If You Survive Read Online Free
Author: George Wilson
mind and body working together again—still very scared, but functioning.
Our tank company was wonderfully aggressive, shooting up everything in sight. The tank commander’s tactics were very sensible, it seemed to me. Since no Americans were ahead of him, his orders were to shoot and shoot. All that tank firepower blasting away kept the enemy pinned with his head down, unable to return fire, and allowed us to advance rapidly and capture many prisoners with very few losses.
Many of the Germans were still in shock from the bombing, and many had no desire at all to fight. Actually, I don’t understand how any of them even survived. Bomb craters big enough to swallow a jeep were so close together in some areas it was difficult for our tank drivers to zigzag through.
Once, as we rounded the hedgerow at the corner of a big meadow, one of our tanks accidentally ran over a dead cow. It was bloated, and when it burst its entrails wound around the tank treads—and there was the terrible mouth-filling stench to add to the gore.
It was too much for me. I fell down on my hands and knees and was retching miserably when the sudden roar of a diving plane made me look up—just as one of our P-47s let go two bombs directly above me. I dove down flat in my own vomit—needlessly, for the bombs sailed on another two hundred yards ahead and knocked out a Jerry armored half-track I had not even known was there.
A few minutes later I lost my first man. He stood right up in an open spot and tried to match his rifle against an enemy half-track. They machine gunned him down and fled. I shuddered at his futile death, for a rifle was not much use against steel plate, and letting yourself get caught in the open by a machine gun is fatal. Better to take cover and fight again than to take foolhardy risks. If he’d armedhimself with a rifle grenade or bazooka, it might have been a different story. I felt sick.
Our first village, Saint Gilles, now was close in front, and we approached with caution. It was just a small crossroads hamlet with about thirty buildings that seemed to go about a block in each direction from the one intersection. The buildings were close together, like stores, and built right up to the narrow street, with no sidewalk. The back yards were open country.
My platoon swung to the right across the fields and came into the village from the right, or west end, and headed toward the central crossroads. My men and I were walking on either side of the road following our lead tank into the little burg. As we approached I was on the left beside a high stone wall, and the first buildings were just ahead, not over ten yards beyond the end of the wall.
Suddenly a shell exploded inside the first building beyond the wall, and instantly I hit the dirt. When I looked up a few seconds later from my prone position in the brick gutter, a Jerry Mark IV medium tank was cutting around the corner only a short block away and heading directly toward me. Our Sherman tank and the Mark IV began to fire at each other at once from point-blank range. Our tank began to back up as it was firing, apparently looking for some kind of cover. And this left me in front, actually between the two tanks.
I looked around frantically, but the stone wall appeared impossible to climb, and the buildings ahead were too close to the oncoming Mark IV, so I stayed flat in the gutter and watched the tank battle. Each tank fired as rapidly as possible as the distance closed to less than one hundred yards. The muzzle blasts shattered windows in the houses and storefronts, and each explosion knocked my helmet halfway off my head. The narrow, walled-in street seemed to act like a sound tunnel, and the concussion smashed atmy ears. (My wife tells me today I’m somewhat hard of hearing, and I’m not very surprised.)
The Mark IV kept firing as it came toward us. Both tanks somehow kept missing at this close range or their armor-piercing shells were bouncing off. Finally, after
Our tank company was wonderfully aggressive, shooting up everything in sight. The tank commander’s tactics were very sensible, it seemed to me. Since no Americans were ahead of him, his orders were to shoot and shoot. All that tank firepower blasting away kept the enemy pinned with his head down, unable to return fire, and allowed us to advance rapidly and capture many prisoners with very few losses.
Many of the Germans were still in shock from the bombing, and many had no desire at all to fight. Actually, I don’t understand how any of them even survived. Bomb craters big enough to swallow a jeep were so close together in some areas it was difficult for our tank drivers to zigzag through.
Once, as we rounded the hedgerow at the corner of a big meadow, one of our tanks accidentally ran over a dead cow. It was bloated, and when it burst its entrails wound around the tank treads—and there was the terrible mouth-filling stench to add to the gore.
It was too much for me. I fell down on my hands and knees and was retching miserably when the sudden roar of a diving plane made me look up—just as one of our P-47s let go two bombs directly above me. I dove down flat in my own vomit—needlessly, for the bombs sailed on another two hundred yards ahead and knocked out a Jerry armored half-track I had not even known was there.
A few minutes later I lost my first man. He stood right up in an open spot and tried to match his rifle against an enemy half-track. They machine gunned him down and fled. I shuddered at his futile death, for a rifle was not much use against steel plate, and letting yourself get caught in the open by a machine gun is fatal. Better to take cover and fight again than to take foolhardy risks. If he’d armedhimself with a rifle grenade or bazooka, it might have been a different story. I felt sick.
Our first village, Saint Gilles, now was close in front, and we approached with caution. It was just a small crossroads hamlet with about thirty buildings that seemed to go about a block in each direction from the one intersection. The buildings were close together, like stores, and built right up to the narrow street, with no sidewalk. The back yards were open country.
My platoon swung to the right across the fields and came into the village from the right, or west end, and headed toward the central crossroads. My men and I were walking on either side of the road following our lead tank into the little burg. As we approached I was on the left beside a high stone wall, and the first buildings were just ahead, not over ten yards beyond the end of the wall.
Suddenly a shell exploded inside the first building beyond the wall, and instantly I hit the dirt. When I looked up a few seconds later from my prone position in the brick gutter, a Jerry Mark IV medium tank was cutting around the corner only a short block away and heading directly toward me. Our Sherman tank and the Mark IV began to fire at each other at once from point-blank range. Our tank began to back up as it was firing, apparently looking for some kind of cover. And this left me in front, actually between the two tanks.
I looked around frantically, but the stone wall appeared impossible to climb, and the buildings ahead were too close to the oncoming Mark IV, so I stayed flat in the gutter and watched the tank battle. Each tank fired as rapidly as possible as the distance closed to less than one hundred yards. The muzzle blasts shattered windows in the houses and storefronts, and each explosion knocked my helmet halfway off my head. The narrow, walled-in street seemed to act like a sound tunnel, and the concussion smashed atmy ears. (My wife tells me today I’m somewhat hard of hearing, and I’m not very surprised.)
The Mark IV kept firing as it came toward us. Both tanks somehow kept missing at this close range or their armor-piercing shells were bouncing off. Finally, after
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