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Content Warning :
This chapter contains graphic, violent, and close-quarters combat scenes for narrative purposes only. The content may be unsettling for some readers; please consider this before proceeding. Neither the author nor the publisher condone or support the atrocities depicted.
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Donovan's knack for laying explosives proved invaluable. Though he carried only a handful of mines, each one was planted along the Germans' inevitable route. The thunderous blasts of those mines struck first at several lead vehicles, blowing them apart and wounding others. In response, German troops immediately dismounted from their Sd.Kfz. 251 armored half-tracks, deploying in loose assault formations to rush our command post.
The discipline and fighting spirit of those German soldiers—despite the dire strategic situation—remained undiminished. Under cover of darkness, they advanced in perfectly timed leaps, each squad covering the other. Their Sd.Kfz. 251 half-tracks pressed forward behind them, the mounted MG 42 heavy machine guns laying down suppressive fire as the powerful headlights illuminated our positions, revealing everything for hundreds of yards—yet we could see nothing in the surrounding gloom. That blinding drive cost us dearly.
"Anti-tank gun—open fire on those armored half-tracks!" I roared.
Those Sd.Kfz. 251s represented the core of Germany's Blitzkrieg doctrine: lightly armored carriers capable of rapid troop deployment or combined operations with tanks. Although their armor couldn't match a tank's, those half-tracks were immune to most Allied small arms. Each vehicle bristled with two MG 42s—one mounted at the front, one at the rear—providing devastating suppressive fire. Without these half-tracks, Germany's lightning-war strategy would have faltered long ago.
Now, their momentum struck with brutal force. Frankly, without our captured anti-tank guns, engaging the patrol would have cost us horrendous casualties before we could even destroy their armored vehicles.
As German assault infantry collided with our defenses, the battle erupted anew. Their pace quickened, their ferocity mounting; some German soldiers lunged to within only fifteen meters of our lines. On multiple occasions, their grenades landed mere yards from me. The night resounded with gunfire and explosions.
"Fire the anti-tank guns—fire now!" I shouted.
Following that first shot, one Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track went up in a twisted ruin. The remaining vehicles, wary of our position, dared not approach in the open. Instead, they withdrew to the dead angles behind the anti-tank guns, lying in wait under the cover of their infantry's machine-gun shields.
"Dammit! We can't reach them with this gun!" Mark T. Sullivan, our gunner, cursed as he peered through the sight. The half-tracks lurked just out of range, their flank armor protected by the slope of the road.
"Where's our machine gun? Joanner! Joanner! Rally some men and reinforce our eastern flank—Germans are sneaking up there!"
"Oh, Christ, these Germans have gone mad!" someone yelled.
"Hell, I just killed three of those bastards myself…" an American soldier proclaimed—only to collapse moments later as stray shrapnel from a German mortar smashed into his chest.
Rapid, brutal—and costly—casualties exploded on both sides. Yet because the Germans attacked in a constrained arc and bore the brunt of our defensive fire, their losses soared well above ours. Gradually, our line held.
"Counterattack! Everybody, counterattack! Drive those Krauts back!" I bellowed, seizing the brief lull in the German onslaught. Their staggered assault needed to be shattered before it fully regained strength; otherwise, we'd be pinned and unable to reply.
In a heartbeat, our counterpunch forced the Germans to withdraw into the bend of the road just outside the valley. There, they dug in behind their anti-tank guns, using the half-tracks' firepower and the terrain's natural cover to establish a layered defense. Pressing forward proved harrowingly difficult.
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant! We're pinned down by the half-track's fire!" Harper's squad leader shouted urgently over the din. His riflemen huddled behind a battered fence, fighting for every inch of cover.
"Mark T. Sullivan! Sullivan! I need that anti-tank gun—where the hell are you?" I roared.
"Emplacing—emplacing it now!" Sullivan and two fellow soldiers heaved the anti-tank gun into position, but before they could dig in, German infantry and half-track machine guns raked them with fire. Two of our hastily formed gun crew fell, gravely wounded.
