Mission

He was on his own. It should have been a simple out and back. The Allies planned another advance and wanted a forward O.P. They were looking for places out in the countryside rather than going through villages and towns. De Gaulle, not to mention the average French civilian, was tired of the Allies blasting French settlements and French homes as they retook the Continent. That was fine with him. He was tired of walking into towns that were battered by war. It made them no friends, either, as civilians were often caught in the crossfire as the two sides fought. As a result, advancing troops were not always greeted with open arms and could even be targets of some bitter Frenchmen. His little team was assigned to check out a site the resistance reported as being recently vacated by the Krauts, just a day or so earlier. Hopefully, the Krauts hadn't destroyed it before leaving. In a country of low relief, high ground was always desirable. High ground with a little shelter was even better.

At first everything went well. They were still in the bocage country, with the high hedgerows that French farmers used to demark fields. These were no dainty English hedgerows that horses could jump, oh no. Earthen mounds, several yards wide and tall, heavily vegetated with brush and trees. It made for lovely countryside but lousy terrain for a soldier trying to advance. Up, down, cross open fields hoping nobody is taking a bead on you or that the place wasn't mined, over and over again, tiring and nerve-wracking to say the least. Leave it to the French to make a field fence that kept out everything except Krauts. The enemy used these field separators as cover for squads, snipers, machine gun nests, and tanks. To make things even more interesting, sunken lines, narrow one-lane dirt roads, ran alongside these living fences, often on both sides. Without a rhino tank to help clear the way, bocage country was dangerous for the infantry. His patrol had made it through a few hedgerows, but then ran into trouble. As they approached another hedgerow, a sniper caught them in the open. The fight was brief; the sniper eliminated, but not before two men had been hit, one seriously enough to put him out of action should the group need to move and react quickly. He'd sent the uninjured man back with the two that were hit. The two wounded could not get back without a bit of assistance, and they needed some defense if they ran into a Kraut.

It was imperative that the mission be completed. It was riskier to go on his own, but the brass made it clear. A big push was planned; they wanted intel, and more, expected it. The last briefing was delivered by a gussied-up major, who looked like he belonged Stateside or in England at SHAEF headquarters. He came in all spit-and-polish, shoes gleaming like a black mirror, trousers with pleats so sharp they could have cut paper, and rows of fruit salad. He even sported an aiguillette on his uniform. Was the uniform supposed to impress everyone as to the importance of these missions or did the major dress that way every day? As far as the soldier was concerned, every mission was the most important one, because he was putting the lives of his men as well as his own on the line. He wondered, a bit wryly, if that major had ever been on a front line. In that colorful array of ribbons, not one denoted any combat time, at least on a killing field. Though office combat could be hazardous to one's career, he supposed. To lose one of those battles, well, the major might just find himself slogging through mud with the unwashed; shiny shoes, knife-pleated trousers, and three squares a day just wistful memories.

The biggest brass, ensconced safely back in England, usually didn't worry about getting killed, maimed, or captured. Most had served in the past in combat roles, but there were plenty on their staffs who were armchair warriors. Their combat experience was between the covers of books. Those men had no clue how hard and dangerous that getting intel could be. The major seemed to be one of them. He casually brushed concerns aside when queried about the wisdom of sending so many undermanned patrols out, especially in broad daylight. That kind of thinking was counter-productive right now, so he put it away. It certainly wouldn't keep him alive. His thoughts went from the macro to the world he lived in. A good O.P. might mean the difference between life or death for his men, his platoon, any American or Allied soldier.

A line of dust caught his eye. It had to be Krauts. The area was not as free of the enemy as the brass thought, his injured men were proof of that. Something motorized was moving, no foot patrols ever kicked up dust like that. What were they doing and where were they going? Why had they moved away from the high ground? It made no sense to voluntarily yield a good observation position. Perhaps, they'd never used that place as an O.P. and the intel was incorrect. Or maybe they were just reorganizing, consolidating for an attack. Lots of questions, with no good answers yet.

He wondered if this was one of those small convoys used to move supplies or weapons, perhaps even the new weapon that was causing havoc back in England. The Germans had started bombing England again, with pilotless flying bombs, that gave results that compared to the Blitz of earlier years. SHAEF had to be concerned; they were in the target area. Not one to let his imagination run wild, he considered the new weaponry. He'd thought, while he was getting ready for this patrol, there was more than just gathering basic intel for an advance that brought the major, along with a passel of other majors and light colonels, over from London. Quite a number of them were sporting wings, rather unusual for briefings that were intended for infantry. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that SHAEF had multiple objectives. After the briefing, the major joined several other officers, dressed equally well, over in the corner of the mess tent. He passed their table on his way to the coffee urn and overheard them talking about the buzz bombs and a rocket. Rumor had it that pilotless bombs, the buzz bombs, were going to be joined by a more advanced weapon, a truly fearsome one that would fly high and fast, too fast for any fighters to intercept them, and silent until after the thing had passed an observer. One that could be launched from a mobile vehicle. They were close enough to the coast so that either possibility existed. Rumor confirmed right there. Aerial reconnaissance pinpointed several stationary launch sites along the coast and inland a ways. The Allies were having a hard time eliminating them from the air. He could understand why none of those sites were on the maps that had been passed out to his group. But to not include some information about those sites in the briefing he attended? Even though those sites were near his patrol area, if what he'd overheard was correct. Humph. That seemed a bit shortsighted, and potentially fatal to a patrol headed into what would definitely be a well-guarded area. Weren't the patrol leaders and the major on the same side?

