PART TWO: ST. CLAIR
CHAPTER SIX
FRANCE: Utah Sugar Red Beach - 9 July, 1944.
0600.
Dawn broke bleakly over Utah Beach as tendrils of mist hovered before lifting slowly, allowing the men to peer across the soggy beach. The boats had come in as close as they could to the shore before the soldiers began to disembark. Landing meant jumping into the rough Channel waters and swimming or crawling the rest of the way until they could tread solid ground. In their hundreds, they moved as stealthily as possible so the noise of the ocean waves could drown the sounds they made. Dark figures swimming in the semi dark found the beach in groups of two or three. Behind them, the boats bobbed dangerously as the heaving currents caused them to keel over before they settled again. In front of them was the beachhead, cleared a month earlier when the Fourth Infantry Division landed in the early hours of the morning and fought off the Germans, gaining a valuable foothold into France. The beach rose sharply towards an apex where they could discern tall grass trembling in the light breeze. It had started to drizzle again.
At Utah Beach's long pier, supply vehicles were offloaded from boats. Troops advanced into the French heartland by trucks, tanks and other military armoured fighting vehicles. Shorter distances involved marching from town to town.
The men who made it to shore first were quick to offload their rucksacks and other equipment, waiting for the rest to join them. They wore the emblem of their division on the left arm; just above their rank insignia blazed a red rhombus-shaped diamond. They were the Red Diamonds - the 5th Armoured Infantry Division.
Captain Charles Miller looked around him and pursed his lips then frowned when when one of the younger men - a private - still struggled about twenty five metres from the shore. In the foggy distance he couldn't discern the identity of the flailing soldier. They had been doing training in Iceland and advanced training in Northern Ireland, the damned soldier ought to cope. Or so Miller thought.
"Hey, get a move on there, will you?" he yelled. He doubted whether he could be heard above the noise of the crashing waves. The head, when it reappeared, looked familiar to him. From this distance with poor visibility, it wasn't possible to discern who it was, unless he counted heads…
"Sir, I - !" the young man screamed before he vanished under the water again.
"Captain, it's Beanpole Compton!" shouted one of the other soldiers who had made his way up the beach and joined the rest of the regiment trudging through the wet sand up the gradient. That pretty much settled the identity of the hapless private and caused Miller to knock his fist against his helmet.
"Oh, Gawd…" Miller groaned.
"Not him," said Lieutenant Davis as he stood next to Miller and tried to gauge the Captain's level of ire. If the fist knocked the helmet, that meant trouble for the young private. If both hands covered his ears, it meant serious trouble for anyone who crossed him. Captain Miller seemed to be on a slightly short fuse this morning. His helmet sat askew on his head, and that was not the Captain. He liked his helmet to sit just right.
"He's going down, Captain!" Ian Baxter shouted as he trudged in the soft sand, lugging the radio equipment and plonking it down heavily at Davis' feet. Davis gave a snort of disgust. They'd all had the same training. Compton should make it, the fool. Eugene Linklater joined Davis and Francis Longman as they watched the area where Compton went under. Compton's head bobbed up instantly. The three weren't too perturbed, wanting to see just how far they could let Compton stew.
"There! There!" Linklater yelled when he saw Compton bobbing up and down in the water.
"What the hell's the matter with him?" Davis asked as he finally made to move towards the water's edge. But Miller had anticipated his movement and was off before Davis could take two steps forward. Davis groaned. This was not good at all.
Charles Miller threw off his helmet and dived into the white surf, vanishing quickly in the direction of the stricken soldier. "Help - " he could hear the call over the sound of the waves. One hand came out of the water and Miller dived under. When he emerged, he had the young infantryman. Compton's arms were flailing and he gasped and coughed as he threatened to go down again.
"It's alright, Compton. Relax your body. Do it!" Miller shouted as Compton struggled, pulling both of them under the heaving waves before they came up again. "I'm going to kill you!"
Miller coughed after swallowing some water, recovering instantly to hold on to Compton's ruck sack. He had barely time to register that the young fool didn't lug his bag alongside him. Not even the natural buoyancy of the salt water was enough. He had gone down like an old sinker before trying to dislodge his bag.
Miller's words appeared to have the desired effect as Compton relaxed, giving himself over to the waves and being held by the collar by his Captain. Miller tucked a hand under Compton's chin, forcing him on his back. Still treading water they inched slowly towards the beach. Several anxious minutes later they lay on the beach, just inside the edge of the tide marks with the waves splashing against them. Both men were gasping, Compton lying on his stomach while Captain Miller hoisted himself to a sitting position. He turned Compton over on his back after the infantryman had retched the last of the water he'd swallowed.
Compton looked in the Captain's coal black eyes and tried to turn over on his stomach again. He had no inclination to be bludgeoned by a pair of angry eyes.
"Oh, no, you don't. Look at me!"
Bedraggled, wet and shivering, Compton turned slowly to look at Captain Miller. He had a sudden and great desire to be back home on their farm in Iowa in his mother's house, lying in a hot bath and never have to look into Captain Miller's eyes again.
"You'll kill me, Captain, sir!"
"Damn you!" Miller yelled, grabbing Compton's shoulders and forcing eye contact with him. Compton's eyes shifted nervously before the shifting stopped and he engaged the Captain's penetrating eyes. Miller's jaw clenched, a muscle twitched and his eyebrows seemed to come to life as they knitted together.
