Company of Heroes 2: Ardennes Assault

Prologue

Private First Class Abel Nicholson was starting to hate the M3 Halftrack.

They were a rolling can of sardines. Halftrack, can. Sardines, he and the rest of the fresh meat, twelve men in total.

The halftrack was only supposed to carry eleven.

The M3 suddenly lurched to a stop. PFC Nicholson stood up, peering over the top of the halftrack's thinly-armored side. An array of tents and munitions lay under camouflage netting, behind a wall of sandbags. Timber-reinforced pillboxes with M2HB heavy machine guns guarded the site, and for good reason: it was the field command post, or C-P, of Dog Company, along with Baker and Able Companies. They were out here to rest. Dog was here to train.

Outside, someone blew a whistle. "Fall out! Let's go," the voice drawled in a southerner's accent.

Nicholson flopped out of the tin can, steadying his heavy pack on his shoulders, M1 Garand in hand. Unsheltered from the wind, he instantly felt the icy air poking at his body. Shivering, he hustled over towards the old, obese-sounding guy, falling in behind the rest of his squad.

"Alright, you ninety-day wonders, listen up! We're gonna be taking over sentry duty from the Airborne at Checkpoint Fox."

He took a quick pause. "Now seein' how there 'aint nothing there, we're going to build some stuff."

Build some stuff? Nicholson wasn't sure he had heard right.

The old man with two faded white stripes on his helmet—signifying that he was a Captain—continued. "Luck for y'all we've got rear echelon squads to pitch in. They've got it all figured out when it comes to buildn' defenses, so... they'll help with the checkpoint."

Nicholson swore inwardly. They were really going to "build some stuff"?

Two squads of soldiers, wearing brown overcoats—Nicholson and the rest of the recruits were wearing tan jackets—appeared from inside the HQ. After checking out at the HQ gate, they hustled over towards the old fat man.

"Well, look who we have here," the old guy said. "Welcome to the shin dig. Hope you've got nowhere else to be."

He waved at them, beckoning them in. "Fall in," he said. "Alright, let's move out, boys."

Private First Class Abel Nicholson was starting to miss the halftrack.

All those cramped hours, complaining about every single bump in the road, and so loud that conversing was hopeless. Now, he was wanting a cramped, bumpy, loud ride.

It sure beat walking.

Especially when the snow is two feet deep and you have to slave your way through the white powder. Even walking was a challenge.

Jeez, Nicholson thought. The Germans don't need to shoot me, I'll die tired before they ever get a shot off.

Noticing the recruits starting to slack off, the old man began another lecture. "Hop to it, boys. You know that son-of-a-gun Jackson'll never stop with the wise-crackin' if we're late."

Nicholson muttered another curse under his labored breath as they trudged towards Checkpoint Fox, a good distance away from where they had started.

"Captain Derby," a man's firm, powerful voice greeted the old man as they came near to the checkpoint. "Glad you could finally make it."

Captain Derby (the old man), let out a quick burst of a laugh. "Yeah, well, this war 'aint in no hurry to end, figured we had plenty of time to mosey-on over."

The other man, dressed just like Derby, but with an eagle sewn onto his coat sleeve, snorted in reply. "Well, we wouldn't want you boys pullin' a muscle hurryin' on our account."

The man waved towards the couple of soldiers already stationed at the checkpoint. "I'm going to get the men back to Rocherath for hot meals and showers. They could sure use it."

Nicholson watched as the man rounded up his subordinates, and moved off towards the northwest.

"Alright, this checkpoint's got to be flushed out. Gettin' a bit crowded around here," Captain Derby ordered. "If we're going to sit out the winter here, we need some cover. Let's start by building a fighting position over there—between the two trenches."

"I didn't come all the way to Europe to do this," Nicholson complained to a fellow recruit as he flung another shovel-full of dirt.

"Totally," the man grumbled. "Isn't this what engineers are for?"

Nicholson snickered. "Abel Nicholson, twenty-one, New York."

The man continued to industriously shovel dirt. "James Fraskis, twenty-seven, Detroit."

"I'd rather be shooting Jerries than digging ranger graves," Nicholson stated flatly.

Fraskis smirked, seconding the sentiment. "Looks more like a latrine, so far."

