I barely had time to learn the ins and outs of these GIs before Major Langford's call came through. He told me his battalion (5th Ranger Battalion) had orders to clear out the remaining German forces in the Omaha area, and that Third Company would act as the spearhead, probing inland for enemy positions.
I wondered if Lieutenant Miller had ratted me out to the major—otherwise, why else would I get stuck with such an ugly assignment? But orders are orders, so I wasted no time and immediately gathered my non-commissioned officers to relay the mission.
"Alright, men, listen up! Our battalion's tasked with rooting out the Germans holding Omaha. We're the tip of the spear—we'll advance first, searching and scouting their defenses."
"This is a real raw deal! Why can't another company do it?" First Platoon Leader 2nd Lieutenant Joseph R. Joanner grumbled.
"Why? Beats me," I said. "Joanner, if you don't want to go, I can find someone to take your place. Anyone feel like swapping with him?" I teased, turning to the assembled men.
Sitting next to me, Job silently raised his hand. Even though his rank was lowest of all, he'd come with me, so nobody said a word when he volunteered. He seemed eager to prove himself.
I gave him a nod. "Looks like Mr. Job's happy to step in for you!"
Joanner leapt to his feet. "Sir! That's not funny!"
Everyone burst out laughing at Joanner's indignation, and 3rd Platoon Leader 2nd Lieutenant Thomas J. Donovan shouted over the noise, "I'll bet a bottle of brandy Joanner won't back out!"
Several men flipped Donovan the bird. "Give it a rest, Donovan! Betting on obvious stuff? No one's that stupid."
Donovan scratched his head awkwardly. "It's just a friendly wager…?"
In the end, I assigned Joanner's First Platoon to lead the advance. Donovan's Third Platoon and Weapons Platoon Leader 1st Lieutenant Richard D. Winters would support our flanks, sweeping inward. Second Platoon and our company headquarters would follow as the rear guard. Job asked me for one smart, crack shot to serve as his assistant, and he snuck off ahead with that man—destination unknown.
The main German force guarding Omaha was the 352nd Infantry Division. Though their beach defenses had collapsed, dozens of strongpoints still stood farther inland, posing a serious threat to our landing zone. Headquarters ordered us to clear them out.
As soon as Third Company moved out, Major Langford unleashed the rest of our battalion. First Company and Second Company split wide to cover our flanks and advanced like a net, inching ever forward. Since we were the tip of the spear, I insisted Third Company remain on high alert at all times, advancing in combat formation.
Omaha lay in ruins—nothing but smoldering rubble as far as the eye could see. Every soldier's nerves stretched taut. But sustained vigilance was wearing them thin. First Platoon, on the front line, was especially jumpy—any rustle of grass or hint of movement sent them into a frenzy. Whenever they spied a suspicious silhouette, they'd unleash machine-gun, rifle, and even grenade fire into thin air. Worst of all was the time Joanner blasted through half a building just because he thought he saw someone inside.
"Joanner, you're something else," I scolded. "Since we landed, you've scored some 'impressive kills'—ten mice, I think? But you've wasted half your ammo doing it!"
Joanner hung his head in shame. I knew he was only trying to keep his men safe. On the battlefield, visible enemy fire you can dodge—but snipers and landmines are the real killers. Give me five German snipers and a stretch of time, and I could slaughter an entire company. Joanner's hypervigilance, though misguided, stemmed from his concern for his troops' safety.
Seeing Joanner's First Platoon on the verge of breakdown, I had to make a change: I swapped a less-strained unit in Second Platoon under 2nd Lieutenant Ethan Charles Harper to take the lead.
Just then, Job and his assistant returned, looking grim. "Lieutenant Carterr! About a kilometer ahead, there's a German defensive position—it looks like fewer than a company's worth of men."
"Samuel T. Brooks, radio this intel to Major Langford at once!" Brooks had just joined me as my new radioman. I'd ordered him to stay within five feet of me at all times, as long as I lived—he was more than happy to obey.
"And broadcast it to Harper (Second Platoon), Donovan (Third Platoon), Winters (Weapons Platoon), and Joanner (First Platoon). We've tapped the Germans' lair!"
Major Langford's directive came swiftly: both flanking friendly elements had also spotted enemy positions, so he ordered Third Company to resolve the frontal threat ourselves. I'd expected nothing less.
Under Job's guidance, my men inched forward into the shadows, preparing a stealth assault. But as we rounded a broken wall, one GI stepped on a German S-mine—nicknamed "Bouncing Betty." The blast didn't kill him outright, but his shriek was enough to set off the alarm.
"Alert! Alert! The Americans are here!" The Germans' sirens blared inside the strongpoint, and we heard the unmistakable sound of weapons being chambered.
Our plan was blown. Second Platoon under Lieutenant Harper had to mount an outright assault. The Germans had chosen their defenses shrewdly. One lone MG42 machine gun locked down the only approach to Harper's squad; we couldn't find a proper firing position. I looked to Job for advice, but he shook his head—he had nothing.
My mind raced. Then I hit on an idea: send Donovan's Third Platoon around to outflank them. Unfortunately, the German commander was likewise no fool. When Donovan charged from the side, he ran straight into a web of crossfire from the same MG42 nest. Clearly, these machine-gun positions were interlocked, built to funnel us into kill zones. Even if I threw our entire company against them, we'd suffer crippling losses without guaranteeing any success.
I radioed Major Langford to report what we'd found. To my surprise, both First and Second Companies had hit identical problems. Langford mulled for a moment, then issued new orders: try one more time—if it fails, withdraw to the beachhead, wait for tanks to land tomorrow, and then attack together with armor support.
