We've come across the ruined town of Ramelle in Normandy, France at around 4:12 pm. The sun is beginning to set, casting a calming golden yellow glow over the destroyed buildings and piles of rubbish in the road and it soothes the squad for a moment and we share stories about life before the war while an Edith Piaf record plays.
I don't have anything interesting to share; before the war I was a reporter for a dead end newspaper where I wrote stories about over priced lawn ornaments and the occasional editorial that nobody ever read. The other five men sitting on the crumbling stone stairs in front of a demolished brick building tell me things about their excursions before Basic, and we laugh like we haven't been cheating death all day.
I feel as if they've become accustomed to me, finally, following them around, asking them questions, brushing my hair, and my ignorance as far as firing a rifle goes. I've become freer around them now, after seven long days; they've taught me how to use my weapon, and I even laugh at their crude jokes now. I smoke with them when they offer an occasional cigarette, and we sit around and talk about life. I feel as if I am one of them, not a measly embedded reporter who's never seen combat in her entire life, and who's never been out of high heels for so long before. But, when this is all over, I won't deny that I'll be glad to wear a dress again.
The ground shakes and rumbles under our boots, and we know the Panzers are on their way. The German tanks are slow and heavy, and we recognize that they're far away. But still, they're there, and we're frightened.
The men get into their assigned positions, and I get shuffled around like a folded, abused playing card. My tiny notebook and stubby pencil get hastily shoved in my pocket and my rifle is swung around my shoulder as we listen for the distinctive whine of the Tigers over the gravel.
"If there's any good time to remember what we taught you, it's right now," Private Reiben tells me, pointing to the rifle that I clutch in my scared hands. The Private is tall and dark haired, with kind brown eyes and a warm heart hidden by the cold steel of war. His accent is thick, from Brooklyn, and it makes me laugh when he talks to me, answering my stream of reporter questions.
There's nothing left to do now but wait long, agonizing minutes until the impending doom arrives around the corner, and then the air is filled with bullets and smoke and shouts for ammo or help or morphine. That's the way it goes, the same vicious cycle over and over, and I'm caught in the middle of it like a scared rabbit, running to and fro without a clue of where I should be. I'm only aware of the interview with the squad scribbled in the tiny notebook in my pocket and the whiz of bullets past my face as I try to stay alive long enough to get my story printed.