1944

The MG-42 machine gun chattered away in Oberschütz Klaus Werner’s hands, filling the air with a deafening roar that reverberated throughout the tiny concrete pill box. Spent shell casings rose into the air like a fountain of glinting brass and steel as the weapon spat out a blinding deluge 7.92 mm slugs over the Normandy beachhead. The weapon’s staccato rhythm pounded into his shoulder, numbing both it and the sweat-greased hand that rhytmically clamped mercilessly down on the trigger as he fought to keep the targeting reticule poised over the allied landing craft that had ground ashore just moments before.

The amphibious craft’s landing ramp swung down amid a surge of water and lead, leaving the soldiers clustered within bare to the hail of Nazi bullets. The men in the front ranks didn’t even have time to start forward before the veritable wall of shells struck. Their bodies jerked in a caricature of some kind of grim dance as bullets met with flesh in sprays of bright crimson. There wasn’t even enough room for them to fall down as the bodies toppled over each other, the dead and dying coagulated into one bleeding mass of flesh. Werner was briefly thankful that he was far enough away so that he didn’t have to see the faces of the men on the beach as the survivors catapulted themselves over the sides of the boat and plunged themselves into the frigid waters of the English Channel.

Gritting his teeth in grim determination, he walked his stream of fire over the water as the men caught in the red-tinged sea began to swim desperately for the relative cover offered the beach obstacles strewn throughout the surf like so many rusted and pitted jacks. Werner kept his finger on the trigger, mercilessly pouring fire into the scores of bobbing heads and flailing arms visible above the surf. The water churned with the impact of spent rounds as if a school of piranha had suddenly beset the waterlogged marines, and more than a few allied soldiers jerked spasmodically and drifted beneath the waves. Werner started to concentrate his fire on a knot of soldiers hunkered down behind one of the beach obstacles, but then his weapon clicked empty, spitting out the last of the belt-fed ammunition from its ejection port.

“Umladen,” he shouted to the trooper next to him, “reload, reload!”

As the pair hurried to slip a new belt of ammunition into the magazine, the soldiers down in the surf took that opportunity to struggle onto the beach and dash toward the protection offered by the dunes at the foot of the Normandy cliff face.

“Schnell, schnell!” Werner shouted as the other man slapped the magazine cover back down. He reached forward and yanked back on the on the chambering mechanism to chamber the first round, then clamped down on the trigger once more.

He stitched a ragged line of fire down the beach at the marines desperately clawing their way forward. Gouts of sand and blood sprayed upward as each successive round struck home, and bodies fell to the ground like so much lifeless meat. Mortar rounds began to fall, throwing up great plumes of sand and smoke as the allied forces continued to doggedly force their way up the body-strewn beach.

Werner’s eyes frantically searched the smoke-hazed coast, trying to pick out a target before they closed within the MG-42’s effective range. And then he saw one—sitting on one knee, the American soldier peered out of the gradually dissipating smoke with his head cocked over the long metal tube he held braced on his shoulder.

“Rocket--Incoming!” he shouted without thinking, frantically dropping to his knees and tucking his head between his legs.

Despite his warning, however, the soldier beside him wasn’t fast enough. Barely a second later, the bazooka struck, impacting along the upper lip of the bill box’s opening. Though not a direct hit, the force of the ensuing blast tossed the other man backward like a rag doll, flames hungrily licking at his body. He struck the opposite wall with a wet thud and then sank to the floor.

Werner could feel the heat of the explosion caress the back of his neck as his helmeted head was pelted with shards of concrete and fragmented rebar. As the flames dissipated, he spared a glance back at his comrade where he lay unmoving against the wall. A momentary twinge of grief gripped him before he shook it off and turned back toward the beach. He was a fellow soldier—a brother even, but he was dead now, and Werner had no intention of joining him.

He shouldered the machine gun once more and set his sights upon the beach, but the allied marines had taken advantage of the brief reprieve of machine gun fire to surge up the shoreline. Worse yet, they were already dangerously close to the dunes and the shelter they provided. Werner clamped down on the trigger without thinking, the unguided belt of ammunition clanging angrily against the barrel of the weapon as he unleashed a renewed barrage of slugs. The barrel began to overheat and smoke from the unceasing fire as he poured shells into the beach, but in his desperation, Werner didn’t care. He tried to focus his efforts on the marine charging up the beach with the large backpack strapped to his torso, but haste made his fire imprecise. Without the aid of his fellow gunner, the machine gun yammered erratically, spasmodically bouncing back and forth like victim of Turret’s syndrome hopped up on amphetamines. His inaccurate fire kicked up sprays of sand around the frantically dodging marine, but before he could get the weapon under control, the other soldier dove behind the sand dunes and disappeared from sight. Werner grunted angrily but kept up the firing, picking off another pair of marines before they could get to cover.

There was a brief reprieve as Werner scanned the beach for any more targets, but that calm was shattered as the surviving allied soldiers rose up over the sand bank as one and triggered a sustained barrage of fire at his position. Again, he dropped to a crouch as bullets whizzed and pinged off of the concrete above and around him, but it was over as soon as it had begun. As soon as the firing stopped, he knew what was coming.

Werner rose from his crouch, desperation taking hold as he gripped the machine gun once more. Even as he brought his weapon to bear, he could see the ragged line of allied soldiers charging up the sand embankment toward his position. He canted the weapon downward, recklessly spraying shells over the general area. Several of the advancing soldiers fell face-first into the sand, but the allied vanguard managed to close beneath his angle depression as the weapon clicked empty once more.

“Sheiβe!” he swore, fumbling for another belt of ammunition.

Below he could hear the Americans shouting something—he couldn’t understand what it was they were saying, but he could be sure it wasn’t good. As he slapped the magazine cover over the fresh belt, he caught a word that he did know—one that knotted his stomach with fear. “Flame thrower.” Flamenwerfer.

He dropped the machine gun and turned for the door, but too late. The blast of white-hot liquid fire shot through the pill box’s open window with blinding speed. It splashed off the ceiling and back wall with searing force, instantly transforming the pillbox into an oven. Every nerve in Werner’s body screamed in helpless agony as the flames washed over him. His clothes, hair, and even his flesh began to burn. He opened his mouth in an agonized shriek, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. The roaring inferno around him drowned out everything else as he blindly stumbled backward. The pain was so intense that he didn’t even realize he was falling, helplessly toppling from the burning pillbox to the beach below.

He hit the ground rolling, still writhing in pain and screaming at the top of his lungs. One of the allied soldiers paused and shouldered his rifle, intent upon ending the dying man’s suffering, but the man next to him grabbed his arm and snarled, “No. Let him burn.”

The other marine spared a pitying glance at the writhing human torch before he nodded and charged up the hill after the others, the sound of Werner’s agonizing screams accompanying him every step of the way.