Roberts wanted to storm the city hall on his own—that much was clear. He was trying to prove something, to show the Rangers that even without us, his boys could still take out the Krauts just fine. And to be fair, the German defense forces we were dealing with were mostly the leftovers—the shattered remnants of units that had retreated from the front lines. Against that kind of resistance, especially with armored support and air cover, taking the city hall shouldn't have been too much of a stretch.
Roberts grinned as he turned to me and said, "Captain Carter! See you at the city hall!"
I shook his hand and replied, "You got it. I'll see you there."
And with that, we parted ways. Since I wasn't headed for the city hall myself, my job was to cover Roberts' flank, pushing through Sector D to cut off any possible German retreat routes from behind. To his credit, Roberts didn't skimp on the support—he let me take one of the Sherman Crocodile tanks to provide fire cover for my unit. He charged straight for city hall under the protection of the other two tanks.
The Sherman Crocodile—also known as the flame tank—was a real beast. Built off the frame of a standard Sherman medium tank, its main cannon had been replaced with a flamethrower, and it was far more devastating than the handheld ones our infantry carried. A burst from this monster could set an entire building ablaze in seconds. I had to admit, I had a soft spot for the damn thing. The Krauts might call it junk, but I treated that flaming juggernaut like a prized pet, keeping it tucked safely behind the line.
"Luca," I called out, "take a squad and keep this iron beast covered. I don't want a German anti-tank round turning it into scrap metal."
"Captain, come on, they'd have to try pretty hard!" Luca grinned.
"Better safe than sorry. Look around—we're surrounded by buildings. One well-hidden Kraut with a Panzerfaust in the shadows, and boom—we're screwed."
In truth, during the battle for Cherbourg, General von Schlieben had responded to his lack of manpower by organizing his forces into small, lethal teams. Each team was made up of three men—a machine gunner, a sniper, and an anti-tank specialist. This setup allowed the Germans to hold key positions with surprising effectiveness. The machine gunner could suppress advancing infantry, the sniper could pick off any threats to the gunner or anti-tank guy, and the anti-tank man kept the group safe from our armored vehicles.
This triad became a terrifyingly efficient defensive tactic, later adopted in urban warfare all over the world. In the early 1990s, Chechen fighters used the same configuration against the Russians in Grozny. Even though the Russians had tanks on the ground and gunships in the sky, their losses were catastrophic. For instance, during the Grozny campaign, Russia's 131st Motor Rifle Brigade lost over 800 of its 1,000 men, including the brigade commander. Out of 26 tanks, 20 were destroyed. Of 120 armored vehicles, 102 were knocked out. The brigade was effectively wiped from existence. Even though the Russians eventually reduced Grozny to rubble with overwhelming firepower, the Chechens' cleverly built defenses still posed a lethal threat, forcing the Russian army into a humiliating withdrawal.
Back in Cherbourg, none of us knew how heavy a price we might pay for overcoming the Germans' version of this same deadly tactic.
"Captain," Joanner said, walking beside me, "how long do you think it'll take Captain Roberts to take the city hall?"
"Hard to say," I answered. "Could be done in an hour. Or he might be stuck there all day."
"Intel says those four German regiments haven't shown up yet. That's making me real uneasy," Joanner muttered.
"Let command worry about that. Not our problem—yet," I replied.
Just then, someone called out, "Sir! Roadblock up ahead!"
I rushed forward and found our tank stalled, not moving. "What's going on?"
"The tank's hesitating, sir. Driver thinks there might be an ambush from both sides."
I scanned the area. Tall buildings loomed on both flanks, and though distant artillery thundered in the background, the street itself was eerily silent. The whole scene stank of trouble.
Fighting a regular army in a city—one with tanks, armored cars, and anti-tank weapons—is a different beast entirely. One misstep and your whole unit could get chewed to bits. Urban warfare wasn't like open-field battles. The outskirts of a city might seem like a good place to maximize our firepower, but they also left us exposed to return fire. German commander von Schlieben, knowing his forces were outgunned and outmanned, wasn't about to fight us in the open. He'd pulled his troops into the heart of Cherbourg, using solid brick-and-stone buildings to his advantage.
