Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Eight

Nobody got much sleep. A cold rain began to fall after midnight, filling the belly of the foxholes with muddy water. Those who did nod off slept fitfully, half expecting SS commandos to slip in under cover of darkness and knife the sentries. Frenchie faded in and out of consciousness, waking every time that he started to shiver too much.

In the morning, what remained of the American force awoke wet, stiff, and hungry. Frenchie's breakfast consisted of a few swigs from his canteen. The water tasted muddy and metallic. He was pretty sure that he'd have traded his left nut just then for a hot cup of coffee and a doughnut.

The Germans let them know that they were still there by shooting at anyone who stuck his head out of a foxhole. If you had to relieve yourself, you did it right there in the foxhole.

Several of the men wounded in yesterday's fight were really suffering, but doing their best to hang in there. The medic dosed up the worst of the wounded with the morphine that he had left, crawling from foxhole to foxhole to avoid the German fire. It was the best that he could do for the wounded. Medical assistance from the other side of the river was out of the question.

Frenchie blinked, groggy with exhaustion and looking around for Marty. A fresh wave of grief washed over him when he saw his buddy’s still form. Marty's gone.

Nearby, the sergeant was on the radio again. When he clicked off, he explained to the soldiers that headquarters finally radioed orders to withdraw. The sergeant didn't look happy about it. They were giving up on the bridgehead at Dornot. Resistance was too organized. There were still the two German-held forts from the old Siegfried line to contended with, and the Army had found more luck establishing a crossing at Metz, just to the north.

"Back to the boats," Sarge shouted.

That was one order they were glad to get. But retreat wasn't so simple. They had a lot of wounded, and they needed help back to the river. Several had to be carried out on stretchers, which took a while, considering that the men cried out in pain with each jolt or misstep on the slippery, uneven ground.

"Nobody gets left behind," Sarge growled. "If they're still breathing, they come with us."

Some of the wounded had not survived the night, however, and were left where they lay, foxholes serving as shallow graves. Frenchie gave Marty one last look and left him behind.

At first, as they trudged toward the river, it seemed as if the Germans might let them go, albeit like dogs with their tails between their legs. The enemy held their fire, except for a couple of stray shots just to let them know they were there.

But it was only a feint. As soon as the Americans were all out of their foxholes, exposed on the plain sloping down toward the river, the SS troops opened fire. Thankfully, they didn't seem to have machine guns, or maybe they were just using the retreating Americans for rifle practice.

The GIs had no choice but to make a run for it. The boats were maybe 300 feet away, and Frenchie joined the others in a dash for the river. He started to pass a soldier hobbling forward with a leg wound, thought better of it, and turned back. He threw the soldier's arm across his shoulders and the two of them hot-footed it toward the boats, bullets singing around them.

"Goddamn Krauts," the man muttered. "I owe you one, buddy."

He helped the wounded soldier tumble into one of the rubber rafts that was being pushed out into the current, then slid over the side himself.

He grabbed a paddle and started digging into the water. He knew the drill by now, having made the trip from the opposite direction just yesterday. That seemed like an eternity ago.

Now that it seemed as if the retreating Americans might actually make it back across the river, the Germans finally opened up with machine guns. White-hot tracers flashed across the surface of the river. Bursts of fire hit the flimsy boats, ripping them apart. Those who were not killed outright found themselves flailing in the water.

Swimming when burdened down by a rifle, helmet, boots, and gear was out of the question. One by one, the men who went into the water were dragged down by the current. Over the sound of the firing, Frenchie could hear the desperate pleas of the drowning men before they went under.

His own boat was still intact, but who knew for how long. Bullets danced across the surface of the water like raindrops. Frenchie paddled frantically for the far shore, which seemed so close, and yet impossibly distant.

He felt somebody nudge him.

"Hey, buddy, take this," said the soldier whom Frenchie had helped reach the river. The man held out a five-gallon metal jerry can that had once held drinking water. "It'll float."

"What about you?"

"I'm not gonna make it in the shape I'm in, buddy." The soldier grimaced, and Frenchie could see that that man had been hit again. "Like I said, I owe you one."

Frenchie didn't have time to argue, because in the next instant, a burst of machine gun fire hit the raft. The thing came apart instantly, rubber strips flying everywhere. He felt something hit his thigh. Then the brown water bubbled up all around him. He dropped the paddle and clutched at the jerry can for dear life.

The next thing he knew, he was in the cold river, being dragged down by the weight of his boots and wet clothes. Hang on to the can, he told himself. The jerry can had just enough buoyancy to keep him afloat.

However, the Germans were not done with them. Having sunk all the boats, they now strafed the surface of the river, picking off survivors. Frenchie realized he made too much of a target, trying to crawl on top of that jerry can like it was his own personal raft. He changed tactics and slipped down into the water next to the can, still gripping it for dear life but trying not to expose more than his head.

