CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Verdun, France - September 7 - 1944
Captain Miller reached Verdun at 0900, using the coordinates General Patton had given him via his aide. It was the one thing he couldn't tell Katrine when he spent time with her in Paris. The distance of 162 miles could be reached in about two and a half hours, but he had driven at a reasonable pace, allowing himself time to think about so many things. Katrine was foremost on his mind. She'd looked resigned that he had to leave, that their future was still uncertain.
He loved her. He wanted to take her home to the United States when the war was over. He wanted his mother, stepfather and brother to meet her. He wanted his little boy to see the woman whom he hoped would be a mother to Evan. He hoped so many things, wondering at the same time whether all the things would be realised. He prayed they would.
He wanted Katrine to be more than happy, for she deserved happiness after the trauma of losing her loved ones. From time to time he stole a glance at the simply wrought gold band on his left hand. Charles smiled. Katrine wore the same. The one time in his life he had done something impulsive. But Katrine had been overjoyed, even though she knew he'd be gone the next day.
He gave a sigh of relief when he approached the barracks, frowning when he saw tanks lined up, some fifty trucks parked along the dusty road. Soldiers and officers milled about, some lazing against jeeps and buildings, smoking Camels and playing cards. He stopped alongside the first soldiers ambling along the road, their rifles slung over their shoulders.
"Hey!"
Instantly they stopped and saluted.
"Captain, sir!"
"What's going on! The town was liberated, wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Then why are the Red Diamonds and the 9Oth Infantry Division hanging about?"
Before they could answer, he heard screams from one of the trucks, several soldiers jumping off and running towards him.
"Captain Miller! Welcome back!" shouted Francis Longman. "Boy, are we glad to see you!"
"Yeah, we missed you, Cappy," added Compton. Linklater, Miller noticed, saluted him with a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.
"Good to have ya back, Cappy!" he crowed.
"Holy mackerel!" Compton shouted, his eyes glued to Miller's hand. "What happened to your goddam hand, Captain?"
Miller, a little bewildered, looked at his hand, then realised what had excited Private Compton so. They'd seen his ring and their eyes popped.
"No comment, boys."
"As in 'Shut up, it's none of your business' no comment?" Linklater asked.
"Exactly. Now, why are you all still stuck in Verdun?"
"Well, sir, it's like this, sir. We licked them Jerries. Took us ten days to control the town. All them trucks drove from Paris, from Metz, from goddam all over to assist in the operations here. We didn't lose a single Red Diamond, sir!"
"You didn't answer my question, Compton."
"Oh, yeah. We - uh - ran out of gas, sir."
Charles Miller sputtered first, then tried hard to control the urge to laugh at the mournful look on Compton's face. But it was serious business. He had to get to his commander to get the full details, then head to his tent where he could freshen up.
Half an hour later, Colonel Drake apprised him of the current situation. Because they'd advanced so rapidly across France, pushing back the Germans, by the end of August, the XX Corps were practically crippled by the gasoline shortage.
"We've been sitting here for a week, Captain, waiting to refuel. Also, something has arrived for your company from Allied High Command. They believe your troops have distinguished themselves in the field and therefore, you are to lead the charge.
Miller clicked his heels and saluted, then hurried to the provisions trucks.
"Captain Miller! We've been waiting for you. This crate arrived all the way from Springfield, Massachusetts with the blessing of AHC."
"Thanks."
The crate was lowered to the ground and the young soldier in charge of munitions grinned from ear to ear when he took the crowbar and heaved the lid off the crate. Inside were several M1 - Garand rifles with new state of the art scopes. Miller lifted one rifle with its scope. When he lined the scope to a point at the end of the road, he exclaimed, "Hot damn!"
"Yeah, I guessed as much. Says here there are six rifles, Captain. Tell your men to turn in their old rifles. These ones are going to shoot the pea off the princess's head."
"You mean, William Tell shooting the apple off his son's head?"
"That too!"
Miller laughed, then left to round up his small team of snipers. He could already imagine Compton and Longman shooting coyotes on their farms using the M1 Garand with its new and improved super scope.
"Scope lenses designed by Bausch & Lomb. This time it's fixed to eliminate sudden movement, preserving the scope's alignment."
"Oh, this is way better than my baby at home," Longman boasted. "And you say we're going to have to take out targets at least a thousand yards away, Cappy?"
"Yes, if it comes to that. But remember - "
"I know! The bullet loses speed at that distance, will drop a few yards," said Compton. "That means - "
"We have to be at a height of at least five yards, or - "
"If the target is too high, we might have to be way below that to line it up," Linklater added.
Davis and Miller let the boys talk. They had a firm grasp on what was required, knew their weapons intimately, the technobabble understood only by those who'd handled specialised weapons. The new M1 Garand had only a few modifications, but it was the scope that had undergone improvements. Miller had tested the scope earlier and was amazed by the clarity and increased zoom facility.
"We need another trooper to fire our sixth rifle. Any ideas?" Miller asked them.
