by C T Glatte
Jimmy dropped his M1 and went to the machine-gun. “Check on that guy. I’ll check the gun.” He reached for the machine-gun handle and leaned forward, looking for anything obviously wrong with the .30 caliber Browning. There was still an ammunition belt snaking from a metal ammo can to the machine gun. He pulled the bolt, it felt smooth. “Give me a hand over here, Mini.”
Lodmont slithered forward. “That guy’s blinded.” He looked at the machine gun. “What you want me to do? I’ve never used one of these.”
“Just keep the ammunition coming out of the box smooth and tell me when I’m almost out.”
Bullets smacked the front of the hole. Jimmy sighted the barrel, seeing targets still trying to flank left. He pulled the trigger and the gun rocked on the tripod. He adjusted his aim, he was firing high, and fired another short burst. German soldiers dove for cover. He swept the area, keeping their heads down, but his firing drew more fire from the road. Jimmy kept his head as low as possible, but the incoming fire was intensifying.
The blinded soldier suddenly screamed, stood up and started running, still clutching his face. Jimmy looked back in time to see his body stitched with bullets and his screaming stopped and he dropped. Lodmont yelled something he couldn’t understand. He kept firing in short bursts, but the incoming fire was throwing off his aim. He stopped firing and ducked. “Throw a grenade!” he yelled.
Lodmont looked at him with wide eyes as bullets shredded the cover, sending dirt and debris down on them. He pulled a grenade and handed it to Jimmy with shaking hands. “You — you do it,” he stammered.
Cursing under his breath, Jimmy took the grenade and without exposing himself lobbed it forward. When it exploded he went back to the gun and fired off a long burst, sweeping back and forth. He’d gained the upper hand and didn’t want to give it up. Lodmont assisted, feeding the ammunition to him. Then he said, “Belt’s almost done.”
Jimmy stopped and looked around the hole. “There’s another box, get it.”
Lodmont pushed backwards and Jimmy fired the rest of the first box then grabbed his M1 and fired at movement to the right. “They’re trying for the other gun. Hurry.”
An object flying through the air over his head caught his attention. He watched the German stick grenade sail past and land behind their hole. “Grenade! Down!”
Lodmont had just gotten to the ammo can. He tried to lift it but it was heavier than he thought it would be. He gave a mighty yank and it flung up in front of his face at the same instant the grenade exploded. He was thrown backwards. He lost his grip on the ammo can and it landed painfully on his chest.
Jimmy watched the whole thing, thinking his spotter had bought the farm again from another grenade. He yelled, “Mini,” and reached for him. Jimmy pushed the ammo can off his chest and noticed it was riddled and smoking with shrapnel. He shook Lodmont, expecting to see a mashed face, but instead he saw his stunned, but very much alive, eyes staring back at him. The dried blood from his head-wound mixed with fresh blood from a new cut.
Jimmy couldn’t believe it. “Jesus, Mini, you’ve got nine lives.” He tried to open the ammo can, but the grenade blast had warped it and he couldn’t get it open. He threw it in frustration. “We can’t stay here without the gun.” He saw Lodmont’s eyes go even wider as he looked beyond him. Jimmy reacted, spinning with his M1 in hand and saw a German soldier charging over the lip his submachine gun firing. Bullets snapped past and he felt fire on his cheek and shoulder. He pulled the trigger, firing from the hip and saw his bullets connect, shattering the soldier’s pelvis and left leg. He fell, screaming at Jimmy’s feet.
Jimmy tripped and fell over the writhing soldier. He was on top of the soldier but on his back. He expected to be shot or stabbed any second. Lodmont screamed and Jimmy rolled away and came to his knees ready to shoot, but Lodmont was lying across the soldier and punching him over and over with his K-bar knife.
Jimmy turned back to the front and fired the rest of his clip. He stepped to Lodmont, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out the back of the machine-gun nest. Lodmont was kicking and screaming and finally Jimmy released him and they ran the rest of the way to their original hole.
