The next morning, instead of resuming yesterday's mission, 3rd Company was given a far more daunting assignment. We were to move light and slip behind German lines to rescue the 2nd Company of the 101st Airborne Division, which was surrounded by overwhelming enemy forces. Major Langford's orders were explicit: extricate 2nd Company, then seize Vierville to secure the vital highway linking Omaha Beach to the Gold Coast.
This directive came straight from Allied headquarters—they refused to let 2nd Company be wiped out. Naturally, they chose Major Langford's crack 5th Battalion, and Langford in turn picked unfortunate me—First Lieutenant Carter—to lead the operation.
Second Lieutenant Winters, who rarely spoke, grumbled to his comrades as soon as he heard our orders:
"Good Lord," he muttered. "Ever since First Lieutenant Carter arrived in 3rd Company, life's been a roller coaster. Here's hoping we make it back alive. God help us."
Surprisingly, the ever-talkative Lieutenant Joanner defended me:
"Second Lieutenant Winters! Don't blame our brilliant First Lieutenant Carter. These are orders from higher up; it's not fair to fault him. We just carry them out."
I grinned in appreciation. "See? Joanner is the wise one."
Joanner shot me a sly smile. "Just remember, First Lieutenant: if you don't get us all back alive, I will not let your sister off easy."
Angered, I gave Joanner a sharp kick—enough to send him stumbling out of my tent. "Shut your foul mouth!"
Clutching his backside, Joanner leapt to his feet and hurried off to join his squad.
Today's mission demanded exhausting speed. We were racing to rescue 2nd Company before they were annihilated, so we moved as fast as humanly possible, sticking to hidden trails in the dark. Though we encountered a few German patrols, they never detected our small force. Even Loquacious Joanner didn't utter a word; only the thundering of boots and our harsh, ragged breaths filled the night air.
Navigating by map and the scouts' guidance, we realized we'd reached Vierville's outskirts. It was past eight o'clock—pitch black—and the Germans lurked just ahead. We were about to collide with the enemy.
Back when Allied forces stormed Omaha Beach, one objective was to prevent German reinforcements from cutting them off. Another was to seize a chain of bridges still in German hands, thereby securing crossings over the Rhine. By doing so, the Allies would maintain momentum—striking deep into Germany before the Wehrmacht could regroup. To achieve this, nearly three divisions of airborne troops were dropped inland.
But due to foul weather, flawed intelligence, and utter chaos, those parachute drops became a disaster. Many units were scattered; German troops mopped them up like rabbits. Miraculously, though, 2nd Company of the 101st Airborne held together and landed intact near Vierville—right on that critical coastal highway. Trapped inside a tightening German ring, they fought desperately. Allied command had no reinforcements nearby; the only option was to dispatch a lean, fast-moving force from the landing beaches. Of course, seizing Vierville and securing that highway was the true strategic goal—but we couldn't leave 2nd Company to be wiped out.
Above, American transports and gliders continued pouring troops into German rear areas, enraging the German quadruple 20mm flak batteries. All around us, "thump-thump-thump" blasts of anti-aircraft fire echoed, while powerful searchlights carved arcs across the sky, exposing lumbering transports like clumsy ducks in a spotlight. Flak bursts tore Allied planes into flaming fireballs that lit up the clouds, and below lay scattered wreckage and the bodies of paratroopers.
Suddenly, a hit transport—trailing thick black smoke—plummeted toward the open field just ahead of us. Its pilot clearly tried to force a landing, but the effort failed. The plane slammed into the farmland, erupting in a massive inferno. As the aircraft exploded, the soldiers inside screamed in horrified agony. Joanner and the men watched in grim silence, their faces drained of color.
"We have to put those flak guns out of action!" I barked, and no one dared argue.
Gunfire rang from the village, punctuated by the frenzied "thump-thump" of German 20mm flak. It was clear the fighting was fierce. Skirting around the still-burning wreckage, we crept closer to Vierville.