Linklater who was stroking the barrel of his weapon, the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from his mouth, spoke without looking up.
"That spawn who was so shit scared of you, the one who brought you the letter when we left St. Clair - "
"Frazier Riley. Almost peed in his pants when he stood in front of Cappy."
"Yes, that's the one," Miller said. "What about him?"
"Well, Captain," Davis intervened finally after he too had polished his already shiny rifle and scope, "Riley trained with another special ops platoon, specialising in gun management. Hey, he's good with grenade launchers too. Very accurate. Good shot, great eye, if you ask me."
"We'll test him at target practice, Cappy," said Longman. "I think he could be the real deal."
"Get him for me. Leave his rifle here. I want to talk to him first. Dismissed."
They all saluted. Captain Miller sat in the tent designated as his office and spent the next few minutes studying the specs of the rifle once again. Allied High Command had great faith in his company to entrust them with taking out the enemy at strategic points, especially bridges and look-out towers. They'd done solid work in Coumond, Vidouville, St. Clair and Paris. He guessed General Patton had something to do with the new developments. It was a good decision, he reckoned. Paris and Verdun had been subjected to very heavy fighting. He had reason to think that it could get much worse the closer they advanced to Germany. Snipers were going to be the trump card in future warfare. He should remember to tell his brother that once he was back on American soil. Right now, all strategic information was highly classified.
They had amateur photographers in all units who'd assist in recording events for posterity. This was a war, he thought, no one should forget. Too many soldiers had given their lives for the cause. They should be remembered.
There was a knock on the wooden plaque against the tent pole.
"Come."
The very scared Frazier Riley entered, stood at attention and saluted.
"You called me, Captain, sir!
"At ease before you sprain something. I won't bite."
Miller gazed up at the young man whose eagerness shone in his face. The boys had probably told him about their mission. He could use another crack shot.
"You shoot?"
"Yes, sir. National rifle champion for three years. Waiting for the next Olympics, sir."
"Good. We have a job for you. How would you like being part of my team of snipers?"
"Sir! That would be a great honour, sir!"
"Fine. Let's go!"
"Sir?"
"You say you're a good marksman. I have to test you. Come."
"Thank you, sir! I will not disappoint you, sir!"
"You'd better not. Between you and your target stands death."
Miller handed him the new M1 Garand rifle. Riley whistled through his teeth.
"Sorry, sir. Wow!" Riley stroked the barrel pretty much as Charles had seen the others do. He had a feeling the test was going to be a success.
They walked outside to the nearest open field. His boys had already set up target practice posts with cans on them.
Half an hour later Miller was convinced.
Ardennes Offensive [Battle of the Bulge] 16 Dec.1944 - 25 Jan. 1945
The cold ate into his bones despite the thick army coat he wore. In the past four months it had snowed more or less every day. His fingers were so stiff he had difficulty holding his pen, sitting alone in his tent while the rest of his company were spread out in the thicket.
The Ardennes Forest.
He had never experienced a wooded region so impassable. From being inactive because of their gasoline shortage, their tanks and trucks struggled to find routes through the dense woods. They had not expected the Germans to pose such a daunting defence against the Allied Forces. For months they'd battled the enemy who'd launched a surprise attack on the Allies through the impenetrable forest. The senior officers of their regiments hadn't seen it coming, and if they'd known, they'd ignored it. Sgt Holling, his radioman, had been right. The coded messages he'd intercepted and decoded had all but been ignored back in September by the top brass. They'd thought it would be impossible for the Germans to continue sustained attacks in the Ardennes.
His journal for the period started with "The Germans are a formidable foe whom we underestimated. To beat them back cost us too many American lives."
It had been in mid-September, just after they'd secured a shallow bridgehead across the Moselle River, that his new radioman had approached him in his tent.
"What is it, Sgt Holling?"
"Captain Miller, I think you should see this."
Loaded with his radio gear and a few sheets of paper, he stepped forward to the makeshift desk. He put the radio down and handed the papers to Miller.
Miller studied the papers then frowned heavily.
"Is this what I think it is, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir." Holling smiled grimly.
"You have intercepted radio communication from German Headquarters to their troops on the ground?"
"Yes, sir. They are - "
"Planning to attack through the Ardennes, a very thick forest populated by trees of every description. How do they plan to do that?"
"That is as far as I could decrypt their coded message, Captain. I think it is important."
"Come with me," Miller stated as he rose from the desk.
He hadn't thought they'd run into objections when they faced s is General Irwin, who shot it down as a ruse to make them think the Germans were going to advance through the dense forests of the Ardennes. How could they do that, anyway, when there were no roads, only a few paths?
"We cut across northern France in record time, enough to have been crippled by the fuel shortage at Verdun. We defeated the Germans in France. There is no reason we cannot hold them off now that we have refuelled and our fuel supplies are not far behind us."
"I think this is serious, General."