Jimmy reload his M1 and steadied the barrel on the lip, aiming at the abandoned MG nest. He didn’t have long to wait. Two German soldiers came over the lip and fired their submachine guns on full automatic. Jimmy fired at the nearest one and saw him drop. He moved to the next, but he was already lining Jimmy up. Jimmy felt bullets thump into the front of his hole and he dropped down.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed. “You got any more grenades?” he asked.
Lodmont nodded and handed him another. “It — it’s the last one.”
Jimmy nodded “When this thing goes off, I’m gonna come up firing, I want you to take off back to that stack of boulders back there. Got it?”
Lodmont scowled and shook his head. “No, I’m not leaving you.”
“When you get there, cover me and I’ll join you. Can you do that?” Lodmont looked back at the boulders twenty yards away. It seemed like an awful long way, but he licked his thin lips and nodded. Jimmy clutched the grenade and waited for the incoming German fire to stop. He’d have to reload at some point. Finally, there was a pause. “Now!” he yelled and threw the grenade. The MG nest was only yards away, it was an easy throw and he threw a strike. Just as he released, he saw two more gray clad soldiers come over the top. He ducked, picked up his M1 and when he heard the explosion he came up firing.
One soldier was standing, reeling from the grenade blast. Jimmy shot him twice in the chest. From this range he hardly needed to aim. The other two soldiers were down, but he fired until his clip pinged, then took off out the back of the hole. He expected to feel bullets entering his back any second.
The run seemed to take an eternity. He saw Lodmont firing from the other side of the boulders, firing slow and methodical. When he was a few feet out, Jimmy dove headfirst like he was sliding into second base, then rolled to cover.
Lodmont’s clip pinged and he slid back behind the rocks. Lodmont looked him up and down. “You hit?” he asked.
Jimmy felt his cheek. There was a jagged gash which he only felt when he touched it. He shook his head. “Just a scratch.”
Lodmont pointed at his shoulder. “What about that? It’s bleeding bad.”
Jimmy looked at his right shoulder, it was wet with blood. He lifted his arm, the movement hurt but not bad. “It doesn’t seem bad. I barely feel it.”
Lodmont leaned his rifle against the rock and fished in his belt for a med-kit. “I’ll get you fixed up.”
Bullets smacked the rocks and ricocheted making bizarre noises. They both hunkered and Jimmy shook his head. “No time. Get your rifle.”
A new sound entered the battle and at first Jimmy was taken back to the Alaskan front and the terrifying artillery barrages he endured. He froze, listening to the shrieking incoming shells. His terror turned to jubilation when the shells landed along the road among the Germans. He yelled out, “It’s ours, it’s ours!” He laughed as the shells continued to rain down, obliterating the exposed soldiers. “Take that you lousy Krauts,” he yelled.
His jubilation was catching and Lodmont yelled, “Yeehaw,” and leaned out firing his M1 at the fleeing Germans. “Run you cocksuckers, run!”
His clip pinged and Jimmy pulled him back into cover. “Don’t wanna lose you to friendly fire, Mini. I’m gonna need a good spotter.”
The artillery routed the remaining Germans who disappeared back the way they’d come. Minutes passed and Jimmy and Lodmont leaned against the boulders. Jimmy tilted his helmet back and reached for his canteen. He was suddenly as thirsty as he ever remembered being. He drank it dry, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He screwed the lid on and let out a mighty burp.
Lodmont grinned and took a long drink from his own canteen. He pointed to the bridge. “Look at that. Hope the German Airforce doesn’t come right now.”
Jimmy pointed at the
sky, “Those are ours. No way the Jerries are getting through those fighters. Looks like the whole US Army’s coming across.”
The first few vehicles across were mobile AA guns which immediately dispersed along the bay with their barrels pointed skyward. Within minutes the area was a defensive stronghold. Big Pershing tanks rumbled across, mixed with trucks full of troops and equipment. Nearly every truck towed some kind of anti-tank or anti-aircraft gun. Once across the formidable force spread out and dug in as though they meant to stay awhile.