"Joanner! Circle the valley's edge—hit those Germans on their flank! Use your grenades!"
At the same instant, the German patrol commander detached a rifle platoon to race for the valley's strategic high ground. The situation turned razor-thin: whichever side seized that elevated position first would likely determine the battle's outcome.
Though the half-tracks packed lethal firepower against infantry, the Germans dared not attempt another frontal counterattack—one well-placed shell from our anti-tank gun would have turned any half-track into smoldering scrap. Without their half-tracks or other heavy support, German firepower paled in comparison to ours.
Yet, attacking uphill into their favorable position was equally impossible. I lacked the firepower to dislodge them, and attempting a pure infantry assault would have been suicidal. Both commanders—German and American—held their lines, waiting for the other to falter. The key lay with Joanner.
Joanner raced toward the valley's rim, heading back toward the location where we'd rescued the 2nd Company. In the darkness, he glimpsed enemy silhouettes moving fast.
"Germans—shit, shit!" he cursed under his breath.
Suddenly, both sides opened fire almost simultaneously, aiming to seize the two remaining buildings on the valley floor: the granary and the mill. Whoever held those structures would claim a decisive advantage.
"Damn Germans!" Joanner spat as he sprinted toward the granary, returning fire. In the open field, this sudden exchange caught the Germans off guard. Their primary rifles—the bolt-action Mauser K98s—couldn't match the rate of fire of our M1 Garands, nor could their MP 40 submachine guns effectively suppress our Thompsons. Our fire superiority became immediately apparent. Several Germans fell as we pressed forward, and once the initial cataclysm subsided, our casualties dwindled. We had clawed back the advantage.
But the German soldiers were not cowed by Joanner's fusillade. After losing nearly ten comrades, they slammed into our flank with savage fury. Rifle fire gave way to close-quarters rushing. The line became a maelstrom of bayonets and rifle butts—a brutal melee where every man fought for survival.
Hand-to-hand combat in that valley conjured the raw brutality of an earlier era: swordplay replaced by rifle-stock strikes, and bayonets finding gaps in helmets. Words fail to convey the visceral terror of limbs grappling and bodies slamming together.
Joanner pounced on the nearest German soldier. In one fluid motion, he yanked off his own steel helmet and smashed it into the German's face. The enemy had no time to react; the blow sent blood streaming down his cheeks. Before the wounded German could recover, Joanner slammed him in the temple with his rifle butt. The German's skull cracked with a sickening snap; he crumpled, his life extinguished. There was no mercy in his eyes—only cold, residual defiance that vanished as he hit the ground.
But Joanner's fight was far from over. Two Germans—one on his left, one on his right—lunged at him, bayonets gleaming. With no time for finesse, Joanner used his momentum. He swung his rifle like a baton, crashing it into the German on his left. The impact splintered the rifle in two, shards of wood and metal scattering. The German staggered, stunned, just as Joanner's fist connected with his shattered nose. The crack was blindingly loud; bone and blood exploded from the victim's face. He recoiled, screaming, his fight extinguished in an instant, even before he hit the ground.
But the third German soldier pressed in. Joanner—barehanded now—faced him down, chest heaving with every ragged breath. Though not as skilled in bayonet work as the Japanese soldiers he had read about, Joanner nonetheless understood the merciless nature of close combat. The German raised his blade, intent on finishing Joanner in one swift lunge. Joanner's limbs trembled with exhaustion—his strength sapped by the adrenaline and the world reduced to this desperate struggle.
Then, as that German prepared to strike, more of our men flooded forward. Yelling their resolve, they enveloped the German soldier, dragging him into their midst. The valley erupted in a blur of rifle stocks smashing against helmets, bayonets flashing, and bodies colliding. The German platoon's numerical disadvantage became undeniable. Their leading officer, realizing the battle for the valley was lost, ordered his remaining men to withdraw into the darkness.
"Keep pushing!" I heard Joanner pant, his voice ragged. He seized a discarded rifle and surged after the retreating Germans. In the moonless night, the half-tracks' muzzle flashes lit the battlefield like grim spotlights, illuminating our chase.