"Captain, I understand your concern. But it's nothing to worry about. We move ahead according to our plans. Is that clear?"
Later Miller said to Holling. "Keep those messages. I think we're in deep trouble."
"It means we're not going to be ready."
"You can say that again. But, we are here to - "
"Follow orders, Captain. I understand."
Captain Miller pulled himself back to the present and peered into the semi-dark. Snow weighed down the branches of the giant spruce trees and Douglas firs - a white landscape pockmarked by trees as far as the eye could see. Cold and snow and trees. He looked at a copse of birches - tall, thin rods pressed into the thick layers of snow. They reminded him of Day of the Dead Dolls, skulls with black holes for their eyes staring at him. He saw the faces of his men staring through those grotesque eyes.
Miller gave a groan of pain as he tried to shut out images of their twisted bodies as they lay on the blood-spattered snow, ugly red blood seeping into the ground, swelling around the fallen. But they kept coming and he wondered whether the images and the memory of dead and dying, of panzers felling trees like they were tooth picks, of the enemy in their faces, would ever leave him. Every birch with its black nodes where branches had fallen off looked like men who had died. The XX Corps of the Third Army had paid a heavy price for the over confidence of its leaders. No one was going to want to be accountable for the loss of so many lives.
While they'd defeated the enemy, it had taken them months to push through the Ardennes, with many of their men dead or taken prisoners of war.
Miller sighed. They were nearing the end, he was sure of that. He badly wanted to tell Edward of his feelings, the harrowing nightmares, his own actions and combats. So badly. So he'd taken to do what a number of his closest troops were doing - storing every image, every event, every death of a colleague in an outpouring of words in a journal.
"I lost one of my best men today," he'd written in December, on Christmas day. Miller forced himself to revisit that day, that hour when fierce fighting had continued for weeks...
Ardenwecht - December 21 1944
"Hold that line, Compton!" he shouted. They trudged almost knee-deep in the unforgiving snow that fell in unending silence. Their tanks struggled through the narrow path they'd forged.
"Yes, sir!" Compton yelled as bullets flew about them. They ducked behind trees, finding their targets with ease. Riley proved invaluable as he could line up targets at short range. At the outside left flank, Davis and his men fought like hell to break the impasse.
"Duck!" he shouted as German helmets came into view and he fired. The bullet penetrated the soldier's helmet and he fell to the ground, dead. For a moment Miller was glad that he'd suffered only a concussion when a German bullet ricocheted off his helmet.
Struggling to maintain his balance, he darted forward behind another tree. He saw Compton, Riley and Linklater doing the same. Then all hell broke loose as a German panzer broke through at three hundred yards, their line of sight obscured by the trees. But to his surprise the panzer cannon aimed at the trees.
As if in slow motion the action unfurled before him. Massive trunks and branches split into hundreds of giant splinters.
"Riley, now!"
"Got him, Captain!"
Riley carried a portable grenade launcher, lining it up to take aim at the panzer.
"Fire now!"
Riley fired. The grenade propelled directly for the cannon. It hit the nozzle, the force taking it deep in before it exploded. The panzer lifted off the ground, creating a spray of snowflakes as it settled again.
"Grenades!" he screamed. The hurled their grenades, disabling any further movement of the panzer. They fired as the soldiers lifted the hatch to escape the burning vehicle.
"Captain! Over here!" Compton shouted. As tall and strong as Compton was, Miller saw his best marksman's face red, nose running and looking like he would cry.
His heart thudded wildly as he ran towards the trees struck by the panzer. Then he screamed.
"Linklater!"
He knew Riley and Longman were safe. It had to be Eugene Linklater, his chain-smoking sniper.
"He's still alive, Cappy!" Compton shouted in the lull during the fighting.
He sank down next to the stricken Linklater. "Go, Compton, Riley. Cover us."
"Captain?"
Compton appeared stricken and Riley shook his head.
"Go kill those sons-of-bitches!"
He hardly noticed that they'd scurried off as he looked at Linklater. The young soldier was a mess. His legs had been blown off and a thick sliver of wood from a branch had pierced his chest right through. Linklater was dying, his blood pouring from open wounds.
"Hold on there, Link, okay?"
"Sorry, Cappy, end...of...the...road...for me," he breathed, blood from his chest, mouth and legs staining the snow in a deep dark red.
Linklater tried to lift his head, his speech slow and laboured.
"No...don't pull out the wood, Captain. It's over. Been...a bloody...good fight."
"Stay with me, Link. We'll get you to the stretchers."
"Over, Cappy. Cappy?"
He could see Linklater going. His eyes were beginning to glaze. "Cig...cig..."
From Linklater's pocket Miller retrieved a cigarette and matches. Lighting one, he placed it between Link's lips. The dying soldier took a puff before the cigarette fell limply from his mouth. Charles bit his lip to stop from screaming.
"Cappy?"
"Yes?"
"Let Sandrine know, okay? I wanted...to live...for her..."
