Although the valley was now firmly in our hands, Joanner's unit had suffered grievous losses—so severe that they could no longer mount an assault on the German positions at the road's bend. As their commanding officer, I refused to let this tactical advantage slip away. We had to shore up our strength in the valley, coerce the enemy into a head-on clash, and then exploit our superior firepower to crush the Germans.
At first, I mulled over using special-operations tactics to overcome them—silent night infiltrations, sabotage, and hit-and-run raids. But for every classic commando maneuver I recalled, I realized its impracticality here: true special-ops demands lightning speed and absolute precision, striking hard and vanishing before the enemy can rally. In contrast, our orders were to rescue the 2nd Airborne Company, then consolidate Vierville and hold that vital highway linking Omaha Beach to the Gold Coast—until the main Allied force could arrive. The high command's directive was a cruel joke: how could they expect us to secure this road when intelligence couldn't even accurately assess the German strength in Vierville? Their reports claimed only an anti-aircraft platoon and a half-company of SS troops held the village—but the truth was a full battalion, reinforced by an armored infantry company.
Underestimating the Wehrmacht was folly. Despite faltering on the strategic front and lacking resources, their ground troops remained among World War II's finest. Nations that squared off against Germany studied every German offensive and defensive action, marveling at their tactical innovations. Their eventual defeat derived from overarching strategic failure and crippling resource shortages—never from a lack of battlefield prowess.
By losing the valley, the Germans imperiled their flank and rear. Unwilling to admit defeat, they launched one counterattack after another against Joanner's men. Thanks to timely reinforcements I dispatched, each assault was repelled. Once Joanner received enough troops, he even probed the German flanks under cover of dusk, seizing the initiative. From our new foothold in the valley, we positioned one of our captured anti-tank guns on a small ridge. Almost at once, German half-tracks rolled into its sights; forced to withdraw, they retreated toward Vierville's interior.
Yet I could not shake a gnawing dread: was I walking into their trap? My company's strength and firepower—especially compared with the German armored patrol—were roughly evenly matched. Although we held a localized fire superiority, the broader situation was stacked against us. We had no resupply for ammunition, and once dawn broke, the Germans would surely confirm our numbers and dispositions. Then battalions from every direction would converge on our exposed flank, encircling and annihilating us.
"They're dragging us out—dying to run down the clock!" A flash of understanding struck me: from the start, the Germans had been baiting us. Their armored thrust sought to eliminate us quickly, but once they saw our withering firepower, they shifted tactics, using their half-tracks as bait to fix our attention—burning through our weapons, our ammo, and our soldiers' endurance. When the moment was right, we and our green commander would be trapped in a German encirclement. Even if I wasn't entirely sure this gamble was real, I had to assume it was—and I wouldn't risk it.
"Order Joanner to extract from the valley and join my main force immediately. The rest of you, fall back toward the German command post at the village entrance—now!"
Almost at once, the Germans discerned our intention. Their tightened lines spit out withering fire as they counterattacked, eager to cut us off. Their commander was ruthlessly cunning: he seemed determined to starve us out of this hellish ground.
The fighting that ensued was savage. German half-tracks lunged at our withdrawing men like a pack of wolves sinking their teeth into a struggling prey. Our soldiers—my newly forged 3rd Company—fell one by one, unable to break the armored vehicles' iron grip.
"Goddamnit! They've gotten a taste for it! Let's show them a counterstroke!" Furious, I slammed home an empty shell and swore under my breath. "Joanner! Now! Slip back into the valley's hollow—circle the enemy's rear and hit them from behind! We'll counterattack again and destroy them!"
Joanner sprang into action. To avoid German pursuit, he led his survivors on a wide arc around the enemy's flank, vanishing into the darkness.
The Germans were now literally chasing our retreating columns, and that sudden reversal of momentum—this vicious ebb and flow—shook my men. They feared 3rd Company might not withstand the onslaught, and their firing pace grew ragged and disorganized.
Sensing our wavering defense, the German commander intensified his assault. Wave after wave of riflemen thundered forward in close-order charges that left us reeling. My troops, exhausted from days of forced marches and unrelenting combat, were nearing collapse. With Joanner's platoon drawn off, our numbers dwindled to barely half their original strength. It was nothing short of miraculous we had held this long—yet now the tide threatened to crash over us.
"Damn Joanner—how much longer before he's round the Germans' rear?" I muttered in frustration.
Joanner's flanking force threaded through the backroads of the valley, finally slipping unseen into the valley floor. Suddenly, the Germans who had reclaimed the hollow fell under a fresh fusillade. Their defenders, stationed at the granary and the old mill, were caught completely unprepared. Joanner's strike wiped out that entire rifle platoon in an instant, leaving him unscathed as if he had materialized from the shadows.
"Quick—bring the anti-tank gun to bear on the German half-tracks!" I cried.
Earlier, when I dispatched artillery support to Joanner, one of our captured anti-tank guns had been left behind in the valley. The Germans had retaken it—but now they were dumb enough to leave it within reach. Joanner seized it and turned its barrel on the half-tracks that had been lobbing shells at us from several hundred yards away. Two of those armored carriers exploded under his fire, roaring into smoldering wrecks.
The thunder of guns and shrapnel ripped through the night. For the German commander, this was a rude awakening. Hastily, he committed a sizeable detachment to re-secure the valley, ensuring a line of retreat and the vital link to Vierville remained open.
The pressure on my men eased at once—Joanner's hammer strike had succeeded. "The Germans' escape route is cut off! Attack! Attack! Wipe out every last one of those Krauts!"
In battle, a leader must lead from the front. Despite their exhaustion, my soldiers heard that rallying cry like a jolt of electricity. They surged forward in a savage counterattack that once more turned the tables. The relentless advance drove the Germans to stagger back under the night sky.
Only two Sd.Kfz. 251 half-tracks remained intact—both immobilized in the road's center and unable to escape. One had been blasted to wreckage by Mark T. Sullivan's anti-tank shot; the other burned with engine immolation under Joanner's second salvo, its tracks severed and dead in the dust.
With their armored cover gone, the Germans stood helpless in the road's choke point. In a final, desperate gamble, they massed every rifleman for a direct assault on Joanner's position. Joanner's burden grew tremendous; those grim, numbing strikes of steel and flesh took every ounce of his will. Unable to hold his ground against the frantic onrush, the German infantry sliced a ragged breach through his lines.
"Sergeant Briggs—plug that gap! Now!" I bellowed, racing forward to lend support.
Despite their tenacity, the Germans could only force a few men through before we sealed the breach. Every enemy who broke through perished—either gunned down by our Tommy guns or captured in frantic hand-to-hand brawls. We achieved a shattering victory, yet it had come at an unbearable cost: almost half of 3rd Company lay dead or mortally wounded, their bodies strewn across the valley floor. The survivors, battered and bloodied, carried scars both visible and unseen.
When the dust finally settled, exhaustion overcame any remaining adrenaline. Men sprawled where they fell, too spent even to pull their boots off. Some slumped against cornstalks, rifles across their knees, and slept standing—haunted by nightmares even as they fought them.
That long night of attrition had left us shattered—but we still lived to fight another dawn.