The Radioman II
August 6th, D-Day + 61
"The only way to do great work is to love what you do"
The men of Able Company had left the town of Mortain and the happy greetings of its citizens. Upon arriving by trucks and disembarking within the heart of the city, ten minutes ago, the men marched through the quaint French settlement amidst the waves and songs of its people. They weren't the first Americans to enter the city, that honor belonged to the 1st Division. But they were the newest occupiers to currently hold the city and its landscape, as they were relieving Fox Company of the 2nd Battalion, their sister battalion in the 116th Regiment. And where was Fox Company? On the only piece of property that had strategic value and to where Able Company was currently marching, Hill 317.
The sun was falling, leaving a beautiful hue of orange that draped the sky. It was romantic in a way, the sort of sunset that one would take their girl to watch during the end of a picnic. And this is what the assignment was supposed to be for 'Always' Able. A picnic. Their job was to relieve Fox Company and take their place on the hill for a day. The 2nd Battalion was moving south and Able was the lead element of the 1st Battalion. They would expect to be relieved by Dog Company in the morning.
Hill 317 reminded Sergeant Gabriel "Fats" Middlebrook of a balding man, thick with hair on the edges, but bald up top. The base and incline of the hill was filled with trees and vegetation, but the actual summit was bare. The climb itself wasn't that bad, the initial foot trail by civilians had been cleared wider for the American G.I.s to traverse.
He grunted. His shoulder was itching like a bastard. He scratched it to relieve the irritation, only to be met by the hard sensation of bone. It caused discomfort, but the itching died away. Every now and then, the itching would emerge, then subside. Hefting the radio on his back certainly didn't help. Fats sighed. Would he have to worry the rest of his life about his shoulder itching from a Kraut bullet from Cherbourg?
But he dared not openly bitch about his wounds, no one on the line did so. A good chunk of the veterans had some sort of wound on them. Duhaney didn't complain about getting shot in the ass, Terry didn't whine about getting hit in the side, Smitty didn't make a peep about his missing finger, Crane didn't say shit for his dislocated shoulder, and Conti sure as hell wasn't going to be grumbling about his old wounds from Africa.
Lieutenant Conti… Fats was following the man who was directly leading the company up the hill. Weeks later, and that rank still sounded odd.
Fats could not deny it, but it was strange having to report to somebody who wasn't MacKay, especially since that new person was Conti. MacKay had a natural calming presence to him, and one could always believe that he would get you out safely. Conti had that same presence of assurance, to a degree, but he was more abrasive than a cobra covered in sandpaper. Worse, Conti seemed more, cantankerous, than usual. Fats understood why. Who would actually feel happy replacing the job of their best bud…?
The men of Able made it to the summit. Conti walked straight to the two men who were standing in the trench, waiting for him. First Lieutenant Kent, the Commanding Officer of Fox Company, an older man who was in his 30s, but younger than Conti. And then there was Staff Sergeant Taggart of Fox Company, another man who used to be with the 29th Rangers before they were disbanded. Taggart promptly saluted Conti.
Conti gave a smirk and a half-hearted salute, "Hi, Taggart." He pulled Taggart out of the trench.
The Ranger looked down to his feet before speaking, "Hey, listen, Conti, sorry about MacKay."
Fats sucked his teeth subtly. Conti seemed taken aback by the condolence. His eyes narrowed in reflection; he lowered them to the dirt.
Taggart continued, "I heard you guys were together since boot camp in Kansas…"
Conti's lips moved slightly; he turned his head to the right.
Lieutenant Kent got out of the trench on his own, he seemed to have read the atmosphere, "Try and get some R&R on this hill, should be a piece of cake." He moved forward, but then stopped, "Heads up, there's some 1-0-5 boys stationed up here as well. Better get acquainted with them. Also, the field telephone is acting wonky, sometimes you hear actual voices, other times you hear static. But you shouldn't be worried too much about that, you're only here for a day, right?" He looked to his sergeant, "Taggart, let's go."
The C.O of Fox walked away, Taggart lingered a bit, seemingly trying to find words to say. But none came out, he gave a short nod to Conti, in which he returned. The two men walked down the hill, followed by the remainder of Fox Company.
"Hey, Fox, how is it over here?" Sergeant Hernandez asked the exiting soldiers.
A sergeant stretched with closed eyes, "All quiet on the Western front."
"Yep, ain't nothing to fight except boredom," another Fox soldier commented.