"Don't you ever fool around like that again, Compton. I've just used up the third of my nine lives… The first two I recall, I used on you!"
"Sir, I wasn't fooling, sir. The current - "
"Caught all of us, Compton. But you thought this was a goddam game, didn't you?"
Compton was being shaken like a wet rag, his teeth chattering not only from the cold, but from the way his head snapped back and forth. Just as suddenly the shaking stopped. Compton had tears in his eyes.
"It w-won't happen again, sir, Captain, s-sir…"
"You fished him out of an icy river, too, Cappy!"
"Shut up, Linklater!"
"It's not as if he can't swim, for cryin' out loud," Shakes Cruikshank added to Compton's woes.
"And then Compton jammed his grenade, remember, Shakes? Over in Iceland. We were on peaceful manoeuvres! It was a live grenade for godsakes! He almost got the entire Fifth Armoured Infantry floored!"
"Hey, Sarge! This here Compton's got Cappy mad again!"
Sergeant Ian Baxter was too busy setting up the radio equipment to pay much attention to Linklater when he knew that the Captain had things under control, judging by the way poor Compton "sir'ed" Captain Miller all over Utah Beach. So Baxter just waved dismissively and continued with his work.
"If it weren't for Cappy - "
"I said shut up!" Compton yelled at Linklater, to be followed by "Sorry, sir" when Miller shook him again. But Linklater was going for the jugular.
"The Captain just happened to be in the vicinity, Beanpole, or we would have been beef jerky!"
"No, Cappy didn't 'happen' to be there, Linklater," Cruikshank replied. "He knew Beanie's history of accidental accidents!" Cruikshank burst into a fit of laughter. He was joined by Linklater who held on to his shoulder and shook as he snorted.
"Put a lid on it, you guys," Miller commanded. Linklater and Compton, good friends as everyone in the regiment knew, clamped their mouths immediately and waited for their captain to issue one of his decrees.
Captain Miller was in no mood to find the exchange between the buddies humorous. He was soaked through, his feet squished in his boots, he itched all over and he needed to set up temporary camp at St. Mére Eglise, which, by his calculations, lay about ten miles southwest of their present position. They'd have to get there in wet rags. He grabbed Compton none too gently by his scruff and pulled him to his feet.
"When this war's over, I shall personally oversee you taking swimming lessons in Lake St. Clair, Compton."
"I can swim, Captain, sir!"
"Jesus Christ, then you tell me what that goddam waddling in the water was for?"
"A miscalculation, Captain, sir!"
"Fool! Get those lessons, will you? Advanced!"
"Aye, sir. When the war is over, sir! I'm looking forward to it, sir! But, sir, I was never one for the water like you. You're a hero in a long boat!"
They just couldn't stop reminding him of his medals, of rowing for Washington State and for the US team in Berlin and winning gold. He played it down, though he was dying to get into a boat again as soon as he was back on US soil in peace time. He missed rowing with Edward'
"The long boat is history, understand? Grow up, Compton. The war will get you." Miller thrust him back again, and Compton hurried to his feet and stood at attention. The Captain's eyes blazed as he spat out, "This war is not a game. I need all my men, Compton. Don't go dyin' on me…"
The instantaneous penitent look on Compton's face was enough to soften Miller. The kid was only twenty one…
"Aye, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Be a proud wearer of the Red Diamond, Compton."
"Aye, sir," Compton replied, and Miller was rewarded with a salute for good measure.
Miller's furious eyes softened a fraction and Compton gave a sigh of temporary relief.
"Now, let's get moving! Davis, have we got radio communication?"
"Aye, Captain. I've got a line. It's Colonel Drake of the Fifth Corps, Captain!"
Lieutenant Bob Davis had been watching the interplay between Captain Miller, Compton and Linklater and one or two of the others. He stifled his laughter at the way the two privates fell over themselves to try and stay out of harm's way. Harm being an irate and soggy Captain who had just fished Compton out of danger for the third time. It wasn't very often any of them saw a softened Captain Miller and the way his eyes had lost, albeit very briefly, the hard glint, but Davis knew that the Captain had been anxious. The men still had to get to know the Captain in this mood. They saw anger, remoteness and a hard edge to the Captain while Davis could translate those same feelings into concern for his men. Captain Miller had a way of cloaking his anxiety in hard line tactics with the result that the men were a little afraid of him, a situation which could have advantages.
Davis surveyed the industry of the men about him. They were gathering their equipment and their ruck sacks and had moved towards a clearing on the rise. The trucks were ready for them to load, before the convoys of armoured vehicles started moving in the direction of St. Mere Eglise. The fog had lifted and the grey turned lighter, improving their visibility. It was summer, but the early mornings were still cold and foggy. There was no enemy for at least a hundred and fifty miles east, the beachhead having been secured a month earlier by the Allied Forces. For now they were reasonably safe, but they had to get to St. Mere Eglise. Davis held the receiver to his commanding officer.
"Hope it's good news, sir…"
"Thanks, Davis," Miller murmured quickly, shivering as he grabbed the phone from the blue-eyed, blonde young man. Bobby gave a wide grin and Miller wanted to kick his behind for looking sprightly at 06h50.
