Major Delaney had completely relinquished the eastern bank of Carlington. His troops had fallen back to the approaches of the Three Bridges, using the narrow terrain to their advantage since the Germans' assault formations couldn't deploy properly. There, they repelled every German attack.
Before this, Delaney's repeated urgent radio messages had stunned Allied command. No one had expected the Germans to secretly concentration elite units for a counterattack on Carlington. Allied headquarters issued a single order to all garrisons in Carlington—including my own unit: hold at all costs. Delaney's mission was equally clear: hold out for four hours until Allied Command could detach reinforcements from the Normandy landing forces. Thankfully, the relief force consisted of an entire U.S. Army infantry division and a heavy armored regiment—both equipped exclusively with M4 Sherman tanks.
For the church's defense, I quickly allocated machine-gun positions, strengthened anti-tank gun emplacements, and set up overlapping infantry fields of fire. With help from several platoon sergeants, my men were in place within ten minutes. But barely had we settled when rifle fire and artillery from the bridgehead erupted in a deafening roar. Each massive explosion made the ground tremble beneath us.
"Damn—what kind of guns are those?" I muttered. Since the Omaha Beach landing, I'd never seen artillery with such destructive power: even miles away, the detonations felt as though they were going off right beside us.
"Looks like at least 105-millimeter guns," Donovan whispered beside me. "One of those shells probably digs a four-meter-deep crater."
"Shut up," I snapped, glaring at him. I was genuinely worried for Delaney—not because I doubted his abilities, but because I feared whether he could hold these bridges for four hours under such relentless bombardment. The Germans weren't stupid; with artillery this powerful and a fierce assault underway, Delaney's men could not rely on grit alone.
If you've never witnessed an artillery battery's barrage, you can't imagine the scene. A single salvo can churn up the earth three meters deep. Underground creatures get blown out, let alone anything above ground. A standard 105-millimeter high-explosive shell has a lethal radius the size of a football field and gouges a pit several meters deep. Forget what you see in Hollywood movies—soldiers rising unscathed after a shell lands at their feet is pure fantasy. Real artillery kills via shrapnel: a single fragment can cripple you. The shockwave alone can shatter bones and rupture eardrums. That is why infantry in war die so swiftly: you can dodge bullets, but when shells rain down, trenches collapse and dugouts crumble. You only have a slim chance of survival if the guns hit.
"Donovan, Joanner—stay here and keep reinforcing the line. The rest of you, with me—let's move out to reinforce Major Delaney!"
"I'm coming!" Monroe grabbed her Thompson and stepped forward.
"Get back!" I barked. "I don't have time for your objections!"
"You—"
Monroe opened her mouth to argue, but Second Lieutenant Joanner grabbed her arm. He shook his head and whispered, "Don't question orders, Monroe. In war, a lieutenant cannot tolerate insubordination."
"Are you saying—" Monroe looked at Joanner, disbelief written on her face. Clearly she wasn't used to such strict command. Joanner cut her off.
"Miss Monroe, this is a battlefield. There's no room for your democratic ideals here."
Harper, Joanner, and I led over twenty men—under a storm of German shells—toward Major Delaney's position. By then, the major had lost any trace of yesterday's composure. Dirt and blood had stained his face in black and purple streaks, and a thick bandage wrapped around his arm.
"First Lieutenant Carter, why are you here?" Delaney hollered as we reached him.
"If you can't hold these bridges, the next defensive line will collapse," I shouted back. "We're here to help."
"You timed this perfectly," Delaney replied. "My 2nd Company is defending the north bridge, but they're about to break. Go aid them."
"Understood, sir. How are things here?"
"The Germans' artillery is devastating," Delaney spat. "Look at this mess—we've been blown apart. Casualties are horrendous. We did manage to destroy one of their tanks on the bridge and disable three more, so they're hesitant to press armor across. Now it's only their infantry that's attacking."
"Got it, sir. We're on our way."
"Watch out for their artillery. Good luck!"
"Yes, sir! Let's move!"
North Bridge, Carlington
"German stormtroopers—ready, fire!" yelled the 2nd Company officer, slamming his fist on his thigh for emphasis.
The crackle of their machine guns and rifles erupted like a furious deluge of lead, tearing into the advancing Germans. Suddenly, another voice shouted above the din: "Fall back! Move to the anti-artillery shelters!"