Fats could hear Cunningham chuckling, "Hey, how about that? We got lucky. We were off the line for a good while and they put us on a dream assignment where we can relax."
"Yeah, except a lot more scenic," Franks answered.
When the remainder of Fox made their exodus off the hill, Conti bellowed, "Able Company! Front and center!" Fortunately, the men didn't scatter too far, and they all circled around the grizzled L-T.
"I'm gonna give it to ya straight. We're on this hill 'til 0630. Fox Company put some emplacements in, but nobody's mannin' those positions now. Dig these emplacements in and put some bodies in 'em. We got an easy job, so I don't expect any goddamn yappin' about relaxin'. We relax when we're finished, dammit. Dog Company will be here with armor and hopefully coffee at 0630. Get to work, Able."
Fats chuckled. Even with those bars, he still barks orders like a sergeant.
The men began to disperse, several of the veterans grumbled softly but they complied, nonetheless. Conti looked at someone and called them out, "Franks! This hole ain't going to dig itself. Get ya ass over here!" Franks looked unsure whether to go with his platoon or help Conti, but the annoyed look of the C.O. answered the question.
Fats unshouldered his radio, he figured he might as well help out before Conti found him something unpleasant to do.
Fats had made his way up the hill from the company HQ, established near the base of the hill, left over by Fox Company. He brought with him the field telephone, the EE-8, wired for communications back to Command. Its range was up to 15 or so miles. Conti tried to radio in with Battalion once they got there, and as recently as five minutes ago to check in about their progress. He said he could speak to the Lieutenant Colonel but heard thick static in the background. This most recent effort, it was all static and no voice, and then it just cut off.
Fats took the receiver and tried it out. Command should have been on the horn, but all he heard was soft static. It wasn't the batteries, but the connectivity. Either two things were happening, the wires weren't fully connected, or the signal was being blocked by the hill and the trees, so Fats volunteered to climb the hill to get maximum elevation and test out the signal.
From the crest of the hill, Fats could see that the entire company had dug in nicely. The squads each had their own spots to defend the hill against approaches, emplacements were dug in for the automatic weapons, the mortars were established, as well as the triage center, and the 105s were angled upwards to the sky. The soldiers were still hard at work, shoveling and filling sandbags, griping as they usually did, or cracking jokes or telling stories.
Fats took a knee next to a digging rifleman. The radioman tried the telephone again, keeping his fingers crossed that it was just the elevation. But same thing as before, static came through the other end. He grumbled, that meant it was issues with the wiring and that was in Mortain. And more likely than not, he'd have to go down and fix the wires.
Peachy… Just goddamn peachy…
"Fats?"
Middlebrook took notice of the digging riflemen who was looking up at him. "Yeah, Franks?"
"You think I can go back to my platoon, now? I dug this hole wide enough, I think."
"What did Conti say?"
"He didn't say anything."
"Then there's your answer, Franks."
"But that was thirty minutes ago, Sergeant."
"Unless the Commanding Officer gives you further command, then you stay at it, Franks," Fats shrugged in sympathy.
Franks took a towel to wipe his sweating head with a groan. "Christ, why are we even here, Fats? Why are we on this goddamn hill?"
"To not let the Krauts get it, Franks."
"I mean, yeah, I got that, but what value does this hill have? Why are we on this rock and not in town?"
Fats sighed, looking at the horizon, "Franks, do you really want to be thinking above your pay-grade?"
"If I'm breaking my back by myself, I do," he responded quickly.
"Ah don't mope, Franks, there's perks to being the mule to a C.O."
Franks held a sour look, "Really? Like what?" he replied irritably.
"Get some more sandbags on that approach!" came the distinctive bark of Conti.
Both men looked out of the hole to see Conti shouting orders to the other men, as he himself was walking in their direction. Conti was tossing two packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes in his hands as if he were juggling them. He came to the rim of the hole and trench that Franks was working on.
"Ya did a good job here, Franks, especially since I had to leave. Here's a reward for gettin' my hole dug."
The salty lieutenant tossed the two packs to Franks. The once green replacement eyed the packs as if he were tossed gold, he looked to Fats astoundingly, Fats gave him a knowing smirk.
"Sundown looks really nice out here, doesn't it, sir?" Franks asked, lighting one of his new cigarettes.
"That it does, Franks."
Fats looked to Franks, then to Conti, "Hey, what makes this real estate so special, Conti?"