In the darkness, binoculars were nearly useless. I dispatched Corporal Job to scout ahead. When he returned, he reported that the Germans' perimeter defenses were threadbare: at most a reinforced rifle platoon manned hastily dug foxholes at the village's entrance, and they had no machine guns—only a single flak battery. It seemed the Germans either didn't expect an attack from this direction or simply lacked manpower. Either way, their weak defenses at the village mouth gave me confidence: if we could knock out that flak gun, the rest would be ours.
The approach to Vierville lay across open farmland with no cover. My 3rd Company couldn't cross it undetected; the flak battery would tear us to shreds. Courage alone wouldn't be enough.
"Second Lieutenant Winters," I said, turning to him, "take your weapons platoon eastward, find a concealed position, and stay out of the Germans' sight. When we engage them from the front, you'll move to block any reinforcements. You must destroy that flak battery before help arrives. If the Germans reinforce, our attack fails. Understood?"
Winters nodded crisply. Without another word, he led his men off into the darkness. Watching him go, I realized that although my officers—Winters, Donovan, Joanner, Harper—constantly complained and sparred with me, they executed orders without hesitation when duty called.
"Harper," I continued, "you and Second Platoon stick close to Winters, keep your distance, and remain concealed. If Winters is spotted, break through with him, secure the position, and stop any German reinforcements from rallying. Got it?"
Harper gave a firm nod, though I saw Winters mutter under his breath, "Damn it—he doesn't trust me."
I turned to Lieutenant Joanner. "Sergeant Brian L. Mitchell," I said, "take your squad eastward, silently bypass the flak guns' searchlights, and neutralize their illumination. Then strike the Germans from the flank. Simultaneously, Joanner and Harper will engage from the front. We must eliminate those enemy gunners as quickly as possible."
Sergeant Mitchell saluted and slipped away under cover of darkness. The Germans in their foxholes remained unaware of our presence. They murmured about the besieged 2nd Company inside Vierville.
"Damn Yankees," one spat. "If not for orders, I'd hunt them down myself."
"Relax," another derided. "Lots of American planes overhead. Soon they'll be our target!"
A young soldier named Hans sighed, "When will this war end?" Silence fell heavy with the bitter knowledge that by 1944, Germany was faltering. An older NCO finally broke the hush: "For Germany—Für Deutschland!" he said firmly. They weren't fighting to conquer anymore; they were defending their homeland.
Mitchell crawled forward, inching his way to within a few dozen meters of the flak guns. The Germans had laid tripwires and tin-can alarms. One misstep would scream their presence to the entire village.
"Damn Germans are clever," he muttered. Signaling to two nearby men, he began carefully cutting the tripwires apart.
On my end, I grimly monitored the situation. If Mitchell failed, we'd have to withdraw and find another approach. But soon I saw Mitchell's discreet signal: the last alarm wire lay crimped and silent.
Mitchell lay prone, peering through his Garand's sights. The four flak gunners hunched behind their emplacement, scanning the sky for American aircraft. Taking a steady breath, he squeezed the trigger.
"Bang!" The searchlight's arc abruptly died. Blinded, the flak crew cursed and scrambled. Their 20mm barrels swung down to face the dark field, momentarily forgetting the skies.
Seizing the moment, Mitchell bolted toward the emplacement, hurling grenades. Explosions ripped through the foxhole; German defenders cried out as they fell, shredded by the blasts. Mitchell vaulted in, clubbed one survivor with his rifle butt, and surged ahead as the rest of his squad rushed in, Thompsons blazing. Within seconds, the flak gun was silent—its crew either dead, wounded, or surrendering.
Up front, Joanner's men poured suppressive fire on the German infantry platoon at the village entrance, drawing their attention. The quad 20mm barked in fury, rounds punching craters in the earth. When shells smashed a fallen tree trunk, several U.S. soldiers taking cover behind it were torn apart, their bodies shredded by lethal 20mm fragments.
With their focus on Joanner's flanking fire, the Germans in the flak pit never saw Mitchell slip into their position, pistols drawn. He ordered the stunned survivors to drop their weapons and hold their arms overhead.
In minutes, the German defenders at Vierville's entrance were dead, captured, or in retreat. The way into the village lay open. We had neutralized the flak battery and shattered their forward defenses. Now, with the path cleared, we would press on to rescue 2nd Company—before the first light of dawn trapped us between enemy lines and the rising sun.