“Where are you boys coming from?” Sergeant Rajinsky asked gently when the two vehicles were side by side.
Most of the wounded were too listless to reply. But one young soldier, wrapped in bandages like a mummy, managed to rasp, “Sainte-Régine.”
Jacob jumped up. “What’s happening in Sainte-Régine? There’s fighting there?”
“It was supposed to be easy—only a small garrison defending the town.” The youngster groaned. “They cut us to pieces. There’s only one road in, and they’ve got a giant gun locked onto it. We never got within a klick.”
“Calm down, son,” Rajinsky soothed. “You boys are going to be just fine. They’re going to take good care of you.”
The truck of wounded eased past them, leaving Bravo Company silent and brooding.
Except Jacob. “I need to see the captain,” he told Rajinsky urgently.
“And I need to see the president,” Rajinsky retorted, “for an immediate discharge. The captain’s a busy man, Firestone.”
“He needs to hear this,” Jacob insisted. “That town those guys got shot up in—Sainte-Régine. That’s where I was.”
The next time the convoy stopped to refuel, Jacob was hustled to Marone’s jeep and presented to the captain.
“Make it quick, Firestone. We just got new orders.”
“We’re going to Sainte-Régine, aren’t we, sir?” Jacob asked.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “How would you know that?”
“From the wounded they were evacuating past our convoy. That’s our new mission, right? To reinforce that unit and take the town? I can help.”
Lieutenant McCoy leaned into the conversation. “We weren’t thinking of doing it without you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Hear me out,” Jacob pleaded. “The farmhouse where they nursed me back to health—that was outside Sainte-Régine.”
The captain and the lieutenant exchanged a meaningful look. They had debriefed Jacob after his return from the farmhouse, so they knew about René Lafleur and his Resistance connection.
“Do you think you can reestablish contact with the Resistance?” Marone asked.
“I know I can. If there’s a big gun hidden in Sainte-Régine that’s making it impossible for us to attack, the Resistance will do everything they can to help us get rid of it. That’s all they talked about—finding a way to help the Allies liberate their town.”
Captain Marone thought it over for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he said, “Stick around, Firestone. We might actually be able to do some business here.”
The moon was back, but just a sliver. Jacob was grateful to be able to see a little bit as he made his way cross-country through the orchards that surrounded Sainte-Régine. When he’d left the farmhouse, less than a week before, the night had been like black velvet.
As he moved, Captain Marone’s ominous words echoed in his brain: “I can’t order you to do this, Firestone. You’re going to be behind enemy lines, meeting with people the Germans would shoot on sight. If you get caught, there’s nothing we can do for you.”
“I understand,” Jacob had said.
Scrambling over roots and between trees, he realized that he hadn’t understood at all. He had risked his life dozens of times as a member of Bravo Company—on Omaha Beach, in the hedgerows of Normandy, crossing France. But what was different now was the fact he was alone. Not just separated from his unit, but acting totally on his own.
When he reached the narrow road, he paused, taking stock. He and the two officers had spent hours poring over the area maps. Naturally, the Lafleur farmhouse was not on any of them. But based on the landmarks he remembered, and the time he’d spent journeying with his Resistance guides, the three had been able to estimate the general area where René’s home had to be. Were they right? It was impossible to guess. But the attack on Sainte-Régine—and many lives—depended on the answer.
Jacob made his way along the lane, squinting through the gloom, searching for anything that seemed man-made. A barn loomed up ahead. Excitedly, he quickened his pace. There was the house. Through the window, he could make out the dim glow of a dying fireplace. This had to be it!
He hesitated. Something was off. Of course, he had spent much more time underneath René’s home than standing outside looking at it. But this just wasn’t the place. The pitch of the roof was too steep, the structure too small.
Disappointment flooded over him, tinged with a little panic. Of all the contingencies they’d planned for, he and the captain had never talked about what would happen if he simply couldn’t find René and his Resistance comrades.
On he slogged, his spirits plunging. A second farmhouse appeared half a kilometer farther on, but it seemed wrong too. Come to think of it, maybe the first place was right after all, and he’d been too mixed up to recognize it. Should he go back? Or venture on to a third house?
He caught a whiff of something in the air—a cooking smell. Chicken stew, only burnt. A smile of pure wonder spread across his face. It had to be Madame Lafleur—she burned everything! She had led him home with her questionable kitchen skills.
He paused at the edge of the trees, poised like a pointer for a full five minutes. No one must see an American soldier entering this home. Finally, keeping low to the shadows, he approached the house and stepped up onto the porch. A board creaked underfoot.
In a split second, the door flew open and someone came up behind him and twisted his arm in a hammerlock, a knife at his throat.
And then Madame appeared in the doorway. “René—non! C’est Jacob!”
Jacob was dragged into the house and hustled down to the root cellar.
René was angry. “You take a great risk coming back here, monsieur!”
“My captain sent me,” Jacob explained. “We can help each other.”
Jacob told the Resistance leader about the upcoming American attack, and the problem with the big artillery piece that was menacing the single approach to Sainte-Régine.
