My defensive position had come down to a final, desperate melee.
"Brothers! Warriors! Fix bayonets—prepare for close-quarters combat!" I roared.
"Fix bayonets! Prepare for hand-to-hand!" the men around me echoed, slapping bayonets into place as they braced for the onrushing Germans.
Every American infantryman's rifle was fitted with a bayonet, and our training at the Army Training Center included rigorous hand-to-hand combat drills. In actual battles, however, superior firepower usually tipped the scales—machine guns, mortars, and artillery meant large-scale bayonet charges were rare.
Don't underestimate an American with a bayonet. Chinese troops fighting the Japanese often practiced bayonet assaults in nearly every engagement—so on the surface, they seemed more experienced at knife-fighting. Yet during the Korean War, it frequently took three Chinese volunteers working together to subdue a single American soldier. Not only did Western soldiers enjoy a physical advantage, but this also proved that U.S. bayonet-fighting skills were by no means inferior.
Now the Germans were so close we could reach out and touch them. I'd always hated close-quarters fighting, but at this point we had no choice. We were down to barely forty men, and the Germans were about the same. It was a clash of wills to see who would break through the other's last line of defense first.
"Charge!" At the blast of the bugle, I surged forward.
My bayonet gleamed in the morning sun as it drove into a German soldier's chest. Instantly, we erupted into a brutal, life-or-death struggle—half of our men fell into mud and blood. At the last second, I twisted aside; otherwise his bayonet would have driven up from my abdomen into my chest. He slashed me in return, carving a deep gash across my belly—though it missed my intestines. He was in no better shape: as our blades crossed, I'd ripped open his thigh, and blood spurted from a severed artery. We were both wounded, but neither of us could stop to bandage. We panted, eyes locked, each waiting for the next lethal strike.
In that first exchange, we were evenly matched. Even though I was bleeding, my movement wasn't impeded. I gripped my bayonet, took a half-step back, crouching slightly to spring forward again. The German, his bayonet angled upward, blocked every possible attack.
"Goddamn it—kill him!" I bellowed, summoning all my remaining strength. I thrust my bayonet like a spear. He barely had time to react—he caught the rifle stock instead of the blade, and I shoved him off balance. He went sprawling to the ground. Before he could recover, I yanked off my steel helmet and smashed it into his face again and again, until his skull was a ruin. He finally stopped moving.
The enemy in front of me was gone. I, however, had burned through every ounce of energy, collapsing onto the ground, gasping for air. Pain lanced through my abdomen; sweat and blood mixed across my face.
"Damn it—never again will I go bayonet to bayonet with anyone!" I snarled under my breath.
"Captain! Captain!" someone yelled from behind.
Who was it? Damn—Donovan's voice. Of course it was him. I saw him, mud- caked and exhausted, leading twenty-odd men toward me. Donovan had fallen back from the flank to close in on me. His arrival was a sudden surge of hope—though I had no idea why the Germans on that flank hadn't pressed their attack. I didn't have time to wonder; I had to finish off the Germans still before me.
The remaining Germans fared no better. Even though they fought with desperate ferocity, the sight of Donovan's men joining the fight tipped the balance. Now we had more soldiers swarming them. In their eyes I saw equal measures of madness and despair.
"All right, Donovan! I'm good here—go help that bastard Winters!" I yelled through my ragged breathing. I could tell we were gaining the upper hand.
Meanwhile, Colonel Herbert's howitzer battery had begun hammering the Germans attacking Winters's position, easing some of the pressure on him. The enemy's mortar crews, under the onslaught of our counterbattery fire, were losing both firepower and manpower. Their offensive had become a desperate gamble.
"Charge! Charge!" A German officer, eyes blazing, led his remaining men forward—charging heedlessly, not sparing a thought for their own safety.
Winters lay by the machine gun, his chest already perforated. His lungs were shot; he was barely conscious, gasping for each ragged breath. In a weak voice he called out, "Fire back … don't let them get in … this is the damn Germans' last assault!"
"Yes, sir! Hang in there … God bless you!" a soldier replied, tears welling in his eyes—but then he realized tears were falling onto his grime-caked face, leaving a muddy streak. Embarrassed, he wiped it furiously with his sleeve, leaving a smear that looked even dirtier.