"You out looking for a fight, Davis?" Miller grumbled, but at least secured a twist of his mouth that indicated a smile.
"Can't help it, Captain. We're going to kick some Jerry's butt around here."
Miller held his hand over the phone and glared at his second-in-command.
"They may be more than a match for us, Davis. Never underestimate the enemy. He lurks - "
"I know, Captain. He lurks until you're upon him, only to look at him with surprise when his dagger is lodged in your chest."
"Good, remember that, Davis."
"Aye, Captain."
Captain Miller listened carefully to the new orders given by Colonel Drake.
"This order comes from Allied High Command, Captain," the voice crackled over the radio. "The Fifth Infantry Division has been assigned to the Fifth Corps as part of the First Army. You'll be relieving the much blistered First Infantry Division at Coumond - "
"It's an honour, Colonel."
"Don't sing anyone's praises yet, Miller. Hopefully after Coumond, you'll get your new orders."
"Which are?" Miller sounded more curious than surprised. They had been operating as an independent unit since they had been first been reactivated in October 1939, at Fort McClellan. Even then, the 2nd, 10th and 11th Regiments were together, as they were now. Their unit - the 10th Regiment - had been an excellent outfit, in spite of snipers like Compton who got into hot water occasionally.
"You'll hear from Allied High Command itself, Miller. More I can't say at this point."
Miller gave a sigh.
"You sound disappointed, Captain," Colonel Drake suggested, but Miller waved that statement away.
"Orders are orders, sir."
"Damn right they are."
Miller listened carefully as Colonel Drake continued, making his communication concise, yet carefully issued. Miller nodded from time to time, taking his field pen and jotting down times and positions where he was seated on a crate next to which Davis had set up the radio equipment.
"Understood, Colonel."
"Good luck then to the Red Diamonds, Captain."
"More likely Red Devils…"
"It's going to be a hard battle, Captain. We're far from where we need to be. God be with you and your men…"
"God help us…" Miller murmured as he put the radio phone down and met Davis' gaze.
"If I may say, sir, you did sound a little disappointed with the new commission."
"Davis, what the hell did we do in Iceland?"
"Prepared for the invasion here?"
"No! We sat there building bridges and securing airfields, performing boring tasks while the rest of the Allied Forces landed here. A month ago!"
"Sir, that's not true, and if I may say so, again, sir, you know it."
The lieutenant's striking blue eyes remained fixed on Miller's face, and Miller relented.
"We're the best, Davis. I promise you that. Advanced training we may have had in Northern Ireland, but here," he said, thumping his fist into the sand, "here is where the difference between war games and war will be counted, Davis. Here!" Miller repeated.
"You wanted to be somewhere else, I guess, Captain."
Miller spared Davis a quelling look, then he sighed deeply.
"I was hoping that we'd get assigned to the - "
"Newly operational Third Army, is that right?"
"Right. Do you know who commands the Third Army?"
He was a soldier. So was Miller. They were West Point graduates. Why wouldn't he know? Miller's question was superfluous, but Davis surmised Miller wanted to say it nonetheless, because it rolled from his lips whenever they were in consultation. In the last month particularly. Miller's admiration could be measured in the way he studied every battle, every move Rommel's Afrika Korps made, and the counter-offensives of the Allied Troops in Africa. Throw in for good measure Caesar's Gallic Wars, the Romans' Siege of Carthage, the life and times of Taras Bulba, Hannibal, Napoleon… Yeah, Davis knew…
"General George S. Patton, Jr. I know, sir. You've studied his Africa Campaign at length…"
"Then you'll know we would be in good company, Davis. Patton is one helluva sonofabitch of a general."
"If I may say so, sir, the man's a visionary, an anachronism, a throwback to the Carthaginian Hannibal." He wanted to add that Miller was the same, but kept his counsel. The man was a genius planning attacks and strategies, keeping his men in line. Miller was not far from Patton, from Hannibal, from Caesar… Davis gave an inward smile. Miller was destined for promotion, that's for sure.
"Yeah, that's him." Miller's hand went to the upper left pocket of his shirt and patted the pocket. Davis noted the action.
"Don't worry, sir. It's safe. The water-proof covering protects Caesar wherever you go…"
"Caesar's Gallic Wars. I - "
"You know, Captain, some soldiers carry their Bibles in their shirt pockets... "
"Hey, I have that, too!"
"Never get tired of reading it?"
"What, Caesar's Gallic Wars or the Bible?"
"You got me there, sir..."
"Yeah…" Miller replied and for the first time since they landed, he gave Lieutenant Davis a sheepish smile, the closest he came to being embarrassed reading heavy Latin texts. Miller was into reading, his bibliography of texts mainly military, though he thought he did spot Miller one night reading a Bible. But then, a number of soldiers carried The Book with them…
"Well, we have our er…immediate orders, Captain," Davis said, pausing deliberately before he said 'immediate'. He hoped they would get reassigned, but that always depended on how successful the Fifth Division's offensives were. After Coumond, who knew? Right now, they were getting ready to advance to St. Mère Église, a short stopover before moving further south. "Everything alright, Captain?"
