by Dean Hughes
Howie was sitting next to Alex. He had eaten a can of fruit cocktail but nothing more. “You’d better get something else in you,” Alex told him. “I don’t know when we’ll be eating again.”
“I’m not real hungry,” Howie said. His face was pale and dirty, and his field jacket was covered with dust. “What’s going to happen next?” he asked.
“I’m not exactly sure. The engineers are using barn doors and anything else they can find to build a makeshift bridge on top of the old pilings. I think we’ll be moving across the canal before long, and then I guess we’ll make our move toward Eindhoven, which is a few miles down this road.”
“We’ll be getting into the action down there, won’t we?”
“I don’t know. But we have to assume we will.”
Howie nodded.
“Are you doing all right?”
“Sure.”
But Alex saw the change. This was not the boy who had been laughing with Duncan back on the road to Son. He was more than nervous now; he was scared. As things turned out, however, the improvised bridge would allow only a few men to cross at a time. By the time the entire regiment made it over, evening was coming on. It was too late to make an assault. Alex got word from Summers, who was in radio contact with regimental headquarters, that German artillery had stopped the Guards Armored Division south of Eindhoven. That had caused a crucial and dangerous delay, but nothing could be done until morning. Alex got his squad into a barn that night, and they slept in relative comfort. Then, to everyone’s surprise, they marched to Eindhoven the next morning with only mild resistance–mostly just sniper fire.
Eindhoven was a large place–a city of more than 100,000–and the mood there was even wilder than at Son. The officers had a struggle on their hands just to keep the men sober and moving. The troops did secure the bridges, however, and the British tanks, having fought off the Germans south of the city, moved in late that day. The Brits promptly set up camp and began brewing tea, which was baffling to Alex and the other Americans. The drive was already a day behind schedule, and an open road lay ahead. Why didn’t they keep pushing? But these were not matters that Alex had any say about. Captain Summers commanded his men to move out of town to the east, where they dug in that night and slept in foxholes.
Alex put in a long, restless night, sleeping little and imagining the day that lay ahead. He was almost sure the Germans would try to cut the road before the Guards Armored Division got any farther north. So there would be killing in the morning. When he had dropped into Normandy, he had known the same thing, but only in the abstract. This time he knew what it meant to be shot at–and to shoot.
He kept reminding himself of his resolution. He would follow his training, fulfill his commitment–but he wouldn’t think too much. He couldn’t go into battle holding anything back. That was a sure way to put his men in danger. But when he tried to pray about that, tried to ask the Lord to help him fight with valor, the words seemed wrong to him, and he stopped. He knew what he had to do, but he couldn’t imagine that God was pleased to see him do it. It was fine to talk about fighting evil, but when the shooting started, he wasn’t facing Hitler; he was facing young men like himself, and it wasn’t easy to get that out of his head.
Lieutenant Owen showed up at Alex’s foxhole long before first light. “Get the men up and going,” Owen told Alex. “We’re marching east to a place called Helmond. The old man wants our company to widen the corridor on the east side of the highway and make contact with the enemy.”
Alex climbed out of his hole. “Do we have any reconnaissance information?”
“Not much. But it won’t be like Eindhoven. The Germans have some numbers over that way, and by now they have to be ready to fight.”
Howie, who had slept–or tried to–next to Alex in the same foxhole, climbed out now and stood next to him. He didn’t say anything, but even in the dark Alex could sense his stiffness.
“Is D Company still leading out?” Alex asked the lieutenant.
“No. This is strictly an E Company operation. First Platoon will take the point, and we’ll be right behind them. But we’re going to have armored support this time. The British have a squadron of Cromwell tanks they’re sending with us.”
Alex walked through the area and got his men up, gave them some idea of what was coming. No field kitchen had been set up for mess, so the men ate cold rations again, and before sunrise they were already on the march. Six Cromwell tanks eventually caught up with the men, and some of the soldiers jumped on and took a ride. The tanks were awkward machines, and all their clanking and squeaking made Alex nervous. If any Germans were waiting in ambush, they would certainly have plenty of advance warning that troops were on their way.
