Waggoners Gap

Chapter 2-4

The officer addressed all six men at once. “Be careful, this American sniper is very dangerous. You must destroy him. If you fail, do not return alive! Understand?”

The German sergeant acknowledged the order. He’d fought on the Western Front since he left his farm in Bavaria in 1915. He’d received an Iron Cross for his exploits on the field. Sergeant Muller was one of the best soldiers in this regiment. He’d killed many French and British soldiers.

The sergeant deployed his men around to their left, using connecting trenches and keeping low. He had a hunch where the American sniper might be. Within three minutes, he’d maneuver in position to kill this Yank bastard, who’d shot several of his comrades. Like most field soldiers, he despised enemy snipers. I will take great pleasure in killing this son-of-a-b***h. I want to do it close up, painful, and personal, he thought.

He checked his Luger. It was loaded, safety off.

From Genero’s position in the tree line below, the silence from the German position was miraculous. He heard the occasional report of a Springfield, off to his right. It had to be York.

I’ll bet Alvin is giving those Huns the devil. Genero thought, with satisfaction, as he scanned the line of German trenches.

The pause in the German firing gave Genero the opportunity to visually inspect the gruesome meadow. He saw broken, bleeding corpses of both his buddies and the enemy. Genero understood that the Germans had shot their own men to kill Americans. Genero put the c*****e out of his mind. He focused on what might be happening with York.

At that moment from the top of the hill on the right, Genero heard the familiar report of a Springfield, followed immediately by seven pistol shots. In the chaos, Genero couldn’t tell if the pistol shots came from an enemy pistol or an American Colt.

Genero’s heart sank. He imagined that York fired his rifle and while he reloaded, a German officer emptied his pistol into him. The few survivors of Early’s small force were goners for sure.

Phillip was wrong. York had just killed six more Germans.

The German sergeant had maneuvered his squad through the trenches without compromising their presence. They’d found a place in the earthworks, just 20 yards from the place where York was waiting to take another shot.

The German non-com had worked out a viable plan. He whispered the instructions to his men, “When the American sniper fires his next shot, go over the top of the connecting trench and rush down the hill toward the American. Fire as you move! If you get a good shot, kill him! If you don’t, I will finish him off.”

Only a few yards away, York paused for a moment to scan the enemy line. York saw a slight movement to his left, near a makeshift emplacement. He saw only a sliver of metal, the very top of a helmet.

Cpl. York aimed and fired. The .30 caliber bullet from York’s Springfield penetrated the enemy helmet at its apex, tearing off the entire top of the soldier’s skull. The Hun flopped dead in the trench among a dozen terrified comrades, spurting blood and shaking from nerve spasms.

The German sergeant gave his men the prearranged command. All six sprung up from their trench, firing their weapons. They rushed York from his right side.

Cpl. York saw the attack developing out of the corner of his right eye. He reached into his webbing. With a graceful sweep of his arm, he pulled the Colt .45, extended his arm, and aimed the automatic at the last man in the group.

The Germans were not running abreast, but were strung out in an angled line. Alvin York began his deadly task by shooting the man last in line. He then worked forward calmly and accurately.

York did not want any of the Germans to see the man in front fall. It could spook them and cause them to go to cover. With seven shots he killed the German sergeant and all five of his men.

Several of the soldiers in the enemy trenches saw their comrades die as they charged the sniper. Not one of the terrified soldiers dared to raise his head. The whole German line deteriorated.

A German jumped from the trench and raced back up the hill. York shot him through the back of his head. Another soldier tried to crawl into a narrow depression, which led away from the trench. York killed him with one shot.

That was it. First one or two, then by threes and fours, they raised their hands over the top of the trench in surrender, yelling “Kamerad!” Several soldiers produced pieces of white or light colored cloth, waiving them in the air in total defeat.

The Prussian major felt utter despair. He considered shooting some of his own men to stop the wave of capitulation. If he did, the survivors might kill him. He tossed his pistol into the trench and raised his own hands in surrender.