Miller stared at his second-in-command for long moments. Mindless of his wet uniform, the thundering waves and noise of the sea, the fog that had lifted enough that they could see the first tepid rays of sunshine, he stared at Davis, then turned his gaze out to the sea, the English Channel. He supposed a person could see the cliffs of Dover if he looked hard enough but the journey here had been harrowing, and that young fool of a Beanpole Compton - whoever called him Beanpole named him aptly - had to go and endanger his life by fooling around. The thin as a rake, tall as a California redwood Private Reddham Compton was accident prone. He'd accidentally sprung a hand grenade while on manoeuvres in Iceland. He was young, Miller thought, too young to be fighting a war, but here he was, a member of the Fifth Infantry Division trying to be a soldier. God Almighty help him.
"Sir?"
Captain Miller looked up at Davis, shook his head then rose from his seat.
"We're ready to move, Lieutenant. Let's go!"
With that reply Lieutenant Robert Davis had to be content. Miller had walked away towards the jeep that was to transport him. The sergeant stood waiting as he approached. Davis shook his head, beckoned to Cruikshank to pack up the radio equipment quickly.
"You don't want to get left behind, do you?" he said affably.
"No, sir. Not at all, sir."
July 10 09h00 - St. Mere Eglise.
Charles Miller was wound up like coil. His skin tingled as he held the book, worn with age, pages well-thumbed, with darker stains on the left hand or right hand corner at the bottom of each page. Some of the text was already fading, with letters illegible from water stains. He had removed his helmet, and the morning sun - a mild relief from the constant rains of the past few weeks in Northern Ireland - bathed him in warmth. It was foolish, he realised, to wish that the good weather would continue. It was supposed to be summer, but 'supposed' insinuated a range of temperatures and weather that fluctuated between cold, wet, and miserable.
Ste Mére Église was a very small town, a village really, and the nearest to the site of their amphibious landing at Utah Beach. There weren't many inhabitants, but those few who ventured to open their front doors waved and smiled at them. A month earlier, they had been one of the very first towns liberated by the Allied Forces. They hailed the new arrivals with considerable enthusiasm. Miller thought they'd never rest until all of France had been liberated. He had heard of the enterprising underground movements that had sprung up all over France and Belgium. The Resistance comprised men and women - even children - who risked their lives for their country. He had heard of parachutists from the 101st Airborne Division who had been hidden in homes, cellars.
He remembered his brother's instruction to him a year ago, that he try and look up a woman scientist, Katrine du Pléssis. How was he going to do that? Their first order of business was to liberate towns occupied by the enemy. This Katrine and her husband were probably based in Paris since she was most likely linked to that city's university. Charlie sighed. He'd try and make enquiries if they should advance to Paris at some point.
Their regiments were ready to take to the road, but his regiment's commander, Colonel Steinbauer comma had informed them that they were to proceed to the Coumond area some 30 miles southwest. They'd have to be on the road again, twenty four hours after the men had dried out and cleaned up. Yesterday Eugene Linklater had hurried past him, saluting him with "I'm in France!" Miller smiled. Linklater had uttered the same sentiments in Iceland and Northern Ireland. He'd probably say the same the minute he stepped on German soil, God help the blighter.
The temporary Headquarters was a small house on the town's main road and Major General Leroy Irwin was in consultation with the most senior officers of the division. Miller experienced a twinge of envy, then calmly told himself that one day, he'd get there, to the ranks of the Army hierarchy. Right now he had to contend with commanding a company. The rush he'd felt since landing remained with him, making him impatient to get to the front. The Fifth Infantry Division was highly specialised and highly skilled in armed combat and their armoured divisions were ready to roll, literally. Besides himself and Davis, Linklater, Longman and Compton were his finest snipers. Linklater smoked himself to a standstill and could shoot a target at two hundred paces with his cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. They might be young and playful at times, but the moment they held a rifle in their hands, they became disciplined handlers of specialised weapons. Compton was fine as long he stayed within Miller's orbit.
Miller had taken a quick shave, hating the stubble that had formed overnight. It was a vain wish to think that he - or any of the men - would get such opportunities for regular ablutions. When the opportunity presented itself, in whatever weather or condition, they'd get round to washing and clean up. Miller snickered. When they'd entered St. Mere Eglise, the men – still boys, really – had suddenly found immense inspiration to "clean up for the girls", so one of the corporals had told him.
Deep in thought he stared unseeingly at the pages of the book, the Latin text fading out, to be replaced by images of Compton smiling with open-faced innocence. By the end of the war… God knew how these young men, uprooted from their homes, from all things that had been familiar to them - wide open spaces of the Prairies, Kentucky grass, parents, wives, girlfriends, brothers, sisters - would stand up in the face of the enemy. Some of them might never return. He remembered suddenly the feeling of doom he'd felt eight years ago when he sat in his eight oared shell, being congratulated by his team and seeing the faceless mass waving red flags with the four cornered cross. He remembered how the flags seemed to flutter in slow motion as if they were bowing to an unseen deity, and how his victory suddenly felt strange, hollow. A shadow fell across the page.
"You're blocking what little sun I have," he said coolly, without looking up.
"Sorry, Captain, but the message has just come from Headquarters," Davis said. "We move in half an hour."
"Thanks, Lieutenant."
