by David Healey
He strained to see the landing zone. The area had been mapped carefully. The intent was that they would land in open fields. But the fields were ringed with trees, so that landing required a bit of maneuvering. Neville saw branches reaching up at him and pulled the cords to spill some of the air from his parachute to bring him down even faster, before he could drift into the trees at the edge of the field.
Something zipped past his head and a distant part of his mind thought bullet, but he was too busy trying to miss the trees to dwell on the fact that he was being shot at. He hadn't seen a muzzle flash or heard the report of a rifle over the roar of wind in his ears, so the shooter must have been far away.
He missed the field. The trees clawed at him, attempting to snag him, and he swung his legs up like a child trying to go higher on a swing. A branch snatched at the seat of his pants, but he kept out of the worst of the branches. Then he was coming down again, dodging a hedge, and the ground came up so hard that it seemed to swat Neville out of the sky. He was spinning a bit and going sideways, so he was disoriented. He rolled and rolled just as he had been trained, breaking his fall as much as possible. He came to a stop and took stock.
All right then, Neville old chap, you seem to be in one piece. Rapidly, he began struggling out of his parachute harness. He stayed down on his knees to present a small target, just in case any Jerries were out and about with their Mauser rifles. But aside from that bullet while he had been in the air, he didn't hear a sound. So far, so good.
He gathered up his parachute and ran to the edge of the field, where he stuffed the tangle of silken fabric and ropes deep into the brush. In the starlight, he could see that he had come down in a small field that appeared to be ringed by high hedges. A crop of wheat was just barely ankle high this early in the growing season.
He appeared to be alone, which was a good sign in some ways—no German soldiers about—but neither were there any British troops visible. That was definitely not part of the plan. There were supposed to be at least some men nearby. These groups of men were to join up into squads, and then the squads would become platoons and regiments to become a genuine fighting force. Looking up, Neville could see more parachutes coming down, but much too far away from his own drop zone. He could hear a distant rifle, measured and deadly, firing at them. Probably the same Jerry who tried to do for me, he thought.
Scattered about the French countryside, it might take the British countless hours to find each other.
It's all a bloody cock up. In Neville's experience, almost every large military operation had that very outcome, which was why he had paid so much attention to his own training. The knives, garrote and the .45 were added insurance.
He started off through hedgerow country, hoping to find some of his own troops to join. But if he did not, Corporal Neville was fully prepared to be a one-man fighting force. He clicked off the safety on his rifle and started trudging toward the sounds of firing.
If it was a fight the Jerries wanted, it was a fight they were bloody well going to get.
CHAPTER 4
When light began to fill the sky, Von Stenger finally got up from the chair on the balcony and stretched. The rain of parachutists had stopped some time ago. It was hard to say how many he had shot, but the stone floor of the balcony was littered with cigarette butts and brass casings.
On a small table nearby were the leavings of his breakfast—an empty coffee cup and crumbs from what had been a rather delicious omelet with fresh bread and butter. If this war had kept up the way it had been going, he would have gotten fat. So very different from Russia, where the men had resorted to boiling their leather belts into a kind of soup to keep from starving. Von Stenger had been one of the fortunate few to escape that hell on earth, mainly because he'd had the good luck to suffer a minor wound that got him sent home to recuperate.
He thought back to Russia. All that snow and cold. What a disaster that had been. He sighed. Der Fuhrer had been convinced that the Russians could be beaten. They were nothing but peasants. Well, Hitler should have asked a few of his men in the field about that. The Russians were anything but beaten. They were indeed peasants, but they were wily. Soon enough, they would be advancing on Berlin. Von Stenger knew it with certainty the way he knew the tide would come in.
He gazed at his empty plate and sighed. He could have done with another slice of bread and butter.
As if reading his thoughts, Willi Gault came in with a pot of coffee—and a bottle of calvados, Normandy's famed apple brandy. Gault was assigned to the engineer corps and he did not look at all like a soldier. He wore round spectacles, was balding, and his rotund figure indicated that he had partaken well of the regional French food. Von Stenger liked him because he was a good and competent officer.
