Chapter 663: Damanhur
An American M4 Sherman tank rumbled past the wreck of a burning tank. On the smoking wreck, a white five-pointed star was still faintly visible. On the ground not far away lay the body of a tanker.
The plan to break into Damanhur had not gone smoothly from the very beginning. The tanks of the U.S. Army North Africa Independent Armored Brigade had been fiercely attacked by German paratroopers on the main road. Panzerfaust rockets were fired from concealed positions, and one American tank after another was destroyed on the path of advance. In just one hour, the U.S. military had lost over 40 tanks and a similar number of armored cars.
Patton’s plan to divide and encircle the German paratroopers had completely failed. Although the attack by the independent armored brigade had inflicted heavy casualties on the German paratroopers, the entire defensive line around Damanhur was still firmly held by them. The Americans had not even managed to capture some of the less important defensive positions.
“Fire!” a concealed German paratrooper machine gun position suddenly roared. The dark muzzle pointed at the flank of the American soldiers. With this roar, the unique sound of ripping linen erupted, and bullets swept like rain towards the helpless American G.I.s.
The bullets struck flesh and blood, blossoming into small, bright red flowers. One American soldier after another fell on the street. A dozen men lost their lives in an instant. Soon, the American soldiers also began to return fire with their rifles, and bullets also struck the German machine gun position.
“Damn it! These Americans are much tougher than the British. Their weapons are automatic too, the bastards!” a German veteran cursed his opponents, ducking back behind a pile of rubble. He pulled a hand grenade from his chest, bit the pin with his teeth, and, during a lull in the American firing, immediately threw the grenade. He then ducked back into his cover. “Have a taste of this, you idiots!”
BOOM! With an explosion, sand and dirt flew into the trench. The veteran raised his MP-44 assault rifle and fired fiercely into the smoke-filled area.
Rat-tat! Rat-tat! The bullets flew into the dust cloud, followed by the screams of two American soldiers. This burst of fire was clearly very successful; he had hit at least two enemies. However, as the American soldiers also fired in his direction, a cloud of dust from bullet impacts immediately erupted around him.
“Garand! The damn Garand rifle!” The weapon in the hands of the Americans was already familiar to the German soldiers. Because its performance was very similar to the German G43 semi-automatic rifle, many Germans considered it the best rifle the Americans had. However, in fact, the Americans also had carbines and submachine guns, not just one type of weapon.
As dust was kicked up by bullets hitting the rubble, a hand grenade rolled accurately into this small foxhole. Without thinking, the German veteran kicked out, sending the still-rolling grenade out of the trench. Before it could hit the ground again, it exploded in mid-air.
However, not far away, another hand grenade exploded in a German paratrooper trench, blowing two German soldiers into the air. An American heavy machine gun on the other side of the road also began to roar, sending a shower of sparks against the ruined walls. A German soldier was hit in the arm and fell to the ground, screaming for a medic.
It wasn’t just the Germans who were amazed by the quality of the American soldiers; the Americans opposite were also stunned by the Germans’ insane way of fighting. For a long time, American and German soldiers had been fighting in the desert with a kind of knightly spirit. They fought a very gentlemanly and rule-bound battle. If you could win, you advanced, and the enemy wouldn’t waste troops defending to the death. If you couldn’t win, you retreated, or at worst, surrendered. It was nothing like today, where they were fighting to the death for a piece of worthless rubble.
In this small city block, the Americans had already lost no fewer than 200 soldiers. It was believed that the German paratroopers opposite had to have suffered at least 40 killed. In this way, both sides had already crippled more than a battalion’s worth of troops fighting for these few broken houses. What was even more despairing was that the battle was still going on, with no sign of ending.
Two American tanks that had been let through by the German infantry were soon ambushed by German anti-tank snipers near a corner. The thin side armor was quickly penetrated by the Panzerfaust rockets. The tankers on top were shot and killed by snipers and riflemen before they could even climb out of the tank. In just a few minutes, these two tanks, which had been so arrogant a moment ago, were paralyzed at the street corner, emitting blue smoke.
Don’t be fooled by the Japanese light tanks running rampant on the Chinese front. In fact, in a well-trained and well-educated army, the fear of a tank attack is very slight, especially in street fighting. Many of the German weapons could pose a threat to the enemy’s tanks. What’s more, the Americans were now facing the German paratroopers, a force that operated deep behind enemy lines and had to face any and all enemy equipment on its own.