Finally, Nicholson and the rest of his squad finished. "Captain? We're done, sir."

The old fat man strode over, inspecting their handiwork. They had just dug out a circular three-foot-deep pit, seven feet wide. Big enough to stuff in all six men of Nicholson's squad, and yet small enough to kill them all at once should a grenade explode inside—it wasn't called a ranger grave for nothing.

He nodded. "Good. Get a fifty cal in there to cover that area."

"Yes sir," Nicholson's Sergeant replied. "You and you," he pointed to Nicholson and Fraskis. "Get over to that watchtower, get a Browning and a few belts of ammunition."

Nicholson, happy to do anything that wasn't related to dirt, saluted and took off towards the watchtower, Fraskis at his heels.

The PFC had just set up the M2HB .50 cal heavy machine gun on its tripod when the tree sixty feet in front of him exploded.

"Incoming! Take cover! Derby ordered. "Use the bunkers! We need a lookout on the watch tower!"

Nicholson ducked down low as more earsplitting explosions entered the air, snow and dirt blown into the air. Artillery shells peppered their position and the forest ahead, trees splintering under the explosive concussion. The other recruits and Rear Echelon squads scrambled into the trenches, taking cover before they got pulverized by the explosions.

Up in the watchtower, Captain Derby got on the radio. "Checkpoint Fox, contact report! Enemy artillery fire!"

"Roger Fox, hold and advise as needed," the man on the radio back at the C-P replied.

Captain Derby redirected his attention to his troops. "There's movement in the treeline,' he hollered. "Fritz is on us!"

Originally overhearing the radio transmission—the radio was tuned up so loud, the Private could hear it all the way out here—now hearing a command, Nicholson stood up just enough to peek through the machine gun's iron sights. He could clearly see German infantry emerging from the treeline. They started firing at him.

Nicholson started to rethink his "I'd rather be shooting Jerries" comment.

The Private steeled his nerves, put both trembling thumbs on the gun's trigger, and the M2 started spitting lead, massive smoldering brass casings dropping down into the fighting position. As he sprayed the enemy forces with his machine gun, dozens of other infantry, his squad included, started laying down energetic yet inaccurate fire on the enemy targets.

The Germans fanned out, hitting the dirt as they did so. Some dodged this way and that, all trying to get away from Nicholson's machine gun. He was feeling quite superman, now that they weren't shooting at him. He clenched his teeth as the gun recoiled in his grasp, his arms already sore from the constant kick of the Ma Deuce.

The machine gun suddenly clicked empty. It took Nicholson (in his fanatic state) three seconds to notice the gun had stopped firing. His Sergeant cursed, pushing him aside and inserting another belt into the M2HB's smoldering feed mechanism. "Nicholson, Fraskis! Get to the watchtower, and get more ammo!"

Now Nicholson was inseparable with the dirt pit he had just dug five minutes ago.

Seeing that the two recruits weren't moving, the Sergeant swore at the top of his lungs. "MOVE!"

Nicholson gathered his Garand and took off towards the watchtower, right behind Fraskis.

Bullets danced around them, hitting the snow with soft pfft pfft pfft sounds. Nicholson didn't dare slow down—the drill Sergeant back in the States had once hollered "Stand still and you're a target" so loud that he spent the next hour with his ears ringing.

To say "vivid experience" was an understatement.

"Stay there," Fraskis informed Nicholson as he sprang up the watchtower. "I'll get the ammo, you catch."

Nicholson nodded, completely ignorant of the fact Fraskis's eyes were trained on the ladder and not at him.

Fraskis disappeared into the watchtower, and soon, three 60-round belts of 12.7mm x 99mm AP ammunition descended from above, Nicholson scrambling to catch them before they disappeared into the snow.

Fraskis started to descend, a few belts dangling from his shoulder. "Let's go!"

Nicholson hurried through the snow (which was like running through molasses), flattening out as soon as he reached the edge of the earthwork.

"Sir! Ammo," he reported as he deposited the belts at the edge of the giant foxhole. Fraskis followed suit.

His Sergeant, without taking his eyes off the attacking Germans, continued giving orders. "Nicholson, back on this—"

How he would have finished his sentence would never be known, since his head vanished.

