There I was, a young Nazi Medic assigned to defend the village of Caen. Not an especially strategic outpost, on the grand scale of things, but it served as a reliable resupply depot with a river just south of the city. Surely, the Allies had better things to attack. Or so I thought.
We were all surprised, but not unprepared, when the Sherman tanks started barrelling toward the Pegasus bridge—the only way into town from the south. What we had not counted on was the opposition, however…. These were not Americans, nor British Sweinhunds. And Caen of course was far from the Russian front.
I swear by the Fuhrer: we were being attacked by Canadians!
Gradually they wore us down; their numbers seemed limitless. Before long they had overrun our forward outpost south of the river, clearing the skies for their paratrooper divisions to float in silently behind our front lines.
We were forced to fall back to Pegasus Bridge, although that soon fell to the Allies as well, but by now it seemed they were beginning to run low on reinforcements. Nevertheless, they conquered the western church, then the town square.
We controlled a single point to the east… we managed to take back the square easily enough, or sometimes the church (and thus were able to land a few Panzers) or even the Bridge, but everytime we gained ground, it seemed that the Canadians would take it back somewhere else.
By this point our noble German forces were running terribly low, and while the same (less the nobility) could be said for the Canadians, their position was far tactically superior.
At last the inevitable happened: the final German flag fell, and we were unable to call in any reinforcements.
I saw many of our men die honorably in battle that day. Many more died out of my sight. But they did not fear death, for they knew that ultimately the Third Reich would overcome.
The only Nazis still in Caen were me and a sniper—but he was far from the battlefield, and pinned down in his post.
I snuck toward the east.
I knew that if I fell, Caen fell with me. If I could make it to the flag…
well Caen would still probably fall, I thought.
I had eight shots in the clip of my pistol, and sweat dripping from my proud Aryan brow. I didn't need any of them. I made it to the flag unnoticed (I hoped) and threw my body against the soil behind the sandbags. The Canadians were just mopping up the pieces now, hunting for the few survivors. Surely they would notice their flag being taken down?
Of course they did. I moved as fast as I could, but capturing a point takes time that I did not have.
I heard the footfalls, Canadians charging toward me. The tank treads grinding the earth, pulling the world toward their barrels.
I could see them in my mind, I could see every detail of my death.
I could see each bullet tearing into my flesh, carving out gruesome channels through my soul.
I could see with my last fading vision my ruined body being hoisted as a twisted trophy, the trophy for the Liberation of Caen.
I could see the Nazi flag waving high above my head.
The east point was ours. I had done it!
In a matter of seconds all our brave troops who had been waiting for a place to land swarmed in. I no longer cared if I lived or died, for I had fulfilled my purpose that day. I charged out with them. Many of them died, but they took many more Canadians with them.
By nightfall, the Canadians were no more. Caen was still ours.
We had won.