The soldiers passed through the little town of Neunen that morning. One of the tank drivers was standing with his head and shoulders out of the hatch. “Say,” he shouted to a civilian, “isn’t this the village where Vincent Van Gogh was born?” He pronounced it “Van Gog.”
“Yes, yes. It’s a famous town,” the civilian shouted back.
“Who’s Van Gog?” Howie asked Alex.
“That’s how the English pronounce it. We say Van Go. You know, Vincent Van Gogh, the painter.”
“I guess I never heard of him,” Howie said.
Private Withers, a college man, looked over at Alex, and they both smiled, but Alex said nothing. He doubted that Howie would think much of Van Gogh’s paintings anyway.
The troops marched on through town and back into the countryside, and still there was no resistance. Alex was beginning to hope they might get off easy again. But then someone yelled, “Kraut tanks!”
Men scattered and ducked down into the ditches on the sides of the road. The land in that area was flat, but it was divided into fields, with rows of trees and brush along the fence lines. Alex saw the tanks, moving in a file, sneaking out from behind a row of trees, maybe 400 meters ahead. He could see ten or so, and more were still appearing. His company had only the six Cromwells to rely on, and the German tanks looked imposing by comparison. “Those are Tiger tanks,” Alex said to anyone near enough to hear. One thing every American soldier knew was that the big German tanks were more powerful, better armored, than anything the Allies had.
“Thomas, look at those trees, off to the south,” Campbell yelled. “There’s a tank in there. I can see the barrel of its gun.”
Alex saw it immediately. He also saw that the Cromwells, which had hesitated, were now moving ahead again. A fence line full of trees and brush was blocking the German tank crew from seeing the British tanks, but in another few seconds that would no longer be the case. Alex ran back along the road and jumped on the first tank. “Stop,” he shouted.
The Brit, who was still driving with his hatch open, did stop the big rig. “There’s a German tank off to the south,” Alex told him. “If you pass this fence line, he’ll have you in his sights.”
The Englishman smiled at Alex. “Well, if he can’t see me, he can’t shoot me. But then, if I can’t see him, I can’t very well shoot him, either, now can I? Hop off now, and I’ll have a go at him.”
“No! Don’t! You won’t have a chance.”
But the Brit dropped back into his tank and pulled the hatch shut. Alex jumped off. He wished he had time to move his men. He knew the tank was going to draw fire, and the concussion could knock his men senseless. “Stay down!” he screamed to his squad.
The Cromwell groaned and cranked ahead, and its gun barrel swung to the south. Alex ducked down by the road again just as the Cromwell came into full view of the German tank. A resounding explosion rocked the ground. Alex felt the concussion like a blow to the side of his head. He looked up to see that the British tank had been shoved sideways, and flames and smoke were billowing from its side. Another shell from the Panzer rocked it again, and then the hatch popped open. A crewman pulled himself out, then reached back and helped the driver. But the driver was screaming, and Alex saw that his legs had been blo
wn away, only bloody stumps remaining.
Now Alex saw a second tank coming up, about to face the same fate. The driver tried to run past the first tank, but the second tank took a fatal blow in the side as well.
Two more Cromwells moved up. They swung to the north into the field and then east along the road, obviously trying to get into a position to shoot at the German tank that was still hiding in the trees. But the drivers didn’t seem to recognize that dozens of German tanks were coming toward them from the east. Both tanks were struck rather quickly. One of them did get off a shot at the tank in the trees, but Alex couldn’t tell whether the shell had done any damage.
It was all crazy. Four tanks were already destroyed, and Alex could now see a whole phalanx of Tigers on their way. There had to be forty tanks or more. The crews in the two remaining Cromwells had obviously seen the same thing. They held for a brief time and then swung around and headed back toward Neunen. The men were stuck in the middle of a plain with no cover and no armor for support. No one had to be told what big trouble they were in.