A round entered and exited his head, blowing out considerable amounts of brain matter and pieces of skull at the same time. The gore sprinkled onto every dumbstruck surviving member of the squad. He dropped to the floor of the emplacement like a bag of cement.

Nicholson watched with his mouth open—probably drooling—as the fight continued. He suddenly got back to his senses, shaking off the red matter splattered all over his face. Spitting and cursing, he carefully stepped around the Sergeant's decapitated body, getting a grip on the M2, now silent.

"Fraskis, help me out and feed Mama here." Nicholson, noticing the rest of his squad wasn't moving, hollered over the cacophony of gunfire. "Don't just sit and watch! FIRE!"

The squad resumed combat operations, Fraskis loading the empty machine gun with ammunition, and the rest of them providing energetic yet inaccurate fire downrange. Though he was shaking from adrenaline and the very recent close encounter with death, Nicholson secured the M2's in his iron grasp, and the M2 began delivering death once more, at the rate of five hundred sentences per minute.

Before long, the attacking infantry were either dead or running. The recruits cheered.

"That's right! You mess with Uncle Sam, that's what you get!" Nicholson hollered.

Captain Derby's drawl came from the watchtower again as he operated the radio. Seriously, did he have to say everything so loud? Nicholson wondered, off-track, if the old man had hearing problems, so that he had to talk real loud just to hear himself. "Checkpoint Fox, Contact report. Light infantry, advancing from the north-east."

"Roger, the radioman replied, the radio as loud as Derby. "We're getting reports from all over the area. Germans are moving in from the east, and to the north between here and Rocherath."

Captain Derby pushed C-P for answers. "What's the status of Jackson and his airborne team in Rocherath?"

A sigh came over on the radio. "No contact as of yet. Will update you as we hear news."

"Hold your positions!" Captain Jackson hollered, his voice overcoming the sporadic small-arms fire. Keep those crossroads open!"

Lieutenant John "Johnny" Vastano, M1 Carbine in hand, hustled over to his Captain's position. "Vastano reporting."

As soon as he caught a glimpse of his most trusted Lieutenant, Jackson's expression softened. He pointed one finger down the street. "Enemy positions in those houses! Clear them out!"

Vastano grinned. "Glad to, sir." The Lieutenant whistled. "Sergeant Shalter! Take your squad and flank from the left. Corporal Hallway! Take mine and engage them head-on, drawing their fire while the Sergeant feeds them pineapples."

The veteran Sergeant, scars of experience in Normandy and Holland etched on his face, nodded. "Would the Krauts like 'em grilled or raw?" He was referring to the "pineapples," the Mk. 2 fragmentation grenades they carried.

Vastano grinned, understanding the Sergeant's reference. "Grilled, of course."

Shalter nodded again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Time to get cooking."

"Move out!"

Vastano followed his squad and took up positions behind a low stone wall directly across the street from the building Germans had holed up in. Corporal Hallway silently motioned for two of his privates, Synaski and Neeter, to get into position. They hefted their M1919A6 light machine guns into position, bipods resting on the top of the wall.

Vastano dared a peek over the lip of the wall. Shalter and the rest of his squad were crouched by the side of the building, ready to spring into action.

"Engage!"

Synaski and Neeter stood up, aiming their guns. Twin saltshakers of death opened up at the same time. Although they were both massive targets, the sheer volume of fire they dumped at the building twenty feet away was more than enough to send the Germans cowering.

At the same moment, Shalter pulled the pin on his grenade, grilled (otherwise referred to as "cooked") it for two seconds, and lobbed them into the open windows.

A satisfying whump echoed as it detonated.

Without a single order, both of Vastano's gunners stopped firing, ducking back behind their cover. Simultaneously, Shalter and his squad kicked in the door, M1 Thompson sub-machine guns poised at their fingertips.

Four copies of the iconic weapons belched at once as the Sergeant and his squad of Paratroopers cleared the building, the screams of Germans chasing the SMGs as they fired. The carbines in the other squad members' hands barked like wild dogs defending their territory.

Pretty soon, Shalter exited the building, hollering a crisp "Clear!"