"His" major seemed a little miffed that he didn't get to give the briefings about the new weapons, that he was confined to telling his group of squad leaders to look for good observation sites and potential routes for advancement. When another major asked why didn't he include any mention of these weapons or sites in his briefing, he'd given a rather scornful reply to the effect that, "those squad leaders were reluctant to even look for routes and observation sites, why should I tell them about these new weapons? Then they would really be scared."

He'd almost spit his coffee out when he'd heard that condescending remark. On his way out of the tent, he'd accidently bumped the major's chair just as the major was lifting a cup to his lips. "Sorry, sir," as the man glared at him. Now there were a few coffee spots on that fancy uniform, he thought, as he hurried on his way to get ready for his patrol.

He wondered if what he was seeing was related to those new weapons. He wished he had more information. He didn't dare get too close. The convoy, if that was what he saw, was probably well guarded if it carried anything related to the buzz bombs or rockets. An O.P. was one thing and was still his primary mission. Discovering a launch site or stopping a shipment of bombs to a site could be equally important and worth investigating if it didn't take him too far off his trajectory. If he could get a better view, he might be able to discover some answers. For this he would take no notes, make no markings. He wouldn't risk writing anything down. If he got captured, then that would be one less thing he could be interrogated about. If what he was seeing was related to those new weapons, the Krauts would not be pleased, to say the least. His life would probably be forfeit, especially if the SS or the Gestapo got involved in the interrogation. Movement and the high ground were both in the same direction, so he could accomplish both the official mission, per the major's orders, and report on this little convoy or whatever had been raising dust.

The Krauts were still active in this area. Why hadn't the major mentioned that? It looked as though the field in front of him had been used as a resting spot. Trampled crops, little circles of burned dirt, probable campfires, and vehicle tracks marred this field. Apparently, they decamped in a hurry, leaving their dead behind, unburied, as well as a couple of burned out vehicles. He wondered if they had been pursued by strafing planes. It was in his direct path towards the potential O.P. and he was already running a bit behind so he decided to cross the field, rather than find a less direct route. As he moved carefully down into the deserted bivouac, he kept alert for signs of life. The smell of death wafted through the area. He checked no bodies. Too many careless GIs looking for booty had been blasted into oblivion by booby trapped helmets or discarded weapons that lay close to bodies. Graves Registration and the engineers would deal with the dead. Plus, he hated that aspect of soldiering, checking the enemy to make sure they were dead. They were just men, like himself and his squad. Looking at their still bodies gave him no sense of triumph, just relief it wasn't one of his men. In the heat of battle, it was one thing to check the enemy and necessary, but checking a day or two later, he almost felt like a vulture.

What would he do if one of these dead had only been wounded? He had that mission and couldn't stop to render any aid until he was on the way back. Beyond the rudiments of basic first aid, he really couldn't help much. Hold a hand for a dying soldier or let him know he'd send back help. Those he saw lying around were long beyond any help. He was grateful he hadn't had to make that decision. He drew out a map and notebook from his jacket, marked the map, and made a few notations in the book. When he got back, he'd make sure that Graves was notified. Sooner or later, the Allied advance would come through this area. Wild animals or savage people might ravage the remains, if so, the Graves people could look for some scrap, some clue to their identity. If his information could help narrow a search that might save a family some uncertainty, it would be worthwhile. Every soldier's family deserved to know his fate; to be dead and lost forever, MIA, is not something he wished on anyone or their family. Unfortunately, there were thousands of MIAs in this war. Even though he thought the camp had been abandoned because it had been strafed, he wondered if there was an artillery barrage coming, followed by a counterattack. It felt as if a countermove by the Krauts was a bit overdue since most of the American advances were followed by a return thrust by the enemy, at least in this area. That thought made him hurry on. If a barrage was coming, he wanted to be back home. The infantry might be the queen of the battlefield, but artillery was the king.

