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Content Warning :
This chapter, for the sake of the story, contains violent scenes including torture and severe bodily harm. It does not reflect the author's stance; readers are advised to proceed with caution. The content depicts brutal wartime interrogation methods that may be unsettling to some. Neither the author nor the publisher condone or endorse such actions.
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The fall of the German defensive line at the village's edge meant Vierville's gates lay open—and the true bloodshed was about to begin.
"Job, you're in charge of interrogating the prisoners immediately! Find out how many German troops and heavy weapons remain in the village, where their command post is located, and what caused those gunshots this morning. Use any method necessary—get that intelligence as quickly as possible." Time was ruthlessly slipping away, and I barked the order with barely contained urgency.
The captured German soldier glared back, utterly unconcerned with Job's polite questions. He shrugged off every attempt to coax information. I hesitated briefly, then whispered a few instructions to Job before turning my head. I could not bear to watch what came next, but I had no choice: to fulfill my orders, Job would employ brutal methods.
Job slowly drew his bayonet. He held it in front of the first German's face, letting the frigid steel gleam in the dim light. The soldier flinched, instinctively trying to recoil, but Job needed no invitation. With one swift motion, he grabbed the man's hair and sliced off his left ear. The instant agony forced the German into a heart-wrenching scream. Job said nothing; instead, he watched the other prisoners, gauging their reactions. Their eyes remained coldly shut—a silent refusal that only infuriated him.
The interrogation continued. Each time Job growled "Speak or don't speak," he carved away another piece of flesh. The prisoner's ten fingers were severed one joint at a time until he lay nearly lifeless, his ability to scream extinguished. The American soldiers who stood nearby, witnessing this grotesque display, could not all bear it—some vomited at Job's feet. From that moment forward, among our men, Job was known by a single new name: "Executioner."
The remaining Germans could no longer maintain their frozen calm. Terrified of the same fate, they quickly divulged everything they knew, begging for a swift death by comparison. They confessed that roughly a battalion of Wehrmacht troops garrisoned Vierville. One company formed a motorcycle patrol, responsible for safeguarding the highway through the village; the rest were spread out in small detachments. They had no heavy armor or tanks—only two anti-tank guns, a few mortars, and a dozen or so heavy machine guns. Their command post stood just south of the village, housed within a fortified building. As for the gunfire earlier that morning, it came from several American paratroopers who had inexplicably dropped nearby; German units were still combing the area, rooting them out.
"Give them all a good, quick end." I muttered under my breath.
Although it was my order that had driven Job's savage interrogation, staring at the mutilated bodies of those German prisoners made my skin tremble. My fingers shook uncontrollably, as if the tremor originated deep in my bones. I used to be a different man—calm, rational, respectful of law and human rights. I grew up in the twenty-first century, acutely aware of the horrors of war crimes and the consequences of trampling on basic rights. Yet today, I had chosen a path of no return.
Their screams of agony, their terrified eyes… those images clung to my mind. I shook my head, willing myself not to dwell on them. The memory of their torture nearly made me retch—how could I do this? I was a modern man, versed in the Geneva Conventions: I knew how prisoners should be treated, yet here I was, violating every code. But in this era of total war, I had no real choice.
I inhaled deeply, forcing clarity. Another battle awaited us. Every nerve in my body bristled with tension, bracing for more death and carnage. Yet the weight in my chest threatened to crush me. I had watched those prisoners die, tearing apart their flesh and shredding their souls—all for intelligence, for the mission. I could convince myself it was for a larger victory, for my comrades' survival. Yet despite that rationalization, the guilt remained a crushing burden. I was a modern man, once a university lecturer on human rights, peace, and justice—now I had become an instrument of terror.
Voices from my men echoed in the distance, urging us to prepare for the next engagement. The clash of gunfire and the blare of battle horns allowed no pause. I forced down those emotions, knowing that weakness now could cost lives. Yet no matter how I tried to suppress it, the weight of guilt hammered me like a sledgehammer. I dared not think of the tortured expressions or consider how much humanity I had sacrificed.
