He hung onto the can with both hands now and let himself drift. The current was strong; he could feel it tug at his legs, wanting to pull him down. He realized that his thigh hurt intensely. He must have been hit, but he couldn't worry about that right now. He had to get even farther away from those SS soldiers, and then he had to get to shore.
He had a problem, though. He felt himself settling lower into the water, even when he tried to hug the jerry can closer. Trying to get a better grip on the can, he soon understood what was going on. Several holes puckered the can. If he hadn't gone underwater, he was pretty sure those bullets would have hit him. He tried to cover the holes with his hands and then to shift how the can sat in the water, but it wasn't going to work. Slowly but surely, the can was losing its buoyancy as it filled with water.
Swimming for shore wasn't an option, at least not yet. He wanted to get as far from those Germans as possible. Even then, he wasn't sure how well his leg would work when it came time to kick for shore. His waterlogged uniform and boots felt like concrete weighing him down. It was going to take a lot of effort to keep the current from pulling him down. He decided that he had no choice for now but to hold on.
The passing shoreline on both sides looked uniformly featureless and uninviting, with steep banks covered in brambles and underbrush. The good news was that there didn't seem to be any German soldiers lining those shores.
Minute by minute, the jerry can settled lower into the water. He passed a point where a large stream emptied out into the Moselle and was momentarily caught in a swirl of current. He kept hoping that his feet would touch bottom at some point, but no such luck. While it wasn't navigable by ships, the Moselle was just deep enough to drown him.
Up ahead, a stone bridge came into sight. His heart sank — he was pretty sure that if the Americans held a bridge, they wouldn't have tried to cross at Dornot. Did that mean the Germans held the bridge? He'd be in trouble if they spotted him. But he couldn't see anybody on the bridge. What did that mean?
Private Frenchie Tremblay had not been privy to the fact that the bridge at Ville sur Moselle was not an ideal military crossing. He could not have known that the bridge had to some extent escaped detection because it was narrow and the road leading to it was not suitable for large numbers of vehicles. But with few other options, the bridge had become invaluable.
Ideally, military planners had pushed for securing a bridgehead that could then be spanned by a temporary pontoon bridge. That's just what had been attempted at Dornot. In the end, the effort to establish an American foothold at Dornot had been a failure. While that fight had raged, American forces attempted other crossings with more success. Like Frenchie with his jerry can, the Germans couldn't stop up all the holes.
It had been Frenchie's bad luck to be part of the action to secure what turned out to be a well-defended area along the Moselle. One that was defended by die-hard SS troops, to boot.
The price paid was high. Between the ambush and then the disastrous retreat, the butcher's bill was nearly one thousand young men killed or wounded. U.S. forces lost fifty-five killed in action, ninety missing in action (mostly drowned and their bodies never recovered), four hundred sixty-seven wounded in battle, and more than three hundred incapacitated by non-battle injuries that ranged from sickness brought on by the damp to near-drownings. German losses were maybe a couple of dozen troops. The generals explained it all away as a feint to distract German forces while successful crossings were made elsewhere. Then again, maybe Marty Pulaski had been right all along, and it really had been one big SNAFU. One thing for sure, nobody was going to go out of their way to remember the Battle of Dornot because it had been a defeat. In this war, only the victories would be remembered.
But at the moment, Frenchie was still just trying to stay alive. He was worried about any Germans that might be hanging around that bridge looming in front of him. Had he gone from the frying pan into the fire? He thought about floating past the bridge and avoiding any trouble, but by now, the jerry can was so full of water that had flowed in through the bullet holes that it started to pull him down, rather than keep him afloat.
Reluctantly, he let go of the can and watched it sink into the brown water. Hoping not to follow its example, he started to swim for shore, using an awkward stroke that favored his hurt leg. The shore seemed to grow closer, if just barely. He struggled to swim in the boots and waterlogged uniform. He tried to get a gulp of air and swallowed the dirty river water instead. Gasping and sputtering, he swam even harder. It was going to take every last ounce of energy to reach the shore.
Chapter Nine
Watching the retreating flotilla on the river, SS Hauptmann Hans Lange ordered his men to continue firing. Bullets churned the surface like raindrops, unleashing a storm of carnage among the boats. His men had a good supply of ammunition, but it wasn't endless. The MG-42 churned through another belt, raking the river relentlessly.
Beside him, a sergeant remarked, "They are retreating, sir."
"Do you think I give a damn? Shoot them! Shoot them all! It's fewer soldiers we will have to fight later."
Reports were coming in of the Americans forming bridgeheads at Metz and nearby Arnaville. One place where they would not be coming across was Dornot. "What are your orders, Herr Oberst?"
"Hold our position," he said.
Hands on hips, Hauptmann Lange stared out at the butchery on the river, finally satisfied. Hauptmann was equivalent to the Allied rank of captain. Normally, there would be at least a major or Oberst in charge of the unit, but the war had taken its toll. Besides, Lange had more than proven his capabilities. He felt confident that his force had not only thwarted the American unit, but destroyed it.
The machine gun fire strafing the river had shredded the retreating boats. Mortar rounds threw gouts of water, adding to the deadly stew. The screams of dying men carried clearly to him across the water.
Finally, he gave the order, “Cease fire!”
From the river now, there was only silence.
All in all, the Americans had been foolish to make their attack here against a well-fortified position. To throw troops against an actual fortress — ringed with razor-sharp concertina wire, no less — seemed beyond foolhardy. What could they hope to accomplish against fortified troops without artillery or air support?
Lange suspected that the Americans were so used to victory by now that they believed themselves to be invincible. His well-trained men had proved them wrong today.
Two soldiers approached, pushing a bedraggled soldier in front of them, his arms held high in a gesture of surrender. Lange raised his eyebrows. His men had captured an American. A very waterlogged American, from the looks of him.
"Herr Hauptmann, we have found a prisoner," one of the soldiers said.
"I am sorry to say, you swam the wrong way," the Hauptmann said in German. "You have a terrible sense of direction."
The Hauptmann’s mildly humorous comment brought chuckles from the soldiers within earshot. The American soldier stared at him, uncomprehending. He had a beefy build and a round face with almond-shaped eyes that hinted at some Slavic ancestry. Polish? Russian? It was hard to say. Most of the Americans that he had come across were mongrels of one sort or another.
"What do you want us to do with him, Herr Hauptmann?" one of the soldiers asked. He was grinning. "We could make him swim back."