Linklater's eyes closed slowly as he breathed his last. He sagged back limply. Miller pulled the splint from Link's chest then hauled him into his arms, clutching the dead soldier tightly as he cried out, "God damn you all!"
He had to leave Linklater behind. As he ran to join the others, he passed dead bodies sown all over the pristine snow, blood soaking into the ground.
Throughout the night, the heavy fighting continued. Their boots crunched in the snow as they engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Miller fought like a demon, the broken bodies of Linklater and other soldiers of the Red Diamonds constantly flashing like an old silent movie in his head. And the organ accompaniment became the thunderous firing of tanks, bombs, grenades. The noise remained in his head as the images rolled by unrelentingly by.
He was no longer aware of the rage that caused his facial muscles to spasm as he twisted the necks of the Krauts. He dropped the dead bodies in the same moment that he raised his rifle and fired at Germans rushing at them from every tree, popping their heads out of every ditch in their push forward towards Liège.
In the early hours of the morning, the noise receded, the blazing guns dimmed. Germans lay everywhere, their bodies contorted in grotesque imitations of evil dead puppets staring with unseeing eyes at the dark skies. Men from the XX Corps also lay there, their dead bodies no different from those of the enemy scattered everywhere in the Ardennes Forest. Firing had died down almost completely. Only in the distance could he hear the sounds of bombs, aerial attacks, tanks blown up. Those sounds were far away, he reckoned, like echoes in a deep wood. Only, the echoes remained in his head that wanted to burst from witnessing too much.
Slowly he recalled his men to regroup. No army tents to offer comfort from the cold, to let surviving troops mull over those comrades they'd lost, about what they too had seen and heard, of trees felled like toothpicks by German panzers, of bodies blown up...
He crept into a ditch. Davis, he knew, was nearby in out of the wind. It had stopped snowing. Their heavy coats and woollen sleeping bags, carried with their back packs while fighting occurred, had to do while they bivouacked until morning broke grey over the tops of the trees. The only sound was lumps of snow sliding off branches and thudding softly to the ground.
"Captain..."
Compton's voice close to him.
"Yeah?"
"Linklater wanted to marry Sandrine Desmarais."
Miller sighed. "I know. I will write to Lamine Bhoutayeb to inform her. She understands very little English and he can translate."
"Are you okay, Cappy?"
"You worried about your Captain? Is that a first?"
"I'm always worried, Cappy. Might not look like it."
"Anything else?" Miller asked.
"I was next to Linklater when he got blown. It should have been me..."
"What the hell are you saying, Compton?"
"Just that at the last moment, when the German tank fired, he pushed me out of the way. He saved my life. It should have been me..."
Then Compton did something Miller had never seen him do. He began to cry - deep, hard, noisy sobs that wracked his wiry frame. It was an unapologetic weeping that more than anything else, was the collective pent-up release of trauma he'd witnessed from the moment they'd stepped on French soil. Miller moved closer to Compton but didn't touch the young marksman. Rather he let Compton cry until the wretched sobbing subsided.
War in the Ardennes Forest was a horror show, a theatre of unimagined hostilities, carnage so gruesome that the images of broken bodies played relentlessly on the minds of soldiers. All his men who'd survived the last eighteen hours of bloodshed and seen their best friends and comrades die would need some kind of counselling, a solace he felt inadequate to provide, although he tried his best. He made a mental note to speak to the regiment's chaplains to counsel his distraught troops. Many of the enlisted soldiers were only eighteen or nineteen when they had joined the regiment in 1940 and played war games on the fields of Fort McClellan, Iceland and Northern Ireland. In Europe, the reality hit them like the very bullets they spent killing the enemy.
He was a captain, hardened by years of discipline and command honed on Lake Washington throughout his university rowing days. He could internalise his grief at seeing comrades die, many of whom had been under his command since the 5th Infantry Division was activated. He suppressed his traumas and presented the tough exterior they expected from their commanding officers. The soldiers needed help first; his own needs took a back seat to those of the injured, the distraught, the dying.
Compton would have to live with the memory of his best friend taking a bullet for him. That was not an easy burden to bear.
He looked at the accident -prone soldier and gripped his shoulder in a reassuring gesture.
"You'll be alright, Compton. Try not to think of broken bodies in the snow, but rather that they died heroically, just like you engage in acts of heroism and will continue to do so."
"I'm gonna miss him. Sorry for bawling like that."
"You're allowed to grieve. Don't think guys aren't supposed to, okay? We still have a way to go in this war. You're going to engage, you're going to line up the enemy in your scope with those crazy super good lenses and every time you hit your target, it's to honour your comrades who died."
"You put that very well, sir. Longman would say that's ironic. What about you?"
"What about me? I don't count - "
"Now that's goddam madness! You went out there after Link died and I swear to God Almighty you were taking revenge, so goddam crazy you were. Twisting them Jerries' necks like that. What must they be thinking..."
Miller chuckled. He patted Compton's shoulder. "Know what, Compton? I think you're going to be alright."
