Across The Merderet

I sped off to the recruiting post in Galena. Even though my birth certificate at St. Michaels said that Joseph F. Higgins was Born 1927 not 1926 like I told the recruiter, I wasn’t going to let that one year stop me. Hell or high water I was going to be a paratrooper.

The truck pulled up outside my family farm near Brno. My mother wept as I shouldered my bag. I was only seventeen, not old enough for the call. Even though my birth certificate said that Josef F. Hajek was born in 1927, what did a year matter to the gray suited man and his rifle?

Three camps, twenty mile marches, and more time spent jumping out of airplanes than my entire family ever spent inside one, I earned my silver wings and the right to tuck my pant legs into my boots. Goddamn it that was pride. I sent my jump bonuses home. I didn’t need it where we were going and momma in her wildest dreams couldn't imagine holding those fifty dollars in her hands each time my letter arrived.

Few of those crammed in the train car with me spoke, and those that did I barely understood. Russian, Polish, German, I swore I even heard some Italian. The seats were comfortable enough to sleep on, though the screams of airplanes overhead woke me each and every night as we traveled west.

Over the seas to England we went. If airplanes were a marvel to those back home, the converted liner we rode on now was a fever dream. I hated how it rolled. Give me an airplane any day. England though, England was glorious. We trained with everything, each man knowing how to handle a mortar, a bazooka, a BAR. We learned to read maps and cut across foreign countries. Me, Tommy from New York, and Richard from Texas quickly earned quite a reputation as the fastest sprinters in the group, one we wore proudly.

The first weapons I received were a shovel and a landmine. We dug and dug all along the coast. Rise, dig, sleep. Rise, dig, sleep. All the while, the Kommandant paced, fingers curled around his Luger. He paid particular attention to a group of Russians. When I finally got a rifle, some older French piece, they gave me one clip of ammo. When the truck arrived with more, it was for a different type of rifle. The Russians laughed. They called me an insult I didn’t understand. They were a funny lot. We didn’t mind them. We figured there were worse places to be stuck together than this sleepy corner of France.

When I got a weekend pass, we’d stumble into the nearby town, and I learned the love of a woman named Rebecca. I swore if I survived wherever we were going, I’d marry her. Each and every night we were together, I made the same promise. May not have been the most Christian thing, I admit, but the stories from the hardened bastards who jumped in Italy chased any guilt away from our nights together.

Her name was Madeline, that’s all I knew. She was kind enough to let me spend a few nights in her warmth, even though most nights, I just laid there and wept. In those moments, I missed home. I heard stories of the Eastern Front from some of the older men here on rehabilitation postings, horrible stories. They had seen a real fight, and worse. I had no desire to ever see such hell. Did that make me less than a man?

The orders came down: Target Normandy. A full meal and a day of quiet followed. I was scared, I’m not too proud to deny it, but I was ready. We all were. When the NO-GO came that night, it was disappointment, not relief, that I felt. I couldn’t stand the waiting any more.

Every time the bombers flew over, I shuddered. The cannons positioned nearby seemed to do nothing to stem the tide from across the channel. Every once in a while, we’d watch one flame out and have to hunt for survivors. I hated those nights wading through the flooded bogs between the hedgerows. It took days to dry off and we were always short for socks. Tomasz always lent me space on his makeshift drying rack. He was from somewhere in what was once Poland and spoke enough Czech that we could get by. I liked him.

The call came. We were ready for it. As we boarded, they handed us Dramamine tablets that calmed the jitters a little too well. I fell asleep for the first thirty minutes before the flak reminded us we were jumping into hell. I sat across from Richard and I swore once the drugs wore off, neither of us blinked once. My head jilted every time the flak went off outside. I'd trade being stuck there with only the sound and vibrations but unable to see for my time trapped on that ocean liner ten times out of ten. I couldn’t wait to get out of that damned metal tube that once seemed so comfortable.

The call came and all of our senior officers headed off for war games. It was a gale outside and the weathermen said there’d be no threat for weeks now. I tried to fall asleep but the constant droning buzz above made it impossible. There seemed to be more than before. Then the second call came, harsh, urgent: “Fallschirmjäger! Fallschirmjäger!” Tiredness abandoned, I gathered my rifle with one clip of ammo and followed my machine gunners into the darkness.

I don’t remember landing. I do remember staring up at his body, what few sinewy tendrils of it remained below the breast swaying in the breeze. Tommy from New York didn’t have a chance to show off his sprinting speed. His hands still held the lines of his chute tangled in the tree. I wish I could have climbed up and closed his damn eyes. Someone pulled me away, couldn’t tell you who but to this day I thank that man for pulling me away from that wretched site.

I don’t remember my orders. I do remember staring down into that hole that still smoked and looked slick even in the blinding dark of that day of days. In the flashing of the anti-aircraft gun I saw Tomasz’s kind face, well what was left of it. Did he even know what happened? Someone tugged at my shoulder and we disappeared into the dark. I couldn’t tell you who I ran with but to this day I thank that man for pulling me away from that wretched site.