Miller rose to his feet, wrapped Caesar's Gallic Wars in its waterproof covering and slid it in his pocket. He looked at Davis, his eyes narrowing the way they did when he had been mulling over snippets of intelligence. He nodded, then turned towards where the sun had risen on the horizon.
"We move to Coumond. Not that I think the 1st Infantry Division need much backup there. But new orders are coming in soon, I expect."
"Why do you think that?"
"A German Panzer Division is stationed at Vidouville, Davis. My guess is that Vidouville is our real objective. We're going to engage the enemy almost immediately…"
Miller's jet black hair shone, in sharp contrast to the blonde hair of Lieut. Davis and he managed a tight smile when he spoke.
Davis thought Miller to be a little mad. The man actually appeared excited at the thought that he'd be fighting Germans. Maybe if he looked hard enough at the Captain's hands which appeared to be shivering slightly, he could see that the captain was wringing his hands in anticipation. A strange rush of heat spread through him as he thought of their pending offensives.
"Aye, sir. Our patrol vehicles are already moving. The morale of the men is high, Captain. Thanks to your little speech when we arrived here."
"The men needed it. Did you know that Longman's brother died last month at Omaha Beach?"
Davis nodded sombrely. Many men had died that day. Many…
The two men walked towards a truck.
"Ready to roll, Elsevier?" Miller asked the driver.
"Aye, sir. The road has dried out a little. The terrain is passable…"
"Good. Let's go!" the captain yelled. He got in beside the driver of the second jeep, a tidy quarter ton all-terrain truck. Elsevier, a corporal, would probably drive 16 wheelers as soon as the war was over. Davis had joined the others in the first jeep. The convoy started to snake in elegant, long curves along the natural contours that the roads formed in the undulating grassy terrain out of Ste Mére Église in the direction of Coumond. "And God help the Krauts," Miller mumbled as he shifted to make himself comfortable.
Battle of Vidouville - 17 July 1944
"Is he gonna stand up there on Hill 183 all day, Lieutenant?"
"As long as it takes for him to survey the carnage and think about things," replied Davis.
"I've never seen anyone fight hand-to-hand combat like Captain Miller," said Longman, whose voice was filled with awe. "The man's a beast!"
"Think about it, Longman, we're infantry, we're foot soldiers, we're trained in hand-to-hand combat. We need a man like Captain Miller who can explode in physical combat and not worry how he brings the enemy down. Most times, things that happen in your early life triggers the demon that had been hidden there all the time."
"You mean we all have them dark demons, Lieutenant?"
"Our dark side, which we can discipline to remain hidden forever, or let it come out and play."
"You mean kill, like I saw Captain Miller yank that German's neck? Made an almighty crack. Could hear it all the way up Hill 218!"
"That bad, huh?"
"That bad. Hey, you ain't that bad either, Lieutenant. You're maybe a little nicer shooting them Krauts."
"I'm nice about killing another person? What do you do if a Kraut jumps at you from a hidden alley? Hmmm? You gonna stand there and say 'come and get me'?"
"Hell, no!"
"Good. This is war. It's you against the enemy, Longman. Never forget that."
Davis seemed short-tempered. Maybe everyone got was getting in each other's hair after the showdown with the Germans. There was a big difference talking about war and fighting on the front lines, just like Captain Miller always warned them. Everyone had gotten a rude shock the last five days, including Davis and Captain Miller. But they didn't broadcast their emotions all over Vidouville like some of the soldiers after they had seen their comrades shot or they had blown out the Germans' brains at point blank range.
Longman sighed. He'd been terrified when he shot the first German at two hundred paces clean off his lookout tower at Hill 218. The German pitched out and hung over the barrier of the tower, hands dangling like a puppet over a balcony. While most of their company carried sniper rifles, Miller, Davis, Beanpole and he had theirs fitted with enhanced night vision scopes. Once he'd seen the German with part of his skull blown away, he'd felt like gagging all over Captain Miller's boots. The captain had given him one of his rare smiles and patted his helmet for good measure, then told him to hold down his vomit and focus on the next target. That night when they bivouacked outside the town in their tents, he was on sentry duty. The captain approached him. He wondered if the captain ever slept.
"You never get over your first kill, Longman."
"Aye, captain."
"I need my men to be on guard one hundred percent, okay?"
He'd nodded, and thinking that the captain would remain to chat with him, got sorely mistaken when he saw the captain crawl into his tent. There, according to those who walked past the tent, the captain read a book. Always a book and sometimes a letter. Didn't the man smoke or toss back a beer or something?
Longman gazed for a long time at the lone figure on the hill overlooking Vidouville. The battle had raged for days, their flanks strengthened by the aerial attacks launched by the US 101st Airborne Division on the German panzers. The Germans kept advancing on the southeast sector of the town which was their entry point and they kept driving the Germans back, advancing inch by slow inch. The hills were the key positions. They won Hill 218 after a hard battle, then Hill 183, where Captain Miller was now standing. Whoever held the hills had the upper hand, fighting to the death to gain strategic advantage. To get 183, Miller fought like a demon at the vanguard of his platoon, giving as much as he expected from his troops, even more. The captain had stationed Compton, Davis and Linklater on 218; he and Miller manned 183, from where they fired at any German soldier that moved from his own strategic position. By that time he had been over the shock of killing the enemy soldier who was probably just a normal guy in peace time, a farmer's son or something.
