Chapter 242: The Battle for the Small Village

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Borol had originally intended to use a hand grenade to take out the Dutch soldiers in this church, but upon seeing the noisy anti-aircraft gun position, he changed his mind. He turned his head and whispered to the soldier beside him, “I’ll go in and deal with the Dutch soldiers here. You go and have the machine gun team relocate and meet me here. Understood?”

“Sir? You’re going in alone?” the soldier asked with a frown. “We don’t know how many Dutch soldiers are in there. It’s too dangerous for you to go in alone.”

“We don’t have enough men. If the Dutch at the anti-aircraft position find out we’ve gotten behind them, they could pose a threat to us,” Borol explained. “If we don’t use grenades to take care of this place, the Dutch over there might not even know we’ve attacked.”

Nodding, the soldier returned the way he had come. Borol cautiously opened the church door and found more than twenty pairs of eyes staring at him in terror.

The atmosphere was somewhat awkward, strangely eerie. Borol, holding a ten-round rifle, was facing a room full of Dutch people. These were all old people and children. Everyone stared at Borol as he entered. A little boy struggled, wanting to shout, but his grandmother covered his mouth.

Borol took a step forward. The people all shied away from the muzzle of his gun. He did not speak, and they did not make a sound. In this silence, Borol passed through the crowd and came to the side of the stairs.

He looked back at the old people and children, confirmed that they had no intention of challenging him, then raised his gun toward the top of the stairs and slowly walked up. The old staircase creaked, but because of the sound of cannons outside, it did not seem so piercing.

Step by step, Borol finally reached the second floor. The scene before him made him breathe a sigh of relief, because on the floor lay two Dutch soldiers. It was clear they had been dead for a long time. A machine gun had directly hit one man’s chin, while the other, because he was leaning against a wooden wall full of holes, had also met with misfortune.

He lowered his gun, walked over, and carefully looked at the two dead Dutch soldiers. The scene was a bit too bloody, causing his stomach to turn, but he still prodded the bodies on the ground with the muzzle of his gun to confirm that the two men were truly dead. He found a chair and sat down at a table, glanced at the broken teacup and the half-a-coffee-pot that remained.

It was clear that these two men had been sitting here quite comfortably just a moment ago, just as he was now—preparing to drink coffee and then go about their ordinary day. Borol lit a cigarette, put it in his mouth, took a drag, and then blew out the smoke. He then grabbed the remaining half a loaf of bread from the table, sniffed it under his nose, and began to eat it without ceremony.

He was halfway through eating when Baru came up. It was clear that this place was now completely under German control. Soon, they would have to face an anti-aircraft gun position about a hundred meters away, and the dozen or so Dutch soldiers at that position.

“Below are the residents of this village. They were hiding in the church to escape the air raid,” Baru said, pointing downstairs. “There’s about a platoon of Dutch defenders in the village. We’ve eliminated seven, leaving more than twenty.”

As he spoke, the assistant squad leader walked in with two soldiers. One had his face wrapped in gauze, like a resurrected mummy. The other was the platoon medic, with a white identifying armband on his arm, on which was a conspicuous red cross.

“The enemy’s numbers don’t seem to be sufficient either. They’ve split many of their men to set up defensive positions around the village. There was a five-man machine gun team at the village entrance, and two sentries here…” Borol arranged a few broken books on the table to make a layout of the village. “They have about twelve men operating that anti-aircraft gun, and there’s a heavy machine gun there as cover.”

He pointed to the outskirts of the village as he spoke. “They should have two more machine guns here and here, which won’t pose a threat to us for the time being… The critical problem now is that perhaps that damned anti-aircraft gun can be fired horizontally. If they do that, we’re finished.”

“Then what do we do?” the assistant squad leader asked, staring at the few books on the table.

“Here, set up a machine gun nest. Suppress their machine gun in one go,” Borol said, pointing to one of the books. “In that house not far from them. Fire for twenty seconds and then leave immediately. Return to the high ground here and open fire again from the roof.”

He then pointed to the gap between two other books. “There’s a small alley here. If we’re lucky, the Dutch probably haven’t set up defenses here. We can pass through and eliminate this Dutch unit. Behind the anti-aircraft gun position is a beautiful house. The Dutch commander is probably inside. After we take out the gun position, we’ll go in and check.”

“That’s the only way. There’s no news from the platoon leader’s side yet. We can only act alone,” the assistant squad leader said with a nod.