Borol looked at the front of his battalion’s defense. The American infantry was pinned down in the minefield, and three of their tanks had had their tracks blown off. He knew that this time, the Americans would not be able to break through his defense line. At the very least, his concealed heavy machine gun positions and that paratrooper fighting vehicle had not yet been exposed. He still had a lot of strength to continue the defense.
Sure enough, as the sound of gunfire gradually thinned, this American attack came to a complete halt. A large group of American soldiers slowly retreated along the road they had come in on, abandoning some of the outer positions they had captured and leaving behind hundreds of bodies.
Before the Germans could celebrate their victory, the American large-caliber artillery units, which had not made it to the front line in time for the main battle but were now in the vicinity, launched the most intensive bombardment. Shell after shell landed on the German positions, bombing the buildings that had already been turned into rubble by the bombers all over again. Craters were covered by new craters before they could be filled in. Rubble was replaced by new rubble before it could be cleared. The German soldiers curled up by the debris, waiting for the intense artillery fire to gradually pass.
Borol brushed the dust from his helmet and gently tapped the dust off his map. A shell had just hit not far from his command post, killing a member of his staff. But fortunately, his command post was safe, only shaken by the blast, which had knocked down a lot of dust.
Crawling out from the rubble and dust, before they could even brush themselves off, the German soldiers were shocked to find that the American tanks were only a few dozen meters away. In a daze, the hull machine guns of the American tanks spat out fierce tongues of fire, cutting down several bewildered German paratroopers.
But the American infantry that followed did not fare any better. A German machine gun position on the flank suddenly opened fire, and bullets flew into the crowd of American G.I.s from the side. Before anyone could react, a dozen American soldiers had closed their eyes forever. The rate of fire of the German machine gun was simply too fast, making it unnecessary to even try to rescue the American soldiers who were hit.
An American G.I., who had watched his comrade’s head be shorn off by the machine gun, was scared out of his wits. Before he could even hit the dirt, he was hit in the shoulder by a flying bullet. Before he could fall from the massive impact, his chest was hit by another bullet. Then he saw a tracer pass under his armpit and tear through another man’s stomach.
This soldier was still conscious when he fell. His eyes, which had not yet had time to close, watched as his comrades were also shot and fell. He watched as the platoon sergeant who had trained them so strictly was shot through the stomach, his intestines spilling out of the wound and rolling all over the ground with blood… By the time he felt the pain, he closed his eyes, and then everything faded away.
“I have no more reinforcements for you. I have 5 soldiers here, my last reserve,” Borol said helplessly over the phone to the 1st Company commander on the front line, who was hysterically requesting reinforcements. His battalion of 470 men, including the dead from the logistics team, had already suffered 95 killed in action. Even Borol didn’t know why the Americans were attacking here so frantically. When he had parachuted in, he had thought there wouldn’t be any decent fighting here.
Now he knew why his paratrooper unit had been strengthened with anti-tank firepower. Now he knew why he had been carrying more ammunition than food when he had jumped. Because everyone except the optimistic paratroopers themselves knew that a brutal battle would break out here, a desperate battle of life and death.
In less than 5 hours of fighting, he had already used up his reserves. Borol couldn’t imagine what kind of fierce battle awaited him next. After putting down the phone, he picked it up again and called the regimental headquarters. “Colonel, this is Borol. The enemy’s attack is too fierce. I’m requesting reinforcements.”
“The reinforcements for you will set out in 3 hours. You can only rely on yourself to hold on for the remaining 3 hours. I have to briefly tell you some bad news. The Americans are attempting to encircle all of Damanhur, and the defense line we have to hold is getting longer and longer,” the colonel on the other end replied. It seemed things weren’t going well for him either. The battle had reached its most brutal climax right from the beginning.
“I understand! I will hold here until the reinforcements arrive,” Borol said, putting down the phone. He then looked at Donner, who was following him, and suddenly he thought of the fallen Baru, of the big-bearded man who had died in Belgium, whom he hadn’t thought of in a long time. Borol gave a bitter smile, then put his helmet on his head. “Let’s go. To the front.”
Published: 2025-09-16T09:36:04.000+00:00
Last Edited: 2026-02-12T18:39:44.000+00:00
URL: https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair/posts/mtr-c663-139012728
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