As the sun chased the night sky across the horizon, waves lapped softly at the sandy shore of Umnak Island, on the extreme tip of the Kenai Peninsula of Alaska. The reddish orange surf gently rocked the bodies of the dead and dying men on the beach. Among them, only one stood.
Well, actually, he ran.
He and his team had fought back two moderately sized battallions of Japanese, German, Hungarian, Romanian, Italian, and Bulgarian soldiers, the true North American invasion force. Pearl Harbor had been a distraction. A ruse, designed to get as much media attention as possible, so that nobody would notice the smaller force of some of the hardest soldiers in the Axis armies sneaking from island to island along the Aelutian chain, planning on hitting major population centers with terroristic methods. They'd almost made it to the Alaskan coast when the French Resistance slipped the information to the Canadian Intelligence Directive. A rapid response team, comprised of the man and his comrades, was inserted on the East side of the island by means of what would eventually become S.H.I.E.L.D.'s H.A.W.K. harness. The High Altitude Wing Kite suits allowed them to glide toward the tiny island before opening their parachutes, keeping them off the enemy radar.
The team, comprised of members of almost every country involved in the war, including Axis powers, was specially trained and equipped to take on landing forces, and covert ops. They knew the fighting would wind up going close quarters, and they still dropped in with little fear. They knew that if they didn't stop the Axis force, the invaders would dissapear into the Alaskan wilds, filter down through Canada, and into the US. If that happened, the loss of life would be catastrophic, and ultimately, the war would have become a moot point. A new era of terror would begin. An era that the people of the world weren't ready for yet.
After hours and hours of battle, the man was the only one left. Rifles jammed with sand, soaked with sea water, or buried under piles of bodies, did him little good in that last fight. The small Hungarian man had put up one hell of a fight, and had done his share of damage, but the Canadian man finally managed to punch hard enough to knock him over onto an upturned bayonett. He'd scavenged a radio and called in for rescue.
Now, going from body to body, he searched frantically. Looking, looking, hunting...his enhanced senses did him little good, when everyone smelled of blood, sweat, sea water, sand, and death. His nose was working overtime, but it didn't help. Cries of the dying men on the beach drown out the voice he was looking for. The bright sunlight in his eyes did little to help illuminate the man he was looking for.
"Hayes!" he shouted, his voice raw and ragged from hours of calling the name. "Tommy Hayes! Answer me, soldier!"
The man he searched for was as close to him as any man he'd ever known. Closer than a friend, he was a brother, beyond any of the other men he counted as family, even though they were technically not even from the same country. They had gone through one war together already, and had entered into this one together. Now, among the thousands of bodies that lined the beach, the man searched for just one.
Over the whispering waves and the moaning, groaning, coughing, sobbing, crying, dying men, he heard the voice he was looking for.
"Sarge! Sarge! Over here!"
The man turned on his heel, scrambling across the sand as he changed directions, and dashed toward the voice. He found the man he was looking for under a rather large German soldier. He pulled the body off of Tommy Hayes, and knelt in the sand, grabbing the younger man's hand and cradling his head. He didn't even look at the short dagger piercing Tommy's side.
"Hey, there, kiddo. How ya feelin'?"
"Like a champ." Tommy said, grinning. "Didja see, Sarge? I got 'im. Killed that big Kraut but good."
"I suppose now you'll be wantin' a medal. Expectin' me ta tell everybody yer a big damn hero now." the man said, smiling back.
"Look, Sarge. I need you..." Tommy cut himself off with a grimace of pain. "I need you to get my letter....get it home."
"Shut yer yap, Thomas Allen Hayes. Yer gonna give Alice that letter yerself." he said. "Soon as we get back ta Chicago. Yer gonna walk through yer door, see yer little girl, kiss yer wife, and then ya get ta explain why ya brought home a hairy Canuck. I doubt she'll go fer the 'He owes me a beer.' excuse."
Tommy smiled, and his eyes fluttered.
"You do still owe me...for saving you in Berlin." he rasped.
"That I do. Now just hang on. Rescue is on the way. I already called it in. The calvary is on the way."
Tommy chuckled, and doubled over in pain. When it subsided, he lay a bit more relaxed against the older man's arms.
"Do I look stupid to you, Sarge?"
"No more than normal." the older man said, his voice hoarse.
"I know I ain't long for this world." Tommy said. "Please, Sarge. Logan. Please get it to Alice."
He reached up and fumbled for his breast pocket, but Logan pushed his hand away.
"I only take dead men's letters, and yer still suckin' air. No dice, kid."
Tommy smirked at Logan, and let his hand fall away.
"You'll get it to her." he said, shuddering. "Tell her...tell her I love her."
"Do yer own dirty work." Logan said, as Tommy sagged in his arms. "Kid, no. No! Wake up! You Kraut loving pansy! Wake up, goddammit!"
As Tommy's breath quieted, a new sound reached Logan's ears. The dull whup whup whup of a prototype aircraft's engine echoed across the beach as it came into view. Some deep part of Logan's brain recognized it as something the big brains in the CID were calling a helicopter. It's tube shaped fuselage hovered twenty feet above the ground as it cruised along, and it came in for an awkward and noisy landing on the sand.
Logan looked back at Tommy, and saw the glaze of lifelessness in the younger man's eyes. He gently lay the body down and stood as the medics rushed over to him.
"See ta the kid." he muttered, walking for the transport and the obvious commanding officer.
"General Arthur Landon. What's your name, soldier?" the stout man asked, his hair whipping in the wind.
It took a long moment for Logan to respond.
"Logan."
"What's your last name? Your rank? Division? How bad is it? How many casualties? Did we stop them?" the general put his hand on Logan's arm as he peppered him with questions.
"No last name. No rank. No division. Your security clearance ain't high enough to know any o' that." Logan growled, shrugging off the general's grip. "But, yeah. We stopped them. One hundred percent casualties. Both sides."
The general looked perplexed.
"What do you mean, son? You survived."
Logan gave him a solemn look.
"No, I didn't." he said, shoving past the taller man.
He clambered aboard the ship, and found an empty seat. In his hand was a folded letter, only slightly stained with sweat and blood.