Another fight was coming, and I was no longer the man who had crossed into this world. Modern morality held no meaning on this battlefield. There were no laws here, no rules—only ceaseless bloodshed and death. I sensed myself growing numb, drifting ever further from my former self. Yet even numb, I understood that survival was the only option. This time, I would pick up my weapon and plunge back into a battle devoid of belonging or justice. My spirit lay in tatters, but for the sake of living—and of tomorrow—I had to bury my anguish deep.
I would become the very monster I despised—simply to live through this nightmare.
I forced my mind back to the present and opened the military map. The highway bisected Vierville, cutting the village in two. In other words, we had to cross that road, where the German patrols would surely lie—unless we destroyed them first. If they engaged us, we'd risk being enveloped under layers of German fire.
Our current position lay to the east of the village, just beyond a low-lying bowl of land. Tracing the road southward on the map, I realized this track led straight to Vierville's southern exit. From the prisoners' intelligence, the Germans had placed their makeshift command post there—along with those two anti-tank guns. Anger boiled in me. I smashed my fist onto the map.
"Look—these Germans have no idea how many of us there are. We must push through here immediately!" I jabbed the pen at the bowl on the map, then traced it south along the highway until I reached the southern exit. "With the paratroopers' resistance earlier, their command post must be lightly garrisoned. I order you to strike their command post at top speed—seize those two anti-tank guns, then build hasty fortifications and set an ambush. First, eliminate the German patrol squad. They are the only mobile force; the rest are scattered. If we break their patrol, no other unit will dare reinforce them. Understood?"
"Understood, sir!"
"Good. Dismissed—move out at once!"
Attacking the temporary command post at the village's southern gateway and capturing the anti-tank guns would serve us well. First, we could use the narrow terrain to cover our flank, preventing a double envelopment. More importantly, if the Germans proved too strong, we could withdraw in good order. Although it felt shameful to plan a retreat before the battle even began, I could not risk the lives of over a hundred men. As their commander, I had to remind myself constantly: beyond the mission, I had to protect my soldiers' lives. I had no divine vantage point to see every German position; caution was paramount.
Our initial skirmish at the village entrance proved brief but intense, and no German reinforcements arrived. Winters's and Harper's detachments merged smoothly with mine. Not far past the gateway, we heard a burst of rapid gunfire: the rattle of American Garand rifles mingling with the buzz of German G42 machine guns. From those sounds, I knew our comrades were in trouble; their resistance was weakening by the second.
We raced toward the gunfire and realized it came from the valley beyond—the exact path we had to take. A dozen or so American soldiers were surrounded by dozens of Germans, holed up in a cluster of farm buildings, fighting for their lives.
No wonder the village entrance was lightly guarded—its defenders had been redeployed to hunt down the paratroopers trapped in the valley. In this war, time was everything; speed dictated victory.
"Fire! Maintain battle formation! Rush forward! Do not hesitate—annihilate them! Not one German escapes!"
"Yes, sir!"
Our sudden assault caught the Germans completely off guard. It was a textbook pincer movement: Engaging them head-on while flanking from the side. Before they could react, half their number lay dead or wounded under the withering fire.
The Germans scrambled from offense to defense, diverting half their force to hold the low barn walls and block our advance. Each minute we delayed only worsened our predicament. As much as I admired German tactical discipline, there was no time for respect—not now.
"Suppressing fire! Suppressing fire!"
"Harper, take the weapons platoon and charge through!"
The staccato bursts of machine guns and submachine guns hammered the German positions. They dared not expose themselves; their blind volleys of fire caused us no serious casualties—only a few unlucky men grazed by errant rounds.
Inside the farmyard, the surviving Americans heard the unmistakable clamor of our artillery. Hope sparked in their eyes; they broke cover, charging at the German line despite the enemy's fire.
Assailed from both sides, the Germans could not hold. "Retreat! Fall back!" they shouted—but it was already too late. Surrounded and outgunned, they were cut down to the last man.
"Damn—it's textbook!" I exclaimed in awe as I watched the final German defenders collapse. This was pocket warfare in miniature: encirclement and counter-encirclement perfectly executed. History remembers grand battles and famous commanders, but thousands of smaller fights like this went unrecorded.
