Patton's Angel

By Eric Helm

On the outside, Mick Angel is a happy young soldier with his whole life ahead of him. But on the inside, he's afraid of being killed in combat, just like the other riflemen in his squad.

 

Set during World War Two, in the European Theater of Operations, this novel tells the story of Sergeant Angel's combat crusade against the Nazi Wermacht. It begins in the North Africa desert, fighting General Rommel's Afrika Corps, and ends in a French cow pasture in July 1944.

 

Follow Sergeant Angel's adventures while training at Camp Swampy and deploying in North Africa, Ireland, and occupied France. Get to know the men who walked patrol with him. Meet the women he loved along the way.

 

If you are a fan of the best-selling Vietnam Ground Zero series by Eric Helm, then you'll love his World War II novel: Patton's Angel.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Middle Coast Publishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215048719

Book preview

AFRICA 1943

The smell of dust and grease wood hung heavy under the blazing desert sun, American soldiers searched the horizon through fear-strained eyes for the first cloud of dust that could betray a long, grey-green column of German Panzer tanks.

As the sun rose, young Sergeant Angell swore and sipped precious water. A quart canteen had to last twenty-four hours. That included drinking, bathing and cooking. A shave and a bath? Those were hollow words. If a man was wise, water was only taken in small sips, jealously guarded, perhaps shared with dying buddy.

All was quiet under the brassy-blue sky. On a rock near Angell, a sand-colored lizard stared into space, its scaly sides pulsing with each hot breath. From his spot in the rocks. Mick Angell heard a faint rustle among the dirty green bushes dotting the hillside. He strained his eyes and ears, wondering if it was a German. He eased his rifle towards the scrub brush and took careful aim.

He paused.

If he squeezed off a shot and no one was there, he would catch hell for wasting ammunition. But even worse would be the contemptuous stares from his buddies who were trying to catch a few moments sleep between the hot hell of the day and the bitter cold night. He took up the slack on the trigger. His  rifle barked.

A German soldier jumped up from behind the scrub brush only to flop down again, blood gushing from the .30 caliber bullet wound in his chest. Screaming and shooting, the rest of the German patrol charged, 98k Mauser rifles stuttering angrily as they closed for hand to hand combat. Angell swung his M1 Garand rifle like a club in a horizontal butt stroke against the side of an anguished German's face. Three paces away, a fellow G.I. and a Nazi wrestled in a desperate attempt to jab a bayonet into each others guts. In fear of shooting the wrong soldier, Angell danced helplessly around the thrashing pair until the German collapsed to the sand.

Angell fired.

The bullet burned into the soldier.

As quickly. as it had started, the skirmish ended and seven Germans lay dead. Even dead, the Afrika Corps troops looked cocky and clean. Their-damned feldgrau uniforms were so fresh and clean. Even dead they looked clean, mused Angell.

Keeping low, the American Ranger unit checked their wounded. Lung shot, Private Jones was coughing his life out in the desert sand.

Angell offered him a drink. In a bloody froth, the water oozed out from one of the bullet holes in Jones's neck. Angell stuck his finger in the hole and again raised the near-empty canteen to the dying soldier's lips. Damn it, said Angell. Can't waste water.

Miller, the aid-man, ignored Jones to help those who he coolly calculated would live. Miller glared at the blue-ringed bullet hole low on Hardenbrook's belly.

Will he make it? asked Angell.

"Don't worry, he'll live to kill again.'''

Miller hated killing. At first, the other men in the company thought he was a coward But the first battle a month before had changed their minds. Ignoring his own shrapnel-torn arm Miller had crossed the battleground under fire to patch up G.I. and German alike. Miller wasn't afraid He just wasn't a killer.

His packs were stuffed with bandages, medicine and water. Though he seldom took a sip himself, he carried four canteens, canteens probably taken from the dead.. Holding a canteen to a dying man's lips, Miller didn't care if the soldier was American or. German. That was Miller's way. Miller had been a second-year Medical student when the war came. He had enlisted to give first-aid. A Mennonite, killing was against his religion, a religion the other men had come to respect.

Angell listened to the soft, digging in the sand. The dead had to be buried otherwise in a few short hours their bloated stench would gag even the toughest. Corpses flopped into shallow graves with rifles stuck in the ground as markers.