York was more surprised than anyone on that hill when the Germans began to surrender in large numbers. He stood up. “You boys git down here, now! Drop yer guns! Keep yer hands were I can see them. Don’t try nothing funny! Get along!” York ordered in a clear angry voice.

Only a few of the Germans spoke English. Even those who did were not able to understand much of York’s South Tennessee accent. It didn’t matter. York’s bearing and their fear of him overwhelmed the enemy soldiers. One by one, they filed down the mountain, over 110 prisoners from the top of the hill.

From his place on the front edge of the tree line, Genero observed the long procession of German prisoners. He was stunned. The bloody glade filled with scores of unarmed Huns with their hands in the air.

Only a few moments ago, 17 Americans had difficulty controlling 30 Germans. Now, many of the Americans were dead, and there were only a half-dozen Americans trying to organize over 100 enemy soldiers.

Genero grabbed onto a tree branch. When he got the right angle, he used the limb for support. He stood up gingerly. Phillip hopped over to Davis, who’d regained consciousness. Despite his wounds, Davis was able to stand.

Genero took the bayonet from his rifle, and appropriated the one on Davis’ Springfield. While leaning against the tree, Genero fashioned a crude splint, using the bayonets as the support pieces. He secured them to the lower portion of his left leg by wrapping them with a short piece of webbing.

Though the pain was intense, Genero hobbled forward to help the men who were trying to control the horde of German prisoners. Genero first checked the American casualties. Most were dead.

Of the 17 American soldiers who entered that glade at Chatel-Chehery on October 8, 1918, six were dead. Four were wounded and seven—including York—were unscathed. Two of the wounded, like Genero, could limp. Two, including Sgt. Early, were in critical condition.

Cpl. Alvin York, of Pall Mall, Tennessee, had killed 26 German soldiers and had fired his weapons 28 or 29 times. Genero estimated that York had forced the surrender of more than 130 Germans, including 20 who’d survived the German fusillade in the meadow.

Cpl. York was the last man off the hill. It was no longer a hindrance to the American advance on the DeCauville railroad junction.

York looked over the prisoners and assessed the options. He walked over to Genero, who stood with the weight on his right leg, using his rifle for support.

“Alvin, this is unbelievable. It’s amazing!” Genero stammered.

“We had better look after Sgt. Early, and some of the other boys, if we’re going to help them make it outta here.”

“Alvin, most of the boys are dead and wounded,” Genero explained softly.

Understanding, York looked directly at Genero. Phillip saw a deadly rage burn in Alvin York’s eyes. He watched as the knuckles on York’s hands turned white from the power of his grip on his weapon. For a moment York struggled with control. Then the rage passed.

“Phillip, can ya walk, boy? I’m going to need some help with these Huns. I’m fixing to take them back to the colonel.”

“I can’t move very fast, but I can hobble a bit. Maybe we can get these Huns to make litters for the wounded. They can carry them as we move the lot of them out of here,” Genero replied.

“Good idea. Let’s git along as quick as we can. Some of these boys won’t be with us much longer if we dawdle,” York observed.

“Alvin, you saved our lives. You are a real hero.”

“Phillip, I reckon we’ve been friends about a year. It seems a bit longer somehow. I ain’t no hero. Don’t want to be one, never did! I hope my Savior will forgive me for what I done to all these Huns. Phillip, I jest couldn’t figure no other way to stop them from killing us. Know what I mean?”

Genero could see that York was serious and he was touched by York’s humility. They had wounded to care for and prisoners to turn in. They had to go.

York started giving directions to the ambulatory Americans and German prisoners. Soon, the whole long column was pointed back to the American lines.

Genero limped along. When he could go no further, York had two of the bigger Germans carry him the rest of the way.

Genero went to an aid station at the rear of the American lines. A day later, the medics sent him to a military hospital near Paris, where the surgeons tried to save his left leg—and his life.