Compton thought he would remember for the rest of his life how his friends had died and he'd remained alive. He made a silent vow to shoot every goddam coyote that troubled their livestock on their farm in Iowa, and every goddam coyote would look like a giant swastika. Yeah, he thought, he'd enjoy taking revenge on vermin.
Remagen - March 1945
When they'd advanced to Metz to relieve that city, they'd been successful with little loss of life. The troops had been upbeat then, especially after they'd been bolstered by the presence of Third Army leader General George S. Patton himself, whose battle cry "Go kill those sons-of-bitches" became their war cry too. So they'd vanquished the enemy, their snipers cutting open lines for the foot soldiers to move forward and engage in hand-to-hand combat. From time to time he'd hear his team "Damned sons-of-bitches" just like Patton blustered.
Now they trudged through the snow and ice and winter rain of the Ardennes, all the way from Metz northwards to Liège - a distance of roughly a hundred miles. They'd left Liège behind and were heading directly east towards the German border. At night, the trees took on an eerie landscape, becoming once again Day of the Dead Dolls with the faces of his men. Then Miller closed his eyes and forced away the grotesque images. Beautiful, ugly apparitions, tall ghosts enveloped in white snow, casting long shadows in the light of the moon.
He needed to speak with Katrine, or just be in her presence so that her very nearness could calm the raging demons in him. She would know what to do, how to bring peace to his battered soul. He missed her and every moment when there was a lull in the fighting or when they rested for much needed breaks in the evenings, he'd think of her. He saw her tentative smile that last morning when he left. They'd made love during the night. In the middle of the night, while she was sleeping, he got up and prepared to leave her home. Once again he couldn't say goodbye, although his heart ached at seeing the sadness in her eyes. He didn't want to hurt her, but he knew his Katrine. She was a fighter whose hardships had honed her to expect whatever the fates dealt her.
At night, they bivouacked in ditches, making the best of the icy conditions, the sleet, the rain, icicles hanging from branches. They marched through snow darkened by blood and knew it to be from Allied soldiers whose bodies had been carried away by litter bearers. Other times the lone body of a German soldier lay in the grotesque posture of the dead, contorted like dried grape wood branches.
So January crept into February, into March, when at last the sun came out, heralding the coming of spring, the fresh green branches of the birch trees, the giant oaks, the great Douglas firs standing tall. Their bones finally began to lose the icy coldness that had settled in them since Verdun.
They used their rations sparingly. It was a long way from A-Rations where they'd eat hot food in mess hall kitchens. They were used to eating on the fly, though. In a day or two their stocks would be replenished. He was dying to drink some of Katrine's Picard Shiraz or have a genuine steaming mug of tea, preferably sitting across a table from Katrine while she watched him enjoy his drink.
He missed her suddenly with a fierce, burning desire. He missed her cocky look when he lay awake in the morning and she'd been up for a while. He missed the lingering kiss that followed. He couldn't write her nor make any radio contact, lest they breach their own security. He looked at his left hand, frozen stiff from cold, finding it difficult to remove his ring. A simple gold wrought ring. His and Katrine's, on a hot summer's day when they'd decided to be impulsive. That day they'd looked deep into each other's eyes and made a vow.
"I will never, ever regret this, Katrine."
"Will you tell me about your ring?" Davis had asked not long after he'd reached Verdun in September.
"Katrine has an identical ring," he replied. Davis had smiled, understanding in his eyes.
"I don't know if I will make it home," he'd told Charles. "But I live in constant hope. I know Lynne is patiently waiting for me. I guess you feel the same about Katrine. Congratulations, Captain."
"Thanks. We both knew the risks and we were prepared to take them."
"I understand. You duty right now is to your command, to see the troops advance safely, be responsible for them."
"Katrine understands, believe me."
"I know. She is a very, very beautiful and spirited woman who has been strengthened by her loss."
After that, Davis had kept silent about the rings and let the troops continue to conjecture about their significance.
Now most of the time, they marched, resting a day or two occasionally before continuing. The German defence line had been breached by the combined US and British troops, but along the north they ferociously resisted Allied movement into Germany.
The men were cold but their spirits never dimmed in the onslaught. They had to cross the Rhine, find a way to open a path for their trucks and foot soldiers to cross...
Miller's company had been bolstered by the addition of sixty soldiers from the 90th Infantry Division. They would reach the end of the forest boundary and the German border within twenty four hours. Already as they marched, bomber planes droned past towards the east into Germany, clearing corridors for troop movements.
When the Red Diamonds reached a small village in the dead of night, they were beset by a restless calm. People remained indoors although Belgium had been liberated months ago except for the country's eastern border where they now found themselves.
Tents were pitched in double quick time. Several villagers who had ventured outside to the fields adjacent to some buildings brought warm milk, hot water and extra blankets. They assured the villagers they would return their blankets in the morning. The townspeople smiled, expressing their gratitude about the liberation of their country and the end of the persecution of Belgian Jews.