Someone burying the Germans laughed a soft, mean, laugh. Super race, the voice chuckled.

Lieutenant White peered through binoculars at the endless desert view. The desert was empty, innocent and empty. They've retreated, remarked the blond-haired lieutenant. He was a replacement officer, an R.O.T.C. man new to combat.

Must have been a reconnaissance patrol, said Angell.

How many were there? asked the lieutenant.

Hell, I was too scared to count. Ask Miller.

How may would you guess there were? he asked again.

Forty or fifty.

Forty or fifty, sir, corrected the. lieutenant

Angell glared at the lieutenant. "All due respect, lieutenant, rank means little on the front lines. Sir is for those we respect. The rest can go to hell.

Red-faced, the lieutenant asked, Who was in command up here before I came?

Angell was, the men answered.

What kind of outfit is this? You tell me a man who can't be more than twenty was in command?

Nineteen, corrected Angell. I'm nineteen.

Miller looked pityingly at the new lieutenant. You want to live long enough to get out of this desert, I'd listen to that nineteen-year old-kid. He's killed more Germans than you've screwed sorority girls.

You have the Medal of Honor or something, kid? asked the lieutenant, sarcastically.

Angell grinned. There's no heroes up here. We're all scared, all of the time. At least those alive are, I expect the dead don't worry much.

In the Beginning

It began one cold and rainy November morning some months before at Camp Swampy. That was the day Sergeant Mick Angell reported to the General. He stood at rigid attention waiting for General George S. Patton to return a salute.

Patton sat behind his desk pouring over military maps with his aide standing by his side. Tall and stern, Patton's piercing eyes and beetling eyebrows made him appear as fierce as a Roman Legion Commander.

In those days a major was something you heard about but never saw. A Colonel was something you knew existed but you never saw, and General Patton was about the highest rank there was in the world. Angell was impressed by seeing a General, let alone talking to one.

Patton looked up. Who the hell are you?

Sergeant Angell, sir,

Goddammit, I can see your rank as plain as day, your buck Sergeant's stripes and your name tag is on your jacket. So tell me who the hell are you?

Angell's temper flared. I'm the best goddamn Sergeant in the United States Army! he said.

Patton grinned. So you're my best Sergeant?

Knees trembling, Angell nodded.

Patton turned to his aide, I think you're right, Ben. This is the guy we want. Sergeant Angell. Back when you served with those Limeys in Africa, did you do any fighting?

Before Pearl Harbor, Angell had been with Canada's Princess Pat Regiment, a commando unit. We were a hit and run outfit, said Angell.

You probably did more running than hitting, how much combat experience do you have?

Thirty-eight days.

That makes you a combat veteran. You'll do. I'm putting together a special unit, our own commandos. So far we've a hundred volunteers. I don't want a hundred, I want thirty. Your job is to eliminate the weakest. The thirty who survive will be the very best.

Angell smiled.

Training begins at once, Patton said, You and one officer will lead the men through parachute school, mountain training and desert survival. Then you'll take your platoon to Africa and fight Germans. That is if the fucking British can hold out long enough. Do you think they can?"

They're great soldiers led by a great General.

Patton snorted. Monty is an old woman. Too cautious. You win battles by taking. chances. Patton looked hard at Angell. Get the hell out of here and-start training those civilians: See if you can forge thirty Rangers.

The New CO

Angell's new C.O. (Commanding Officer) was Lieutenant Colby, a thin man who didn't look like a combat soldier, but  carried himself as if he owned the world.

Hell of a job they given us, Colby said. Where would you suggest we begin?

Angell folded his arms across his chest, almost at once he didn't like Colby. Since we've got to cut down the glory hunters, let’s start with a sixty-mile forced march.

There would be no rest stops in a forced march.

Colby smiled. That may eliminate you and me as well.

So be it, said Angell. He planned on eliminating the lieutenant anyway.

On the forced march, a two and a half-ton truck followed the troopers like a vulture, picking up men with blistered feet and lack of heart. The men who lasted weren't Sunday school boys. Constable was one example. Patton had been walking by the guardhouse when he saw a  moose of a man locked up inside.

What are you in for? Patton asked him.

"Because I'm a fightin' son of