Another key difference between city fighting and field battles was the density of defensive troops. A single company might be tasked with holding only two blocks—barely a kilometer wide. Breaking through a defensive line that tight would take twice, maybe three times the manpower, and you'd pay for every foot gained in blood.
"Donovan! Spread out into combat formation!" I ordered. "Clear every building—don't leave so much as a damn rat behind!"
Donovan split his men into four assault teams, each one moving toward the buildings on either side of the street. But they didn't get far. After barely advancing ten meters, the first and second teams were hit by a brutal burst of machine gun fire from the second floor of a building to the left. A German MG42 was laying down hell from a hidden window.
Sergeant Seaman, commanding the first team, quickly shouted for his men to return fire. Down below, Sergeant Sallee from the second team heard the gunfire right above him and pulled out a grenade, ready to lob it upstairs and silence the Krauts.
From where I was, I could see it all.
"Damn it! Watch your right!" I yelled.
Too late.
From the building to the right, another MG42 opened up. It was a perfect kill zone.
Sallee's team was caught in a deadly crossfire. They tried to fight back, but the MG42's rate of fire and stopping power were overwhelming. Within seconds, both of the lead squads had taken heavy casualties. Seaman and Sallee were completely pinned.
"Requesting support! For God's sake, we need support!" Seaman shouted, voice raw with desperation.
"Tank forward! Move that tank up!"
The Crocodile wasn't far off—barely ten meters away. Under covering fire from Donovan's third team, it rolled forward a few more yards, getting into a better angle.
The Germans saw the tank turret rotating toward them and instantly panicked. The gunfire from the right-side position stopped as they scrambled to relocate.
Then the Crocodile opened up—not with a shell, but with a tongue of fire. A searing stream of napalm roared from the barrel and engulfed the entire building. Within seconds, it was ablaze.
The Germans on the left tried to make a run for it. Seaman, furious and bloodied but still alive, charged the building. He didn't check for booby traps. He didn't care.
He kicked open the door, and inside he caught two German soldiers trying to flee down the back stairs.
"You bastards! Where the hell do you think you're going?!" he roared.
He raised his Thompson submachine gun and squeezed the trigger, riddling them both with bullets. They crumpled to the floor, dead. When the rest of the squad arrived, they found Seaman still shooting, even after the bodies had stopped moving.
"Seaman! Enough—they're dead!" Sergeant Morrissey yelled, pulling him back.
Seaman finally snapped out of it. His face was like stone. He stepped outside and saw the wounded—his men writhing in pain, clutching their guts, their legs, their bleeding arms. The rage in his eyes gave way to sorrow.
"Damn it all... Get the wounded out of here!" I shouted, rushing over. Ignoring the threat of snipers, I called out to the medics. "Set up a field station right here. We've got too many casualties. If we wait to move them back, more of them will die."
"Yes, sir!" Nichols, the medic sergeant, snapped back.
"Brooks, radio Roberts. Tell him we've hit heavy resistance. There are Kraut machine gun nests all over the place—and I swear I can smell artillery rounds too."
Brooks hesitated, opening his mouth to say something—but just then, a sharp whistle split the air, followed by an earth-shaking boom.
"Mortars! Son of a bitch—they're shelling us!" I shouted, diving behind a slab of concrete.
"Where's it coming from?" I barked.
"No idea, sir!"
"Damn it—there's gotta be an artillery spotter somewhere! Everyone fall back! Fall back now!"
Like a tide, the men retreated to our original line, and just as quickly as it began, the German shelling stopped.
"Report! I want every unit to give me a casualty count!"
Rough numbers came in—another six or seven down. Just from that brief clash. Since we'd started this push into Cherbourg, my company had already lost over a dozen men. For a single unit, that was no small hit.
I relayed the situation to First Army Command, and as more reports of spiking casualty numbers poured in from across the front, the brass started to realize this wasn't going to be the cakewalk they'd expected.
"Captain Roberts, what's your situation over there?" I radioed.
"Goddamn it!" his voice crackled over the line. "They're putting up one hell of a fight. I can't push any closer to city hall!"