Miller's tent was comprised of a lantern, a folding table and a stretcher. He was dog tired but remained awake in case any soldier needed to speak with him. The chaplains had done wonders, simply encouraging the soldiers to talk about their troubles. Where possible, they performed last rites for dying soldiers.
In the early hours of the morning, Miller and Davis spoke to their men as they paraded for duty and new orders. The air was crisp, a biting cold still present. But after months of fighting in winter, they were barely aware of it.
"This is it, Red Diamonds. You have displayed great courage in the face of battle. We have lost many men and will hold them forever dear in our memories. Now We march towards the Rhine. Let me tell you, it will not be easy, never easy. This will be one of our most difficult incursions. In a few hours, we will cross into Germany. We will be joined by the US 9th Infantry Division making our way to the Rhine."
Miller paused. A young Private First Class raised his hand.
"Yes, Grayson?"
"Will we shoot those sons-of-bitches along the way?"
Patton's foot soldiers...
"You can bet on it. Dismissed!"
They crept silently over the German border twenty miles east of the village they'd left in the early hours of the morning. Like the turn of a penny the landscape changed. They'd left the forest behind, marching across green hills. In the distance they could see mountains, which Captain Miller knew to be the approach to the Rhineland region and the rich industrial Ruhr valley.
He'd been in conference with the Red Diamond leaders and the 9th Infantry Division. The plan of attack was to cross the Rhine, even if they had to swim. His men had joked about getting their feet wet once again crossing rivers with their backpacks on their heads.
Charlie knew from his WWI studies and intelligence sent to the two divisions, that virtually all the bridges across the Rhine had been destroyed by the Germans. To their surprise, however, Intelligence had determined that the bridge at Remagen was still standing. German engineers had cleverly designed it in such a way that the concrete structures of the bridge - the abutments and rail tracks - contained holes in which they could plant sticks of dynamite. That way they thwarted any attempt of the enemy to advance further into Germany. The Rhine was their last natural line of defence against the Allied Ground Forces. Meanwhile, bomber planes droned overhead in a constant stream of noise and explosions.
"A tactical error," muttered Miller in the conference. "They've just given us passage into Germany."
"Indeed," replied Colonel Drake. "We must make sure the bridgehead remains secure until all our ground troops and vehicles have crossed it."
"That should not be too difficult. Although we can assume the west bank to be heavily guarded, the east bank would most likely not have the same level of security."
Drake nodded, then continued.
"Each company has their own snipers, but Captain Miller's team will mark the left tower while snipers of the 9th will target the right tower."
Their companies moved with stealth along little hillocks that dotted the Remagen valley. It struck Miller that the ground was perfectly designed. It was uneven, almost terraced with jutting rocks that could have been part of the original landscape thousands of years ago. Now grass and shrubs and the occasional trees grew over them. It provided good cover for them on their approach to the bridge. He wondered how the German war room could have missed such a strategic entry point. "It's like he's saying we can come and get them." Charlie thought the Remagen incursion would be the subject of military debate long after the war was over.
They kept far out of sight of the town. When they had the towers in their sights, Miller used hand signals for his men to station themselves. The bridge was two hundred yards directly ahead of them.
"Gonna have to get into a goddam tree, Cappy," Compton mumbled. "I can see them loopholes in my scope. Holy mackerel! They could fit a whole platoon in there!"
"That's right, Compton. Assume the place is heavily guarded."
"We're taking out anything that moves on the roof of the left tower. The 9th's snipers will do the same on the right."
Miller, Davis and Riley found good positions to brace their M1s while Compton and Longman targeted the loopholes on the walls of the tower, designed so that German soldiers could fire through them at the enemy. Riley also positioned his grenade launcher which he had been given after Miller discovered belatedly that the young marksman had a very good, accurate eye. Everywhere, men of the 9th and 5th divisions were lying more or less hidden in the grass and behind shrubs and rocks.
As the Red Diamonds and men of the 9th Infantry Division settled into position, the first shot rang out. Miller saw the flash from one of the loopholes.
"Damn!" he muttered as he saw one of his men go down. Then all hell broke loose.
He lined his scope and aimed for the Germans on the roof of the tower. In the sunlight they could be spotted easily as their buckles, badges and buttons flashed. One by one they went down, some plunging from the tower. On the right tower, soldiers also fell like flies. As soon as a brass button glinted in the sun, they took aim.
Bullets thudded into the turf close to him. Someone cried out, then ducked behind a bush.
Meanwhile Frazier Riley, three times national rifle champion, had primed his M1 Garand by attaching his M7 grenade launcher to the muzzle of his rifle. He'd already inserted the blank cartridges that would propel the grenade 200 yards, his distance from the left tower.
"Riley! Now!"
"I'm on it, Captain!" Riley responded as he rushed a few feet forward while the rest of the platoon covered him. He had to aim accurately as he dug the rifle butt into the ground and fired. The grenade propelled from the launcher at great speed.