Vastano waved his boys out. "Into the building! Firing positions!"

The paratroopers made a beeline for the door, doing everything they could to reduce the amount of time they spent in the open. Vastano, the first to arrive at the other side of the street, covered his squad with his carbine, ready to put a hole through anyone wearing a gray helmet who dared to enter the keen-eyed Lieutenant's line-of-sight.

"All in, sir!"

Vastano stole one last glance down the street, then dove inside.

The Lieutenant stomped his way upstairs, his squad already performing overwatch on the area. The Germans had been repelled—for now.

"Attention! Captain in the house," Neeter, on sentry duty, hollered.

"Vastano, what's the SitRep when you came in?" Captain Jackson asked.

Vastano shook his head. "Not good. We got Krauts on all sides. Village is surrounded."

His Captain pondered this for a moment. "Can we get across to Krinkelt?"

The Lieutenant shook his head again. "No. The whole place is crawling with Germans."

"Alright, we need to raise other sectors—confirm what the hell's goin' on here." The Captain looked at his Lieutenant. "Vastano, our radio's gonna need a boost—get over to the tower in the forest. We can tie into it."

"Roger that. Squad, on me! Shalter, let's go!"

Vastano gathered a Pathfinder squad as they moved out, trudging through the snow. On the outskirts of town, Vastano ordered everyone to take a knee.

"Captain's orders: take the radio tower in the woods. After we secure it, Pathfinders, you guys get our radio hooked up so Jackson can make a call. Understood?"

The men nodded. "Yes sir."

"Screaming Eagles, move out!"

Soon, the tower was within sight. Vastano ordered them to flatten out in the snow, weapons tight. He was too, observing the enemy position through a pair of binoculars.

"I see Fallschmjagers, eight of 'em. Another three normal Krauts, manning an MG," he informed his boys.

"Roger sir, targets confirmed," a Pathfinder replied, doing the exact same thing Vastano was.

Vastano worked out a battle plan. "Alright, listen up. Shalter, crawl up the right. My squad, to the left. Corporal Hallway, take command. Pathfinders, you guys stay here with me. You guys take out the Kraut MG. As soon as you pop their heads, Shalter, storm."

Nothing more had to be said. The battle-hardened man nodded. "Let's go, paras."

Corporal Hallway waved the rest of Vastano's squad out. "Rest of us, covering fire."

They nodded, starting to inchworm their way through the snow.

A few minutes later, they were in position. Vastano could hear his heart hammering away in his chest, his carbine ready to lay covering fire on the approximate direction of the sandbagged defensive position.

Two cracks of thunder tore through the air, and scored hits on the German defenders. Vastano could clearly see bright red vapor spray into the air.

The carbine instantly kicked in Vastano's arms, as did the LMGs and the M1 Carbines in his squad's hands to the left. Shalter's boys to the right burst forward, the Sergeant leading the way, Thompson blazing.

The poor bastards only had the time to look up before they were scythed down by a hail of .45 slugs. A perfect ambush.

"Clear!"

Trudging through the deep snow, Vastano and the rest of his squad hustled towards the radio tower, their original objective. As Vastano's subordinates organized his boys into defensive positions, the Pathfinders were busy at work, wiring the radio into the twenty-foot-tall mast.

Finally, they flashed the Lieutenant a thumbs up. He picked up a flare gun, launching an orange ball of fire into the air.

Jackson's voice immediately came over the radio. "Jackson to C-P, Jackson to C-P. Sitrep, do you read me?"

A couple moments later, a static-obstructed voice called on the radio. "Edwards reporting—good to hear you boys are still kickin' out there. Go ahead, Jackson."

"We're surrounded here," the Captain reported. "We're holding onto the village center, and we've just managed to capture the radio tower, but there's Germans everywhere."

"Roger. Hold your position until advised further, over."

Vastano waited, tense, as a counter-attack could come upon them any minute. The more time this took, the higher the risk of getting screwed, just like the Germans.

Edward's voice came over the radio again. "The entire infantry regiment is mobilizing. Hold your position.

"We're going to try and establish a corridor from Krinkelt to Rocherath so you can fall back. Stand by for updates, out."

