by C T Glatte
Joe nodded then said, “You leaving me out there with no food, a little water and a head wound could be considered murder. If my father hadn’t picked you up, if he hadn’t sent help…”
Rex grinned. “You had a fighting chance. I could’ve taken that away with one swing of my arm. I’m not asking for forgiveness, I’m just telling you the truth.” He shrugged, “Your father can fillet me now, or put me on top of an anthill or whatever other diabolical scenario, but I’ll die with a clean conscience.”
Joe stood and leaned toward his father. His father’s lips tightened and his jaw flexed, then he nodded as though resigned to his son’s decision. Joe nodded and grinned. “We’re not going to kill you, although my father would like nothing more.” He glanced at his father who nodded slightly. Joe said, “Welcome to my home.” He spread his arms wide, “and the resistance.”
17
Lieutenant Ricker Rommel and the rest of 1st Platoon of Wolf Company didn’t waste time after taking the airfield. Two more companys of Fallschirmjäger had landed and they’d pushed out a hundred yards from Idlewild Airport and dug in waiting for the inevitable counter attack.
Ricker crouched in a sandbagged bunker left over from the defending American Bridge Defense Brigade soldiers. His men had reinforced it and placed an MG42 facing outward.
He watched the skies nervously. They’d tried to keep the American AA guns intact during the attack but three of the six had been damaged and were unusable. The remaining ammunition had been dispersed and his men now manned the three guns, but as of yet the only aircraft they’d seen were friendly. Ricker doubted that would last. In the confusion of the invasion, the Americans might not even know the airport had been taken. He hoped that notion would last a few more hours.
He looked at his watch. The daylight was fading and the temperature dropping. He gazed at the surreal landscape of the nearby cityscape. At first, he’d seen civilians everywhere, some wandering close to see what was happening, others thinking the airport was still open for travel. The paratroopers had orders to shoot anything outside their defensive ring and there’d been a lot of firing over the past few hours. Ricker hoped they’d shot over the civilian’s heads but knew some of the more sadistic soldiers relished killing and it didn’t matter if they were noncombatants.
“Sergeant Hoch, make a final sweep before dark. Make sure the men are in place and ready. Two-hour guard shifts. The tanks arrive in the morning, just need to hold out until then.”
Hoch nodded, “Yes, sir.” He sprang over the sandbags and trotted to the other positions, keeping low.
Ricker and his men held the center position, straddling the main road leading into the airport from the city. If there was a concerted counterattack it would most likely come down that road, particularly if it was armor. He visualized his defenses. They had plenty of anti-armor Panzerfausts and panzerschreks distributed among the foxholes dug along the road as well as MG42s strung out in overlapping fields of fire. Two of the twenty-millimeter AA guns were aimed horizontally to be used as anti-armor and anti-personnel. If there was a night air-raid, the men would need to scramble to re-adjust, but they knew what they were doing.
A shot rang out and Ricker ducked, then brought his head up searching the buildings. There had been a few sniper attacks from the buildings which had caused no casualties. He was sure they were overzealous civilians trying to get in on the action. Another shot and he saw the telltale puff of white smoke coming from the 5th floor of a building a hundred yards away. There was an immediate response from his men. He watched the window explode with hits and the building’s bricks shattered, obscuring the target with red dust. There were no more shots from the building.
Five hours later, Ricker was nudged from a restless sleep. Sergeant Hoch whispered, “HQ on the radio, sir.”
Corporal Hinkler was there extending the radio handset. Ricker rubbed his eyes and adjusted his pants then took the handset. “Six of First, go ahead. Over.”
The tinny voice of his commanding officer, Major Spitz made him stiffen slightly. He listened, nodding occasionally. Finally he signed off, “Understood. Six of First, out.” He handed the headset back to Hinkler who hung around hoping for news.
Ricker addressed Platoon Sergeant Hoch. “The Scout Platoon says something’s coming up the road. Sounds like tanks and troops. Get word to the men, everyone on high alert.” Sergeant Hoch passed the info to a nearby Sergeant who disappeared into the night. Ricker continued. “The major wants the buildings brought down once we make contact. Wants to cause confusion and pen them in so we can kill the tanks one at a time.”
Platoon Sergeant Hoch nodded. “They’re wired and ready to go. Sergeant Faulk and second squad have the plunger. They checked the wiring an hour ago. They know what to do, sir.”
Ricker nodded and slapped his platoon sergeant’s shoulder. “I know they do, Sergeant. Let’s hope the enemy is as unorganized as the Bridge Defense Brigades were.”
Thirty minutes later, Ricker could clearly hear the rumbling of heavy motors and clanking treads coming from the city. He glanced at his watch. They only had to hold for another six or seven hours.
He heard what he’d been dreading, the distant thumping of artillery pieces. There were no other German troops nearby, so he knew they were the target. “Cover!” He yelled. He pushed himself inside the covered bunker and looked up at the sandbagged ceiling, wondering how effective it would be against a direct hit from a 105mm Howitzer shell. He thought of his men cowering in foxholes with no overhead cover, and said a prayer for them.