"I see you have been getting in some target practice," Willi said, kicking at the spent shell casings. "Were you able to stop the invasion?"
"I don't think so," Von Stenger said. "But it was entertaining. Like shooting geese."
"I always favor shooting at things that can't shoot back," the engineer said with a chuckle. He poured them coffee and calvados. "So, this is it. The long-awaited attack on the Atlantic Wall."
"Will it hold?"
Hitler and the German High Command had long praised the so-called Atlantic Wall, the ring of coastal defenses protecting France. It had been part of Willi's task to improve and strengthen these defenses, but Von Stenger felt he could ask without insulting his fellow officer. Only recently, Field Marshall Irwin Rommel had been brought in to oversee the coastal defenses. While Rommel had made many practical improvements, there was a vast coastal area to defend and a dwindling number of troops to do so.
"We are told it will stop an invasion." Willi shrugged. “Who knows?”
They both knew propaganda did not stop bullets or enemy troops. Von Stenger had seen as much in Russia. Both men sipped their brandy and drank their coffee. Willi topped off his own glass of calvados, but Von Stenger shook his head. In the distance, the deep roar of naval guns had begun. The coast was only two miles distant as the crow flies and the pounding of the guns shook dust loose from the ancient walls of the farmhouse.
"Ah," said Willi. "The bombardment begins. Next they'll be sending in the landing craft. It is going to be an ugly day." He drained his glass and stood. "Well, I'm off to the beach."
Von Stenger raised an eyebrow. "What? You'll be driving right into the bombardment. I would not recommend it."
Willi shrugged. "They will expect me there. Anything less would be cowardice. Listen, Kurt, I have a driver, but I think I'm going to leave him behind this morning. It doesn't make sense for us both to ... go. He's just a boy, really. I wondered if you would take him on?"
The sniper was surprised. "What am I going to do with a driver? I don't have a car!"
"Surely you need someone to carry your gear."
"I don't think I'd be doing him any favors, Willi. I’ll be going into the bocage to fight the Americans."
"They'll be putting him into the front lines, then, and somehow I think his chances will be better with you." Willi seemed to consider, sighed, then poured himself another calvados, filling the glass to the brim, and drank it down. He offered his hand, and the two men shook. "Good luck to you, Kurt. It has been good knowing you."
Then Willi left the room, a little unsteadily. He was not normally such a big drinker. A few minutes later a car started in the courtyard below, and drove off toward the sound of the bombardment.
Von Stenger listened to it go and thought, Good luck, old friend.
Von Stenger dressed in field gear and then packed quickly and efficiently, putting just a few essentials such as spare socks into a haversack. Normandy was not Russia—and thank God for that—but the nights would be cold and miserable with wet feet.
He packed a small book of Goethe's verse and, after a moment's hesitation, a bottle of particularly good French burgundy that he had been saving, perhaps to drink with Willi some night. There was no re
ason to save it anymore, and he'd be damned if he was going to leave it for some soldier from New Jersey to guzzle. As Goethe would say, "Enjoy when you can, and endure when you must." Von Stenger decided it would be far easier to endure some future cold, rainy night with a bottle of good red wine. He topped off the haversack with a thick wool blanket, tightly rolled.
He and Willi had not finished the calvados, so he went out and poured what was left off the balcony. No point in leaving it for the American marauders to polish off.
The house felt empty, because the other engineers billeted there were already at the beach, and the mother and daughter of the house had fled to the nearby village. He made his way down to the kitchen, whistling, and was surprised to find Willi's driver sitting at the table, wolfing down coffee, bread and butter. He was baby-faced and his uniform was a bit too big for him, so that he looked more like a schoolboy than a soldier. He understood why Willi had left him behind—he was just a boy, and the engineer had been driving toward certain death. On the other hand, Von Stenger was not sure the boy would fare much better in the days of fighting to come.