"Listen up," Captain Edwards commanded his men. "I don't know how long this is going to take, so I want a B.A.R. weapons rack set up."

"Once that thing is up, I want infantry to gun up." He redirected his attention to one of his Lieutenants. "Get your boys over there and grab some Brownings."

The LT saluted. "Christmas comes early, fellows," he said, grinning at the rest of his squad. Then he started individually picking out who was to get the guns, who was to carry the ammo, and so forth.

Staff Sergeant Fredrick "Freddy" Miller watched this scene with steely eyes from the height of an M10 Tank Destroyer. Junior officers, he sniveled, shaking his head. So green. Don't they know that officers aren't supposed to micromanage every detail?

The Captain raised his voice. "Alright Baker—get ready to move out. We need to break through enemy forces to get to reach the Airborne boys in Rocherath."

He picked up the radio. "Jackson, this is Edwards. We're going to try and form an evac corridor."

"Roger. Moving now." The reply from Captain Jackson was short and to the point.

Captain Edwards waved at Miller in his M10.

"Move out!" the tank commander shouted at his driver.

The vehicle's engine revved, pitching the tank destroyer forward. They fell in line, right behind the two M5A1 light tanks.

They quickly made it to the edge of Krinkelt. "This is Derby," came an old man's voice on the radio. "My company has sight lines into the attack area. Dog company can support your advance from here."

From the open-topped tank, Miller could see the action unfold. Kraut forces were moving on Krinkelt, Derby's green recruits just barely holding them back.

Well, he thought. Time for the veterans to do the heavy lifting.

"Driver! Follow those Stuarts!" He bossed. "Loader, get AP into the breech."

"Roger that." Private Andrew Zacheri hefted a 76.2mm Armor-piercing Capped round into the breech of the M10's three-inch cannon, sliding the breech closed as he finished. "Cannon hot."

Up ahead, the machine guns and 37mm "squirrel rifles" of the M5A1s chewed up the attacking infantry and light vehicles, the 37mm cannon's shell, normally too light to do more than scratch a panzer, now punched through Kraut halftracks like they were made of cardboard.

Miller, the veteran commander that he was, kept his head on a swivel, as did his loader. They scanned the two sides and the front, looking for anything they could shoot at.

"Panzer II, possibly a Luchs, ten o'clock," his loader reported. They both ducked down, Zacheri and the Staff Sergeant simultaneously cranked the turret-revolution wheels as fast as they could, both of them already accustomed to the labor-intensive job.

"Driver, halt," Miller ordered, easing Gunner Corporal Alex Stevenson's work-load. Stevenson peeked through the main gun's sight, zeroing in on the Panzer II. As the M10 ground to a halt, the crosshairs stopped right in front of the moving Luchs.

"On the way!"

The cannon shot backwards, unleashing a cloud of smoke as a 17-pound hardened steel shell smashed through the sound barrier and knocked a hole clean through the Panzer like a shotgun through cream cheese.

Before Miller could yell "Driver, forward," Zacheri had already flung open the breech, slid the spent brass case out of the chamber (with a gloved hand, thank you) and was in the process of loading another round.

"Gun up!"

The tank's treads started grinding again as the tank destroyer continued forward once more, flanked on either side by supporting infantry.

"Well, that was a cakewalk," Miller commented as they parked on the side of the dirt road leading to Rocherath.

Zacheri grunted. "Compared to what we've faced, totally," he concurred.

The Private's statement was true. From North Africa to Normandy to Paris and then all the way to Belgium, they had fought in this M10. This hunk of steel and fire had lasted for almost one and a half a year on the battlefield, now, and they had twenty-seven white stripes painted on the olive barrel of their M10, signifying 27 Panzer kills. They were probably one of the most experienced crews in Eisenhower's arsenal.

The battle-hardened crew listened to the radio as they completed their objective. "Okay, listen up," Edwards called. "Airborne is going to fall back along the road to HQ. Provide supporting fire as they move."

Down below, another man gave his own set of orders. "Vastano, you take the first group and get them back to the base. I''l bring up the second group as soon as you've pushed off."

The man—Vastano, Miller guessed—replied. "Yes sir. First group, on me!"

Miller redirected his gaze to the snowy horizon, scanning for enemy tanks as swathes of paratroopers high-tailed it back to base.