Winters opened his eyes slightly and managed a crooked, pained smile—only to cough up a mouthful of blood. Then, somehow, a spark ignited in his gaze. He bolted upright, gasping, and, looking in my direction, he screamed at the top of his lungs, "Captain … goodbye forever! May G…God… bless… you!" The words came out ragged. As soon as he finished, his body slackened. He slumped back, propped upright for a moment, then breathed his last.
Winters was dead—my calmest, most strategic subordinate: my weapons platoon sergeant and brother-in-arms. Gone.
When I realized it, I lost all control. A torrent of curses exploded from me like never before: "Goddamn Nazi sons of bitches! Fucking Kraut bastards! Nazi pricks! You animals! Go fuck yourselves and your Nazi bloodline!" Even I had never raged like this. My vision blurred red, and I choked back tears I'd thought were locked away. I believed I'd hardened myself against death—but no.
"Charge! Everybody still breathing, charge! Kill every last one!" Driven by Winters's death, I felt a frenzy overtake me. For that moment, the agony in my gut vanished. My only thought was to kill those Germans. The remaining enemy soldiers matched me with equal desperation; the same wild, hopeless look burned in their eyes.
The brutal melee raged on, directionless but for a single objective: annihilate these Germans, link up with Captain Turner's unit, and live to see another sunrise.
Meanwhile, on Turner's front, the fighting was equally fierce.
"Rat-tat-tat—"
"Damn Gemans!"
Captain Turner glared at the smoking machine gun, cursing. Just then, the gun jammed. He spun to the machine gunner. "Goddammit—what's wrong?"
"Sir, the barrel's shot out," the gunner said dejectedly.
"Swap it out—now!" Turner barked.
The gunner muttered, "Damn it, for the love of God, if only we had a tank, we wouldn't be busting our asses like this!"
Turner shot him a furious glare, then thundered at the lieutenant beside him, "Lieutenant Brant, make another assault! If you don't take that German machine-gun nest this time, you'll be standing in front of a court-martial!"
Lieutenant Brant cracked a cold smile. "Sir—if I don't get it, you won't see me coming back."
"All right, move out!" Turner turned to the mortar squad. "Mortars, zero in on that German machine-gun emplacement and pound it! I want those Krauts crawling out of their holes."
Boom—boom—boom—
High-explosive rounds slammed into the German machine-gun nest, kicking up a cloud of debris. Shell fragments shredded the trenches; dirt and splinters flew everywhere.
"Hit the deck! Americans are shelling us again!" a German sniper yelled. Every man in that trench dropped prone. There was nowhere to hide.
"The Americans are advancing!" The German lieutenant peered through a narrow firing slit at Brant's approaching men, then barked orders, "Hold your fire until I give the command!"
Brant's face hardened at the sight of his men crouching behind him. He clenched his fists and cursed under his breath: "Those damn Germans and their tricks…" Then he roared, "Keep low—don't give them a shot at you! Pick them off the moment you see them! And don't bother saving rounds!"
Through a periscope slit, the German lieutenant watched Brant's squad close the distance. Under his breath, he snarled, "Machine gun, get ready!" The MG42 gunner clicked off the safety and waited for the trigger.
"Three hundred meters … two hundred fifty … two hundred … one hundred fifty … one hundred meters!" A sniper, crouched to the side of the trench, called out each increment. With each count, the Germans' hearts sank a little more.
"Fire!" The lieutenant finally gritted out the order. The MG42 barked like a thunderclap ripping through the air.
In an instant, the lead American soldiers were shredded. Bodies went limp; two comrades covering each other a few yards back both took rounds to the skull. Brant's face turned lead-gray: "Hit the deck! Hit the deck!" he screamed, but his warning came a moment too late.
Captain Turner, peering through binoculars, bellowed to the mortar team, "Keep firing—pound them until not a single German dares lift his head!"
In this savage struggle, no stirring speeches could hide the chill of death. The sun slanted across the muddy ground, illuminating twisted helmets and mangled corpses. We fought with every last ounce of life in our bodies, determined to hold on, refusing to be erased.