Sergeant Gooding found them sitting watching the show. He kneeled in front of them and tilted his helmet back. “That was some fight.” He looked beyond the rocks to the abandoned machine-gun position and their foxhole. “You boys did real good protecting our flank. I saw the MG crew go down and thought we’d had it, but you two charging forward like that, made all the difference. The captain…” he hesitated and shook his head, “Well, he wanted to put you two in for medals.” They both watched the sergeant struggling. He finally nodded and looked them in the eye. “He got hit right before our artillery. If he’d just kept his fool head down for a couple more seconds — well, he’d still be alive.” He stood and shook his head getting back to business. “Our unit’s being meshed in with the 54th Regiment.” He tilted his head toward the fresh troops. “That’s them mostly.” He looked at Jimmy remembering where he came from. “If you want I could get you a ticket back to your old unit, although it might be a long trip with the disruption to travel.”
Jimmy shook his head. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay here. I’ve got no one back there.”
Sergeant Gooding nodded. “Happy to have you. If we can stand up to Fallschirmjagers, we can stand up to anyone.”
They both looked at Gooding with confused expressions. Gooding smiled, “You don’t know? Those were German paratroopers, the best of the best, dropped in to take this end of the bridge. We stopped ‘em cold.”
Jimmy shared a glance with Lodmont, knowing without the help of the artillery, the paratroopers would most likely have been successful. He kept it to himself, nodded and shut his eyes feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly tired.
13
Captain Clancy McDermott wanted payback. His squadron’s first sortie had ended with fifty-percent losses. He had no idea how many pilots had been able to bail out, but it didn’t really matter if they were behind enemy lines and out of the fight.
Now he was leading his men back into the teeth of the tiger, but with far more fighters than before. This time, he hoped they had enough to overwhelm the carrier-based German fighters.
He glanced below and saw the seemingly endless line of bombers and fighters streaking toward the coast. His mission was to make sure the bombers made it to the beachhead and the armada offshore.
His squadron had many new pilots, cobbled together from other shattered units. This was his third mission that day and he was feeling the strain, but this time would be different, this time it would be the invaders that paid.
As they neared the coast the sky was suddenly pockmarked with dark smudges. He heard a calm voice from a nearby bomber pilot. “Here comes the flak. Steady.”
McDermott was flying five-thousand feet higher than the bombers, at fifteen-thousand feet AGL. All the flak was directed at the bombers and he felt for them. It was thick and accurate. He saw a flash as a B24 took a direct hit. He saw the wing crumple in half and the plane seemed to list onto its side in slow motion, then spiral down. He lost sight of it when it passed through the dense layer of black flak smoke but saw no chutes.
He tore his eyes from the scene when someone called, “109s at eleven o’clock.”
McDermott scolded himself for not being the first to see them. He saw the tiny dots getting larger, streaking for the bombers. “Let’s get in the war. Section two stay high and keep any others off us, Section One let’s go get ‘em.”
He increased power, feeling the Gs in the seat of his pants and angled up slightly. The 109s kept their course and McDermott hoped they wouldn’t see them. At their current course and speed, the Thunderbolts would end up on their tails in perfect firing position. He licked his lips watching the trajectories unfold.
“Now,” he ordered, “Break right.” The ten silver Thunderbolts turned onto their wings and streaked after the 109s who were wholly focused on the bombers. The heavy P-47 Jugs quickly caught up with the 109s in shallow dives. McDermott lined up his pipper on an unsuspecting 109’s tail. He caressed the trigger getting closer and when the 109 filled his windscreen he fired all eight of his .50 caliber guns. The 109 sparked and massive chunks flew off, then it simply exploded and bits of it fell like leaves in a fall breeze.
He caught the flash of another 109 erupting in flame to his left and knew his wingman had scored a kill. There was another Hun in front of the first, still diving toward the bombers. McDermott was about to fire, when the German suddenly pulled up sharply. He reacted, pulling power and yanking back the stick. He grunted with the intensity of the Gs and felt himself on the edge of blacking out. He relaxed his pull and felt his vision return. He spun his head, looking for the 109 and caught a glimpse of it behind him trying to turn inside.