Conti stretched his arms and pointed out, "Take a look to the north."
Fats did so. "Okay."
"What do ya see?"
He shrugged, "Nothing. Just land, lots of it."
"Exactly. To the north of this hill is Normandy." Conti then pointed to the right of himself, "To the west is Brittany." Then he pointed in front of him, "And on south is Maine. Three regions vital for the Krauts in the east. And you can see them all through here. And if that ain't enough, there's two roads north and south on 3-1-7 that drive parallel on one another from east to west. We hold this hill, and the roads, then our boys got a straight shot east."
Fats looked to Franks, but was still speaking to Conti, "Understood, sir."
Conti eyed the radio on Fat's back, "Connection was fine with the 300s before we left. Did you test out all connections with everyone else?"
"Yep, they all reported that testing was working with our backpacks. But I have to say, sir, with this hill and foliage, communications aren't going to be 100% with these things."
"Yeah, I know. But I'd ratha have less than a hunned puhcent than absolute zilch."
"Amen."
As a radioman, Middlebrook had to study and remember the technical manual for both the SCR-300 transceiver backpack, and the SCR-536 handie-talkie radio. And as a sergeant and the Commanding Officer's personal radioman, he often had the duty of making sure everyone else's radio was operating fine. This wasn't really his job, but he personally took on this duty himself, without MacKay even suggesting it to him back then.
Conti nodded in approval. "Good. What of the handie-talkies? Did ya procure new batteries?"
"I did sir, and I installed them in." He opened the pack to show them off. The SCR-536 hand radios were bulky, yet portable. To turn them on, one had to pull out the antenna and push it down to turn it off. They had about a day's worth of battery life under normal conditions. Fats didn't feel like passing them out until they got to their destination on the hill to preserve battery life.
"Good, make sure ya distribute them to the Platoon Leaders. God forbid something happens to the backpacks…"
"Oh, I don't think anything bad is going to happen out here, sir."
The mature officer exhaled, "I know, Fats. But you can afford to be optimistic, I can't. I ain't lettin' Able get caught unaware again. Are the talkies tuned up?"
"Yeah, I tested them."
The handie-talkies only had a single frequency which had to be dialed in at the Division level, and not the regimental or battalion, but tuning up all those handies, mistakes were bound to arise. It was not Fats' first time receiving faulty radios. To change the channels were possible, but one would need the right coils and crystals, which were often found in the maintenance company at the division level.
It exacerbated Gabriel how cheap the Army could be. Their radios would die quickly and were fined tune to a single frequency; the Krauts at least had rechargeable batteries for their radios. What the hell?
Conti pointed to the field phone, "Any update on this?"
Fats shook his head, "Same as before. There is no connectivity, even up here."
"The Krauts aren't out here, so it wouldn't be cut."
"No, sir, I think just disconnected."
"Where would it be connected to?"
Fats looked down the hill, he spotted telephone lines and pointed, "My guess, Mortain itself, on a civilian circuit."
"Well then, ya know what to do, right?"
Fats sighed, "Those useless 2nd Battalion bastards… yeah, I'm on it, Conti."
"All right, and don't forget to distribute the handies."
"I won't."
"And take ya backpack too, so we can keep in touch."
Fats was cross-eyed, "That's a lot of weight, sir."
"Yeah, it's to help ya lose some."
Well, I walked right into that one. "What's wrong, sir? The crabs down under biting more fiercely than usual?"
That got a chuckle out of the C.O, Franks chuckled slyly, Fats laughed too. He was glad that their mutual session of ripping on one another had not changed, despite the commission.
"One more thing, Fats."
"Oh, why stop now?" he sighed.
"Take some men down with you, about three, and have 'em ensure that proper defenses are established at the base of the hill."
"Got it."
"Good. Now put some pep in ya step. Be back before it gets dark."
"Yes, sir. I'll pick them up on my way."
Fats figured he'd go up numerically and wanted to start with 1st Platoon, that and he was bringing back Franks to the platoon.
He spotted the replacement officer, Pollard, studying the map of the area and marking down details and landmarks with a pencil.
"L-T, I found your lost puppy," Fats smirked.
Pollard looked up and stood to his feet, "Ah, Private Franks, enjoy your time with Lieutenant Conti?"
"Uh, not quite, sir. Well, initially, but he gave me a gift to make up for it, sir. Just don't tell the guys, or Conti for that matter."
