I had to admire the German commander's audacity and cunning—daring to execute such a risky plan. If their ambushing force couldn't hold off my reinforcements, they would be forced to cut their losses or face total annihilation once my troops arrived. Of course, war admits no "ifs." Right now, I was barely hanging on. The Germans' frontal assault had knocked the wind out of me.
"What? Both of my armored cars have been knocked out? Damn you, Winters—I'll have you shot for this!" I roared into the handset.
"Sir," Winters' voice trembled, "the Germans attacking me number at least a company—and I've got no real defensive positions left. How do you expect me to hold them off?"
He wasn't wrong. Even I didn't know if I could stop that kind of firepower. The enemy had machine guns, mortars, an anti-tank gun, and marksmen picking us off. Normally, on flat terrain, Turner's company linking up with mine would solve every problem—but this ambush had severed our lines of retreat and thrown us into piecemeal combat.
I'd always thought that only a force with clear numerical advantage would dare attempt an encirclement. Yet here I was, living its nightmare. You can't see your friends; you can't gauge the strength of other detachments. All around you is the rattle of guns and the flash of enemy movement. Every German you glimpse—every one—could open fire or lob a grenade. You know there aren't that many of them, but each new apparition inflates their numbers in your mind until you feel utterly alone. At that point your spirit cracks. You contemplate surrender. That's exactly what this envelopment tactic is designed to provoke.
"Winters!" I slammed the phone down. "I'm sending you two more squads' worth of support. You hold out for twenty minutes—or you die under German shellfire!" My eyes burned red.
I turned to Hilton. "Hilton, move out—reinforce Winters now!"
My men gathered around, panic in their eyes.
"Brothers," I barked, "the captain says we've got twenty minutes to keep these bastards off, or he'll have me shot. So if you value my life, you hold them for twenty goddamn minutes!"
Mortar rounds rained onto Winters' little hill like hail. Dust columns blossomed with each impact, blotting out his view of the enemy lines. Still, he barked orders, sweeping his heavy machine gun across any flash he could see.
"Damn it, Manderly—bring me more belts!" Winters snapped.
"Sir, Manderly's down!" came the reply.
"My God—stop whining and fetch that ammo yourself!" Winters snarled.
Already seven gunners had fallen, and five barrels lay wrecked on the ground. But that gun sat fixed on the hill—it was our last vantage point. If it went silent, the Germans' fire would sweep right over us, and surrender would be the only option.
Across no man's land, the German officer in charge was losing his temper. His face was ashen beneath the steel helmet, pistol-level in hand as he urged his men on.
"For the Führer! For the Fatherland—kill the Americans!" he screamed.
"Deutschland über alles!" the line answered, charging like lunatics.
"Come on, you bastards—bring it on!" Winters roared, blood crusted around his mouth. There weren't many American soldiers left around him now, fingers dancing on the machine-gun trigger, the muzzle blaze cutting down wave after wave.
Rat-a-tat-tat—the storm of lead hurled German bodies back. Bullets punched ragged holes through them, turning uniforms into misty crimson blooms. One German staggered on, chest smoking from impact, before staggering again and collapsing—his rifle still pointed at us even in death.
"Hand me those grenades!" Winters yelled into the chaos. His squad tossed fragmentation canisters that hissed through the air. Boom, boom, boom packed the hilltop with steel and shrapnel—enough to slow the assault, if not stop it.
"Keep the assault going! Fire mortars! Destroy that machine gun nest!" the German officer roared.
Snap! A single rifle shot rang out, and the officer's head snapped back—the bullet entering with surgical precision. His men froze, glanced around, and realized the killer was a sniper lurking nearby.
"Sniper! Sniper!" they screamed.
On the flank, Job and Crane—were racing up the slope when the Germans zeroed their mortars on them. "Crane, move!" Job shouted. They'd barely gained cover when shells exploded around them.
"Take them out!" a German NCO bellowed, and a squad broke off to pursue them.
War was never just a duel. No matter how many you'd killed, your enemy still outnumbered you—when your friends lay dead, every extra heartbeat was just another moment borrowed. On this field, protecting your comrade meant protecting yourself. That was the iron law.
"Crane, cover me!" Job called as he reloaded.
Bang! A sniper round smashed into a German machine-gunner's chest like a hammer on leather. The gun bucked wildly, spraying rounds into empty air before clattering to silence.
"Move! Move!" Job urged, dragging Crane along.
German mortars readjusted. Their shells rained down on Job and Crane's trench. Three chief ways to deal with an enemy sniper: counter-sniper fire, artillery saturation, or sending infantry on a manhunt. The Germans tried all three.
Fragments ripped into Job's thigh—he collapsed, blood dark on mud. All around, German artillery was as fearsome as their tanks—Pak 18 105 mm howitzers and 170 mm field guns boasted superior range, accuracy, and punch to any Allied artillery. When the war ended, everyone scrambled to capture German designs first.
Most infamous of all was the Krupp 88 mm FlaK gun: equally deadly against air or ground targets. The Flak 88 shredded T-34s and Shermans alike. On Tiger I tanks, its KwK 36 L/56 cannon would obliterate an enemy vehicle with a single shot.
Then there was the Schwerer Gustav—an 800 mm railway cannon firing shells weighing several tons. Its roar shook the earth miles away, and at Sevastopol it hurled forty‐odd shells through thirty‐meter‐thick concrete. But after firing just over twenty rounds in its lifetime, Gustav was abandoned—its logistical nightmare outweighed its battlefield value.
I steadied myself on the ridge, tried to ignore the stench of sweat, blood, and cordite. The Germans still pressed in from all sides. But I had one last thought: No matter how deadly their weapons, we would stand or die together. And as long as a single American gun stayed hot, this hill was ours.