Dale saw two Germans, 30 yards to his left, hiding behind a small outcropping of rock. He knew that his Thompson would likely be ineffective against their rocky defensive position. He could see they were setting up something behind the rock. Setting his Thompson on the ground, he took one of the pineapple grenades from his belt and wrapped his left index finger around the steel ring. He jerked the ring, activating the grenade. One, two, three. Dale knew it had a five second delay. Then, with one fluid motion he threw the grenade at the Germans behind the rock formation. The grenade never hit the ground. It exploded in the air only feet from the Germans heads, shrapnel ripping holes through their bodies as they were flung to the ground by the force of the explosion.
Dale, all but deaf from the gunfire and explosions all around him, looked right, then left, to see how his squad was doing. His entire team was holding their ground. No one had taken any hits. The air was heavy with the noxious gasses of thousands of rounds being fired. A grayish white haze washed over the ridge.
“Mortar, incoming,” shouted an unfamiliar voice from behind. Dale and Adam, instinctively, dove into their foxhole and hoped it would not explode directly overhead. Dale could hear the whistling sound of the mortar cutting through the air. It was a familiar sound; the Germans had been lobbing mortars at them for days. If it exploded to their right or left, the foxhole would shield them, but a direct hit would mean a shallow grave. Face down, covering his head with his arms, Dale heard the mortar explode behind him.
Leaping to his feet, he griped the wooden handle of his Thompson machine gun and raised it to eye level. Focusing on the iron sights at the end of the barrel, he saw a German soldier advancing 20 yards in front of him. Dale squeezed the trigger, and 10 rounds, half his magazine, slammed into the tree. One bullet finding its target. A gut shot. The German bent over and dropped to his knees, a fatal wound, the man would eventually bleed to death. Yet, Dale took aim again; this time sending three bullets into the mostly exposed soldier. The Nazi lurched backwards and toppled over onto the rocky ground.
There was the terrible roar of an incoming artillery barrage. Shells exploded in the tree tops, sending thousands of shards of hot metal down on the Americans. Everyone dove for their foxholes and scrambled to find whatever cover they could. Dale and Adam managed to pull their thatched, stick and branch shield over themselves as the hot iron buried into wood, dirt, and flesh. Once again, Dale and Adam took the opportunity to reload their magazines, and when the barrage of shrapnel had passed, they sprung out of their foxholes and ran, crouching the whole way, to a nearby fallen tree. Peering out from behind the broken tree, they could see Germans retreating.
They had been taught that soldiers in a fortified defensive position could repel an offensive force three times its size. The exposed advancing Germans took severe casualties, while the dug-in Americans were mostly protected by the earthen fortifications. The Americans had taken some casualties, but the lack of food, ammo, and medical supplies were going to be the death of them.
The squad began to advance from their hidden positions to the battlefield, where the Germans had just fallen. Slowly, tree-by-tree, they moved through the field of carnage searching for German weapons and ammunition. Mutilated German corpses littered the mountainside, strewed out in twisted and unnatural positions. Most had died from gunshot wounds, but arms and legs, dismembered from the exploding grenades were scattered about. The reality was, without reinforcements, the Americans would soon be out of bullets.
After searching the bloody corpses, the squad was back in their foxholes. Dale’s squad had taken no casualties. He was sliding rounds into his empty magazines, preparing for the next wave, when the lieutenant approached in a semi-run hunching position. It was getting dark, darker than normal; the unseen sun was going down.
“How are your men doing, Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked. He was a lean man, with sandy blond hair. His slim frame was deceiving. Dale knew the Lieutenant was an excellent fighter, with hand-to-hand combat skills that surpassed any other officer he knew. Dale assumed he had obtained these fighting skills prior to entering the army, he figured maybe a boxer or something.
“No injuries, but we could sure use some K-rations,” Dale reported. Generally, the men hated K-rations. They were dry, tasteless, and never enough food for a hungry man. The men preferred C-rations, which, while still not a gourmet meal, offered more flavor and calories.
“We have very little food left and even less ammunition, after this last German assault,” replied the lieutenant. “Unless we get reinforcements, we can’t last much longer.”
Dale nodded his head in understanding. The Lieutenant, kneeling on one knee, went on, “That patrol we sent out last night took severe losses but came back with a German prisoner.”
“Great, another mouth to feed,” grumbled Dale.
“Yes, but we were able to get him to talk. While we are surrounded by heavily entrenched Germans, it seems there may be a pass, a couple thousand feet up the trail, that will bypass the German’s main force. It may be a way off this mountain. I need you to recon that pass.”
“Last night’s recon team lost 43 men?”
“The team was too large; they were spotted. I want your squad to go recon up the trail a couple thousand feet and see if there is a way off the mountain where we can by-pass the German fortifications.”
“We are running low on ammunition,” Matthews objected.
“I can fully equip your squad. I want you and your men to leave once it is completely dark.”
CHAPTER TEN
Dale Matthews and his squad huddled in the center of battalion’s fortification. They were all cold, damp, and famished.
“I have a few cans of C-rations left,” the lieutenant said, handing them to the men. They carefully divided the food the best they could so that everyone got some. The C-rations were designed to be enough calories for one soldier, hardly enough for twelve soldiers that had not properly eaten in three days.
“Can I get some of the meat and beans?” George Murphy asked. “That’s my favorite,” he said with a grin.
“I got a can of meat and spaghetti,” Howard Meyers said. “Anybody want to share this with me?”
“I can help you out with that spaghetti.” Raymond Treadwell said. There were not enough cans for everyone to have their own, so they shared what they had, eating directly out of the can.
“I also have extra ammunition and some new flashlights. These flashlights have red lens covers, so they are harder for the enemy to spot,” the Lieutenant said, as he passed out the lights. The new flashlights were just like the old ones, an olive, drab, plastic frame with a ninety-degree angle on the lens and bulb assembly. The main difference was the red lens covers helped dim the light so that the enemy could not see them from a distance.
“This ridge is about seven kilometers from end to end, with no known roads,” the lieutenant explained. “We are about two thirds of the way to the German fortifications. The mountain is only about two kilometers wide, and, to the best of our knowledge, we are surrounded. Last night, we sent four squads to see if they could get past the Krauts and back to the division, they failed. We must find a way off this mountain. I want you to go up the ridge toward the German fortifications with two objectives. First, I want you to see if there is another way off this ridge; and, second, try to spot any weaknesses in the German fortifications.”