Franks walked past the chuckling officer. Pollard face Fats, "Thank you, Sergeant."
"Also… I got you your handie-talkie here. With full batteries. Here you go, sir."
Pollard took the radio handset, "Thank you, Sergeant… uh, no don't tell me, I'm trying to remember names… uh, is it 'Riverbrook'?"
Fats chuckled, "Here's a hint, sir. It's the finger you give to someone who pisses you off."
"Middlebrook! Middlebrook. Sorry, Sergeant."
"Don't worry about it. At least you got the last half. To make it easier, call me 'Fats'."
His eyebrow shot up. Fats could trace the officer's eyes falling onto his rotund figure, " 'Fats', are you sure about that, Middlebrook?"
The radioman shrugged simply, "It's what I am. Gotta own what you are, that's what my Pops told me."
"Huh."
"Ain't hurting my feelings, sir."
"Good to hear."
"Oh yeah, sir, per Conti's request I need a man to come down with me to scout out defensive positions. Preferably a non-com that isn't a sergeant and who has their act together."
Pollard thought on it before calling down the line, "Corporal Merrell, you got a job to do."
Fats then moved over to 2nd Platoon's sector and tracked down Lieutenant Peck.
"Here's your handing, sir," he told the X.O.
"Ah, much appreciated Middlebrook."
It always amused him how the officers, barring Conti, would never call him by his nickname.
"Also, sir, I need a corporal to help with defensive emplacements down the hill. You got somebody?"
"How about Cavanaugh, Sergeant?"
"Sure, I'll take Terry."
Finally, Fats moved to 3rd Platoon and was pointed to the direction of their new officer to replace Sleeman. This man was Lieutenant Eklund, a Swedish officer who wore glasses that—like Fats—looked too small on his face.
"Hello, Lieutenant Eklund, sir."
The officer gave the radioman a supporting nod, "Hello, Sergeant, wait, you're Conti's radioman, right?"
"That be me, sir. Name's 'Fats' Middlebrook."
"That's funny, but I don't feel right calling you that."
"Suit yourself, sir. I got your handie-talkie here, full charged."
"Perfect, thank you, Sergeant."
"One more thing, sir. I need a corporal with me to help inspect the line near the base of the hill, can I get somebody dependable?"
"Sure, all right, let me think… Sergeant Duhaney, get me Corporal Gettle over here, please."
Gettle? This officer really is new…
The four men walked down the hill; their weapons slung over their shoulders. Fats brought the field telephone with him in order to test out the phone once the wire was fixed. The sergeant found the wire and traced its path as he descended the hill. At least those 2nd Battalion bastards did a good job in camouflaging the wire. He groaned though, the company walked up around 300 meters, he walked down the hill to the base of it where the HQ was, then he walked back up to test the connection, and he now had to walk back down to Mortain, then walk back up once finished. His feet were going to be sore today. Well, at least he had company with these three corporals.
"Why the hell are we doing this?" Gettle whined loudly. And like that, Fats was wishing he didn't, well, at least for Gettle.
"To pick out spots to where we can establish a good defense," Terry explained. "Thought you were listening to Fats?"
"Seriously," Fats said under his breath.
Gettle scoffed softly, "Pretty sure Conti is paranoid. Why are we digging in and manning defenses? The Krauts aren't here."
"Conti's not being paranoid," Merrell spoke up. "Our last time in action, we thought the Krauts were gone, and look how that turned out…"
Gettle sighed, "Yeah, Merrell, I guess you're right on that."
"Besides, it's only one day, it won't kill ya, Gettle," Terry surmised. "Besides, it beats sitting on our asses all day and doing nothing."
"Well, I disagree with you on that, Terry, we could be sitting on our asses doing nothing, or going into Mortain and enjoying a French meal and several French women," Gettle countered.
Fats spun around, "There'll be other women in the world, Gettle."
"Says the guy who actually gets to go in the town. What the hell, Fats? Why can't we go in with you?"
"Cause you're under orders, from Conti and me, Corporal. It's almost dark and the positions still need to be examined and manned. And I have to fix this communication wire, two birds and one stone."
Gettle groaned. Terry chuckled, "If it beats shoveling more sand and branches, count me in."
"Same here," Merrell affirmed.
They finally made it to the base of the hill. Fats pointed down the eastern road, "All right, I believe First Platoon's position should be 30 meters out to the east, take that, Merrell, and see if you can find a good spot for an OP."