The screeching shells impacted and he felt the ground shudder. Dust and bits of debris rained down from the ceiling. He saw the brilliant flashes of explosions landing behind him; walking down the airfield toward the tower. It was an obvious target and had been abandoned as soon as the air traffic controllers had been cleaned out.
Shells crashed into the airport terminal sending great chunks of concrete and bricks flying in every direction. The bombardment concentrated on the airport buildings. Ricker grinned, knowing they were wasting ammo, the buildings were empty. The paratroopers were forward along the edges of the airport, dug in deep. Despite that, the barrage was still terrifying. When the Americans realized where they were, those guns would adjust and Ricker wasn’t looking forward to that.
Finally the bombardment stopped. He dusted himself off and left the confines of the covered portion of the bunker. He went to the edge of the wall and gazed into the night. The small fires from the artillery barrage allowed him to see a few meters into the gloom but he still couldn’t easily see his men. That was good, the Americans wouldn’t be able to see them either.
The sound of clanking tanks and revving motors increased. They sounded close. Ricker tried to slow his breathing. He called inside the bunker, “Stay near me, Hinkler. I may need the radio in a hurry.”
As if in answer, Hinkler put his hand to his ear, steadying the earpiece. “Sir, Sergeant Faulk reports a large force of enemy armor and troops advancing toward his position. He wants to blow the buildings.”
Ricker moved quickly inside the bunker and took the headset and mic. “Fire when ready, Sergeant.”
The reply came with a flash in the night. The sound was muted, much different from the artillery explosions. Ricker could see the outline of at least two tanks against the backdrop of the flash. The sound intensified as a building on this side of the road crumbled and all ten stories fell like a large tree in the forest. Even though it was dark, Ricker could see the dust spreading toward the airport. It would overtake and consume the enemy troops, choking them with dust and debris, blocking their advance. His men would be hunkered low, waiting.
The rumble swept over their lines, shaking the ground. Ricker smelled the dust, but it settled before reaching the airport. Some of his men, Sergeant Faulk’s squad, were certainly within the dust cloud.
The night grew silent as the dust settled. Then there was yelling, followed immediately with small arms fire. Ri
cker heard the whoosh of a Panzerfaust firing its armor piercing grenade. There was a flash of yellow, which lit up the dust and darkness. More mini-explosions as more Panzerfausts fired their deadly projectiles into the stalled armor.
An MG42 fired and Ricker watched the tracers reaching out toward the tanks and troops. Shots ricocheted and shot high into the sky and the light-show was like a fireworks display.
A tank fired, sending orange and yellow gouging flame from its barrel. The flash lit up the road and he saw more tanks and soldiers. Another machine-gun opened up from the other side of the road and Ricker knew it was Fourth Squad getting into the action. The attackers were caught in a crossfire, half their force caught inside the city, forward progress blocked by the destroyed building, unable to help their cut-off comrades. Ricker grinned, the plan was working perfectly.
He yelled to his radioman, “Fire the mortars.”
Corporal Hinkler quickly relayed the orders and soon the popping of mortars stationed near the AA guns added to the carnage raining down upon the Americans.
Ricker watched the mortars exploding among the tanks and men. Flashes of light revealed men running, diving and dying. Tracer fire ripped into their ranks, giving no quarter. The return fire stopped a minute later and the well-trained Fallschirmjäger ceased fire all along the line.
Ricker surveyed the battlefield. He could see three tanks on fire, the flames lighting up two smoldering halftracks. Even from this distance he could see men draped over the sides of the halftracks, unmoving. There was the occasional popping as ammunition cooked off inside the burning vehicles. The smell of burnt rubber mixed with flesh wafted over him.
Cpl. Hinkler stiffened, taking a report. He nodded, signed off and relayed the message. “Sir, Sergeant Faulk reports lead enemy element completely destroyed. No friendly casualties.”
Ricker was ebullient and couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Tell him job well done and to hold position.”
The high from beating back the enemy counterattack waned and Ricker felt the day and night’s action catching up with him. His eyes felt heavy and he bit his lip until it bled in an effort to stay awake. Major Spitz wanted everyone on high alert, expecting the American force behind the rubble to attack at some point before dawn.
To keep them on their toes, the major ordered the heavy weapons platoon to fire harassing mortar fire beyond the rubble at random intervals.
An hour after the first attack the sound of more artillery shells filled the air and Ricker once again hunkered in his bunker. This time, the shells landed among the foxholes and bunkers of his men.
Ricker curled into the fetal position as the ground shook beneath him. He thought the earth would crack and they’d all fall into a crevasse and never be heard from again. It seemed to go on for hours but when it finally stopped and he wiped the dirt and grime off his watch-face, he was stunned to see only ten minutes had passed.
He shook himself and stumbled out of the bunker. The normally sheer sides of the trench beside the bunker were sloped from the mini-avalanches the barrage caused. In order to see over, Ricker had to lean on the dirt and crawl his way to the top.