Captain Miller was something out of this world, thought Longman. But whatever he was, a laid back lazy son-of-a-gun captain he was not. A throwback to Napoleon or Hannibal, yes. He was an officer they trusted. That first day, just on the perimeter of Vidouville, they'd taken positions. Captain Miller had been brusque, his orders barked like they couldn't disobey them if they tried.
"Aim the moment you see a jerry move on those lookout towers, guys. Longman, you take the left and Compton, the one on the right. They're the ones we target first. We need to get there, understood?"
He had never killed a man in his life. Longman was certain Compton hadn't killed anyone either. Maybe coyotes back on their farms. He'd once shot a coyote at five hundred yards. Damn skin lay on the floor of their lounge on the farm.
But a man? The enemy?
The German had pitched out of his lookout tower and dangled over the barrier, quite dead as Longman could see through his scope. Compton's target met the same fate. After that, all hell broke loose.
The air was filled with smoke and the noise of gunfire, buildings destroyed, pockmarked walls, heavy artillery, panzers that drove over their own men who fell in front of them. One moment, maybe just a split second, he saw a German popping up in front of Miller, who fired at point blank range, he was that close. Next moment another German fell upon him. This time the captain grabbed him, twisted him round, his arm like a vise round the chest and neck. Then he grabbed the soldier's head and jerked it so hard, they could hear his neck break. The soldier sank to the ground, dead.
"Captain! Watch out!" he'd heard Davis shout.
But Miller was ready as he gripped his rifle and fired at the next German who seemed to pop out of nowhere.
They'd only advanced a hundred yards, but it was valuable ground they made as their rocket launchers targeted the panzers. Once, a hatch opened, a German helmet popping out as the panzers lifted off the ground.
"I've got him!" Compton shouted as he fired and hit the German in the head. Compton was seventy yards away. So they kept up their barrage, with him, Linklater, Miller, Davis and Compton picking off the enemy at distances of seventy to hundred yards.
Their regiment was assisted by the 2nd and the 11th, men of daring who charged, fired, destroyed the enemy, some getting hit themselves. Shakes...poor Shakes died. They were damned good buddies and had been together since McClellan. He'd sobbed like a baby when Captain Miller held the dying soldier.
Five long days of sustained fighting, retreating at night deep into the countryside to bivouac in tents. It was summer, the heat was stifling and after the first night, the stench of decaying bodies rose up over the town of Vidouville. They'd had to do something with the bodies of the German soldiers strewn around the town. The locals had done what they could, but it was a small town, more a village than anything else. The Germans had used it to base their great panzer division there. That was destroyed, but the stench only got worse.
Occasionally shots rang out at night as the sentries on duty alerted them and short salvos could be heard in the distance. On the first night, Captain Miller had banged Edelman's ears because he'd been smoking.
"You want to tell the whole German regiment where we are? Your cigarette looks like a lighthouse from here!"
Poor fool Edelman almost swallowed his cigarette so frightened he was. He'd heard the other privates say how Edelman looked liked he'd peed in his pants. Funny thing about irony, Longman thought. He smiled to himself. He'd never been the best student of his class, but irony was about the only word that had stuck in his brain after high school. Edelman and the other privates could kill the enemy without blinking an eye. Some, like the captain, used their bare hands to kill. Yet the captain could scare the holy crap out of them.
After the fourth night in the open, the fifth day followed with severe fighting and loss of life on both sides.
Longman closed his eyes briefly. He had wanted to gag the first time he'd seen one of their regiment hit by a drifting grenade. It was a messy affair of entrails, the poor corporal's body shredded. Others sustained bullet wounds to the head. There was little they could do for the fallen in the heat of battle, for hardly had they time to be distraught or shocked at seeing a comrade go down, than they had to defend themselves like mad.
On the afternoon of the sixth day, the enemy surrendered, most of their men dead or dying. Those who capitulated were disarmed. The rear-guard of militia - the field medics, the military police, the reservists - erected make-shift camps where they kept the prisoners of war. The war for them was over. They looked bedraggled, a faceless mass of men who had simply followed Der Führer's orders.
On day six, the last of their own dead were buried outside the little town, the injured tended to by the medics. Davis had survived minor grazing of a stray bullet to his upper arm. Captain Miller got grazed clean above his left eyebrow and temple on the first day. The bandages were off, leaving a strange looking scar. Some of the soldiers would go home, for they had lost limbs in battle, others injured so badly, Longman thought they would never recover fully. Men like Davis and Captain Miller would continue the fight. He'd heard Miller barking at the medic, "I'm still able-bodied, godammit!" Davis had shouted, "I intend to see this war out, so fix my arm now!"
The town was strewn with dead Germans. They got word from Colonel Drake that they had to incinerate the bodies. Miller had nodded grimly, then he began barking orders.
They stacked four bodies side by side and on top of those another four crossways until they had a tall mound. Then they poured gasoline over the mound, for in the heat of summer the whole town began to reek of decomposed bodies. By that time the stench had become part of them. They didn't notice it anymore. What else could they do? The German leadership in Vidouville had fallen with the rest of their foot soldiers. It was the only way. And so, dotted along the base of the undulating hills of Vidouville, bodies of the dead were burned as a last rite.