"You got it, Fats." He walked away from the group.
Terry looked around, his head stopping at a set of hedgerows, "I see some sandbags there, looks like a defensive position to ambush any approaching men from the base of the hill. I'll take a better look and maybe we can put an MG emplacement here."
"Sounds good, Terry, get on that." The 2nd Platoon corporal nodded as he walked off.
Gettle grunted, "Don't know why they're acting like this, the Krauts ain't here though."
"They got a job to do, Gettle, like your smartass does. Go down the western path and scout out positions, then return to the hill. And make sure you tell Lieutenant Ekland. Once I'm done with Mortain, I'm going to radio back to hill. And I'm going to have Crane talk to Ekland about your report. So, unless you want to get a kick in the ass…"
Gettle walked down the path, shaking his head, "You're an asshole, Fats."
"Takes one to know one." Seriously, Ekland needs to read his men a little bit better.
Fats followed the wire until he came to the plaza of Mortain. Though it was dinnertime, Fats was greeted by a dozen residents who were conversing with one another on the promenade, who then approached him with warm hospitality. Guess having the Americans as security had dealt away with any sense of curfew.
"Uh, parlez-vous anglais?" he asked the French.
One of the women held out a hand to wait, she told the others a command in French. The word they kept repeating was 'Jean'. One man hustled around the corner. Before long, a tall man and a ten-year-old looking boy came around the corner and stopped at Fats.
"You can speak English?" Fats asked.
"Yes, I can. I am the best in Mortain, yet I do not know every English word. But enough to hold conversations."
"Wonderful, can you help me out, uh, Monsieur…"
"Jean. Jean Travert." The civilian extended his hand.
"Sergeant Gabriel Middlebrook." He shook the hand.
"Gabriel, uh Middl—uh, what was your name?"
"Just call me 'Fats', or…" he had to think back to that word in French. "Je m'appelle 'Gras'."
The boy snickered loudly. Jean tilted his head, visually asking if he heard the translation badly.
" 'Gras'?" Jean echoed unsured.
Fats was uncertain if he used the right word, until he noticed Jean staring down at his body and the boy pointing at his belly. Fats nodded, "Oui-Oui, that is what they call me. My name is Fats."
"And you… like that name?"
He shrugged, "Yes, I don't mind it all."
Jean chuckled incredulously, "You Americans are so strange."
"I know," he replied with a grin.
The boy was more courageous in pointing, "Gras!" laughing harder.
Jean smacked the boy lightly in the back of the head, and verbally disciplined him in French.
"I apologize, uh… Gras, uh, Fats. My son is acting rudely."
"Oh, I don't mind, your son is being a boy." Fats placed both of his hands on his stomach, and purposefully blew out his belly and jiggled it hard. "It's fun to laugh at someone who is fat."
The boy laughed again.
Fats pointed at the kid, "What is his name, Jean?"
"His name is Simon."
"How old is little Simon?"
"He is ten."
"Does he know English?"
"I try to teach him, he knows a few words, but has little interest in another language."
"Good morning, Gras G.I," Simon waved with a grin.
Fats looked at the orange sunsetting sky, then waved back to him. "Good morning, Simon Shortstop." He looked back to the father and showed the civilian the phone, "We are having trouble connecting this wire, where do your phones lines meet, can you take me?"
"Yes, certainly. Follow me."
The radioman walked with the translator and his son, followed by several curious civilians.
Jean asked him, "Are you with those foxes?"
"Fox Company? Nah. We're Able Company."
"Oh, different unit?"
"Uh, yes and no… okay, different company, different battalion, same regiment, same division."
He nodded quickly, "Yes, I see. But why do they leave, and you come?"
"Orders. They are needed somewhere else."
"To fight the Allemand?"
"What?"
"The Allemand, the Deutscher. Uh, the Ger… Germans."
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, they are. We must hold the hill from them. Have you seen the Germans?"
"No, they have not been through here for a good while."
"Thank God," he subconsciously slapped his belly in that exhale.
Simon giggled and mentioned something to his father. Fats asked with a smile, "What? What did Little Shortstop say?"
"He said, 'you Americans must eat well'."
Fats looked to the little scamp and nodded, "Oui-Oui, I do."
The translator led him to the circuit where all the phones of this sector of Mortain were connected. And sure enough, Fat's wire led up to that mess of wires. It looked like a plate of spaghetti.
"What happened here?" the American asked.