At that moment, the Germans' artillery—seemingly guided by an invisible eye—pummeled the 2nd Company's defenses. A catastrophic blast threw the officer into the air like a rag doll; his body was torn to pieces upon impact. No one paused to mourn. The survivors scrambled for the anti-artillery shelters, dragging rifles and covering their heads, bracing for the next shell as though facing Death itself.
These "shelters" weren't true dugouts but the crushed rear side of a reinforced concrete structure blasted open by shelling. They were in a temporary artillery dead zone—the Germans' heavy guns couldn't zero in precisely on them here.
My arrival did little to lift the 2nd Company survivors' spirits. Second Lieutenant James T. Sully, spotting me, sprang to his feet and shouted, "Sir, has Major Delaney ordered us to fall back?"
"Absolutely not!" I bellowed. "I want to see your commanding officer."
"Dead," Sully muttered, collapsing back onto the ground. He glanced sourly at the forty or so riflemen still able to fight. "Goddammit—all our officers are gone. I'm the highest-ranking man left."
"So you're in command?"
"Yes, sir," Sully replied glumly. "But we've taken horrendous casualties—mostly to German artillery. Without proper anti-artillery defenses, most of my men were cut down before they reached cover."
"Understood. I'm taking over command of the north bridge," I announced, sensing how dire the situation was. The Germans' probing attacks had already cost us dearly. If they chewed at us a few more times, we'd never hold until reinforcements arrived.
"Second Lieutenant, how long will the Germans keep up that artillery?" I asked Sully.
"I don't know—there's no set pattern, sir."
"Do you have any anti-tank weapons?"
"Just two bazookas, sir," Sully said bitterly.
"Damn it! Didn't Major Delaney leave you an anti-tank gun?"
"We had one, but it was destroyed in their first barrage."
I pressed on: "How many Germans did you take out?"
Sully gestured toward the field littered with bodies. "See those corpses? Dozens of bodies—all of them German. We also hit a German Jagdpanzer IV assault gun—its crew abandoned the vehicle and fled. We haven't had time to count more."
"Outstanding work," I praised. "Thank you."
But I felt the situation's weight: if the Germans struck again, we'd be overrun. I needed to shore up this defense immediately.
"Job, take two men and establish an observation post. Don't let any Germans cross the bridge under cover of darkness—or we're finished," I ordered.
"Aye, sir. Eager, let's go," Job murmured, spitting on the ground. He slung his Springfield 1903A4 sniper rifle and vanished into the night.
The German artillery barrage didn't last long—only a few minutes. As soon as the guns fell silent, Sully shouted, "They've stopped! Thank God, their artillery has ceased firing!"
"Wait," I said, scanning the broken terrain. "They might be feinting."
Sully panted, "Sir, if we don't retake positions on the bridgehead now, the Germans will be across before we know it—"
I ground my teeth. I knew the Germans were playing a game: pausing their bombardment to lure fresh troops into the open, then resuming fire. Yet I couldn't gamble with Carlington's defense; if they broke through here, our entire line would collapse.
"All right," I said harshly. "My men go in first," I ordered. "Sully, reorganize your remaining men into two reinforced squads under your command. They stay on standby to support us."
"Third Company, with me!" I called to Joanner and Harper.
German shells had already pulverized most of the bridgehead defenses. Everywhere lay bomb craters and shattered masonry. The ground was so soft and pockmarked that a man's foot sank ankle-deep. The only cover was these craters; every dugout and bunker had been leveled.
"My God…how do we hold this?" Lieutenant Joanner muttered, face pale under the grime.
"Enough talk! Use those craters for cover and set up a defensive line," I ordered, voice steady. At that moment, another German salvo tore through the craters. I dove into a deep shell hole just as a shell slammed down yard
"The Germans are shelling! Take cover! Take cover!"
Next to me, a soldier let out a blood-curdling scream. He clutched his midsection and writhed on the ground, his abdomen torn open by a jagged piece of shrapnel. His intestines spilled out, streaked with earth and brick fragments. In a desperate act, he tried to shove his entrails back inside. The blast hadn't utterly dismembered him—merely thrown him several yards—but his wounds were fatal. He collapsed after a few agonized spasms and died.
That single barrage alone claimed nearly ten lives. Few died instantly; most were shredded by shrapnel and debris. The Germans' artillery was truly a horrifying weapon of war.
Even with reinforcements and craters for cover, we knew we were barely hanging on. Every man crouched behind shattered earth, gripping his rifle, bracing for the next hellish roar—ready to fight with the final ounce of strength in his body.