Battle Report: The Bells of Saint-Martin

Normandy, France — August 1944

The crossroads at Saint-Martin had once been the heart of a quiet Norman village. Four narrow roads met around a small cobbled square, where a stone fountain stood beside a row of shops and a shuttered café. A bakery occupied the corner of the eastern road, its windows shattered and its roof blackened by recent shellfire. Beyond the last houses, fields of waist-high grass stretched towards the hedgerows, offering little shelter to anyone foolish enough to cross them under fire.

By August 1944, the village had become another obstacle in the American advance through Normandy. German forces were retreating westwards, but they were determined to make every crossroads, bridge and village cost the Allies time and lives. A small German rearguard had occupied Saint-Martin, establishing machine-gun positions among the buildings and preparing to destroy the crossroads rather than surrender it intact.

For the Americans of the 3rd Platoon, Easy Company, the orders were straightforward: take the square, secure the roads and prevent the Germans from carrying out their demolition. Their commander, Lieutenant Chad Chaddington, had assured his men that this would be a quick operation.

Across the square, Oberleutnant Heinz Von Fieldkraften had rather different plans. He intended to delay the Americans, destroy the supplies accumulated near the crossroads and withdraw before his small command was overwhelmed. With a handful of infantrymen, a machine-gun team and a Hanomag armoured half-track, he believed he had enough firepower to make the Americans pay dearly for every metre.

The first American squad moved cautiously through the open field south of the village, keeping low as the occasional rifle shot cracked from the buildings ahead. Lieutenant Chaddington followed behind with the second squad, trying to maintain some semblance of order while his men searched for a safe route towards the square. Their attention was soon drawn to the blackened wreck of a German tank sitting near the edge of the field. Its turret had been blown open, and its hull was scorched and battered, but it offered something the surrounding countryside conspicuously lacked: cover. 

Americans take cover

The wreck became their rallying point. A BAR gunner settled beside one of the tracks, his assistant feeding him ammunition as he prepared to cover the advance. Other men peered cautiously around the hull, trying to identify German firing positions.

Then Lieutenant Chaddington spotted an opportunity.

A German machine gun had opened fire from the western side of the square, its bursts kicking dust from the road and forcing the Americans behind the tank to keep their heads down. If they could silence it, the infantry might be able to advance into the village.

The lieutenant turned towards his bazooka team.

"You're going to take that position out."

The two men looked towards the square, then towards the open field between them and the buildings.

Neither appeared particularly enthusiastic.

Nevertheless, they gathered their weapon and ammunition and set off.

The bazooka team had barely crossed the first stretch of open ground when the Germans spotted them.

A rifle cracked from a second-storey window. Another followed, and then the unmistakable chatter of a German machine gun swept across the field. The two Americans dropped instinctively, but there was almost nowhere to hide. The grass was too short, the ground too flat, and the distance to the nearest cover painfully long. A burst of fire struck the earth beside them. Another caught the gunner before he could rise again. Within moments, the bazooka team had been shot to pieces.

Bazooka team is shot down!

A German Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track rumbled into view along the northern road, its armoured hull bouncing over the uneven cobbles. The vehicle slowed beside a damaged building, and its rear doors swung open.

Panzergrenadiers poured out.

The German infantry moved with the confidence of men who had been expecting trouble. Their NCO shouted instructions advancing towards the square. Within moments, they had reinforced the defenders and made the American approach even more dangerous.

The Hanomag's machine gun swept across the field, adding its fire to the German defenders' already formidable position.

Then Von Fieldkraften gave the order he had been waiting to issue. German engineers had prepared demolition charges beside a collection of ammunition crates and supply boxes near the square. The Panzergrenadiers pushed forwards under covering fire, reached the designated position and began their work. A moment later, the centre of Saint-Martin erupted. The explosion hurled dust and broken masonry into the air. The supply crates were torn apart, and the road surface buckled beneath a cloud of smoke. The fountain shuddered, the windows of the surrounding buildings burst outwards, and fragments of stone clattered across the square.

Inside the Hanomag, however, a different drama was unfolding.

Crossroads are destroyed!

The vehicle's Estonian drivers had been perfectly content to bring their passengers into the village. They had endured small-arms fire, the occasional explosion and the general unpleasantness of being shot at with admirable composure. The demolition blast was another matter entirely. The driver stared at the smoke rising from the square. His companion looked at him. Neither man said anything. Then the driver reversed the Hanomag behind a sturdy stone building, switched off the engine and settled as far down inside the vehicle as he could manage.

The Americans could no longer hope to take the crossroads quickly, and the Germans could no longer rely on the intact road to make their retreat straightforward. Both sides now had a simple choice: seize the square or be driven out of it.

Lieutenant Chaddington ordered his men forward.

The first American squad broke from the cover of the tank and dashed towards the southern buildings. Rifle fire snapped around them as they crossed the remaining open ground. A German team firing from a ruined shop forced several men to dive behind a low wall, while the BAR gunner tried desperately to keep the defenders' heads down.

The second American squad advanced along the western approach, moving from one patch of rubble to the next. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the Germans might be pushed back.

Then Von Fieldkraften committed his reserves.

