Nearly ten trucks rattled along the cratered road at a crawl. Between potholes and the constant threat of German interception, progress was agonizingly slow. Monroe and I rode in the second vehicle of the convoy. She sat beside me, glum and distant—just like everyone else, including me.
Suddenly, Monroe spoke up: "I want to go back."
"No," I said flatly. Her demand was unreasonable.
"I'm a reporter," she insisted, fishing for her press credentials. "The Germans won't do anything to me. Look—I still have my press badge…"
"Listen, Monroe," I cut in, turning to face the rest of our convoy in the rearview mirror. "None of us wants to leave Carlington. But we have no choice." I pointed out the back windows at the wounded piled into the trucks behind us. "Look at those men. They were all once healthy soldiers—now many are missing arms or legs. Monroe, they're people too, and they need protection." My voice dropped as I watched the bloodied stretchers. "That's why we're pulling back to Normandy—you protect the wounded and anyone else of importance."
Monroe fell silent, her gaze drifting up to the ink-black sky. I didn't know whether she was thinking of Carlington or the injured men behind us.
For this withdrawal from Carlington, aside from preserving the designation of the 3rd Ranger Company, my chief task was to shepherd our gravely wounded soldiers—and a handful of key staff officers—back to Normandy. It was no easy mission. German small units still roamed between Carlington and Normandy, staging ambushes. When they could, they fought them; when they couldn't, they withdrew—This is the Germans' guerrilla warfare tactic—they can also be called guerrilla forces.
To me, these German partisan units were a kind of irregular special forces: incapable of the finesse of a professional commando, yet dedicated to sabotage and infiltration. Their goal was simple: create maximum damage with minimal losses. They undermined roads and communications, kidnapped officers, and sporadically picked off enemy morale with sniper fire. While their tactics seldom altered the larger strategic picture, they forced us to tread more carefully.
"Everyone stay alert to any movement on both sides of the road! There are thick woods up ahead. Watch for German ambushes!" The order went out, and tension surged through the column.
Monroe lifted her head toward the sky, as if looking for an answer from God. "Why can't nations settle disputes by negotiation instead of war?" she asked me.
Her question made me think of the United Nations, founded after the war. I forced a small smile. "Because nations don't have a uniform set of laws or a policing force standing by to keep the peace—like civilians do."
Her eyes lit up. "Then why don't we propose, after the war, that every country join together and enact a single, equitable set of laws—just like ordinary people? Then there would never be another war, right?"
Such a lovely dream. It reminded me of my life back home, in that previous world. I didn't explain the complexities—just murmured, "Maybe you're right."
Boom! The first truck erupted in a blast that sent it rolling drunkenly into a roadside ditch.
"Ambush!" someone yelled.
"Everybody out—move!" The wounded stayed aboard, but every able-bodied soldier dove out of the vehicles, dropped into defensive positions, and trained their rifles on any shadow. The convoy lights snuffed out, plunging us into pitch darkness.
I squeezed Monroe's hand and whispered, "Stay in the truck. Don't go anywhere. It's definitely a German harassment squad."
The woods flanking the road seemed to leer at us. Every soldier's nerves were taut.
"Job, report—what happened to the lead vehicle?" I asked, crouching and nodding toward our scout.
"Judging by the scale of that explosion, it was an anti-tank mine," Job replied.
"Any more mines?" I pressed.
"Too dark to tell. And we can't see if there are Germans hiding in those trees."
I crouched, signaling to Second Lieutenant Joanner and Sergeant Harper to join me. "Joanner, Harper—take a few men and sweep the woods. Maintain distance; if you see anything suspicious, open fire immediately."
"Yes, Lieutenant!" They called back. "Kelly, Ivey, grab your gear and come with us!"
Their small team spread out in a loose formation: Joanner's machine gun covering the front, while Harper and his element flanked from behind. They edged forward, weapons at the ready. A gust of wind rustled the trees, amplifying the darkness.
"There—movement!"
Joanner opened up, unleashing a fusillade of machine-gun fire into a quivering patch of underbrush. Kelly provided covering fire as he lunged forward.
"Cease fire! Cease fire!"
The gunfire cut off abruptly. Joanner had fired into nothing but swaying grass. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. No Germans emerged from the woods.
Still, I had to assume there were more mines—just a dozen could bring the whole convoy to a standstill.
"Goddamn Krauts! Those mines…" I muttered, thinking back to the U.S. patrols in Iraq in the world I came from—enemy IEDs hiding anywhere, waiting to erase you in an instant. Our route to Carlington was far from secure.
We were only about ten kilometers from Carlington, yet I could still hear the distant staccato of rifle and howitzer fire. Delaney was still locked in combat back there. Should I turn back? Or press on, risking more mines? I couldn't decide.
"What's our distance to Coutances?" I asked Joanner, kneeling beside him.
He scanned a map by the dim red light of his flashlight. "Going to Coutances would take us at least twice as long as heading to Granville."
Granville was the main Allied supply hub—troops and materials flowed from there to the European front. With the Germans counterattacking at Carlington, they'd surely mined every road from Granville to cut off reinforcements. There were probably German ambush teams waiting to pick us off.
Better to try for Coutances. It was another Allied base—maybe a safer bet, even if it meant extra miles.
"All units, reroute toward Coutances!"
The convoy moved out once more. Aside from two small German detachments that cost us a truck filled with wounded and claimed several of my men, the trip went without major incident. Before long, we connected with the Allied contingent waiting at Coutances—and finally reached the town.
As we filed into the U.S. Army base at Coutances, Brigadier General June summoned me to his tent.
"Well done getting our wounded back safely," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "I know that wasn't easy."
"It's my duty, sir," I replied, exhaustion in my voice.
"Good. You're safe here. Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
Back in my assigned quarters, I collapsed on the cot and slept like a stone. I didn't wake until reveille sounded at dawn, jolting me fully awake.
It was June in Europe—long days and early daylight. I checked the officer's watch—I'd barely slept, and it was only five-thirty.
"Lieutenant—no, I should say Captain!" Joanner greeted me at my door, a grin on his face.
"What?" I blinked at him, still half asleep.
He laughed. "Captain! General June's staff delivered your orders this morning. Allied command has promoted you. You must've been sleeping when they arrived."
"Seriously? That's great news," I said, equally surprised and pleased. Monroe had told me earlier, but I hadn't had the chance to celebrate.
"Oh—and General June wants you in his office at eight o'clock. He said it's important."
"All right. Thank you, Joanner."
I just nodded, processing the promotion—and wondering what awaited me at General June's office.