“Fall back,” Summers shouted. “Back to that next tree line.”
Alex looked around for his men. “Let’s go!” he yelled.
But now the tanks were firing, and shells were exploding on the road and around it. Shrapnel was flying in all directions, whizzing, whistling. And as the men ran, machine-gun fire began to crack through the air.
Alex pulled Howie away from the road. They angled off through a field toward the next fence. Duncan was with them, at first, but at some point Alex glanced to his left, then twisted and looked back. He couldn’t see Duncan, didn’t know what had happened to him.
It was a long hard run in heavy boots, with shovels and canteens and other equipment strapped on, pockets loaded, but Alex took no time to shed anything. He spotted a place where the fence was free of brush and trees, and he jumped the rock wall, which was a good three feet high, and then he ducked down. Howie was right with him and made the same jump. Both were gasping as they looked back. The big tanks had broken their single-file formation and had swung out into the fields. They were coming steadily ahead without anything to stop them except the rock fences, which they pushed over without difficulty.
Alex looked up and down the fence. He was trying desperately to spot his men. But dust was flying, filling the air, and everything was chaos. He had no idea how to get anything organized.
“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Howie yelled. He stood up, making a target of himself.
Alex grabbed his arm and pulled him down. “All right, we’ve got to get back to Neunen. If we get into some houses and barns, we can protect ourselves a little, maybe make a stand. When you start to run this time, don’t run straight. Remember what you learned in basic training.” Alex took a couple of gasps, still trying to catch his breath. “If I happen to go down, don’t stop for me. The medics will take care of that–or the Germans. But no use both of us getting shot.”
“All right. Let’s go.”
Alex saw the terror in Howie’s eyes as he took off before Alex could. Howie ran hard, angling back and forth only a little, mostly just getting as far away as fast as he could. Alex was a faster runner, and he could make a few more zigs and zags in his path and still keep up. For a time, it all seemed unnecessary. The two were keeping away from the road, and no one else was nearby. But then bullets began to thump into the plowed ground around them, and suddenly Howie went down.
Alex ignored everything he had told Howie. He dropped on his face and crawled back. “Where are you hit?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What put you down?”
“I don’t know.”
Alex rolled Howie on his side, looked him over. “Howie, I don’t think you’re hit. If we stay here, those tanks will keep coming. We’ve got to get up and go again.”
“I can’t.”
Alex’s nose was not four inches from Howie’s, and Alex could see that Howie was in another world, his eyes full of panic. “You’ve got to!” Alex shouted. He thumped Howie with both hands, hard in the chest, and then he grabbed his jacket and dragged him to his feet. “Now, run!” he screamed.
Howie took off hard again, on a straight line. With maybe thirty feet to go to reach the next fence, Alex heard the thump of bullets again. He picked up his speed, made it to the fence, and cleared it like a hurdler. Howie jumped too, but he hit the top of the fence and rolled over onto the ground. He was breathing hard, maybe crying.
“Howie, we’ve got to go again.” Alex took a big breath. “Catch your breath for thirty seconds, and then we’re going to head for that barn up ahead, across this field.” It was a barn built of rock, and as a good a place of safety as they were likely to find, Alex thought.
Howie didn’t say a word, but he got up when Alex did, and he ran again. And the two made it to the barn. There, they lay on the ground, sucking air, their chests heaving.
Alex got up after a couple of minutes, and he climbed up to the loft, where he looked out over the fields that lay between the barn and the oncoming Germans. The men of his company were strewn in all directions–ducking behind fences, running, and for the most part making it. But Alex saw a couple of men fall, and he saw a shell explode and send four men flying.
He spotted two Americans running across the field in front of the barn. One was still packing his machine gun, and the other was carrying bandoleers of ammo. Alex was amazed they hadn’t thrown down their weapons, but he also knew what they were thinking. Somewhere, the troops had to take a stand. They couldn’t run forever. And if they took that stand, they would need all the firepower they could come up with.
