Two German fighters, working in concert with their ground—based anti— aircraft units, managed to shoot down four Allied bombers and one fighter—while losing only one of their own, the other escaping pilot still alive. Yet I am certain that the pilot who got away won't escape fate for long—his death in this grinding, back— and— forth struggle is only a matter of time.
Looking back to the early years of the war, the Luftwaffe demonstrated the decisive power of air superiority and close air support in modern warfare. Their lightning assaults over Poland and France—and later, the massive air campaigns against the Soviet Union—rested on precise intelligence, seamless coordination with ground forces, and highly skilled pilots. Once any one of those pillars cracked, the Luftwaffe's vulnerabilities were laid bare.
First, they never rotated their pilots out of combat: from day one, every flyer flew missions non— stop until killed or the war ended. Planes could be repaired or rebuilt, but a veteran pilot took years to train—so every loss was irreplaceable. Second, as the Allies gathered strength, German losses averaged sixteen aircraft per day—a burn rate they simply couldn't sustain. Finally, Hitler and Göring imposed near— draconian sortie quotas—ten missions a day, each around thirty minutes. Even an ace couldn't stay alive longer than a week under that tempo. By the late stages of the conflict, the Luftwaffe's edge was gone, and the once— terrifying "Sword of the Luft" lay shattered.
Everyone watched the last fighters disappear into the horizon before regaining their senses, breaking into low murmurs about the ferocity of that air battle.
"All right, men—check your ammo and gear!" I called out. "Once the shelling stops, it's our turn." I turned to Joanner. "Don't forget to bring extra flamethrowers—we'll need them soon."
To our portside, the siege artillery had already poured countless shells into Cherbourg's defenses; rubble and shattered walls lay everywhere. Rumor was that a number of French civilians still remained inside the city—but at this point, only God could save them. We strained to hear the order to advance, and soon enough came the command: Move out! Today, the Rangers would prove why they were the tip of the spear.
The U.S. Army Rangers were an elite force born on the European battlefields of World War II. On May 26, 1942, the Army authorized a unit to fight alongside Britain's Commandos, naming them the "Rangers," under the command of Major William O. Darby. On June 19, the 1st Ranger Battalion officially formed in Northern Ireland, drawing volunteers from the 1st Armored and 34th Infantry Divisions and undergoing amphibious and survival training alongside the British Commandos in Scotland. One month later, forty— four Rangers and five officers became the first American ground troops to clash with the Wehrmacht in the European Theater, fighting alongside Canadian and British Commandos.
Promoted to lieutenant colonel, Darby led his battalion through North Africa, Albania, and Tunisia on sabotage and reconnaissance missions, often spearheading infantry assaults. Their record won presidential citations and expanded the force into six battalions. The 1st, 3rd, and 4th Battalions then consolidated with engineer, chemical, and artillery units into the "6615th Ranger Force," still under Darby's command, and racked up more victories in Italy throughout 1943.
Their most famous engagement, however, came during the Normandy landings. On June 6, 1944, while the main push fell to the U.S. VII and V Corps—with the Rangers in V Corps—the 2nd and 5th Ranger Battalions spearheaded the left flank. Facing a brutal counterattack by the German 352nd Infantry Division, conventional infantry stalled—but the Rangers charged headlong into the fray, breaking enemy lines at terrible cost: of seventy men in Company B of the 2nd Battalion, only twelve remained combat— effective after the landing. Yet their courage earned the respect of the 29th Infantry Division, whose deputy commander would later proclaim, "The Rangers are our spear!" That phrase became a rallying cry throughout the Army: "Rangers lead the way!"
"Rangers—lead the way! Move out!"
Joanner's platoon formed the lead element, entering Cherbourg's "A" Sector streets first.
"Clyde, why are we the ones scouting up front instead of someone else?" one private demanded of PFC Robert James Clyde. The two of them ran about 150 meters ahead of the main force on reconnaissance.
"Cook," Clyde snarled, fixing him with a glare, "because the second lieutenant's sick of your big mouth—and figured a German bullet might finally shut you up."
"Aw, damn it, Clyde—no need to be so unfriendly! I didn't say anything wrong, did I? I was just talking about my home in Texas—it really is a beautiful place."
"Shut up, Cook! Keep your eyes peeled. Your jabbering will get us killed," Clyde spat, irritation flaring at Cook's incessant chatter.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, Clyde! I don't know why I talk so much when there's firing everywhere! It's just how I deal with the stress—but I know it breaks discipline. I just can't help it."
"Forget it, Cook. Next time, tell the second lieutenant not to pair me with you!" Clyde muttered, sounding both amused and exasperated.
Clyde and Cook edged forward with their M1 Garands, flanking through the ruined cityscape. No sign of German troops—either they'd withdrawn or were lying in ambush. Their nerves tightened with every silent step.
"Clyde! Why is it so quiet?" Cook wiped sweat from his brow, voice trembling.
"Relax, Cook. Stick to what we trained. I think we've already been spotted," Clyde replied, the veteran of Carentan holding a calm façade despite the fear prickling his spine.
"What do we do, then?" Cook gripped his rifle tighter.
"Keep calm. Don't let them see we're rattled. They're waiting to trap our brothers behind us. See that wrecked house on your right?" Clyde pointed through the rubble.
"I see it," Cook whispered, sweat shining on his forehead.
"When I count to three, we both dash inside—no matter what. Got it?"
"Got it."
"One—two…" Before Clyde could finish, a sudden crack of gunfire rang out.
Cook let out a muffled groan and crumpled forward. His helmet lay fractured, a bullet hole the size of a peanut in the steel shell, the round passing clean through his neck. Blood pooled under his fallen form.
Clyde sprang into action, diving into the shell— shattered building to his left. Through the gaping doorway, he saw Cook's lifeless body—and knew instantly a German sniper had claimed his life.
"Damn Germans! Poor bastard," Clyde cursed at the hidden sniper, glancing sadly at his friend.
"There's a sniper in that building ahead!" Joanner's voice came from roughly a hundred meters back. "Support fire! Machine gun team—suppress!"
In infantry tactics against a sniper, once you pinpoint the enemy's position you lay down suppressive fire with a machine gun—its effective range matches a sniper rifle, and it lets assault teams close in under cover.
Jackson David Allen, our Browning M1919 gunner, didn't wait for orders. He set his tripod, braced his gun, and opened fire on the suspect building. Bullets splintered bricks and plaster, spattering the wall with telltale depressions.
"Sergeant Bauer—take your squad and rush them with grenades!" Joanner ordered.
"On me!" Bauer snapped to his men, hunching forward as they sprinted toward the sniper's nest.
Behind cover, Clyde peeked out, rifle trained on every darkened corner as Bauer's team pelted the doorway with frag grenades.
"Come on, you damn Americans! Let's see you crawl out! This game has only just begun." snarled the sniper—Corporal Beckmann—tucking more grenades into his belt before slipping down a pre— planned escape route to his next firing position.