I lightly weighed the shoulder patch I'd ripped from the dead German's uniform—and my blood ran cold when I read it: "German 439th Soviet Volunteer Battalion." I never imagined that my first battle as a freshly commissioned officer would not be against German regulars but against Soviet POWs fighting under the German flag. And it had cost us six of our own dead and more than a dozen wounded before they finally chose to withdraw.
That hollow "victory" brought no joy—only a deep foreboding about facing actual German troops in the future. The 439th was hardly a frontline unit: it ranked near the bottom of a third-rate German defensive division. Its ranks were filled with Soviet prisoners of war who'd been pressed into service, plus a handful of ethnic Germans, all given only a few weeks of rushed training. Yet their combat performance had matched Third Company blow for blow. If these half-trained conscripts could hold us at bay, what hope would we have when we finally clashed with a truly elite German formation, man for man, rifle for rifle? I shivered at the thought.
In truth, the Omaha Beach landings—the linchpin of the entire Normandy campaign—succeeded only because the German High Command had badly miscalculated. They believed the Americans wouldn't dare attempt a full-scale landing on Omaha's rugged, cliff-backed shore. Our earlier feints farther to the west had drawn their reserves toward the "Gold" beaches, thinning their defenses at Omaha. When the real assault came, they realized too late they'd been duped.
The Allies had committed nearly 34,000 men and 3,300 fighting vehicles to seize Omaha, supported by a naval armada: two battleships, three cruisers, twelve destroyers, and 105 assorted support vessels. Most of those ships belonged to the U.S. Navy, though a handful flew Union Jacks or the Free French tricolor. To actually secure the beachhead, the Americans threw in roughly 10,000 GIs, some 1,000 vehicles, and fifty tanks. With such overwhelming force, planners assumed they could shatter the few German units stationed there within five hours.
What they did not anticipate was the ferocity of the German 352nd Infantry Division. In the first two assault waves alone, American casualties far exceeded expectations: around 3,000 killed, with countless others wounded or missing. The 741st Tank Battalion's amphibious DD Shermans hit the beach alongside us, but by nightfall only five tanks were still operational. The 352nd paid a heavy price too—nearly a thousand casualties, a loss twenty times larger proportionally than ours. Their stubborn defense pinned countless GIs on the sand, forcing many to crouch helplessly as adjacent squads were cut down. Wounded men were left in the rising tide, dozens drowning before they could be reached. Landing craft exploded under German fire, turning the surf into a bloodbath.
General Omar Bradley, commander of the U.S. First Army, even considered pulling our troops off Omaha. Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery seriously contemplated diverting U.S. forces to Gold Beach instead. Yet from the German viewpoint, holding off three fresh Allied infantry divisions with only two understrength battalions was no shame. What stunned both sides was how poorly America's "crack" formations performed. Too many GIs simply huddled under fire, watching as friendly units around them collapsed. When the sanitized reports went back to Washington, the Army's bulletins praised the 352nd as Hitler's elite. That lie would become a stubborn scar in the Army's consciousness: Omaha nearly became a disaster because elite American units couldn't break thin German lines.
My own men didn't care about any of that nuance. They whistled and joked as they limped inland, bleeding and battered, celebrating our "success" as though nothing in the world could stop us. Replacement GIs—many of whom had never faced a German line infantryman before—already threw off arrogant jabs at our fallen foes:
"Those Krauts were amateurs. We cut through them like paper!"
"That fight was insane! Never seen Germans run like that before."
"Lieutenant Carterr's a genius! Let's toast having a genius leading us!"
They banged their steel helmets together in laughter as we marched onward. Before this war, American soldiers landed in Europe dripping with swagger. From generals down to private first class, they believed themselves invincible. With M1 Garands, half-tracks, and Liberty ships at their back, they controlled the skies and the seas. One American rifle squad boasted firepower equal to about one and a half German squads or two and a half Japanese squads. With absolute air supremacy and near-limitless logistics, complacency was practically a birthright. GIs truly thought victory was guaranteed.
On close-quarters combat, our M1 Garands outclassed the German Karabiner 98k. Two Americans with semi-automatic rifles could hold off an entire German squad. The Wehrmacht tried to respond with the StG 43, but only around 200,000 of those rifles were ever produced—far too few to shift the balance. On Pacific islands, Japanese soldiers suffered the Garand's firepower at close range: concealed defenders in dense jungles and coral ridges were torn to shreds before they could react.