Jean pointed up at it, "Your comrades came in to put up the wire, but this here is always tricky, we cannot fix the wires and turn it off. We have electricity, but no telephone."
"They didn't try to fix this, my comrades?" Fats asked.
Jean shrugged, "They saw no reason. They would only stay here shortly, and no Germans come here."
"Lazy bastards…" Fats sighed. "Jean, do you have an electrician here?"
"We did, Pierre, but he went south to Bordeaux five days ago."
Fats sighed harder, "Of course he did…"
"What do you need?"
"A ladder."
"Of course." Jean looked to several people and gave them a command in French. Two men returned with a nine-foot wooden straight ladder.
Fats laid it against the wall and across from the circuit. He unburdened himself with his backpack radio. He took off his helmet and placed it on Simon Shortstop's head, patting it twice, "Keep that warm for me, Shortstop." Fats then slung his carbine over his shoulder and asked Jean to hold the ladder steady. Each step he took, he could hear each individual rung bend and creak under his weight. He could only imagine what a sight he must have made for everyone watching.
He turned on his flashlight and flashed it on the circuit. The wiring was piss-poor. It wasn't fully set in. Fats was currently dealing with an open circuit. He had to be careful, he didn't want to earn a second Purple Heart for this shit. The sun was going down quickly, he didn't have time to ask the civilians to turn off all the power. He put on his gloves and placed his flashlight in his breast pocket to shine on the wires and free up his hands.
"Do you need assistance up there?" Jean asked him.
"Just keep my ladder still, Jean, that's all the assistance I need."
"How does it look up there?"
"A damn mess. But I can fix this," Fats grunted.
Fortunately, as the radioman, he always carried around "Duck" Tape with him. He unraveled the tape and placed a piece over the damaged wiring. His mind went back to his time in D.C where he was with his Pop at the stadium for the Senators baseball team. His dad was a commentator and was one of the rare ones who can also fix the radios or the wiring to his equipment if it shorted out. He always told Gabriel that if he was dealing with a short or a damaged wire to always, "Have quick thoughts, and quicker fingers."
Unfortunately, his fingers were a bit too fat to fit into the circuit to appropriately fix the wires. He cursed softly and looked down to Jean, "Hey, Jean, I need some scissors."
"What is that?"
"Scissors, uh, y'know, snip-snip?" he motioned his index and middle finger in a cutting motion.
Jean nodded and told his son, "Simon, les ciseaux."
Simon saluted Fats and ran off. Jean looked to the heavy man on top of the ladder. "Are you sure you should be using, uh sci-scissors? Is that not dangerous?"
"I'm not cutting the wire; I need to apply the tape to the scissors so I can wrap around the wire to repair it."
Simon returned rather quickly with adult size scissors, he handed it to his father, who then handed it up to the American. Fats winked at the kid, "Merci beaucoup, Shortstop." Simon saluted enthusiastically, so hard in fact that his hand rattled the helmet on his head.
Fats taped the edges of the tape over the closed blades of the scissors, and very carefully placed the adhesive edge over the wiring, and slowly twirled around neatly. While he was at it, he figured he might as well secure the entire sector of the town's wiring by doing the same with their individual wires. He did the last action with the tape and firmly ensured the wiring was hung efficiently.
"Done!" Fats triumphantly announced.
At that second, the field telephone was ringing. From the ladder, Fats could hear the "oohs" and clapping from the civilians behind him. What a smile he had on his face.
"That was quicker than we expected, Fats!" Jean told him with a chuckle. "That usually takes Pierre much longer to fix."
Fats was descending the ladder. "Yeah, I'm willing to bet Pierre wasn't trained by the U.S. Army, nor was he raised in a baseball stadium," he boasted.
Jean gave Fats a pat on the shoulder, as did the other residents. Fats was laughing as he picked up the receiver to the telephone, "Hello, hello, this is Sergeant Middlebrook speaking. Who is this?"
An excited voice came out the other end, "Able Six, Able Six, once again, this is Lemon Blue, how copy, over?!"
Middlebrook's smile faded. Lemon Blue? What the hell? That's Battalion Headquarters!
"Oh shit, I-I-I mean, uh, Lemon Blue, uh, no copy. This is Able, however, Able Six is not in immediate proximity, will relay message, over."
The phone was quiet for a moment before a new voice came in, "Able, Able, who is speaking? State your verification code. Over?"