“We hear this gun from time to time,” René confirmed. “But we did not know it was right in the town. It must be well hidden.”
“Can you find it?” Jacob asked pointedly.
“Sainte-Régine is our town” was René’s reply. “So long have we waited for the Americans to come and rid us of the Boches. I will destroy this gun if I have to crush the barrel with my own teeth.”
“It’ll be easier if you use this.” Jacob shrugged out of his backpack and opened it. It was filled with small gray bricks of high explosive.
René’s eyes gleamed in appreciation. “For us in the Resistance, this is like Christmas morning.”
By the light of a single candle in the secret root cellar where Jacob had been nursed back to health, the American private and the Resistance leader went over the plans for the attack, which was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Jacob provided grim details of the wounded men on the hospital truck—that would be Bravo Company if the Resistance couldn’t locate and disable the big gun. Without that critical step, the liberation of Sainte-Régine was destined to fail.
Long into the night, they discussed the possibilities. Then they synchronized watches and embraced warmly, promising to meet again when Sainte-Régine was free at last.
“You’re a good luck charm, little Jacob,” René said, beaming. “It was worth my effort to pick you up out of that ditch.” He pulled the ring with the double-barred cross from his finger and pressed it into Jacob’s palm. “You are one of us now.”
It was a gesture Jacob would remember for a lifetime. “I’ll always treasure this,” he promised emotionally, slipping it into his pocket.
Madame kissed him roundly on both cheeks, and wept a few motherly tears. Then he was on his way.
By this time, it was close to dawn, and he had to hurry to make it to the rendezvous point before sunrise. It was the kind of dark that only happens just before first light, so the most speed he could risk was a light jog. In his mind, he was alr
eady in the jeep that would carry him back to camp and Captain Marone.
The plan was a go! The fact that he, Jacob Firestone, had made it happen filled him with an excitement that brought him all the way back to the recruiting center in New Haven. This was why he had enlisted in the first place—to make a difference. Sure, he understood that he’d done his share countless times in this war. But as one soldier of hundreds of thousands. This was something else—an operation that couldn’t have happened without him. A whole town would be liberated thanks to his actions.
Lost in the exhilaration of his thoughts, Jacob never noticed the pale face until it was just a few feet in front of him. A German soldier, helmetless, blond, and every bit as shocked as Jacob himself. Jacob could smell alcohol on the man’s breath, and noticed an open bottle of wine in his hand.
The two stood there, eyes locked. The German had a rifle slung over his shoulder, but he made no move. Nor did Jacob reach for the pistol in his holster. They stared at each other for a long moment. The German didn’t seem to know what to do. He was probably drunk, and maybe in a place he wasn’t supposed to be. Jacob was definitely where he wasn’t supposed to be. Captain Marone’s words came back to him once more: If you get caught, there’s nothing we can do for you.
Worse still, if he got caught, the liberation of Sainte-Régine might never happen.
Hand trembling, Jacob pointed to himself and then pointed across the road into the orchard. He waited, breathless, for his enemy’s response.
The German’s eyes widened a little. It was impossible to be certain, but he seemed to be thinking it over. He wanted to be out of this standoff just as much as Jacob did. When it finally came, his nod of agreement was so slight that Jacob was unsure whether or not he’d actually seen it. But the alternative—standing here until daylight—was not an option. The German had that advantage: They were on his side of the line.
Jacob then did something that the army had been warning him not to do ever since Fort Benning: He turned his back on an armed enemy.
With every step through the soft earth of the orchard, Jacob braced himself for the crack of the rifle and the impact of the bullet that would end his life.
Neither came.
He did not risk a look back. When he was far enough into the trees and out of range, Jacob ran like he’d never run before.
Less than thirty-six hours later, the Battle of Sainte-Régine had begun. Jacob pressed his back against a tree trunk, watching the two medics carrying off the injured Beau.
“You take good care of him!” he shouted. He couldn’t even hear himself over the roar of the American artillery passing overhead, and the answering pound of the big gun in the village.
On the narrow road leading into town, soldiers of the armored unit struggled to move aside the two burning Sherman tanks. Treads smashed, the disabled bulldozer that had been sent to clear a path was itself in need of clearing. Behind the snarl, all the American tanks and vehicles were trapped, sitting ducks waiting for the Sainte-Régine gun to cut them to pieces.
Where was René? Where was the Resistance? Why couldn’t that weapon be silenced before it wiped out the entire invasion force? Like the hedgerows of Normandy, the mature apple trees in this orchard provided the greatest natural defense in the history of warfare. So much so that a single gun raining shells down on the road could stop an entire army. Jacob thought back to the wounded men on the hospital truck they had passed on the way to Sainte-Régine. Would that be Bravo Company’s fate?
Lieutenant McCoy was still yelling, urging the infantrymen to ignore the disaster on the road and advance through the trees. But there was little stomach to take on the enemy without the armor support the entire attack was based upon.
“Where are your Resistance friends?” McCoy shouted at Jacob. “Why’s that big gun still shooting at us?”
Dismayed by Beau’s injury and the destruction on the road, Jacob could only stare back at his lieutenant.