German infantry surged from the northern buildings, firing as they advanced. The Americans were caught between the defenders in the square and the Panzergrenadiers moving through the streets. Men fell on both sides, and the sound of rifles, submachine guns and machine-gun fire echoed between the stone façades. 

Americans shot down at the wall of the crossroads

A German squad attempting to hold the western corner was overwhelmed after a fierce exchange of fire. Almost at the same time, an American section advancing towards the fountain was cut down by concentrated German shooting from the upper windows.

The square filled with smoke, broken furniture and scattered equipment. Neither side had enough men to control the entire village, yet neither was prepared to give up the crossroads.

It became a contest of nerve.

Small groups of infantry dashed between buildings. Men fired from doorways and behind overturned carts. Officers shouted themselves hoarse trying to rally soldiers who had lost contact with their squads.

Von Fieldkraften moved among his defenders, urging them to hold the line.

"Stand your ground! The Americans must not pass!"

He was still shouting when a shot rang out from the southern side of the square.

The German commander staggered and fell.

His men saw him go down, and for a moment their fire faltered. A few soldiers rushed towards their fallen officer, while others looked uncertainly towards the crossroads, suddenly aware that the man holding their defence together was no longer giving orders.

On the opposite side of the square, Lieutenant Chaddington had survived the American advance and was moving forwards with the remaining riflemen.

He reached the edge of the central square, looked at the smoke rising from the demolished road, and made a decision.

"Come on, boys! We're not stopping here!"

With that, he dashed into the centre of the square.

While the main battle raged around the fountain, the fighting on the eastern side of Saint-Martin had become a separate and particularly bitter affair.

An American squad had worked its way through the orchard and reached the edge of the square, only to encounter a German infantry squad occupying the corner beside the bakery. The two forces were close enough to see one another clearly through the smoke and dust.

Their sergeant gave the order to charge.

The Americans vaulted the wall and rushed towards the bakery. The Germans met them at the corner, and the two squads collided in a confused mass of shouting men, rifle stocks and desperate close-quarters fighting.

It was no longer a battle of carefully aimed shots or well-planned manoeuvres. It was a struggle for survival in the narrow space between the bakery and the square.

One by one, the soldiers around the two sergeants fell or were forced out of the fight. The clash gradually subsided until only a handful of men remained standing. Then even those men were gone, leaving the two NCOs facing one another amid the wreckage and the bodies of their fallen squadmates.

The American sergeant was a broad-shouldered veteran with a torn sleeve and a face streaked with dust. His German counterpart was younger, leaner, and clutching his rifle as though it were the last thing keeping him alive.

They stared at one another.

The German lunged first.

The American caught him, and both men crashed to the ground. They grappled among the broken bricks, struggling to gain the upper hand. The German managed to roll on top for a moment, but the American twisted free and drove him back against the rubble.

For several seconds, neither could gain a decisive advantage.

Then the American found his opening.

He forced the German down, overpowered him and finished the struggle.

When he finally rose, breathing hard and barely able to stand, the eastern corner of the square was silent.

Final melee between the sergeants

The American survivors gathered around Lieutenant Chaddington in the battered square. The demolition had destroyed the supplies and damaged the road, while the fighting had left the village strewn with abandoned equipment and shattered masonry. The tank wreck still stood where the Americans had first taken cover, its blackened hull now overlooking the ground they had fought so hard to cross.

Chaddington surveyed the square.

The crossroads was theirs, but the cost had been severe. His bazooka team was gone. Several rifle squads had suffered devastating losses, and the surviving men were exhausted, dirty and short of ammunition. The Germans had retreated, but they had accomplished their main objective: the supplies were destroyed, and the road would require considerable work before vehicles could pass through the village again.

The American lieutenant turned to one of his surviving NCOs.

"Well, Sergeant. We have the square."

The sergeant looked at the crater, the ruined buildings and the scattered remains of the afternoon's fighting.

"Yes, sir. We do."

Chaddington nodded.

"Then I suppose we'd better get on with clearing it."

Behind them, a small group of American soldiers approached the abandoned Hanomag. The vehicle sat tucked behind its stone building, apparently untouched by the fighting. When one of the men peered inside, he found the two Estonian drivers still crouched in the compartment.

They looked up at him.

He looked back at them.

Neither side seemed particularly interested in making the situation more complicated than it already was.

The Americans waved them out, and the drivers surrendered without argument.

By the time the sun dipped behind the Norman hedgerows, Saint-Martin was firmly in American hands. The Germans had withdrawn, the crossroads had been taken, and Lieutenant Chad Chaddington could report success.

It was, by any reasonable measure, a victory.

It was also a bloody nose.

The road remained blocked, the supplies were gone, and the platoon would need reinforcements before it could continue its advance. But the Americans had achieved their objective, and the German rearguard had been forced from the village.

For now, that would have to be enough.

Result: American tactical victory.

The crossroads at Saint-Martin was secured, but the road to the next village would be a long one.

 

An absolute crack game of bolt action wow! A VERY close win by the Americans literally down to the final dice roll of the melee between our two squads to capture the square. It had it all, funny moments, crazy dice rolls and a nail bitter finish! So good to be back in the WW2 setting after a bit of a hiatus to focus on Stargrave.