Still, weapons are only half the equation. Ten Americans tied together could still lose to a handful of determined Germans. In knife-to-throat scrambles—where surprise, ferocity, and sheer will matter most—our GIs often broke first. When both sides ran low on ammo, American soldiers frequently surrendered before German troops even flinched. Hollywood never bothered to show that unpleasant reality.
My platoon hadn't learned that lesson yet. They swaggered ashore as though nothing on Earth could stop them. But soon enough, they would learn.
Major Langford himself was stunned by our "victory." Every other company in the battalion had returned to headquarters without encountering a single enemy rifleman. When he took the handful of captured insignias—especially that patch from the 439th Soviet Volunteer Battalion—he hesitated for a moment, then motioned me aside.
"Damned Soviets," he fumed, pacing in tight circles. "We came here to liberate them, and instead they turn and fight tooth and nail for the Germans!" He ran a hand through his hair, scowling. "Second Lieutenant Carterr, your men performed admirably—but admitting this would be embarrassing. I can't let word of it reach higher headquarters. No sense reporting that a bunch of ex-Soviet POWs forced us back. I swear on God, though, I'll make this right for you in our next engagement."
I understood exactly why he was mortified. A single Soviet battalion—hardly a German frontline unit—pushing back a U.S. infantry company would become a laughingstock. Yet I couldn't help thinking: if I'd known Third Company's strengths and weaknesses better—if I'd recognized every sergeant and squad leader by sight—our success might have been more decisive. War isn't child's play: you don't get a do-over if your men freeze or misread terrain. To command effectively, you must know your subordinate noncommissioned officers' training, tactics, and individual quirks as well as they know the drills. In combat, there are no "small mistakes." One misstep can cost dozens of lives—and garner a reprimand from your colonel so fierce it might as well be the crack of a pistol. Once your soldiers lose faith in you, mutiny brews at the rankandfile level. In the U.S. Army—where even forty losses in one action count as a major casualty event—commanders walk a knife's edge.
Still, sometimes politics with your superiors is part of the job. Faced with Major Langford's plea, I decided on a conciliatory tone.
"Major, I understand completely," I said earnestly. "My men and I will bear this slight in the interest of our battalion's honor. You have my pledge, and God can testify to it."
He relaxed visibly and slapped me on the shoulder so hard I felt it down in my elbow. "I knew you'd understand, Carterr."
I gritted my teeth against the lingering ache and forced a smile. "There is one small request I'd like to make, sir."
Langford's expression tightened. "All right—but I make no promises."
I nodded confidently. "Major, I believe you can do this: remove the 'acting' from my title as Company Commander. Make it official."
Langford's shoulders eased, and he let out a relieved chuckle. "Carterr, you sly dog! I suspected you were a shrewd negotiator from the start. Very well—consider it done."
My heart leapt. Though he teased me, his tone left no doubt I'd earned his support. Still, I had one more ask. Abruptly, I snapped a crisp, formal American salute. Langford's brow shot up in startled recognition of my sudden decorum.
"Sir, to honor the Fifth Battalion's glory, my men haven't had a can of Texas beef in weeks—and a few bottles of fine French wine would do wonders for morale. So I respectfully request some supplies from Texas and France."
Langford stared at me, then let loose a roar of laughter that shook the earth. He clutched his sides, tears of mirth sparkling in his eyes.
As he turned to go, he paused, cleared his throat, and over his shoulder called out, "You're sharper than you let on, Carterr!" Then he strode off, confident I wouldn't understand the subtle jab he'd intended.
—
Back at our company tent, all the officers buzzed around, eager to hear what rewards awaited them. I took a breath and addressed the group:
"Major Langford praised your performance today, but for now he's holding on to our captured insignias. Instead, to acknowledge your efforts, every enlisted man will receive one can of Texas beef. Each of you officers may also claim one bottle of French wine from my personal rations. Enjoy the evening."
Instantly, the tent erupted in cheers. Second Lieutenant Joanner, never one to hold back, piped up: "Sir, why not send a lovely lady along with the beef and wine? Look at this breathtaking beach, the warships on the horizon, the blood-red sand—perfect setting for a night of revelry! By God, I ca
I shot him a stern look. "Second Lieutenant Joanner, if you don't pipe down, I'll confiscate your wine."
Joanner pretended to clutch his chest in feigned outrage. "Sir! You know depriving soldiers of their rations and rewards is grounds for a court-martial!"
The other officers dissolved into laughter at his antics. In truth, having a character like Joanner in the company was a blessing: someone to break the tension when mud and bullets felt overwhelming.