Now Longman couldn't keep his eyes off the lone figure of Captain Miller standing atop Hill 183. When Miller at last made a move to come down, Longman sighed with relief. Maybe he was done "thinking" according to Lieutenant Davis.
His body still shook, the recent echoes of the battles that raged in and around the town for five days bouncing off his insides. Sometimes he had to viciously suppress the urge to throw up. He was beset by images that flashed like those of a photo essay, indelible prints that kept the original image obscured, one after the other in a never-ending stream - their men, his men, broken bodies, grenade explosions, tanks blown up, buildings blown up. War was unkind. The images reflected on the retina of his eye and burned into it a memory that would remain with him for life.
After Coumond, where they'd relieved the 1st Infantry Division, they'd received orders as he'd assumed correctly to go further south to Vidouville. They had to attack the Germans on the ground, helping the 101st Airborne fighter planes counter the enemy attacks.
Vidouville. So much bloodshed, so much loss of life.
He'd seen Shakes Cruikshank die on the first day of skirmishes. One of his finest men, newly promoted to Private First Class, had run next to him down a narrow lane as they fought off German soldiers. They'd used any means to get at them - stealth, cunning, using the natural contours of the undulating hills, the roads, the back paths, the buildings.
"Cappy, I never killed a man!" Cruikshank shouted.
"You're facing the enemy, for Godsakes, Private. It's his life or yours!"
They were four who advanced down a narrow path. Cruikshank had his back to Miller, covering the entrance to the lane. The Germans appeared suddenly from doorways and side lanes, surprising his men although he had expected such attacks. Northern Ireland had drilled advanced tactical training into the regiments, yet they were shocked by the Germans who countered just as easily.
"Fire!" he'd shouted. One by one they'd found their targets, the soldiers' blood squirting from their bodies and spattering formless graffiti against walls of buildings.
They'd thought they had them all trapped in that alley when suddenly from a rooftop a German soldier aimed his rifle at them.
"Watch out!" he screamed and dived, pulling Longman with him into an empty barn. Compton fired, but not before the German had fired first. With a cry he saw Cruikshank go down. At the same time the German tumbled from the roof, dead before he hit the ground.
He'd rushed into the alley again and dragged Cruikshank' body inside the doorway. Blood spurted from an open chest wound, spurting in his face, against the wall.
"Captain..."
Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. The young soldier's eyes had begun to glaze. With a sinking feeling Miller knew Cruikshank wasn't going to make it.
"Hey, don't talk, buddy." Miller opened the bloodied front of the jacket, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his bare hands. He wanted to scream at the soldier not to die, but he'd seen death before, an oldster in an alley in downtown Detroit. Cruikshank's life was ebbing out of him.
"My mama..."
"You are a hero, Cruikshank. We'll tell her that, okay? A hero, you hear me?"
Cruikshank tried to grab his shirt front, but his hands were lifeless. "Tell..." he started. He gave a bloodied gasp, then his body stilled. It was all over.
Miller closed the young man's eyes, remained kneeling by his side. Only then he heard Longman and Compton sobbing behind him. How could he tell them not to be upset or weep?
"He was my best buddy," Longman said.
"What do we tell his mama?" asked Compton.
How indeed, would they inform mothers, wives, sisters that a son, a husband, a brother died a hero in battle? How? They had to leave Cruikshank's body in that barn and continue fighting.
They suffered many casualties. The American dead had been buried in the cemetery outside the town. The men had made wooden crosses, with the soldier's name and rank on the cross. Later those crosses would be replaced by white gravestones. Their tags had been removed, held for safekeeping by the medical corps.
So much blood, so much death and destruction, the Germans suffering heavier casualties, surrendering eventually on the afternoon of the sixth day. And yet, Miller thought, it was only the beginning of their offences. They had to remain strong, fight, stay alive. War for them was just beginning.
Slowly he made his way down Hill 183 and joined Davis, Compton, Longman and Baxter, their radio-man.
June 17 1944
Dear Charlie
I hope this letter will reach you. It gets more difficult to send mail to the armed forces and to receive letters from the front.
Of course, if you are reading this letter, we assume you are alive and well and kicking some Jerry's butt over there.
Some news from the home front. Mama married Doctor Wachinski. She says at 55 there's still life in her, she's not over the hill. She'll draw the line at child-bearing though. After three of us, she's had enough, she says.
Little Evan is growing. He cried a lot especially after you left, but Mama says he's mostly calmed down now. At two he is a fast talker, a fast everything, it seems, according to Mama and Doctor Wachinski. She adores little Evan who calls her Grammy and Doctor Wachinski Grampy. Our little Charlie does too. Did you know Doctor Wachinski's name is Henry?
Charles sat bolt upright when he read that part, grinning to himself. Their father's name was Henry. What were the odds of marrying again, a person bearing the same name as the previous spouse?
Fancy marrying another Henry!
Yeah, just wait 'til I get home and kill him with my bare hands if he hurts a hair on her head, he muttered under his breath.
When you come home, don't kill poor Henry, okay? He's actually taking good care of Mama. She needs to be taken care of, you know? They love having Evan who seems drawn to water, Charlie. I honestly think both boys will become Olympic rowers, or Olympic something!