He rolled ninety-degrees and pulled feeling the Gs again, but this time he kept himself away from the blacking out zone. He increased throttle as the 109 flashed by, seemingly only yards away. McDermott rolled and came up on his tail, but upside down. The pipper showed him in his sights and he squeezed the trigger sending streaking tracer fire into the 109. He didn’t wait to see the final result. He whipped upright and the 109 wasn’t there, but the hulking shape of a lumbering B24 was. Instinct took over, he pushed the stick forward and dove beneath its belly, missing a collision by mere yards.
Tracer’s the size of tennis balls floated past his windscreen. He felt the hammer blow of a hit. He grit his teeth and yelled at no one in particular, “I’m on your side, dammit.” He was inside the bomber’s sphere and the jumpy gunners wouldn’t be able to distinguish good guys from bad in the heat of the moment. He avoided another bomber, seeing the panicked look of the pilot as he flashed over the top of the cockpit.
He pulled up and cleared the bombers. He glanced over his left shoulder and saw the impressive armada of the entire German and whatever other countries, Navies. There were flashes and rolling plumes of smoke as their main guns continued to rain hell upon America’s shores. There were also hundreds of winking lights adding anti-aircraft shots to the flak.
McDermott looked behind and spotted his wingman, Lt. Thorpe bobbing and weaving, but staying on his tail. He refocused forward and saw a small group of four bombers that looked different from the B24s although heading the same direction. He keyed his mic, “There’s a group of German bombers returning from a raid at one o’clock. Let’s give ‘em a sweep. Anyone else still with us from first group?” There was a smattering of replies. “Stay with the allied bombers. Thorpe and I will just be a minute.”
He pushed his throttles to full power and aimed in front of the bombers still four thousand feet away. He glanced forward and back, but saw no fighter escort. They’d chosen the wrong time to return to their carriers, which would be busy fending off bombers for the next hour at least. “Combat spread, I’ll take the lead, you take the next one back.”
A tight and excited, “Roger.”
The distance closed quickly. McDermott saw the lancing tracer fire from the bellies of the bombers surrounding him, but nothing hit. He put the pipper where the left wing met the fuselage and mashed the trigger. He yawed the aircraft with the rudder pedals and walked the eight .50 caliber machine guns along the entire length. The bomber sparked and shed skin like bark from a tree, then the left engine ignited and the bomber tipped toward him slowly.
McDermott pushed the stick and flashed beneath the burning plane. He made a hard-right turn and looked behind. He saw a second bomber on fire and falling, Thorpe had scored too. “Nice shooting. Let’s get back to the boys.”
Thorp
e’s excited voice came over the air, “Yes, sir. Nice shot. We got two.”
He nodded, “There’s two more, but they’ve no place to go. We’ll leave ‘em, getting too far away from the others.”
Thorpe acknowledged with a click of the radio, came up beside his commander and gave him a thumbs up. Their silver steeds flashed upward, angling back toward the black puffs of flak that looked thick enough to walk across.
Minutes later they reformed with their squadron and edged their planes into formation. There were still many bombers but their numbers were thinned, falling victim to the heavy and accurate flak. McDermott heard over the open net, “Starting our bombing run.” He imagined the big bomb-bay doors opening and disgorging hundreds of five-hundred-pound explosives.
He swiveled his head, searching for more enemy fighters but for the moment the sky was filled with only friendly forces. He doubted that would last. He checked his gauges, he had plenty of fuel and half his ammunition. He’d added two, possibly three kills, to his two from the first sortie. He was one away from being an ace, but he brushed the thought away. It was only the second day of this new war and it wouldn’t matter how many planes he knocked down if he didn’t survive.
He glanced at the ground, the bombers he was charged to protect were still in the process of dropping their bombs. The leading bombers were already turning away, back toward base. He watched in fascination as huge plumes rose from the ground, walking forward like some bizarre deadly dominoes set. The bombs continued exploding far out into the sea and he hoped they were sinking and killing many Germans still streaming ashore on their tracked vehicles. He saw a sudden secondary explosion out to sea and saw the heaving of a massive ship taking direct hits. He couldn’t help pumping his fist.
His section of bombers were all turned back west. There was still flak, but the volume had died down considerably. His squadron was circling above, but there hadn’t been any enemy fighters since the first group. He radioed HQ. “Mother, this is six of flight twenty-three. Over.”