Then Alex realized who it was: Gourley and Pozernac. He hustled down the ladder and ran outside. “Over here,” he screamed. The two changed their angle, charged to the barn, and ran in. Both dropped onto the ground, just as Alex and Howie had done before.
Alex let them breathe, but he grabbed the machine gun and climbed back to the loft. He set it up and aimed it out the opening toward the field. Then he climbed down again. “Howie, get that ammo from Tony,” he said. “Carry it to the loft. As soon as you two can climb up that ladder, get ready to lay down some fire across that field. We need a show of strength if we’re going to stop those tanks from coming right on through here.”
“We need more than a machine gun,” Gourley gasped. “We need bazookas, anti-tank guns. We need tanks.”
“I know. We still have a couple of Cromwells. Maybe more are in reserve. I’m going to make a run to the house just south of here. I saw men going in there. We’ve got to get mortars firing. We need to make some noise.”
Alex made his run, and he found a bunch of scared riflemen, without any weapons except for M-1s. There were eight men, and they were hunkered down in a rock house, all of them still exhausted from the retreat. “Sergeant, those tanks are going to knock this place over,” one of the men, a corporal, told Alex. “What can we do with rifle fire? We’d better fall back to Eindhoven, where the regiment is, right now.”
“That’s way too far. We’d never make it.”
The corporal didn’t answer. But he looked hopeless.
“Listen. We have to make the Germans think our whole regiment is here. We’ve got to fire with everything we have. Do you understand that?”
The men nodded, but he saw the look in all their eyes. They thought they were about to die.
“The Germans don’t want to drive into a trap and lose a bunch of tanks. They’ll check the situation out before they just start mashing their way through. I’m going to move around town until I find some officers. I’ll make sure you guys get a mortar team over here, and we have a machine gun next door. So just return fire with your rifles, keep the bullets flying, and we’ll build you up as soon as we can.”
Alex made a lot more moves around the town. He found Curtis Bentley and Royce Withers and sent them to the barn. He also found Lieutenant Owen. The officers were getting some firepower organized, and th
e German tanks were staying back from town for now, firing rounds into the houses but not pursuing.
Summers was moving about, too, and he found Alex talking to Lieutenant Owen. “Thomas,” he said, “I just saw some of your squad in that house down the street. Get your men together.”
“All right. I’ve got some of them in a barn on the edge of town. We’ve got a machine gun, but we need something we can use on those tanks.”
“I’ve located a bazooka you can have,” Summers said.
“All right. That’ll help. We need to get mortars firing, too.”
“I know. That’s already happening. We’ve got the two Cromwells here in town. If I can get any cooperation at all from these Limeys, I’ll move them around a little and hope the Germans think we’ve got more than we actually do. But Thomas, we can’t stop that many tanks–not for long. We’ve got to hold them up until night. If we can keep them out of here that long, then we can fall back in the dark and get back to the regiment. That’s our only chance.”
“All right. That’s what I was thinking too.”
Alex ran with Summers to get the bazooka, and he gathered up his men–Campbell and Sabin and Ernst–from the house down the street. He turned the bazooka over to Campbell, and then he led the men to the barn, but as they approached, they saw that one of the Tigers was moving through the fence beyond the field and crawling toward the barn. “Campbell, get that thing!” Alex yelled.
Campbell ran around the barn and dropped on his face. A blue line of fire flashed through the air, and the bazooka shell slammed the front of the tank, but it hit the angling armor just under the turret and glanced off. German infantrymen were moving up alongside the tank, but the machine-gun fire from the barn knocked some of them down and chased others back to the fence. The tank turret turned, and the big barrel suddenly sent a shattering blast through the barn. Alex dropped on his face, felt the panic pumping through him, but he couldn’t think what to do.