Now their numbers had been reinforced. Both of the wounded soldiers had returned to the team, so they now had nine men. The numerical disparity did not seem so obvious. Borol arranged their basic tactics. One G43 rifleman would cover the MG42 machine gun and open fire first on the front of the Dutch anti-aircraft position. After firing for a while, they would immediately relocate. The rest of the men would form a commando detachment with him, sneak through the small alley, approach the Dutch anti-aircraft position, and eliminate all the enemy troops inside.

“Let’s get set up,” After Borol had assigned the tasks, everyone began to move. They concentrated their hand grenades with the commando detachment and then went to their respective assault positions. As for the terrified Dutch civilians, they were left to be guarded by the only unassigned medic. And this guard duty was time-limited. As soon as the firefight began, the medic was to rush in the direction of the commando detachment.

Borol led his men to the designated attack position. Through the alley, they could see the Dutch anti-aircraft gun over there, firing fiercely at the sky. Fortunately, these Dutchmen did not yet know that one of their machine gun nests had already been taken out by the German paratroopers. They were still focused on shooting at the sky.

Soon, the unique sound of a German machine gun rang out, and the Dutch position was hit by a spray of dust. The Dutch soldiers began to return fire fiercely but did not use the anti-aircraft gun. It was probably because they felt that their machine gun nest could completely suppress the Germans. They shouted for their friendly forces on the perimeter as they fired.

“Attack!” As soon as the word was spoken, Borol led his men forward quickly. They held their guns and rapidly approached the Polish [sic] position. At a very close distance, Borol threw the only remaining hand grenade in his hand.

Behind him, two paratroopers also threw their grenades toward the Dutch position, but one grenade, due to the narrowness of the alley, hit the side of a wall and did not roll into the Dutch trench, but landed halfway.

“Boom!” “Boom!” “Boom!” Three explosions rang out. Borol, braving the dust, was the first to jump into the Dutch defenders’ trench. He pulled the trigger, and the G43 made a pleasant “ping-ping” sound. A wounded Dutch soldier’s chest was pierced by two holes, and he fell to one side with a scream. Borol aimed his gun at another Dutch soldier on the other side, but the G43 rifle jammed.

Steel-cased ammunition could reduce the use of copper, which Germany lacked, to make ammunition, but it brought a rather frustrating problem: the flexibility of steel cases was not as good as that of brass cases. The extraction action was prone to jamming, causing the gun to malfunction. In addition to requiring more careful daily maintenance, it also required the courage to endure jams.

Borol hurriedly threw away the rifle in his hand, drew the P-38 pistol from his waist, and fired three shots at the Dutch soldier. And behind him, two German paratroopers also rushed out of the alley, firing fiercely with their MP-44 assault rifles.

The dozen or so Dutch soldiers were soon all lying in pools of blood. One was even cut down by the distant German machine gun while trying to escape from the trench. Only then did they discover, not far from the trench, the bodies of seven German soldiers lying there.

“My God,” Borol recognized the bodies. One was his platoon leader, the commander responsible for leading them to capture the small town. Their parachutes were discarded to one side. It seemed that the location of their parachute drop was too close to this Dutch position. One man had been killed instantly upon landing, like a tomato thrown from a seventh-floor balcony, because his parachute had been torn by a large hole.

Now Borol finally knew why the men inside had been completely unaware when they took out the outer Dutch machine gun nest. It turned out that they had also just finished dealing with the problem at hand and hadn’t had time to check their surroundings.

A German paratrooper with an MP-44 kicked open the door of the beautiful house behind the anti-aircraft gun position. It seemed he was in a hurry to capture a few Dutch commanders, but he subsequently paid the price for his recklessness. A crisp gunshot rang out, and this German paratrooper was hit in the chest and fell straight down in the doorway.

The Dutch soldiers inside were shouting, as if they wanted to negotiate with the German paratroopers. But Borol and the other paratroopers did not have the patience to negotiate with the murderer who had just killed a German. They aimed the Bofors 40mm rapid-fire anti-aircraft gun at this beautiful house and fired ten shells in one go.

The house was turned into a ruin by the anti-aircraft gun. Inside lay three men in Dutch officer uniforms, one still holding a pistol in his hand. The German paratroopers threw another grenade into the ruins, and only then did they consider that they had avenged their comrade.

A short while later, a Dutch soldier with a white flag walked into the village. He was representing the remaining Dutch to surrender. Ten minutes later, Borol received his first batch of prisoners, a full eleven of them.