Hill's flamethrower hadn't consumed every scrap on the first floor. In a distant corner lay a solid wood cabinet, toppled and blackened by smoke. Joanner wanted to use it as an improvised shield—whether we're advancing or exchanging fire, it would offer valuable cover.
"Clear the way—get it up here!" a few of the men panted, straining to lift the cabinet to Joanner's side. He eyed it and shook his head. "Not enough—It won't stop German bullets or grenades. Find more debris and stuff it full!"
Before long, soldiers dragged piles of broken furniture and scrap metal to stuff inside the cabinet. Joanner nodded. "That's better. Now—on three—push it over!"
Above them, the two Germans at the second-floor stairwell peered down in alarm. They hadn't expected another assault so soon. When the big cabinet suddenly appeared at the bottom of the stairs, both opened fire—wood splinters flew.
Joanner pointed at the cabinet. "Conway and Chalmers—behind that thing. Hold your fire until my signal, then pin down every Kraut above!.
"Yes sir! Go!" Conway dropped behind it first—and immediately came under a spray of enemy rounds.
Hill, standing behind Joanner, volunteered, "Sir, I can use my flamethrower to blind their line of sight!"
Joanner frowned. "No—German bullets will turn you into Swiss cheese!"
Meanwhile, tucked behind the cabinet, Joanner and Chalmers hurled grenades with ease, landing them perfectly at the stairwell mouth.
"BOOM! BOOM! "
Two grenades exploded at the second-floor landing. The shockwaves roared so fiercely that without cover, anyone caught would have been mortally wounded.
"Fire! Fire!" Using the grenade blasts to keep the Germans' heads down, Joanner and Chalmers opened up with their Thompson submachine guns. The hail of .45 rounds pinned the two defenders so completely they dared not peek over the lip of the landing.
"Dodd! Over here—mount the machine gun on this cabinet. Aim up high. The moment a German shows himself, light him up!" Joanner called to Dodd, their crackshot.
"Second lieutenant, you owe me a Springfield 1903A4 sniper rifle like Captain Job's—then I'll really show what I can do!" Dodd gripped the cabinet's edge, half teasing, half demanding loot.
"All right, make sure you get it done first!" Joanner shot back.
"Sir—yes, sir!" Dodd braced the tripod and swung the barrel toward the dark stairwell above.
"Magazines!" Conway and Chalmers yelled, swapping out their empty mags.
High above, the German at the landing counted the staccato bursts—and when the fire stopped, he assumed the Americans were reloading. He ducked out to fire back—but the moment he raised his head, a crimson spray hit him. Thud. He crumpled, life draining from him.
"One down—one to go!" Conway panted.
The lone German left above saw his comrade's body hit the floor in a pool of blood. With no orders to retreat and no hope of eliminating the swarm below, he knew he was done for. He trembled, drew a small photograph of a little girl from his breast pocket, kissed it, then primed his final grenade—eyes glistening with tears—as he prepared to die in a last stand.
"He's up there—waiting!" Conway kept his rifle trained on the stairwell mouth, Chalmers and another GI kneeling beside him, rifles leveled upward.
Joanner strode back over and called up to Hill: "Hill — come here! Hit the stairway with flamethrower bursts—I want those Krauts turned to ash!"
Historical Note:
The earliest portable flamethrower was devised by the Germans in 1898 and first used in combat during the 1915 assault on Bellewaerde, achieving dramatic results. By WWII, the U.S. had improved its design significantly; after inventing napalm in 1942, Allied units fielded the M2-2 flamethrower in 1944. Napalm's thicker, sticky flame extended range, splashed around corners, and clung to targets, making it devastating in urban and trench warfare. Though its effective reach was only 20–50 meters, its sheer destructive power and psychological shock rendered it one of the deadliest infantry weapons of the war.
Hill signaled Joanner and the men to fall back. They retreated about ten meters from the stairwell. That move likely saved many lives—had they stayed tight behind the cabinet, the last German's grenade blast would have obliterated them all.
Above, the trapped German crept to the edge. He expected more grenades—but bursting out also meant certain death under the massed American guns. Better a desperate charge than a slow, fiery death. He yanked the grenade's ring and raced down the steps.
Hill reacted instantly. Without hesitation, he unleashed a torrent of napalm—an enormous jet of flame that engulfed the charging soldier. The German felt a red-hot wave sweep over him and knew in an instant that he was doomed.
Though Hill succeeded in incinerating the attacker, he hadn't anticipated the live grenade.
"BOOM! "
The blast rocked the stairwell, and Hill was thrown backward by the shockwave. Luckily, he wasn't killed—only bruised and winded, his flamethrower dented but still intact.
"Hill!" Joanner sprinted forward, scooping him up in a panic and fumbling to detach the fuel pack. "Someone help me!"
By a stroke of luck, Hill survived. His gear, though dented, remained serviceable.
"Good God, you're alive!" Conway patted Hill's helmet with relief.
"Don't touch my head with your filthy hands!" Hill croaked from Joanner's arms.
"See? He's talking—looks like he's fine!!" Conway grinned at the others.
"All right, enough downtime! Two guys—carry him downstairs to rest!" Joanner glanced up at the still-burning corpse on the stairwell and frowned.
During this brief engagement, our platoon sustained significant casualties. I immediately radioed higher command. To my surprise, they remained optimistic—believing Cherbourg's garrison was on its last legs under our artillery barrage, and advised only to guard against any lingering pockets of resistance.
I then moved forward with a small guard detail to find Joanner. He greeted my arrival with clear irritation—no doubt offended by what he perceived as doubt in his abilities.
"Joanner—status report?"
"It's clear they're determined to fight us room by room, floor by floor," he replied, gesturing down the long stairwell.
"I agree," I said. "From now on, we secure every roofline and vantage point, suppress their resistance, then drive them out dwelling by dwelling."
"That'll cost us," Joanner noted, glancing at Hill, still moaning on the floor.
I looked over at Hill, being treated by medics, and sighed. "You are right!We must also value our men's lives. If we lack confidence to clear a building, call in artillery support and level it."
Joanner nodded, silent.
Luca's weapons platoon attacked down the parallel street; though their casualties were lighter than Joanner's, they still lost two men. Our current control zone now spans two full streets. These are merely Cherbourg's outer defenses; the Germans haven't decided to die for every brick. Yet the fierce fighting in each building and on every floor signals an intensifying battle. How many more of my soldiers will fall? Of course, such doubts must stay unspoken—or they'd shatter morale.
"Men—our tank crews are stuck behind uncleared obstacles! I want everyone to push harder, clear these damn Krauts out, and let our armored brothers roll in!" I barked.
"Sir, I think those tankers just want an excuse to avoid the grime!" one GI griped, cradling his rifle.
"Don't ask me—maybe only God knows what they're thinking! But if they don't move, I'll personally go shove their asses into that rubble!" I shot back.
"Sir, that's disgusting!" the soldier laughed.
"All right, Mr. Prude—too squeamish, are you?" I teased.
"Sir— I'll go!" another piped up.
"Me too!" volunteered a third.
"Fine—so it's settled. But first, our own men need to get moving. Rangers, you're on point—forward march!" I ordered.
"Rangers, on point—forward!" they echoed.
At that shout, our spirits finally lifted from the shadow of the fight, and we surged onward once more.