"Check ammunition! Move out immediately—head south to the village's belly!"
We discovered that the forces we had rescued indeed belonged to the battered remnants of the 2nd Company, 101st Airborne. Their mission had been to drop on the German–Dutch border—but enemy anti-aircraft fire halfway through scattered their transports, forcing an earlier-than-planned drop in this region. They had signaled the Allied command for help but then lost communication. Their losses had been severe; hardly a platoon remained. Only First Lieutenant Harry J. Parker and a handful of men still fought on. Given their dire luck, they had been fortunate that my 3rd Battalion arrived in time.
"I order you, effective now, you must heed my command!" At a moment like this, formalities held no place.
Lieutenant Parker, though bone-weary, saluted without hesitation. "Yes, sir."
"Donovan, take your squad to the highway—plant mines quickly. The rest of you, follow me!"
We reconfigured ammunition on the move; there was no time to rest. Swiftly, we marched south along the highway toward the Germans' makeshift command post.
The German commander, hearing the distant clashes in the valley, seemed to anticipate our intent. He mobilized roughly a platoon to reinforce the command post—and thus another savage encounter erupted. Though outnumbered, the Germans resisted fiercely.
"Damn these Krauts—they fight to the last man!" Joanner shouted as he fired.
"Machine-gunners, suppress their fire!"
Our Browning 1918 light machine guns poured a withering hail of bullets. Though not as powerful as the German G42s, they were devastating against unprotected infantry. Bullets raked the courtyard, tearing through anything in sight. The two anti-tank guns sat idle in the compound, not yet unlimbered when our fire pinned them down. The Germans ducked behind every scrap of cover, returning fire with stubborn resolve. Soldiers on both sides fell, but there was no time to spare for pity or hesitation.
The seconds crawled by, each one dragging us deeper into danger. If the German patrol broke through from behind, we would face the very envelopment that had doomed the Americans in the valley. My vision blurred with urgency: we could not afford to linger.
"Charge!"
Grabbing a nearby machine gun, I vaulted over the low wall and stormed forward without waiting for permission. In that moment, thoughts of my own safety vanished. Others followed my lead, surging ahead in a full-frontal assault. A German soldier concealed behind a lone tree spotted me first—my status as commanding officer offered no mercy. He raised his rifle, aiming squarely at me.
Crack! A sniper's bullet ripped through his forehead, blood and white brain matter splattering from the exit wound in his skull. I recognized Job's sharpshooting—no time to register gratitude as I hurled myself onward. My reckless advance lit a fire in our men; they roared and, ignoring German fire, pounced forward.
Our ferocious counterattack sent the remaining Germans in the courtyard scrambling back into the building, preparing for a desperate last stand.
"Don't let them live! Use grenades—throw grenades, and blow them all to hell!"
Having teetered on death's edge moments before, I could no longer contain my rage. How dare they try to shoot me? I snarled the orders like a man possessed.
With the explosions of several grenades, German resistance collapsed into chilling silence.
"Rush inside—any survivors?"
"Clear! It's safe!"
The German commander lay slumped against a shattered wall, mortally wounded by grenade shrapnel. Blood trickled from his lips as he stared at me, a vile grin frozen on his face—mocking me with his last breath. I caught sight of a field phone beside him. In that instant, I understood: he had been moments away from calling in the patrol squad for a counterstrike. I raised my pistol and ended his life with a single shot.
"Damn it! All of you, build defensive works facing the village—move those two anti-tank guns into position! We'll need them momentarily!"
Through the haze of smoke and sand, we heard the deep growl of armored vehicles and the approaching thrum of motorcycle outriders. The German patrol's lead motorcycle buzzed closer, its engine note sharp in my ears. My heartbeat raced again.
"Damn you, Donovan—why aren't those mines planted yet?"
In truth, our siege of the German command post had lasted only five or six minutes, but it felt like an eternity to me. Just then, Donovan—breathing hard—raced up to me. "Lieutenant, the mines are all laid. Enough to teach those Krauts a lesson."
No sooner had he spoken than a thunderous boom shook the earth: one of the German patrolling motorcycles had exploded into a shower of metal and fire.
"They're here! Prepare to fight!"