We found our objective easy enough despite being well off our LZ and half a world from home. It was such a small little bridge over that deep rushing water, but orders were orders. Half the stone Manoir at its left flank was already blown to hell, and some smoldering tank hulks blocked the other side of the causeway. Tracers flashed across the flooding river they called the Merderet, and through it all, Jumpin’ Jim threw men into the fight himself. We would hold that bridge, if for our CO as much as anything else.

I saw the smoke from the narrow causeway that spanned the Merderet in the first morning light. It was such a tiny thing for us to die for so very far from home. I’d have called it a beautiful morning, with the sunlight streaming through the mists of spring, had its calm not been ripped apart by the buzzsaw-like symphony emitting from our squad’s MGs from our positions below the ancient chapel. We were ordered to hold that bridge by our Kommandant, fingers still curled behind his back on his Luger.

You could have told me we babysat that bridge for one day or one week and I’d have believed you. I don’t remember sleeping. I don’t remember eating. I must have done both. Occasionally a new guy from the 505th, 507th, hell I remember one guy popping up with a Screaming Eagles patch, would cycle in with fresh… whatever: ammo, grenades, K-rations. They said our tanks were on their way, well they didn’t drive fuckin’ fast enough!

Eventually, some of our regulars showed up. Tough bastards them. They barely measured up to the Americans across the river from what I saw. They pulled those Americans from the prisons, the Kommandant told us. The worst of the worst. I thought of Madeline. I didn’t fire my rifle once in those days. I promised I’d save those bullets for those that would hurt her. Aided by a few artillery pieces behind us, we gave those American rapists a beating. Still, neither we, nor them, made their way across that little bridge.

They kept telling us our boys were ashore. Well, if they were, they were taking their goddamn sweet time enjoying the flooded French countryside. Everyone was hit at that point. Everyone. I was a lucky one: a few grazes from stone chipped from the Manoir holding our left flank, a cut on my cheek, sore ankle from where I tripped on a shell hole. I guess Jim was fed up with it as well. He gathered a bunch of glider boys and told them they were to charge across that bridge. I volunteered to join them. Those kraut bastards gave us enough pot shots and I was tired as all hell of it. I wanted to see them face to face.

Nothing gave. I don’t know how many of them we sent to God, but they kept coming. I was a simple boy who gave little thought to the world beyond our foxhole, the ignorance of youth I guess. They pulled me from home to fight and so I fought. In hindsight… well.

We ran faster than I thought possible across that bridge under the cover of smoke. I remember Richard Johnson standing in the middle of that road throwing our boys forward. How he didn’t take a bullet to the skull, I’ll never know. Divine intervention or something of the like. We were like rabid dogs sprinting through the MG buzzsaws. I dove below the lip of a foxhole and I tossed a grenade over the top. The buzzsaw stopped. Somehow what replaced it was worse. Not waiting to catch a bullet in the ass, I ran around to the right, trying to join the flanking action on what was left of that old chapel.

I had him in the sights of my old French rifle, fatigues tucked into his boots almost comically as he stood atop the low rise of a hedgerow, his face streaked with black paint. He had just run out from behind a foxhole and into my sights. I saw those Russians, what was left of them, rolling in pain in their foxhole. I thought of Madeline. Would this American come for her? A quick pull of the trigger was all I needed. A quick pull for Tomasz.

I had him in the sights of my trusty M1. The machine gun beside him was silent. Eisenhower said we were here to kill Germans. My finger rested on the trigger. I could hear cries of “Medic!” from back toward the causeway. I thought of Rebecca. Would she remember me? A quick pull of the trigger was all I needed. A quick pull for Tommy.

I exhaled. My eyes closed. Those German bastards took my country. I prayed one last time that I’d get the chance to go back home and not die on this green hillside in France. My heart pulsed, and I decided I was no killer. Not for them.

I exhaled and tightened my grip. I kept my eyes on him. Those German bastards would pay for taking this country. I prayed one last time I’d see home and not die on this patch of French soil. My heart pulsed, and I decided I was no monster. Not to them.

I lowered my old French rifle.

“That’s right. Hände hoch Fritz.”

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A/N:

Written for the unsung members of the 82nd Airborne who held the western flank during the Normandy Invasion. For their efforts, they took 5,245 men killed, wounded, or missing in 33 days of nonstop fighting. Despite miss drops across the LZ, the 82nd completed their mission objectives: the seizure of the crossroads at Sainte Mère Eglise, the capture of the bridge at La Fière (detailed above), and the capture of the bridges at Chef-Du-Pont. Due to the success of the paratroopers, the men landing at Utah beach took only 197 casualties.

I would be remiss not to mention the men they fought against who history has condemned to a faceless mass of gray autocracy. With 80 years of hindsight, it's easy to label all men who fought for the Axis as evil because, well yeah Nazis are bad. In that heuristic is lost the evil of compulsion and the weakness of ideology. This story was written to address a single question: when push came to shove, what compels someone far from home in the crosshairs to either surrender or fight?

While our MCs might be composites of the men who fought on both sides, General Jumpin' Jim Gavin and Richard Johnson are very, very real (insert my brother rolling his eyes and making a James Holland joke right about.... now).