"You are coming with me," he told the young soldier, who jumped to his feet at Von Stenger's arrival. "Pack your haversack and meet me back here in five minutes."
Von Stenger was amused to see that the boy took the time to salute before racing off. Who said that replacement troops had no discipline?
The kitchen was well stocked and Von Stenger collected canned meat, some fresh bread and a jar of jam, even some chocolate. Then he divided the food items into two piles; one went into his haversack and when the boy returned he told him to pack the other half.
The sky was brighter now, and the sounds of fighting coming from the coast were constant. Explosions from the Allied bombardment flickered on the horizon like distant fireworks. The deep boom of the Navy guns rattled the windows. A fine dust filled the kitchen as the ancient walls vibrated.
He noticed that the boy was white faced. Well, only a fool wouldn't be scared at the thought of thousands of Allied troops trying to come ashore just a short distance away. It would be nice to think that the defenses would hold, but Von Stenger was sure the Americans and British and Canadians would keep coming until they finally captured the beach. In any case, he was certain that the surf would run red before the day was through.
He started off through the fields, with the boy following him. Apart from the distant thump of artillery, they might have been heading into the woods for a camping trip. The boy marched along deferentially a few paces behind and to Von Stenger's right.
"Sir, are we joining up with another unit?"
"We are a unit. I am a sniper, and you are my scout. What is your name, anyhow?" he asked the soldier.
"Fritz, sir. Matthias Fritz."
"Well, Fritz, there are a few simple rules to follow if you wish to stay alive out here. The first is that you always do what I say without question, and do it immediately. The second rule is to keep your eyes open at all times. It seems quiet now, like we are just out for a stroll in the fields, but you saw those paratroopers coming down. There is a lot more out here now than rabbits and foxes. The third rule is not to walk so close to me because two men make a more inviting target than one." Von Stenger stopped walking and stared at the young soldier. "Schütze Fritz, where is your rifle?"
"I, uh, I do not have one, sir. I am a driver."
“Perhaps I should shoot you now and spare the Amis the trouble. Every soldier must have a weapon."
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann."
Von Stenger started off again. "Well, don't fret, soldier. A boy like you probably won't live until nightfall. So try to enjoy your last day alive."
CHAPTER 5
Von Stenger moved deeper into the hedgerow country surrounding the farm. Despite what he had said to Fritz, he was not particularly worried about running into enemy troops.
Judging by the way they had come down in such scattered fashion in the early morning darkness, they would be trying to join up and figure out what the hell they were doing. In other words, the Allied forces would be highly disorganized. But Von Stenger had been fighting since 1938, first in the Spanish Civil War, then in Poland and Russia. He did not take survival lightly or for granted.
He considered the purpose of the airborne troops. It was obvious that the invasion taking place at the beach was to bring ashore vast numbers of men, tanks, trucks, and other materiel. Why had a relatively small number of men been parachuted into Normandy itself? Even a few hundred enemy troops might be no more than a diversion intended to wreak havoc, but surely they must have certain key objectives in mind.
Towns, he thought. Bridges. Roads. Rail lines. Yes, the Allies would be seeking either to gain control of these keys to transportation, or to destroy them.
From their present position, the nearest key target would be the bridge at La Profonde. And so he led Fritz in that direction.
Within an hour they were in view of the bridge. Von Stenger told the boy to wait, shed his haversack, and crept through the underbrush on a bluff above the bridge. Sure enough, the bridge was swarming with enemy troops. He could see a few dead Germans down below, all laid out in a neat row. Well, that was something—the Russians wouldn't have bothered with that nicety. The dead troops must have been the detail assigned to protect the bridge, or possibly couriers who'd had the bad luck to run into the Americans. They would not have had a chance against so many.
"Fritz, leave your haversack and come here," Von Stenger said quietly. "Move slowly. So far you have been rather useless as a soldier, but you can do that much, I expect."
The boy did just that, advancing until he lay in the underbrush alongside Von Stenger. Von Stenger had a pistol, which he drew and handed to the boy. Fritz hesitated before taking it. "Sir?"