The loamy smell reminded him of trips to the country with his famous father as they drove past fresh-tilled fields. The thought made him wonder how his father and more importantly, how his brothers were doing. Hans and Sebastian were tankers and, if all was going according to plan, would lead their Panzer Company’s ashore in the morning. He wondered how it would be to see them. Would they look at their grimy little brother with pride or disgust? He was the black sheep of the family, the only Rommel to eschew the Panzer Corps.
His thoughts returned to the present when the night suddenly flared into artificial daylight. Multiple flares floated beneath white parachutes, lighting up the churned-up ground. There were rifle cracks and Ricker felt a hammer blow against his head. He was flung backwards and his helmet flew off, hitting the back wall.
Two paratroopers were immediately upon him. “Sir, sir, are you all right?” Ricker was dazed and couldn’t seem to focus. “Get the medic,” he heard one of them say. His vision tunneled and he struggled to stay conscious, unsure what was happening to him. He felt suddenly nauseous and couldn’t keep the vomit from coming up. He leaned forward and spewed onto the mud. It helped him focus and he felt the tunnel widening. Sound suddenly returned like a record going from ultra-slow to regular speed.
He felt hands on his shoulders pushing him back. He tried to fight, to stay upright but the hands were persistent and he succumbed and lay on his back. He watched lit-up clouds skittering by overhead and wondered how it was possible for the sun to be up when it should still be night.
Something pungent and strong cleared his head. He pushed whatever he was smelling away and sat up and shook his head. He looked at the concerned faces huddled around him and asked, “Wh — what happened?”
Private Heinz filled him in. “Sniper. They moved snipers up and when the flares ignited, fired. You got your head creased by a near miss.” He held up his helmet. There was a long crease just over the ear. “You’ll need a new helmet, sir.”
Ricker felt sick again, knowing how close he’d come to dying, but managed to keep the bile down. “Did, did anyone else get hit?”
Heinz lowered his eyes and nodded. “Second Squad lost three men. Sergeant Faulk, Privates Ramsey and Clausman.”
The news stunned him. Those were his men. He’d put them out there on the outskirts in harm’s way. His head suddenly throbbed with an oncoming, crushing headache. He murmured under his breath, “Should’ve brought them in closer.”
The medic, Corporal Steinway touched his head with something wet and cold. Ricker smelled the alcohol and felt the sting but kept still, the pain a reminder of his failure. Steinway finished cleaning the wound, placed a bandage over it and wrapped a strip of gauze to secure it. “You may have a concussion, but your wound’s not bad. How do you feel? Remember everything?”
Ricker nodded. “I’m fine. A little fuzzy, but I remember everything, yes.” He looked around the trench. “Get me Sergeant Hoch. I need a report.”
Thirty seconds later Sergeant Hoch appeared and looked concerned. “You all right, sir?”
Ricker waved his hand like shooing a fly. “It’s nothing. What’s happening?”
Hoch looked to the medic who gave him a slight nod, telling him Ricker was okay. “Those snipers hit us hard. Three men from the second squad including Sergeant Faulk, were killed. Private Loski took one in the shoulder, he’s out of it, on morphine.” He licked his lips and pushed his helmet brim up. “Nothing since, but I’ll wager they’ll attack before dawn.” He looked at his wrist watch, “Which is only an hour away.”
Ricker nodded. “Pull the rest of Second Squad back to the main-line. Move the MG42s to their alternate positions. Make sure everyone has plenty of ammo and water.”
Hoch nodded, “Yes, sir. Already done.”
Ricker focused on his Platoon Sergeant and realized he must’ve passed out for a bit. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
Hoch grinned, “If they come again, we’ll be ready, sir.”
The sky was just beginning to lighten when the morning calm and cold was broken with the thumps then crashes of accurate mortar fire.
Ricker, still a little hazy, leaped up and pushed himself to the lip of the embankment and pressed the binoculars to his eyes. Private Heinz tugged at his coat, “Careful sir, that’s where they got you from last time.”
Ricker nodded and slid down. Corporal Hinkler called from the bunker. “Sir, the major says there’s motorized units coming around the sides of the rubble. Not tanks but smaller halftracks and jeeps with mounted machine guns.”
Ricker ignored Heinz’ advice and went up on the lip again. He saw exhaust plumes coming from the alleys and narrow roads. The Americans were trying to displace them with an end-around run with light, fast armored troops while the mortars kept their heads down. He shouted, “Get word to shift fire right.”
Hinkler got to his feet, slung his rifle and grabbed two of the handheld radios. He hustled after the others, his Mauser rifle banging painfully against his back with every stride.
Ricker ran over open ground, his MP-40 at the ready. Mortar shells erupted along the main road where most of his platoon was dug-in, but he stayed as low as possible and kept running. He glanced right and could see the outlines of the AA gun against the lightening eastern horizon. He stopped when he was halfway between two of them. There was ditch and partially destroyed chain-link fence, which separated the airport property from a frontage road.