"That's the best news I've heard all day!" Joanner exclaimed. "Guess we just fire a few rounds, then skedaddle back to camp!"
Truth be told, I'd felt in my gut that this assault would fail, and that our entire battalion would be forced to pull back. But as much as I hated suicide missions, I refused to retreat empty-handed. I needed a win—any win—to prove myself as the new acting company commander. And they certainly wouldn't see this plan coming, thanks to my extra few decades of battlefield experience.
"Wait! Before we withdraw, we owe these Krauts a little lesson," I declared.
Third Platoon Leader Donovan shot to his feet. "Sir! Langford already greenlit the retreat. Why are you dragging us back here to die?"
The men around him were glaring now, suspicious of my motives. I leveled a steely gaze at Donovan, and he instantly shut up.
"Brothers," I said, letting my voice carry, "are we going to let a handful of Germans chase us off with our tails between our legs? That would humiliate Third Company! Sure, we're too small to take out every machine gun nest they have. But I say we punch through a few key points, then pull back. We'll march home with our heads held high—make First and Second Company look like amateurs. Let those softies know Third Company's the real deal!"
Weapons Platoon Leader Winters shook his head. "Lieutenant, we'd love to hit them hard—but without tanks or artillery, how can we break through?"
I simply smiled, as though I'd handed him the answer without a single word.
Drawing on decades of "cowboy ingenuity," I recalled a makeshift tactic rumored from the Chinese front: lacking armor or artillery, infantry had used layers of blankets to approach bunkers under cover. I adapted the idea on the fly. Since American troops lacked thick quilts, I ordered men to stitch together nearly ten layers of canvas from our tents—packing each layer with wet mud. Then we strapped sheets of water-soaked woolen blankets to a sturdy pine mess table, crafting a crude "Improvised Tank." It moved on foot, obviously couldn't fire, but its multilayered cover should stop machine-gun bullets.
Job eyed it warily. "Sir, that thing doesn't look too stable."
The others were suspicious, too. I concealed my own uncertainty and put on a confident grin. "I guarantee it'll stop an MG42 round. Joanner, you want first crack at it?"
Joanner, ever eager to prove himself, snatched up a Browning Automatic Rifle and let loose a torrent of fire on our "tank." As expected, bullets kicked up dust and shredded canvas, but not a single layer of mud fell away. The "tank" stood intact.
Donovan's eyes went wide. "Holy hell. It's like a mobile bunker!"
"You're close—except it's a Yank invention borrowed from the Chinese," I corrected him. He didn't quite get why the Chinese used such things, and I didn't bother explaining. If he lived to see another day, maybe he'd learn a thing or two about wartime ingenuity.
Once more, we advanced on the German machine-gun nest. Two burly GIs—Sergeant Michael A. Turner and Corporal Anthony J. Ramirez—huddled under our "Improvised Tank," struggling to push its bulk forward against the soft sand. The Germans, having never seen anything like it, raked the contraption with machine-gun fire, sending puffs of dust and canvas fragments into the air. My heart hammered in my chest; if the Germans had even a single anti-tank rocket, our "tank" and its crew would be shredded in an instant.
Job crouched with his sniper rifle, eyes darting across the German lines for any sign of a rocket launcher. My palms were slick with sweat.
Luck held: the Germans had no anti-tank weapons on hand. Our "Improvised Tank" absorbed round after round of 7.92mm bullets and even a few grenades, inching its way within a few meters of the machine-gun nest. Turner and Ramirez, still conscious, heaved themselves out of the top hatch and lobbed those comedic "tank shells"—hand grenades—straight into the enemy position.
The "Improvised Tank" drew the lion's share of enemy fire, and I immediately organized two assault teams to surge forward under cover. Our grenades exploded among the German gunners, silencing the MG42. I had to admit: despite being the Wehrmacht's most formidable ground force, the Germans still paid a heavy price. Even after our grenades struck, German troops charged that machine gun with brutal resolve, dying by the dozen. I glanced at my own men—if they'd been in those trenches, they'd already be retreating. As an American, I hated to admit it, but right now German soldiers showed a higher caliber of combat discipline than our GIs. It was a bitter truth.
The Germans, finally broken by our unexpected gambit, left scores of dead behind them as they retreated.
Turner and Ramirez clambered out of the "tank," drenched and gasping like sailors hauled from a shipwreck. "Lieutenant, you nearly killed us! Next time you plan something like that, I'm not going anywhere near it!"
"Thank God you're still breathing!" I laughed as I patted Turner on the shoulder. We helped them stagger off to rest.
The officers tasted blood. Joanner spoke up, "Sir, why don't we keep the momentum going and hit that machine-gun nest on our left flank?"
I'd been thinking the same. We repeated the exact same method, sending our makeshift "armor" down another stretch of dunes. This time, we took the left-flank stronghold far more easily—evidently the Germans decided to withdraw on their own. Our men roared with morale; some even claimed Third Company could clear every German position at Omaha single-handedly. A few officers began to chafe at holding back.
I shook my head, half amused. Though we'd neutralized two strongpoints, they weren't fully occupied yet. I didn't trust halfway-trained Germans to stay pinned down. I wouldn't let our "Improvised Tank" end up as useless as a scrap heap—or worse, have our men pinned down and slaughtered.
"All right, men," I called out. "Rip the Germans' collar insignia off their uniforms for trophies, then we'll fall back to the beach."
We marched back with our heads held high, Third Company's unconventional triumph echoing behind us. The tide would turn tomorrow, but tonight, we'd given the enemy—and the rest of our battalion—something to talk about.