James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Once in the forest, he quickly lost his grip on reality. The trees had an isolating effect, and as he worked his way up the hill, he quickly lost sight of his Ferdinand. He’d not yet made it up to the fighting, and for a few moments, he could have been on a Sunday stroll through a city park. In the distance, he could hear the ripping linen of submachine-gun fire, but with that exception, the morning was eerily quiet. He kept moving forward, darting from tree to tree. The trunks were too narrow to offer any real protection, but they provided partial cover and a sense of security. He moved up, yard by yard. The clamor of fighting grew now. In the distance, he could see the backs of a few comrades, huddled behind trees, darting around for a moment, taking quick aim, then moving back again. One of the men took a round and was spun out from behind a tree, falling face forward down the hill and tumbling a dozen yards or so before coming to a silent rest. Koehl hastened to the soldier, rolling him over, but his eyes were glazed and stared up at the heavens. He’d taken a round directly through the heart and was probably dead before he’d hit the ground.

Koehl laid the soldier gently back to the ground, covering the man’s face with his helmet. He moved forward and picked up his Mauser rifle, a much more effective weapon than his pistol, and started back up the hill toward the sound of the fighting.

He passed a cluster of trees and reached one of his men. The soldier was firing and did not see Koehl coming up behind him. The Hauptmann placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, and the private jerked and turned in surprise, before letting out a deep breath of relief on seeing Koehl. A bullet chipped the trunk of the tree he was resting behind, then another.

“Where are the Americans?” demanded Koehl.

“That way up the hill,” said the private, waving a negligent hand.

“How far?”

“ Gott knows. Maybe a hundred yards.”

Koehl crouched behind another tree, moving his head around the truck and staring up the hill, trying to make out the Americans. A bullet hit the dirt near him, and he jerked his head back around, taking a couple of breaths. He fumbled with his rifle, pulling the bolt back and moving a round into the chamber. He cocked the bullet into place and then whipped the weapon up; spinning around the trunk, he took rapid aim up the hill and fired. He returned quickly to his cover, moving the bolt in and out again as he chambered new rounds. He repeated this process several times, unsure if he was hitting anything. He felt alive, excited. He hadn’t experienced combat on the ground before. He felt so exposed and vulnerable.

“Let’s go!” he screamed at the private. He whipped around the tree again and sprinted up to another trunk a few yards up the hill. The private seemed to hesitate, then followed. Koehl scrambled up again, firing once as he advanced on another trunk, then another. Soon they had advanced thirty yards up the hill.

The bullets were whipping around them now. Koehl looked to his left and right, trying to make out the rest of his men, but he could see nothing. He was in his own little world, just he and the private, and their nameless foes above and ahead of them. He could taste the Americans. They were close, less than fifty yards now. He wondered how many of them there were, how much ammunition they had.

He darted up another few yards. He heard a groan and a crash behind him. The private was down, hit in the leg by a round. He kicked and thrashed for a few moments, and then rolled to his left, pulling himself behind a tree. “Are you all right, Private?” called Koehl.

“I’ll be fine,” said the soldier through gritted teeth. “It passed through my calf. Hurts like the devil! I can’t go on, Hauptmann . You should stay here with me. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Nonsense, Private. We’ve got them right where we want them. I’ll be back for you.”

“Good luck!” the private called.

Koehl turned and shuffled toward another tree. Rounds danced past him. Someone ahead had a submachine gun. He would have to be careful now. What about grenades? He hadn’t thought of that. The American pineapples would roll nicely down this hill and blow him to bits. He would have to keep an eye out for them.

He found a wider tree trunk and rushed forward to crash against it. This time, he thought he saw a flash in the trees ahead. His first glimpse of the enemy, of his enemy. Let me kill the man who killed her , he whispered in prayer.

Bullets crashed against the tree in rapid succession. The hero up there with the machine gun was giving it his all. But he was a fool, wasting bullets. Koehl waited until there was a pause, then he rolled to his right, spinning over a few feet, then laying his weapon out carefully and firing—one round, two; he rolled again and fired, always at the same cluster of trees where he’d seen the flashes. A bullet hit the dirt in front of him. Another bounced off his helmet. He saw a flash and aimed carefully, firing another round; then he rolled back behind the tree. His heart was exploding in his chest. He was delighted, alive, and coursing with the moment. He smiled to himself, enjoying the rapture and passion of the fight.

His rifle was empty. Damn it! He hadn’t thought to take ammunition off his dead comrade. He pulled his pistol back out. It was suicide to engage them with it, but he didn’t care. He was fighting them. The killers of his dreams. He rolled out again, to his left this time, and rapidly emptied his pistol as its yippee bark spewed bullet after bullet at his enemy. The machine gunner was back at it again, and a line of rounds crashed past him, barely missing; he rolled over behind the tree, fumbling for another pistol clip in his equipment. He looked over and was delighted to see three more comrades, one with an MP 38. That would even the odds. The soldier nodded approvingly at him, apparently having watched the last exchange with the enemy.

He spun out and started his wild, rapid firing again. This time, two grenades rolled down the hill directly toward him. He continued his turn, spinning away from them and toward the small cluster of infantry to his left. He reached the men as the first grenade exploded. He expected the white-hot burning of shrapnel, but he wasn’t hit. The second detonated, showering them with dirt. A fragment cut his cheek, but he’d survived. He looked over at the rest of the men. They seemed okay.

His blood was up, and he wanted to finish this. “Let’s get these bastards!” he shouted. He rose to his feet and charged up the hill, not waiting to see if they were following him. He moved from tree to tree, sprinting, firing his pistol at the cluster of bushes above him. Bullets whizzed around him but did not find their mark. He felt invincible, shielded from harm. He was closing in on them now, twenty yards away, then ten. He fired, screaming, waiting for death to take him, but still storming ahead.

He could see them now. A cluster of GIs. He fired at them, and his shot found the chest of one of his enemy, the man jerking backward and hitting the ground. He fired again, grazing the shoulder of another. A few shots fell short of him as he closed the distance where the Americans stood, their arms in the air, attempting to surrender. He ran in to the cluster, knocking one of the men to the ground with the back of his pistol to his face. His breathing came in rapid gasps; he was winded, and images flashed back and forth before him. He heard the footsteps of men behind him, and he knew his small unit had followed him.

There were six Americans here, two wounded. He shouted at them in German, screaming, feeling the fire of his loss and frustration. The private with the submachine gun stepped quickly forward, pulling their weapons away from them and tossing them to the ground at a safe distance. An American was saying something to him, with pleading in his voice. He didn’t want to hear them beg for his mercy. He wanted his revenge.