"You are my scout, remember? It is best for a sniper to work as part of a two-man team," Von Stenger explained. "This is as good a position as any. We have effective cover, and occupy relatively high ground above the bridge, which gives us a vantage point."
"Won't they shoot back?"
"This is a war, boy. Of course they will shoot back. However, they appear to be armed with automatic weapons, which don't have much range. Also, it is unlikely that they can flank us or get behind us because we can see their movements. They hold the bridge, it is true, but now we make them pay a price for it."
"Do you want me to shoot at them with this?" The boy waggled the pistol.
"You truly are a Dumpkupf. From this range, you might as well throw rocks at them as fire a pistol. No, as the scout your job is to guard our rear. My attention will be on the men at the bridge. There is no telling who might be behind us. Go back to where we left the packs. If someone does come up behind us, shoot him."
Fritz gulped. "Yes, Herr Hauptmann."
The boy moved off, and Von Stenger turned his attention to the troops around the bridge. It was clear that they were planning to hold the bridge rather than destroy it because no charges had been placed that he could see. He counted at least fifty men spread out around the bridge. Some had out their trenching tools and were digging defensive positions. Von Stenger was pleased to see that their focus was on the road leading to the bridge on both sides of the river. Clearly, if there was to be a counterattack, the Americans expected it to be from the road.
Located here on the high ground above the river, Von Stenger felt that he was in a strong position. He had good cover in that he was shooting from behind the bushes on the ridge—it was very unlikely that the Americans would see him or his muzzle flash, particularly not in daylight. If someone did come up behind them, the boy would at least get off a warning shot or two.
The Americans were maybe 200 meters away, which was a relatively easy shot. He picked out the man who seemed to be giving orders, put his crosshairs on the officer's chest, and squeezed the trigger. The man crumpled.
As Von Stenger had expected, the Americans below scrambled like ants, running for cover. One or two fired wildly, but
the shots came nowhere near Von Stenger's position. He picked out a man hunkered behind a heavy machine gun in a foxhole commanding the causeway and shot him. A sergeant was his next target. Von Stenger fired again and again.
The Americans had no idea where the firing was coming from. They were learning a lesson that Von Stenger already knew very well, which is that it is very difficult to pinpoint the location of a single rifleman firing isolated shots. The breeze carried the sound away, and the echo of the shots made them seem as if the bullets were coming from several directions. At one point, the Americans spread out as if they thought they were surrounded.
Von Stenger smiled. Like babes in the woods. It was clear that these men never had been under fire. The Russians wouldn't have been so confused. At the very least, they would have had the good sense to keep their heads down. A sniper wasn't much use if he had nothing to shoot at. The Americans, however, were slow to learn their lesson.
Next, Von Stenger picked out another officer who seemed to be trying to establish some order among the men. At 200 meters, the four power scope made his face spring clearly to Von Stenger's eye. He was a young man with strong cheekbones beneath the shadow of his helmet. He could have been German, if not for the olive drab uniform. The sniper shot him through the temple.
Though they were slow learners, after that, the Americans finally kept their heads down. He stopped firing and waited them out.
After a few minutes of silence, he heard Fritz moving toward him. "What's going on?" the boy asked. He looked white as a sheet. "Are they all dead?"
"Fritz, if you leave your post again against orders, I will shoot you," Von Stenger said. "Now go back and guard the rear like I told you to do."
"Yes, sir."
Von Stenger sighed as Fritz moved off. At that moment, it became clear to him that Germany was going to lose the war. The boy was too young and improperly trained. He knew very well that the ranks of the troops defending the Atlantic Wall now under attack were much like the boy, or conscripts from Poland and Russia. In other words, they were not reliable German troops. Conscripts and boys could never be counted on to fight real battles. Until that morning, Von Stenger had still held out some hope of victory. The best Germany could hope for now was that Hitler might negotiate some settlement with the Allies.