Miller hoped Riley had calculated his distance to within an inch of its target. The grenade popped into the largest loophole. A terrific boom echoed as the grenade exploded. On the other side the same thing happened.
"Bull's eye!"
Then suddenly, shots were fired from their left flank.
"Damn!" Miller shouted as he ducked and dived for cover, shooting at the unknown assailants from the river bank. Bullets whizzed past him. As they countered the new offensive from the enemy, they crept forward slowly, gaining valuable ground. Riley launched another grenade, aiming for the river bank to their left. Another loud boom. Still, shots continued from all directions.
Miller heard a scream as another soldier went down. Longman and Compton who had taken up position in two large trees had better visuals, and calmly took out one after the other.
Then it happened.
A young private fell about fifteen yards from his position. The soldier screamed as he clutched at his stomach. Robert Davis rushed forward to take up position next to the fallen, firing while he ran. He was going to drag the soldier to relative safety. Miller heard the ping sound of a grenade launched by the enemy from behind the river bank.
"Take cover, everyone!" he yelled at the men. The projectile arced in their direction.
"Davis! Goddammit! Look out! Look out!"
Miller fell down burying his face in the ground and covering his head. Rifle grenade...fatality radius eleven yards... The boom rent the air as smoke and shrapnel shot in all directions. A silence followed before he heard Longman shout.
"Goddam you sons-of-bitches!"
He began firing again as he slid down the branches and rushed forward. Compton followed and with him, three or four of his men, shooting at the last of the Germans who were hidden behind the riverbank.
While Compton and Longman and other ran towards the river, shots were still fired at them from the river's edge. In their droves, men of the 9th and 5th rushed forward, cornering the remaining Germans trapped at the river bank.
Miller ran to where he'd last seen Davis. The young soldier - from the 90th regiment on loan to the 5th - lay dead, limbs torn from his body. There was nothing he could do for the young man.
"Davis!"
A bullet whizzed past him and another bit the ground just in front of him as he ran toward his comrade. Davis seemed unconscious but Miller flung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed his comrade by the arms and literally dragged him back, down a little hillock where they were out of the firing line.
Davis was still alive, but severely injured. His left leg had been hit by shrapnel and grenade casing. Shrapnel had also pierced his upper thighs and arm. His hair was singed and burn marks stained his left cheek. Davis groaned as he came to. He was in great pain.
"Captain..."
"Hang in there, Robert," Miller said, using his given name.
"Did we win this sortie?" he asked, his eyes threatening to close again.
The firing had died down. Occasionally shots could be heard. Compton, Riley and Longman were aiming at the towers on the east bank of the river, a clear 380 yards, well within their capabilities. Their new M1s were effective. Already their tanks, trucks and gun carriages were readying to cross the Rhine.
Miller nodded, then said, "I guess we have."
"I'm glad."
"The litter bearers will be here shortly."
"My leg, Captain. It's gone, I guess."
Miller looked at Davis's leg. It was in very bad shape. It would have to be amputated. He gave a sigh.
"Right, Captain?"
"I'm afraid so. I'm sorry."
"Was hoping to see out the end of the war, to battle to the very end." Davis gave a cry of pain. Miller gripped the stricken officer's hand in his.
"You have been courageous, Robert. Never forget that."
Davis was fast losing consciousness. Miller heard a rush up the hill and sighed with relief as the first of the stretcher bearers arrived. He stayed with Davis until he was carried away to the ambulances and the field hospital set up just outside the town of Remagen. Mercifully there were no German soldiers on patrol there, as one of the field nurses assured him.
"We'll take good care of him, Captain, though I don't mind telling you that - "
" - his leg will be amputated."
"Your comrade in arms is going home, Captain."
5th Infantry Division
10th regiment
Company A
March 17 1945
Dear Admiral Davis
By now you will have received the news that your son Lieutenant Robert Sinclair Davis has been injured in combat and has been given a medical discharge. His injuries were such that his leg had to be amputated.
Lieutenant Davis has borne his trauma well. I can attest that he has displayed the highest act of bravery which has resulted in his injuries. He has assured me that he does not believe his disability to have any negative impact on his life, other than that he may no longer be on active duty for the United States Army.
Charles paused and bit the top of his pen. He thought of the day, a week after they'd secured the Remagen bridgehead, when he'd gone to see the injured soldiers at the field hospital. There were many from both regiments, most of whom would be heading for home in the United States.
Meanwhile three other regiments had also made their way across the Remagen bridge, all from the XX Corps.
He'd stopped by Davis's bed. He was sitting up, one arm in a sling, a bandage around his head, one leg swinging over the side.
"Hey..."
Davis saluted, making Miller think of the day General Patton had visited him at the field hospital. For a soldier who had been injured, Davis's piercing blue eyes were clear, almost upbeat.
"Captain!"
"How are you doing, Lieutenant?"
"In the circumstances, very well. I'll have to use crutches to get by until I'm back in the States. Then I'll have a prosthesis fitted."
