Carentan was a small town nestled between Utah Beach and Omaha, a quiet place split down the middle by a river whose name I could never quite remember. Three massive concrete bridges spanned the water, linking the farmland on the east bank to the bustling town on the west.
To Allied High Command, Carentan was of strategic importance—an essential link between the Utah and Omaha beachheads. At first, it had been taken by elements of the U.S. Fifth Army, which established a forward operating base in town. Later, Major Delaney and his battalion from the 24th Infantry Division under the Ninth Army took over and began reinforcing the defenses. Thanks to this, the central sector of the Normandy campaign was secured. In just a few days, over 11,000 troops, 2,000 vehicles, and 9,000 tons of supplies landed through the improvised docks at Utah and flowed through Carentan to the broader European front.
Delaney's men had done a decent job preparing. Even though intelligence hadn't reported any immediate German plans to retake the town, Delaney wasn't taking chances. He deployed an infantry company to the east bank, manning both overt and concealed bunkers at key points. Heavy weapons were limited, suggesting he never intended to make a last stand there. Still, those preparations ended up saving our lives.
What we didn't know was that the Germans were about to launch a full-scale counteroffensive—one involving an entire armored division, supported by a battalion of Hummel self-propelled heavy howitzers. That night was when I first truly understood the power of what they call "the God of War." Looking back, Omaha Beach almost seemed like child's play compared to what we were about to face in Carentan.
The German armored spearhead advanced with a speed none of us—including Major Delaney—had anticipated. Under cover of intense artillery and tank fire, their stormtroopers smashed through our defenses on the east bank like a wrecking ball. Before long, their vanguard had reached the southern bridgeheads.
"Major Delaney! The Krauts are hitting us too hard! Once the men on the east bank pull back, we have to blow the bridges. If we don't, we'll lose the whole damn town!"
The German artillery hadn't yet reached the west bank, but sporadic shells were already landing close—ranging shots, no doubt. That meant enemy forward observers were already in place nearby.
"We can't," Delaney replied grimly. "We don't have the men or the time to demolish all three bridges."
He was right. These were massive reinforced concrete structures. Taking out even one would've taken time and manpower we didn't have.
"Then we hold them, sir! No matter what—it's those bridges or Carentan falls! Just tell me what you need my men to do."
Goddamn it. I had just come off the line, desperate for a break, and here I was being shoved right back into the meat grinder. After the brutal night at Vierville, my company—3rd Company—was down to maybe sixty combat-ready men. We were a shell of what we'd started as. But there was no room for excuses now. Delaney was the ranking officer here. When he gave an order, you followed it. Simple as that.
"All right, Lieutenant Carter," he said, not wasting time. "I'm sending you to the church. Set up a strongpoint there. If the Germans break through, that's where we make our last stand. And take Miss Monroe with you."
The assignment was a calculated one. Carentan's church sat on Rue de L'Est in the west bank's residential district. The buildings lining the street offered excellent cover and firing positions. If fortified properly, they could become a deathtrap for enemy armor. Tanks need open ground to be effective. In narrow streets, they become giant metal coffins waiting to be picked off.
A tank, on its own, isn't terrifying. But put three or more together in a proper assault formation and they're hell on tracks. Out in the open, their speed, armor, and firepower become overwhelming. That was the genius of Heinz Guderian, the godfather of armored warfare. His doctrine of blitzkrieg turned tanks into the cutting edge of Germany's war machine—and few since have matched his mastery.
But in urban combat, things change. A few well-placed anti-tank guns in tight alleys can turn even a Tiger into scrap metal. Narrow streets limit mobility, create blind spots, and prevent tanks from supporting each other. At that point, a single MG42 becomes more useful than a half-dozen Panzers.
War isn't a game. There are no health bars or respawns. When you're dead, you're dead. Even tanks—massive beasts of steel and fire—can be taken out with a single shell. Doesn't matter if their engine's fine. If the crew's dead, it's nothing but a smoking carcass.
Monroe wasn't thrilled about being ordered back either.
"Lieutenant Carter, I'm a war correspondent," she snapped. "It's my duty to record what I see and hear on the battlefield. That's my job!"
"Damn it, you're coming with me," I barked. "This isn't a damn movie set. This is war. Understand that?"
"You have no right to order me around!"
Smack.
The slap echoed, stopping everyone cold. Monroe just stood there, stunned. She hadn't expected it—hell, I hadn't expected it. After a second, her eyes turned to ice. Without a word, she turned and walked toward Delaney's forward command post.
"You think I won't shoot you to keep others from dying for your foolishness?" I growled behind her. "You'll get someone killed. Maybe yourself."
I knew I'd gone too far. Maybe I did it because I cared—though it wasn't love, not yet. But I couldn't let her run off. If Monroe stayed, Delaney would feel obligated to protect her. And she had no clue how to handle herself in combat. She'd get herself killed—or worse, get someone else killed trying to save her.
But she didn't stop.
I pulled my Colt .45 from its holster and aimed it right at her back. One squeeze of the trigger, and that big .45 round would shatter her spine like glass. But then I'd be court-martialed for sure.
Joanner and Harper grabbed me before I could do anything stupid.
"Goddamn woman," I cursed, struggling. "You think war's some kind of romantic adventure? You think your precious byline is worth more than a dozen men's lives? You don't know shit! You're not special just because you've got a pretty face. This is war. And out here, I make the rules!"
Everyone went quiet after that. Even Monroe. Her eyes shimmered, and tears began to fall—silent and steady.
"Well? Don't just stand there—get her out of here before she gets someone killed!"
That whole exchange was just a sideshow before the real bloodbath. But Monroe was never the same after that. She grew cold, distant—and asked Joanner for a Thompson. Maybe she thought she could prove something out there on the line. But honestly, I just needed her to stay put and not cause more trouble.
"Engineers! You standing around for fun? Get those corners mined. I want anti-tank charges buried deep. Let's see how those damn Panzers like getting turned into roadblocks!"
"Lieutenant! Where the hell did you learn to swear like that? You're a damn poet!" Harper shouted, grinning.
"You think I got this bar for nothing? If I were as dumb as you, you'd be the lieutenant!"
"Shit," Joanner muttered, "why the hell do the Krauts always wait until night to attack?"
"Because they're not stupid enough to get bombed to hell by our planes in daylight," I shot back.
That's when I noticed Donovan positioning two anti-tank guns between two ruined buildings. Good fields of fire, sure—but too exposed. A couple of German heavy shells and that whole section would be obliterated.
"Donovan! Move those guns! That position's a damn deathtrap!"
The battle for Carentan was coming. Harder than Omaha, worse than Vierville. I just hoped I—and my ragged 3rd Company—would live to see the next dawn.