1. His buddy, Bertz, dived on the ground and began crawling closer to the Germans until he was ten yards ahead of Lyle. Bertz unpinned his Mk II grenade from his jacket and heaved it to Jerry. Bertz turned around waved over to Lyle with an expression of satisfaction.
But Crane saw something that Bertz didn't. A lone German stood out of cover and dropped his weapon, catching the Mk II grenade with both hands, then throwing it back at Bertz. A ball of dust shot out with a boom, Bertz spun backwards to the ground with a sudden jerk.
Lyle called his friend's name and rushed towards him among the smoke. Crane called him to return, his voice was lost within the din of the explosions.
Lyle was shaking Bertz's trembling body. He must have been hit bad, but Lyle was going to get it worse if he didn't move. An armored car suddenly drove past the corner of the building behind the German, its sights falling on the two riflemen.
"Move, Private, move!" Crane bellowed.
Lyle couldn't hear him. Lyle placed the arm of Bertz over his neck and began carrying the limping Bertz back towards the platoon. The left side of Bertz's face was covered in a crimson mask of blood. The cannon of the Kraut car began rotating. Crane had half-a-mind to leave both of them there. Two replacements versus him—a platoon sergeant—and the rest of the platoon that was comprised of a mixture of hardened veterans and experienced replacements from Hill 192; there was no question which held more priority.
And then the other half of his mind flashed back to America, a year before it was dragged into a second World War. He was standing with his comrades from Basic, before he arrived in Able, who were stationed in Fort Bragg. They all just had their third stripe added to their arm. No longer were they corporals, but that of sergeants. Crane recalled how they were all smiling at their new stripes.
And there was Master Sergeant Petry standing there, beaming with pride at these newly commissioned sergeants. He cleared his throats and looked across them with steel in his eyes.
"Congratulations, men! You have now joined a prestigious club with prestigious perks. You are not just NCOs, but sergeants. Sergeants, damn it! You are the backbone of your unit. You are who the men look to lead them out of harm's way. You command your men, you lead your men, and you do not abandon your men. The officers give commands, but you run the show!"
"Yes, Sergeant!" they all said as one.
"What is the duty of a sergeant?" he had asked them.
"To lead his men, Sergeant!"
"What is the dereliction of this duty?"
"If he fails his men, Sergeant!"
"Are you salty bastards derelict ninnies?"
"No, Sergeant!"
"A Sergeant's duty is always to his men, no matter how big or small! His duty is to his men! You are the lynchpin of your squad, your platoon, your company. You hold everything together. If you fall short, then everything falls short! And that is the worse thing a sergeant can make; do you understand me!"
"Yes, Sergeant!" they all screamed.
Crane blinked wordlessly. He looked on at those two scared replacements. Goddamn it…
Crane ran forward, yelling for them to return back to the platoon.
He was moving from cover-to-cover, dodging the ricochets and cracks of German fire. Crane popped out of cover and waved to Lyle to get down. Lyle saw it just in time as the armored car opened fire on him. He dropped Bertz to the ground and they both hid behind a pile of rubble. The heavy slugs tore through the debris, but the replacements were unharmed. The armored car had to reload, Crane rushed out to the meeting point and screamed through his teeth at the two, "You stupid sons of bitches!"
"I know, Sarge, I know! But Bertz is hurt bad!"
"Goddamn it! C'mon, help me with him!"
They both put Bertz's arms behind their heads and over their shoulders and carried him back out of the incoming fire. Crane could see that Duhaney's squad was still in the rear and providing some covering fire for Crane. God bless that man. Duhaney was waving his arm to hurry up. Crane and Lyle came to a ledge with a busted railing that led to an alleyway fifteen feet below. But a mortar exploded behind the three. Crane was lifted off his feet.
One side of his head felt like he was underwater with so much pressure crushing his brain. The other side heard the thunder of rifles and roars of explosions everywhere around him. His sight was blurry, but he believed he could make out a medic pulling Bertz into cover and examining him. He had to get out this shitstorm. He had to get out of it now. But his movements—no, the world was so slow around him. Why was that? Why was everything slower than a snail?
He stood on wobbly legs, he wanted to use his rifle as a crutch, but he couldn't find it. Wait, was that the sound of a woman screaming. Was that Mimi coming down to sing to him? In front of him, he caught the fuzzy sight of a helmetless Lyle rushing towards him. Behind Lyle, fire and smoke had appeared. He could feel the ground shaking with his numb legs. Crane opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Lyle dipped low and tackled his Platoon Sergeant through the demolished railing and off the ledge. In mid-air, Crane witnessed an explosion erupted right where he was originally standing. Both men fell into the dark alleyway below.