He was pretty sure, though, that it wasn't going to be enough. Bullets still hissed down into the water. He took a big gulp of air and went under, keeping one hand wrapped through the handle of the jerry can, which had just enough buoyancy to keep him from sinking.

When he tried to open his eyes, he couldn't see a thing except murky water. A line of bubbles exploded nearby, then another. Bullets. Too close. He held his breath until his lungs burned, trying not to panic. He tried to tell himself that it was just like being a kid at the beach.

Finally, when every molecule of his body was screaming for oxygen, he came up for air. Immediately, he saw that the current had carried him quickly downstream, away from where the boats had gone down. Nobody was shooting at him anymore. Debris covered the water, but he couldn't see any other survivors.

He hung onto the can with both hands now and let himself drift. The current was strong; he could feel it tug at his legs, wanting to pull him down. He realized that his thigh hurt intensely. He must have been hit, but he couldn't worry about that right now. He had to get even farther away from those SS soldiers, and then he had to get to shore.

He had a problem, though. He felt himself settling lower into the water, even when he tried to hug the jerry can closer. Trying to get a better grip on the can, he soon understood what was going on. Several holes puckered the can. If he hadn't gone underwater, he was pretty sure those bullets would have hit him. He tried to cover the holes with his hands and then to shift how the can sat in the water, but it wasn't going to work. Slowly but surely, the can was losing its buoyancy as it filled with water.

Swimming for shore wasn't an option, at least not yet. He wanted to get as far from those Germans as possible. Even then, he wasn't sure how well his leg would work when it came time to kick for shore. His waterlogged uniform and boots felt like concrete weighing him down. It was going to take a lot of effort to keep the current from pulling him down. He decided that he had no choice for now but to hold on.

The passing shoreline on both sides looked uniformly featureless and uninviting, with steep banks covered in brambles and underbrush. The good news was that there didn't seem to be any German soldiers lining those shores.

Minute by minute, the jerry can settled lower into the water. He passed a point where a large stream emptied out into the Moselle and was momentarily caught in a swirl of current. He kept hoping that his feet would touch bottom at some point, but no such luck. While it wasn't navigable by ships, the Moselle was just deep enough to drown him.

Up ahead, a stone bridge came into sight. His heart sank — he was pretty sure that if the Americans held a bridge, they wouldn't have tried to cross at Dornot. Did that mean the Germans held the bridge? He'd be in trouble if they spotted him. But he couldn't see anybody on the bridge. What did that mean?

Private Frenchie Tremblay had not been privy to the fact that the bridge at Ville sur Moselle was not an ideal military crossing. He could not have known that the bridge had to some extent escaped detection because it was narrow and the road leading to it was not suitable for large numbers of vehicles. But with few other options, the bridge had become invaluable.

Ideally, military planners had pushed for securing a bridgehead that could then be spanned by a temporary pontoon bridge. That's just what had been attempted at Dornot. In the end, the effort to establish an American foothold at Dornot had been a failure. While that fight had raged, American forces attempted other crossings with more success. Like Frenchie with his jerry can, the Germans couldn't stop up all the holes.

It had been Frenchie's bad luck to be part of the action to secure what turned out to be a well-defended area along the Moselle. One that was defended by die-hard SS troops, to boot.

The price paid was high. Between the ambush and then the disastrous retreat, the butcher's bill was nearly one thousand young men killed or wounded. U.S. forces lost fifty-five killed in action, ninety missing in action (mostly drowned and their bodies never recovered), four hundred sixty-seven wounded in battle, and more than three hundred incapacitated by non-battle injuries that ranged from sickness brought on by the damp to near-drownings. German losses were maybe a couple of dozen troops. The generals explained it all away as a feint to distract German forces while successful crossings were made elsewhere. Then again, maybe Marty Pulaski had been right all along, and it really had been one big SNAFU. One thing for sure, nobody was going to go out of their way to remember the Battle of Dornot because it had been a defeat. In this war, only the victories would be remembered.

But at the moment, Frenchie was still just trying to stay alive. He was worried about any Germans that might be hanging around that bridge looming in front of him. Had he gone from the frying pan into the fire? He thought about floating past the bridge and avoiding any trouble, but by now, the jerry can was so full of water that had flowed in through the bullet holes that it started to pull him down, rather than keep him afloat.

Reluctantly, he let go of the can and watched it sink into the brown water. Hoping not to follow its example, he started to swim for shore, using an awkward stroke that favored his hurt leg. The shore seemed to grow closer, if just barely. He struggled to swim in the boots and waterlogged uniform. He tried to get a gulp of air and swallowed the dirty river water instead. Gasping and sputtering, he swam even harder. It was going to take every last ounce of energy to reach the shore.