Ah, shit. This was a pain in the ass, but he had to say it to verify he wasn't German. "LATITUDE-TARE-NAN, LEMON-BLUE-ABLE, code 0-1-1-6-0."
The stern voice had cooled, "Copy, Able. Verified, you shall receive a new code the next day. Over."
"Copy, Lemon Blue. Over." Great, now I have to memorize a new verification code and relay it to the men... "This is Able Six's radio telephone operator, Lemon Blue. I was sent by Able Six to repair telephone lines to reestablish connection with the field phone. Apologies for any communications lapse, sir. Over."
"Copy, Able. Glad you got it fixed, son. This is Lemon Blue Six, son, relay this message to Conti as soon as you can. Standby, over?"
"Copy, standing by…" Oh shit, I'm talking to Colonel Lincoln? What is he going to say?
"Able, listen closely, we have received report of heavy German movement in your sector. S-2 has verified that both the 2nd Panzer and 2nd SS Panzer Divisions are en-route to your location. Over?"
As quick as a thunderbolt, the entire world quieted.
"C-Copy, Six," Fats returned. Two entire divisions, one of them SS… against a single company…
Lieutenant Colonel Lincoln continued, "We've been trying to relay this to you for a while. Listen here, son, your orders are to hold that hill at all costs. We cannot let the Germans take that position. Hold out until morning, I'm sending the Battalion in with Dog in the lead, hold out. How copy? Over."
"Good copy, Six… Do you know the ETA of their arrival, sir?"
"Within the hour, Able."
Fucking hell…
"Good luck, Able. Blue Six, out."
Fats placed the receiver down with trembling hands, "Oh Lord!"
"What was it?" Jean asked, his face was twisting in concern. "You did not look happy receiving that call?"
"The Germans! They're coming! They're coming now!"
Jean Travert recoiled, "Merde! They are coming?!"
"Yes, they are! They must be coming for the city and the hill. Shit!"
Fats frantically toned in the receiver on his backpack radio in front of him until he reached Conti.
"Conti, Conti! Come in, over!"
"Yo, this is Conti, ya got the field phone workin'?"
"Yes, it works! But we got Krauts incoming, Conti!"
"What? What?! W-Where?!"
"I don't know! I'm in Mortain and Lincoln radioed in immediately as I got the phone working, saying we got two Panzer divisions incoming, one of them's SS!"
"How close, dammit?!"
"I don't know, about an hour maybe."
"Goddammit… Is the wire set up there?"
"Yes, they are."
"All right, get your ass back here with that field phone, now, Fats!"
"Yes, sir! Out!"
As he put down the receiver, he could hear Jean warning the civilians around them in a frantic manner. Fats didn't need a translation guide to get the message.
Jean took his son by the hands but looked at Fats frantically. "When are they coming?!"
Fats stood up, placing the radio on his back. "An hour or so."
"Merde! Where are you going?"
"I have to return to my company. They need me, especially with this field phone. I have to hurry."
"B-But you shall protect us, yes? You shall protect the town?"
Fats pursed his lips. "Yes and no. We'll protect you from the hill, but not from the town."
"Pourquoi?! They are coming here, to our home!"
"They don't want you; they want us and that hill. Just hide it out."
"How?! They'll come into the town and set up a base here, they'll probably enter our homes. What are you going to do to protect us?"
Fats could see the fear in the eyes of the father and the son. How could he give them an assurance that they would be safe, when he himself did not know?
Fats looked at Jean in the eye, "We are expecting reinforcements tomorrow. We are going to hold out and push the Germans out of Mortain. That's a promise. But Jean, please, listen to me well. Tell everybody to hide. You already did so here, but make sure everyone in Mortain knows about this. Lock your door, hide in any cellars, and do not come out until an hour after the last shot is fired. Do you understand?"
"Oui… Oui…"
Fats looked to little Simon. The ten-year-old took off Fats' helmet and handed it to the radioman. "Merci, Shortstop."
The boy nodded, "Thank you, G.I."
The Frenchman held out his hand, and met the radioman's eyes, "Good luck, Fats. To you and your men."
The American shook it firmly, "Merci, Jean. We won't let them take that hill."
Jean gave a look of determination. "On ne passe pas."
Middlebrook chuckled lightly, "What does that mean?"
"Verdun. 'They shall not pass.'"
12/24 - As of today when this chapter was posted, it is Christmas Eve in the United States, so I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and hopefully we all have a better year in 2021.