"You—you—you! I'll count to three. When I say three, fire your Thompson submachine guns to suppress that MG 42 up top! The rest of you, be ready to keep advancing!" I roughly selected three men wielding Thompsons.
"Yes, sir!" they shouted in unison.
"Rat-a-tat-tat…" Three Thompsons erupted simultaneously, sweeping a torrent of rounds across the German nest. Nearly a hundred bullets thundered out almost instantly, and the German MG 42 was forced down by the sudden, intense barrage—silenced at once.
"Go! Go! Go!"
We charged again, but this time it was a slaughter. The men who bolted out lay strewn across the sand in front of the German position. The black private who had been chewing gum a moment ago took a bullet and crumpled. He hadn't died immediately—foam bubbled at his mouth, his body convulsed, his eyes glazing—but then his limbs jerked one final time, his head lolled to the side, and he was gone.
Damn it—another one gone. A few minutes ago, I was just a pretender holding a fake lieutenant's rank, leading about thirty men. Now, in the blink of an eye, I was a real sergeant and squad leader, with only myself, three Thompson gunners, and one rifleman left.
Huh? That rifleman was holding a Springfield 1903A4 sniper rifle.
"You're a sniper?" I blurted out in surprise. I knew that snipers were one of the most terrifying threats in World War II: pinpoint accuracy, deadly results, and exceptional reconnaissance skills—true nightmares for any battlefield commander. In the open field, the only way to neutralize a seasoned enemy sniper without suffering massive casualties was to pound every conceivable hideout with artillery. That lesson was written in blood over the course of the war. I both respected and feared them.
"Yes, sir," he replied coolly.
"Oh, thank God! That's great news. What's your name?" I asked, eager to remember such a valuable asset.
"David Job, sir."
"David Job? Ugh, I hate that name. I don't understand why your parents thought that was a good idea—there must be millions of people named Job in America!" Don't blame me for rambling; war hones your nerves to a razor's edge. Only by talking, cursing, or venting do you convince yourself you're still alive. On a real battlefield—unlike in movies—someone is either snapping or already dead.
"Oh, no, no, sir! It's God's will. We can't change that," Job disagreed firmly.
"You have a point," I shrugged without thinking. "But you're in trouble now. See that shell crater over there? I'll cover you so you can get into it, then take out those Germans up top."
"At once, sir."
The Germans in their bunker seemed to cooperate this time: they realized our suppressive fire couldn't last indefinitely and ducked down as soon as they heard the gunshots. War teaches you fast. To prolong our firefight, we rotated our four Thompson gunners into two shifts. That surprised the Germans—midway through our first wave, they thought our shooting had stopped and poked their heads up, only to be hammered down again by the other two Thompsons.
"Krack-krack!" bullets peppered the sandbagged bunker. It was the first time since we hit the beach that we'd managed a genuine tactical suppression. Evidently, German manpower was thin. Only later did I learn that along the entire fifty-three-kilometer defense line at Omaha, the Germans fielded fewer than eight thousand troops, while the Allies poured in forty to fifty thousand men just on that small stretch. If history could do-over, and the Germans had one more division here, the American landing would have failed. Too bad history doesn't rewind.
Job used our suppressive fire to dart into the crater I'd pointed out. A sniper's aim isn't a joke: with patient precision, he dispatched the MG 42 team one by one. The true D-Day breach was now open.
"Go, go, go!"
We scrambled up the gentle slope and spotted a German squad rushing to reinforce the breach under a junior officer's command. We didn't even have time to catch our breath. Using the German machine-gun emplacement as cover, we opened fire before they could form up properly.
"Fire!"
Our concentrated volley caught them off guard. They hadn't expected us to break through the D-Day breach so quickly. One by one, they fell. In under a minute, that ten-man squad was wiped out. War was equally merciless on both sides.
The fighting continued. The permanent concrete-and-rebar bunkers on the cliff still belched lethal fire. As the German suppressive fire weakened, my numbers around me crept back up to what they had been earlier, but I was still the luckiest man alive. I'd only been a lowly sergeant minutes ago.
"Push forward on both flanks! Destroy those bunkers! Keep going!"
But then a small drama unfolded. Among the men who'd advanced, a second lieutenant spotted my chevrons and barked, "Sergeant, command here is mine now."
"For God's sake, do as you will, sir," I said wearily. "Just keep me alive, and we'll see what happens." Honestly, I had no attachment to this temporary leadership. In this hell, unit cohesion was shattered, and everyone was a stray dog fighting to survive. A commander would be useless once the battle ended and the men melted away.
Fate ruled all. Just as he smirked with triumph, that arrogant lieutenant's body shuddered, and he toppled over—hit by a stray round from who knew where. I, once again, was sergeant and de facto leader.