"It's not going to stop you from being mobile and active again, right?"
Davis had given him a long, penetrating look.
"Captain, your brother is disabled as a result of polio. That did not stop him from being active. You once told me how the two of you rowed on Lake St. Clair. There is nothing wrong with his arms and upper body, his eyes and ears. You told me how he wasn't limited by callipers and crutches..."
Miller had smiled. It was an evening in which they'd exchanged pleasantries that drifted to home and longing.
"Yes, I did. I am proud of my brother."
"I guess I could say Somebody up there has a greater purpose or plan for my life. I simply think I was lucky. Hundreds of our soldiers died for this cause, Captain. Many hundreds more suffered debilitating injuries worse than mine. Like me, they will have to get by with prosthetics. Look at the young soldier over there. His arm was amputated. They tried to save it, you know? I can tie my laces, close a button, anything that needs tying. He will have to learn an altogether new way of doing things that we take for granted." Davis paused, but he wasn't finished. "Douglas Bader lost both his legs in '31and yet he was still able to fly a bomber craft. What is this?" Davis had asked, pointing to his stump. "It's just a stump, Captain. It's not going to stop me doing things..."
"You have a very positive attitude, my friend. I am glad - "
"Besides, if you'd been anywhere else on that little hill of the Remagen Valley, I'd have bled to death. Yes, I was told you dragged my body out of the line of fire."
"It's what a soldier does, Davis."
"Then I guess my life belongs to you!" Davis had given a broad grin. "Don't worry about me, Captain. I won't be standing still when I'm back in the States."
Lieutenant Davis has displayed the same steely determination to recover and his philosophy to succeed despite his injury is admirable. I am tremendously proud of your son. He has received several commendations for bravery in combat and his resilience to bounce back regardless is what has and will still define your son.
I could not have asked for a better second-in-command, a more dedicated officer and gentleman in Lieutenant Davis. I am honoured to have served with him.
Yours sincerely
Captain Charles Anson Miller
By the time Admiral Davis received the letter, Miller thought, they would have advanced further into Germany. Germany might have been defeated by then. He was glad that he'd written, because he wanted Robert's father to see the good man his son was, that he was a man of valour, of daring and a damned great marksman. He was going to miss his second-in-command. Already a new officer had been appointed by the Division's leadership. Men of the 5th all possessed the heart of a lion. They would fight and fight hard. Lieutenant Andrew Hemmings was tough as nails.
By the 17th of March, most of the four Infantry divisions had crossed the bridge at Remagen. Aerial battles still raged and the Germans had tried to blow up the bridge several times. American teams of engineers and servicemen worked tirelessly to restore the broken steel cables, the tracks, the log planks over the tracks that allowed vehicular traffic across. Hundreds of trucks, gun carriages, jeeps, tanks, supply vehicles and thousands of infantrymen had crossed Remagen's bridge. While they were building a second pontoon bridge, the original bridge provided passage for the rest of the First Army.
Charlie closed his eyes. It had to happen, eventually. The bridge had finally collapsed completely, killing twenty eight and wounding sixty three engineers.
Their regiments had headed towards the nearest city, Cologne. There they fought off a belligerent German battalion and captured the city. Prisoners of war were held at a nearby camp where they'd freed French soldiers who'd been captured in France 1940 and brought to Cologne. It was a reversal of circumstances where the freed Frenchmen together with a platoon of the Red Diamonds became the guards.
The few days respite gave Charles the opportunity to study his French from the book Katrine had given him. Even while they marched, he'd practice silently, running phrases over and over in his head. He missed her every day. He prayed that he would never stop missing her, for then their love would begin to dim and he didn't want that to happen. Not ever. Even as he thought about her, his heart began to hammer, causing him to become breathless. For a moment he felt dizzy. He relaxed and the dizziness passed.
He thought of home. Home was an ocean away, yet he could still hear Evan's voice, clear as a bell, and Mama's voice, always strong, tinged with love and concern. He wanted to be in his in his family's company listening to them, just listening, for he missed the comfort of voices.
He wrote in his journal...
"There are times I see the fear in a young German's eyes just before my bullet pierces his heart and I feel a momentary regret that I have killed him. As soldiers and officers we are trained to understand the rules of engagement. An infantryman wept when he killed a young German soldier. We are engaged in open hostilities in a theatre of war. Did he murder the German? Sometimes these thoughts tend to strike anyone of us and plunge us into an unholy depression, because we are wracked by doubt that killing on the field of battle could not be justified by a declaration of war.
I see in front of me the enemy who would kill me if I didn't kill him first. I need to protect myself in order that I can continue to lead my troops. I have to see an innocent young German foot soldier carrying out der Führer's orders as just that: he is the enemy. I lost very good men to death, to serious injury. I will remember them always, for it is impossible to forget men and comrades who had lived side by side with me for almost five years.
I feel the end of hostilities is very near.
END CHAPTER FIFTEEN