McCoy rolled his eyes. “What do you expect when you pin your whole plan on a high school kid?” He ran ahead, still bellowing instructions.
Jacob was stunned. Was the lieutenant saying that all this was his fault? Obviously, Jacob couldn’t be held responsible for the German defenses or the topography of Sainte-Régine. But the idea to rely on René and his Resistance fighters—that had been 100 percent Jacob.
What was the delay? René and his people were supposed to have acted two hours ago. Could they not find the gun? Or was it so well guarded that they couldn’t get to it? Had they been captured or killed?
The awful thoughts buzzed through Jacob’s head, drowning out even the overhead screaming of the shells. He hefted his rifle and took off through the orchard, keeping low to the ground. By the time he passed his lieutenant, he was sprinting.
“There you go, Firestone!” he called at first. Then, a moment later, “Hey, not so fast!”
Jacob did not slow down. Something had gone wrong, and it was up to him to get to the bottom of it.
The three French Resistance fighters wore dark trench coats and stocking caps as they made their way through the streets. They had little fear of being arrested by the Boches—not now that the battle was under way. Most of the garrison had advanced into the orchard to engage the Allied attackers. The biggest danger was the incoming fire from the American artillery. Every now and then, a shell would slam into the town, and a moment later, an entire building would collapse in on itself. Those few Germans who remained in the village were busy supervising the local fire brigade fighting the blazes caused by the bombardment.
The three had heard of towns around France that had suffered this kind of destruction. Was their beloved Sainte-Régine next? What on earth was the point of liberating a town that was nothing but rubble?
If only they could find the gun they’d been sent to destroy. That would allow the Americans in, which would have the added bonus of putting a stop to the artillery barrage. The Resistance men looked around in anguish. This mission had been doomed from the start. René, their leader, had not turned up at the rendezvous point. They had waited for him until the battle had begun, but could wait no longer.
Their hearts were heavy. Their leader’s absence did not bode well. If René was not here to be part of this operation, then something terrible must have happened.
But there was still the mission, and they would strive to complete it, with him or without him. Sainte-Régine was not a large town. How could such a powerful artillery piece escape their notice? They could hear it, even feel its concussion as it fired down on the Americans. The three knew a grudging respect for the hated Boches for having hidden this weapon so completely that even the townspeople could not locate it.
And then, the youngest of the men pointed to a puff of smoke rising from a broken skylight in the abandoned stables at the edge of the village.
“Look!”
Hugging walls and staying in the shadows, they snaked their way through the town, approaching the old livery stable from the rear. As they crept toward the door, an earth-shattering blast rattled every board in the ancient structure. Looking up, they were actually able to see the shell bursting through the broken skylight and sailing out over the orchards toward the American positions.
The three exchanged knowing glances. The big gun was hidden inside the stable.
No words were exchanged. They communicated by a series of hand signals. Pistols were drawn. Expressions hardened with the knowledge that it would be necessary to kill the gun crew. Then they would blow up the weapon with the RDX putty explosive the young American had provided.
The three did not relish the violence that lay ahead, nor were they afraid of it. The men and women of the French Resistance did what needed to be done, without question or judgment.
But when they eased open the sliding door to peer inside, an astounding sight met their eyes. There was no gun crew, no giant artillery piece. Instead, they found themselves looking at the armored hulk of a German Tiger tank, its c
annon pointed out the open skylight.
The mysterious gun was not a gun at all—at least not just a gun. It was a tank, the largest battlefield weapon in the German arsenal. No wonder its devastating effect had been mistaken for an artillery piece. Its 88-millimeter cannon was capable of hitting targets three kilometers away with a frightening degree of accuracy. The entire road leading into Sainte-Régine lay under the threat of this instrument of destruction.
Their plan had to change, but in many ways it would become easier. There would be no shoot-out with a gun crew. Instead, if they acted quietly and stealthily, they might be able to destroy the tank with the soldiers inside never becoming aware of their presence.
Careful to avoid the viewing port at the front of the tank, the Resistance men slipped into the stable. They distributed the bricks of explosive among the three of them and set to work molding the RDX putty to the body of the tank. They had to resist the temptation to pack the explosive around the base of the gun itself. That would put them too close to the viewing port and alert the crew to their presence. No, they had to hope that the American had provided enough RDX to put the entire tank out of commission.
At last, they attached the detonator wires and prepared to step away.
And then, as had happened countless times in the history of warfare, random chance took over. A member of the German tank crew decided to come out to smoke a cigarette. The hatch was flung open and a blond head emerged.
It was so unexpected that the three froze for an instant. The Boche was shocked as well, but his recovery was quicker. A black Luger appeared in his hand, he spat twice, and one of the three Frenchmen was dead. The other two fired back, killing the German, who tumbled down the side of the tank to the stable floor.
But the damage was done. Agitated shouts erupted from inside the Tiger.
The youngest Frenchman fumbled with the detonator, but hesitated for a fatal second. If he set off the explosive here, at close range, they would all die in a fireball.
War Stories Page 14