Job stared at me in astonishment. "God works in strange ways. Whoever tries to contest you ends up dead."
My cheeks warmed for a moment, and I gave Job a quick kick. "Shut your mouth! That's God's favorite bastard you're calling me."
Job shot me a sly grin. "You shouldn't insult His son—maybe that "bastard" is you. Otherwise, how could you have been so lucky?"
"Huh, you always have a point," I conceded.
More American soldiers arrived, and the fierce clearing fight raged on both sides. Both sides were blood-mad; countless men died while countless more kept filling the ranks. Amid the chaos, the flamethrower teams stood out like holy knights against those concrete bunkers. All it took was to press the nozzle into the bunker doorway, and a torrent of fire would engulf the interior. Hearing the screams of men burning alive, the Germans would panic and bolt out—only to be cut down by waiting GIs.
By then, our victory was certain. Follow-on troops flooded in like a tidal wave, sweeping over the German line; only mop-up remained. I was utterly spent—my resolve crumbled, and I crouched to the ground, unable to stand any longer.
Job, on the other hand, seemed much better off. He leaned against the trench wall, pulled out a cigarette, and offered it to me.
"Give me one," I said hoarsely.
To be honest, it was my first time smoking. The strong aroma quelled my nerves, making me relax for the first time in hours. So that's why smokers get hooked—cheap relief that costs less than issuing alcohol to everyone.
"Not bad," I exhaled a thick ring of smoke and said, letting myself ease up.
"I can see you led well today," Job said earnestly. "Your superiors shouldn't have kept you at NCO rank."
I shrugged. "Who knows? As long as I'm alive when this war's over, I won't complain."
It was the truth. Job nodded just as he noticed a major and several officers approaching. He kicked me to get my attention. "Sir's coming!"
I stood up. The major and his officers headed straight for me—clearly there to see me.
He glanced at the First Infantry Division shoulder patch on my left arm, frowned as if he hadn't expected some lowly sergeant to spearhead the D-Day breach—then broke into an exaggerated grin. I didn't bother masking my indifference.
"First Infantry Division! Heh, God bless our First!" The major crowed like a proud rooster, parading this victory that wasn't solely his. "You're the pride of our First!" he boasted to the other officers.
"Sir, I—" I couldn't help interrupting his self-congratulatory act.
The major didn't miss a beat—he didn't even ask about my unit's organization. "Sergeant, you've been promoted on the spot to second lieutenant, company commander, effective immediately."
I stared at him, stunned by his dictatorial decree. "Will my old commander even agree to this?"
He waved me off. "I called Regimental Headquarters already. He's yours, effective right now." He pointed at an officer standing behind him. "Miller, take him to finalize his papers—don't let any other unit snatch him up!"
Lieutenant Miller grinned, slinging an arm around my shoulder as if I might bolt. "Sergeant—no, Lieutenant, sir—Major doesn't like to wait. I hope you won't turn him down."
I felt a chill down my spine. This was more terrifying than facing a German machine gun.
Lieutenant Miller was about to shepherd me away when the major suddenly asked, "What's your name?"
"Reporting, sir, my name is James Carter!" Damn him—why ask for my name only now?
"James Carter—excellent. I've got it." He waved us off.
Job, unable to stay out of it, piped up, "Sir, could you assign me to his command as well?"
The major barely concealed a smirk. "If he's your man, you can come along."
Job, shocked and elated, pressed on. "Sir, I'm from the 29th Infantry Division. Is that all right?"
The major pointed at Job and laughed. "Looks like this kid's from the so-called "Paper Tigers." But clearly we need his skills, so we'll take him." He laughed at the nickname, but Job's glare silenced him.
The 29th wasn't truly a "Paper Tiger."Though mocked as fragile as paper, they bled just as hard as any veteran unit. It was a green division hastily formed for the war, full of fresh recruits. With up to eighty percent casualties among new soldiers in any major engagement, the Army wavered over whether to deploy them. They were handled like fragile chocolate. Soon their comrades ironically dubbed them "Paper Tigers."
Job bristled. "Sir, the 29th isn't a Paper Tiger!"
The major's expression shifted as he recalled the division's dogged defense at Omaha—no less heroic than any other, even if it suffered heavy losses. He straightened up and offered Job a sincere apology. "My apologies, sniper. I shouldn't have said that. I hope you'll forgive me."
Before Job could respond, the major stepped forward with unexpected gravitas, extending both hands in invitation. "Sniper, we need you badly. Come join Lieutenant Carter's company."
Job glanced at me, hopeful. He couldn't turn down that invitation. Together, we fell in step with Lieutenant Miller and departed.
God is a cruel playwright. While granting me fortune, He stole everything else—and all my peace. If I had a chance to choose again, I would have refused that major's offer. Because that choice set me on a path paved in blood from which there was no turning back.