Hurry up, Miller complained. Even snails don't take this long. As fast as they were on foot, they were nothing compared to a vehicle, especially an M10.

Finally, the man's voice came over the radio again. "Okay, that's all of us. I'm covering the rear."

Miller looked down towards the dirt road as a man, clad in the fashion of a Captain, started running towards Krinkelt with a bunch of other guys with eagles on their uniform sleeves. The Corporal instantly recognized them as members of the 101st Airborne, the same division that Miller had encountered back in Normandy when he hustled to Carentan to save their sorry asses from a spanking by Kraut Panzers.

"Ambush!" Zacheri yelled, yanking the Staff Sergeant back to the present.

Miller instantly got his bearings on the attacker. Oh, snap.

"Whoa! The Krauts got Panzer Fours here," one of the Riflemen in the snow yelled.

Before the man had finished his sentence, Miller and Zacheri already had the M10's turret pointed in the right direction. Stevenson hadn't moved from the targeting telescope, and quickly laid his sights down on the Panzer IV, and fired.

A supersonic hunk of metal screamed through the air, barreling straight towards the German tank, whose thick turret armor was still not enough to stop the fury of a 76.2mm shell fired from an M10 at point-blank range.

Miller screamed "Driver! Floor it!" as the Panzer IV's ammunition cooked off, blowing its turret into the air, doing a somersault before laying down to rest on the ice-cold snow.

"Gun up!"

As the M10 started grinding through the snow, a cohort of three long-barreled Panzer IVs, along with swathes of supporting infantry, emerged from the treeline.

"They're hundreds of them," Miller commented, forgetting that the radio switch was on the side labeled ON.

The Captain on the ground was shouting orders, but they were drowned out by the sound of the M10's roaring engine.

Miller's peripheral vision caught the muzzle flash of a Panzer IV.

"Bail out!" he yelled, even before the tank round crumpled the M10's thin side armor and burrowed into the engine compartment.

Miller knew they had about ten seconds before the gasoline-fueled radial engine caught on fire and exploded. He quickly vaulted over the top of the turret, as did Zacheri and Stevenson. His driver, Private Jeremy Kage, propped open his hatch, as did Radio Operator Corporal Ricky Cowalsky.

"Out! Out!" Miller roared, waving at them to hurry. Six seconds had already passed. Now Seven. Now eight.

Kage and Cowalsky slipped down from the M10, dropping onto the pavement below.

Not a moment too soon.

A massive boom entered the air, followed by a thick plume of black smoke as their beloved TD exploded, parts of her sprinkled all over the immediate area.

Swearing, they quickly joined Miller, Stevenson, Zacheri, and a clump of paratroopers as they ran for their lives, back towards Dog Company stationed at the edge of Krinkelt.

Miller had never been so happy to see green recruits in his entire life.

"Let's go! Let's go!" A soldier was standing straight up, waving at the retreating force to hurry. More accustomed to riding in a tank, Miller and the rest of his crew found themselves being outrun by hardened paratroopers and even the fresh meat right out of Basic.

It took too long, but he and the rest of his crew safely made it into Dog's defensive line. M2HB "Ma Duce" machine guns, freshly-manned M1 57mm anti-tank guns, and a plethora of cannon fodder covered their retreat, holding off the German attackers—for the moment.

Miller continued, running back towards the Command Post. He had seen enough Krauts for one day.

"Where is Jackson?" Vastano demanded as he stormed into the field C-P, right as Miller and the rest of his crew stepped into the base, already crowded with the remnants of Able company, survivors of Edward's evac corridor force, and some wounded fellows from Dog.

Captain Edwards glanced over at the commander of Dog company. "Derby, have you seen Jackson?"

The old, fat veteran of the Great War shook his head. "Lost sight of him fallin back."

Vastano swore. Edwards grimaced as he listened to a Situation Report on the radio. "Germans are pouring in more troops. What's the plan?"

Captain Derby wasted no time in passing judgment. "Fall back, 'aint no more point in wasting lives here. We'll link up with whoever is left, and figure out what just hit us, coordinate a defense."

Miller shook his head. The war just got a whole lot more complicated.