Die Löwen von Carentan¹

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Obergefreiter Horst Schimmelpfennig² listened to his sergeant berate the priest. He wasn't much of a church-going man himself, but his parents had been devout Catholics. He was uncomfortable with the lack of respect Mannheim was showing for the man of God.

He was watching the sector from whence the dead Americans had come, he had been surprised when the two men had stumbled into their position. Only his quick reflexes had saved them. He had been half-asleep when it had happened, his time on the Eastern Front had no doubt guided his hand when opened fire with his MP-40.

He lowered himself even further when he saw something move out there.

"Cover." Schimmelpfennig hissed at the three men behind him.

"Nick, get down." McCoy had seen the German just before he'd ducked down.

"Krauts?"

"Yup, at least one. He was eyeballing this sector when he spotted us. If he'd kept still I woulda never seen him. But he's there all right. I'm guessing Smitty and Jed are there too."

"You saw them?" Nick Johansen asked with a certain amount of surprise in his voice.

McCoy looked back at the man, "Smitty and Jed came this way, we heard firing, probably an MP-40, there's Germans ahead. I'm betting that our lost boys are somewhere between us and the Krauts. Probably dead or hurt real bad."

"Whadda we do?"

"Sit tight for the moment. They've got us pinned, we've got them pinned. Nobody is going anywhere, which is probably good for Mac and the boys with him. I'm gonna fire a few rounds at where I saw the Kraut, soon as I do, you move to your right ten yards or so out. I'm gonna move the other way. Find a spot where you can see that thrown up dirt up there. See it?"

Johansen stared for a moment, "Yup, looks like it's got overhead cover as well. Ready when you are."

McCoy aimed his Garand and squeezed off three quick rounds. On the third he was rolling to his left, Johansen to the right.

"Gottverdammt!"

Schimmelpfennig couldn't believe his eyes. After telling everyone to get down, Mannheim had foolishly poked his head up just as the Americans opened fire. Mannheim was at the bottom of the entrenchment, his hands to his throat. The Sani, Hans Möller was trying to treat the wound, to no avail.

"Damn it, Oberfel, move your damned hands! Help me, Vater!"

Father Oster leaned in and pulled Mannheim's hands away from the wound. Möller managed to get a dressing on Mannheim's bullet-torn throat, but he knew it was probably useless.

"Stay with me, Oberfel. Stay ..."

Next to him Father Oster was praying, when Möller heard the old Latin phrase, "et Spiritu Sancti, he realized that the priest was giving Mannheim the Last Rites.

"What the hell is going on back there?" Schimmelpfennig hissed as he kept his eyes to the front. He'd fired off a few rounds but then stopped as he realized the men out there were moving in two different directions. But he was sure that there were only two men out there.

He knew the size of an American squad, twelve men. Two out there, two lying dead inside his position, so where were the other eight?

Ferguson braced his weapon, then fired a rifle grenade in the direction of the enemy emplacement. He'd heard firing off to his right, but he had to focus on his job here. McCoy and Johansen needed to watch their own butts for the moment.

When the grenade exploded, the squad burst into action. As Cohen's BAR began to chatter,  laying down suppressive fire, MacIlroy led Miller, Jackson, Ginn, and Biscayne on a fast, low crouching dash into the field defended by the German position. Ferguson popped another rifle grenade for good measure.

Just before reaching cover, the German machine gun opened up. It's low-throated ripping thunder seemed to fill the air around them. As quickly as it started, it stopped.

"Everyone okay?" MacIlroy yelled out.

Before anyone answered, someone moaned, "F**k, I'm hit Sarge, hit bad." Followed by a series of wet coughs, then silence.

"Who the f**k was that? Sound off!"

"Miller!"

"Jackson!"

"Ginn!"

Silence.

Ginn had slipped back in the direction they'd come from. He found Biscayne, the man's trousers were soaked in blood and his uniform, and body, were torn up from his navel down to his feet.

"Sarge! Biscayne's had it, he's f**king dead Sarge!"

MacIlroy recognized Ginn's voice, "Take it easy, Ted. Are you sure he's dead?"

Ginn was trembling, his hands were soaked with Biscayne's blood. "He ain't breathin' Sarge, he's torn up real bad from the belly on down. His eyes are open, but he ain't seein' nothing!"

MacIlroy dropped his head into the turf, "Shit, now what do I do?"

"Put pressure on it." Hartstein yelled at his assistant gunner as he tried to tend to Streicher's wound. A grenade fragment had torn Streicher's belly open, the second grenade the Ami had fired had hit a tree branch overhanging their position and burst in the air overhead.

"I'm okay, it's not as bad as it looks. Give me the dressing, get back on the gun, Hans."

Kirche did as he was told, leaving the sergeant to finish binding up his wound. Streicher grimaced as he put pressure on where he'd been hit. He'd pulled his tunic open to check his wound almost immediately after falling to the ground. The pain had been intense.

The fragment had gone down into his lower abdomen, leaving a nasty hole in his tunic and another in his shirt. The wound was bloody but he'd managed to pull the jagged fragment out with his fingers. Wasn't steel, was actually wood, part of the tree over them. A few centimeters one way and it would have missed him, a few the other way, and he'd be singing soprano.

A stalemate settled over the field as the Americans were leery of advancing and the Germans weren't sure what they up against. Each side waited for the other to make a move.

For the moment, silence reigned. 

¹ The Lions of Carentan, a sobriquet applied to the German 6. Fallschirmjägerregiment during the Normandy campaign.

² The Germans. On the machine gun: Feldwebel Manfred Streicher - MG 42 Team Leader, Gefreiter Kurt Hartstein - MG-42 gunner, and Schütze Hans Kirche - assistant MG-42 gunner. In the command post: Heereshilfspfarrer Gerd Oster - German Army Chaplain, Oberfeldwebel Georg Mannheim - acting company commander, Obergefreiter Horst Schimmelpfennig - MP-40 gunner, the man who killed Smith and Hudson, and Flieger Hans Möller - medic (Sanitäter in German). (Yes, I should have identified them yesterday. Es tut mir Leid.