Leaving the field behind, the soldier approached a forested area. He was getting closer to both the potential O.P. and that theoretical convoy. The one that was no longer raising dust. The quiet made him nervous. No birds singing, no insect noises, frogs croaking, little creatures rustling, no noises of nature. His shoulder blades tingled as if he felt someone already sighting in on him, but he made it to the copse without incident. Something about the grove down the way caught his attention. Several of the trees had no lower branches. He pulled out the binoculars and examined the area closely. There were stubs jutting out from the trees, stubs that marked where limbs once had been. There were too many, and too fresh, to be natural or even the result of careful tending on a forester's or farmer's part. One thing he had to get used to over here was the unnatural look of so many forested areas. The trees were in neat rows, tidily trimmed and often with no underbrush. He wondered if there was such a thing as a natural forest in this part of the world where humans dominated nature so thoroughly. Only in the hedgerows did it seem like nature still had free rein. But this did not look normal at all, even for a pruned, managed forest. Perhaps a launch site was hidden somewhere in the trees. It was a large grove, in French terms, and could hide a sizable construction. The Krauts were masters of camouflage; he'd learned the hard way. More likely, those branches were being used to hide a stalled convoy. It wasn't safe for them to travel in the daylight. The Allies had mastery of the skies. The deserted bivouac bore mute testimony to the fact. A little convoy would be a lovely target for a bored pilot. Drag marks led out of the treed area and onto one of those sunken paths. He cautiously moved a bit to the side to get a better view. Sure enough, there was a huge pile of branches in the narrow road and a couple of Krauts lackadaisically keeping guard over what? It had to be a trailer or truck of some kind. He could see a wheel just visible under all the brush. Branches were being piled up on top of something that was at least 15 or 18 feet high from the ground. Besides the brush heaped on top of the vehicle, it was well-shaded by the grove of trees. Whatever it was, it was big. He counted eight Krauts total; too many for him to take on. The one vehicle seemed too small to account for all the dust he'd seen. He'd add this sighting to his report. On to the O.P. site. He carefully slithered back into cover and went on his way. In his opinion, this new information made it even more imperative that he get his mission accomplished and return home as soon as possible.

The O.P. was just past a small stream and up the rise. It was an excellent location. He wondered why the Krauts had left, but he put that niggling thought off for now. There was cover nearby, but the trees were not tall enough to obscure vision. A small, partially destroyed building stood on the crest, but not intact enough for the locals to want to return. Perfect for protection against the elements. He cast a jaundiced eye skyward. If those clouds were any indication, some rain was moving in. But, he'd learned, it seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. Late spring and early summer and rain seemed to go hand-in-hand here. Usually the storms didn't last too long but it made life more than a little miserable for a foot soldier. He'd spent more time than he'd like to remember slipping and squishing through mud and sweating under his poncho as he'd gone on mission after mission in the rain.

He climbed the rise and approached the building. He scanned the area carefully, but except for some trampled grass near the building, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just a ramshackle building with a low hedge growing along one side. The hedge was not tall enough or deep enough for a person to hide in, unless they were a munchkin. He crouched down and pulled out the field glasses again and made another careful search of the building and surrounding countryside. Seemed clean. Nothing but some farmers off in the middle distance, well beyond hailing range. He rose to his feet again and moved up the rise. He sprinted the last few yards and slammed hard into the side of the building.

He caught his breath and then listened closely. No sound from the inside. Surely if anyone was still there, they'd heard him hit up against the side of the building. He waited a few minutes before moving on. He eased around the last standing wall of the building. He quickly stepped into the protection of the wall, then looked cautiously towards the inside of the building. Sunlight shone through the mostly demolished roof, leaving little of the interior unlit. Nothing in deep shadow. He unconsciously let a sigh of relief out. Now he felt secure enough to take out the binoculars and do a thorough sweep on the area. He scanned the fields and groves within his vision. Clear. At least nothing new. Just those civilians down in a couple of fields. They were headed in his direction, and had gotten closer, but he figured they were just working the fields. He couldn't see that any of them were armed, and it wouldn't be smart for them to be armed as the area was still occupied by Krauts. There was a cart stopped on one of the lanes, heaped high with household goods. Maybe a refugee headed home or away from fighting.

Now, the last little bit, then he'd have a 360° view of the surrounding countryside. Using a partially intact wall to brace his elbows, he checked the farthest fields with the glasses. He could make out a lone vehicle track through one of the fields, but could see nothing that would indicate an enemy presently lurking in that far in, he could clearly see the huge pile of foliage that had caught his attention earlier. It had diminished somewhat; the Krauts were using the branches to cover the rear vehicle. Soldiers were finishing up concealing something that looked like a long tapered tube. It looked like the propulsion tube that sat atop the V-1, the buzz bomb. He watched for a few minutes, hoping to get a better view, and hoping some of those branches might slide off. Yes, just briefly. Definitely a long tube supported by vertical struts. He was able to see a few more trucks in front of that rear one. And a lot more Krauts than he had earlier seen. Some dressed in the distinctive black of the SS. All those little bits of evidence added up, confirmed in his mind, that he was looking at a convoy that contained those new weapons. He checked his watch; he had to report back in a couple of hours. It would be tight, especially as he knew he had to be a bit more circumspect on his return route to remain unseen. The sun was westering, the shadows growing long. The O.P. was vacant and the approach clean; however, the Krauts were still in the area. In force, if those trucks signified anything. He had something for the brass. He turned to go home.