I saw the Normandy landings on the latest newsreel. There was great loss of life among the Brits, Canadians and our own US army, but the Allied forces gained a valuable foothold into France by securing the beach heads.
By now you are probably in the heartland of France! Take care, my dear brother. You are an excellent leader. You weren't coxswain of Washington State and West Point for nothing! There is greatness in you.
Charlie rested the letter on his lap after reading the last paragraph, taking a deep breath as he gazed at the light of the lantern. It was the third time he had read the letter, yet this paragraph warmed his heart every time. Edward had finally buried his old rancour at being unable to join the armed forces, climbing the military ladder, fighting on the front. Charlie felt good. He discerned none of the bitterness of Edward's previous communications, however subtle his brother had made it sound. He had forgiven Edward for marrying Lucy. It had been hard accepting that Lucy had chosen Edward, but time had healed his battered heart and dented ego. He was happy for them both, and even happier when they decided to name their second child for the sister they had lost.
Winonah is starting to walk now and looks a lot like little Charlie and Evan. Our Native American heritage is running strong in our family!
Please write back soon and let me know if you've found out anything about the mysterious Katrine du Pléssis, will you?
God be with you in these times
Love
Edward
Charlie folded the letter and carefully slid it back in its envelope. He had read it a few times since he received it, whenever they had time, like now. No doubt other soldiers were reading letters from home too.
The men were completely exhausted and welcomed the rest, knowing the fight was over for now. While they had gained an important advantage by vanquishing the Germans, their battles were far from over. They now had access into the south, ironically, away from Paris. Free France was further south. There were several towns to be liberated, and many smaller villages.
He was alone in the tent with a kerosene lantern the only light. He needed sleep, but couldn't really rest. He wrote two letters, but even after that he remained restless. Davis would come in shortly after a game of cards with several of the other privates and officers. They liked him. Charlie grinned. Robert usually acted as go-between whenever the men were too scared to approach him themselves.
He had to admit he hadn't given much thought to searching for Katrine du Pléssis. She was a civilian and not high on his list of priorities, his main one keeping his platoons alive. Sighing, he settled down to sleep, sliding into his mummy bag. Restless? He was sound asleep by the time Robert Davis entered the tent.
July 18 1944
At 0900 the following morning Captain Charles Miller made his way to the cemetery where the American soldiers were laid to rest. He knew that it would most likely be the last time he'd visit this part of the world. Vidouville would forever be remembered for the graveyard of the soldiers who had given their lives to liberate France.
Jacob "Shakes" Cruikshank was one special soldier. He been posted to the 5th Infantry Division in 1940 and had been a member of Miller's regiment since then. Cruikshank was like a naughty younger brother, but as well a soldier hardened by life. Charlie knew the official channels would be informing Cruikshank's mother, but he had written her a letter last night. Hopefully she would receive it.
Miller stopped in front of a cross, the one on which Compton had stuck the red diamond taken from Cruikshank's uniform. His name was carved neatly on the cross, along with his regiment number.
"You are in a good place now, Jacob," Miller murmured softly.
Charlie felt the anger rise in him, thinking about Winonah and Lansing who had died, leaving behind a little boy. The world was a crap place, he decided. No one was exempt from the tragedy of loss, from the will of a Higher Being to die at this time or that time, any age, any race, any creed, any class. His sister and her husband were still so young, they'd had the world at their feet.
Then suddenly. They were gone forever.
One moment Shakes Cruikshank covered the entrance to the alley. The next moment he went down. Charlie'd managed to pull Longman out of harm's way. Compton had been fast, but not before Jacob was shot. Miller remembered the cigarette always dangling form the side of Cruikshank's mouth, a memory that would always stay with him.
"Rest in peace, Shakes Cruikshank," Charlie said softly as he saluted the fallen soldier. When he looked up, he saw other infantrymen and officers standing by other graves, saying their last goodbyes to their fallen comrades.
When he returned to the base, he was surprised to see Colonel Drake waiting for him. Next to him stood Colonel Steinbauer and Ian Baxter with the radio equipment. Baxter saluted him, and he greeted Drake and Steinbauer in a stiff salute.
"Captain Miller, I have some news you might like," Drake began. "You sounded mighty disappointed during my last radio communication in St. Mere Eglise. Don't think I don't know! Well, now it seems you got your wish. The Fifth Infantry Division - our Red Diamonds - have been assigned to the Third Army. Do you know what - "
Captain Charles Anson Miller felt his heart give an unnatural lurch. He saluted again for good measure and smiled.
"We're serving under General George S. Patton!"
"Yes. Amen. Now for your new assignment. We have just received word from Allied High Command. Rather strange message. Seems they want the 10th regiment - your men, Captain - to divert before you join the Third Army - "
"Sir?"
"Special dispensation. A German garrison is stationed at a town called St. Clair. You are to advance there and liberate the town."
"St. Clair?"
"Yes, Captain. They have a strong Resistance movement there, but they need Allied relief. I understand the leader of that resistance cell is a woman who is on good footing with AHC. Good luck on your mission."
Charles Anson Miller stood still for long seconds as he watched Drake and Steinbauer leave. He didn't know what pleased him more - being part of Patton's Third Army or liberating a town called St. Clair. He had a sudden yearning to be back in Detroit rowing with Edward on a lake called St. Clair.
END CHAPTER SIX