Disclaimer: The Medal of Honor series belongs to EA Games, and will never be my exclusive possession.

Rating: T, for excessive violence and gore.

AN: Finally the long awaited revision of Sarge. You've waited patiently for this, and I hope it'll be just as popular. Even with far less chapters Sarge still beats my other stories with hits and reviews. I hope this one gets the same attention. It'll focus more on the action and hopefully an equal amount on the story. It's hard writing about First Person Shooters, since anyone who plays such games will notice the enemy is almost always far more easier to kill than you and far more brainless too. Not here though, I want this to be realistic. My character will not be a god and can be hurt. And as far as I can help it, he will be hurt… mwahahahaha! And don't be surprised if this story at some point stops following history and starts its own route. This is supposed to be fiction, not another history story.

Medal of Honor: Jump into Chaos
By WeirdDutchGuy

Chapter One: Sarge

I watched him die…

I watched him die, and did nothing to help…

He just lay there, in a puddle of his own blood, mixed with that of countless others. His heart was still pumping, it had to have, because the blood just kept on coming.

I slipped into a sort of trance, along with so many others that day. The sound of the machinegun fire slowly faded away, the world became nothing but a blur. I didn't feel guilt. How could I have helped him? By running over? By getting myself shot? By dying? No! No more death, I would live! And I thought training had been hell… Training hadn't even been close to resembling this hell. How could anything possible resemble this? Sarge had always told us to keep our shit together, but now, Sarge was gone, and so was our hope. Our hope lay there in its own blood and had just given its last breath. It had been with us since our first training until just now. Our hope was Sarge, and now he was dead. But I would live…

As I slid down the slippery net into our very own metal coffin, also known as Higgins boat, I had a nagging feeling in the back of my head saying this was going to be anything but a practice landing. The practice landings had been hard at points, and people had been killed during them. People killed during practice, imagine that. Yes, live rounds were fired, but they weren't supposed to be fired in our direction. Today was different, because today was the real thing. Today was June the 6th, 1944. D-day. It would've been yesterday if it hadn't been for that storm on the Channel. They'd be firing live rounds again today, but this time deliberately aiming in our direction. Why couldn't Hitler have stayed in Germany? We wouldn't have had to clean up his mess if he had. I let myself drop the last few feet, carefully timing my drop with the rise of the sea. I had seen what happened to another soldier who timed poorly. He broke both his legs when he dropped several meters onto the hard steel floor of the landing craft. After landing on the boat my gear was tossed down and nearly fell into the ocean. Sarge grabbed it just before it fell over.

"Here you go son, try hanging onto it next time. You'll need this." I nodded as I grabbed the bag and slung it over my shoulder. Grabbing my M1 I made my way to the front of the boat, if it could be called such, and sat down next to my friend Tucker. He grunted to acknowledge my presence, and then returned to whatever it was he was thinking about. Glancing around I noticed several soldiers hanging over the edge of the boat and I was glad about taking that whole bottle of anti seasickness pills earlier. Sarge wasn't affected one bit; he was never affected by anything. There were times we wondered if even bullets could take him down. As the last of our group climbed onboard the boat started moving towards a growing group of other landing craft.

It was now 5:30 am and the first wave of storm troopers, namely us, was on its way to the beaches. The official landing time was 6:30 am; it would take us one long excruciating hour to get there. Contrary to what normally happened during a drill, everybody kept his mouth shut. The only sounds were the clashing of the waves against the square front, and the monotone rumbling of the boat's engine. We were heading for the beach codenamed Omaha, a crescent shaped stretch of beach between the French towns of Vierville and Colleville.
5:50 am…

We'd been slowly making our way to the beach for twenty minutes, when suddenly all the warships opened up on the coast. Dozens of battleships, cruisers and destroyers rained heavy caliber shells down on the hopefully unsuspecting Germans. As this rain of steel soared over our heads we cheered. With all that firepower, surely there would be little left of Hitler's Atlantic Wall. Not enough to stop us certainly. Now a new sound mixed with that of the firing fleet. Thousands of planes flew at every altitude, wingtip to wingtip, taking no notice of the rain of steel flying below them. First the fighters, followed by huge formations of bombers and heavy bombers. These and the naval bombardment would create lots of craters for us to hide in when we reached the beach. I myself, and all my companions, were thinking the same thing. We'd hate to be the Germans right now.

6:15 am…

We were now less than a mile from the beach. Over our heads the naval and aerial bombardment continued. The explosions coming from the shore were now clearly distinguishable above the loud roar of the diesel engines. Surprisingly, the guns of the Atlantic Wall remained silent. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad. As the wide square sterns of the assault ships continued to slam into the waves, we wondered why the guns weren't firing yet. We were sure we're right in their sights now. It made no sense, but we didn't mind. At least they weren't shooting us yet. Let them wait.

6:20 am…

It was time for the amphibious tanks, built for this sole day, to be let in the water and make their own way to shore. One of the transports let its ramp down on a sea mine, blowing off the entire front and hurling a tank over 30 meters high. The other tanks were put in the water without incident. As they started making their way to the beach, a catastrophe struck. Because of the pounding of the waves, the canvas which held them afloat tore and the 27 tanks headed for our part of the beach sunk to the bottom of the Channel. Seeing this, the other transports destined for other parts of the beach wisely decided to keep their tanks on board and drop them off on the beach. But our tanks had been lost.

6:30 am, H-Hour…

We were now close enough to see the obstacles on the beach. The deadly maze of steel and concrete was just on the water's edge. They were everywhere, connected by barbed wire and most had mines attached. They were every bit as vicious and cruel as we'd expected. Behind this defense lay the beach, totally deserted with no movement at all. We came ever closer, now only 500 meters from the shore… 450 meters… still no enemy fire. The bombardment shifted to targets further inland as the boats continued to make their way to the shore. As the first boats came 400 meters from the beach, the German artillery, with guns nobody had thought could've possibly survived, opened up. Large columns of water sprayed up where heavy shells landed in the water. All over the six kilometer stretch of beach fire was now raining down on our landing crafts. As I looked ahead, I could only wonder what would happen if those ramps went down, the sound of ricocheting machinegun bullets clearly coming from our ramp reaching my ears. Everybody was looking at the ramp, when the boat next to us disappeared in a big explosion, throwing debris and body parts everywhere. The captain of our LCA steered towards the survivors, but a lieutenant told him to keep going for the beach; this ship was not a rescue vessel. Though he snapped it harshly we all saw he was having trouble turning his back on the now drowning survivors. I peered over the ramp, trying to make out the easiest way to the shingle. It all looked the same though. It all looked equally impossible now.

"Keep your heads down! Stay behind the ramp and don't peek over the edge if you want to keep that melon of yours!" Sarge yelled while he pulled me and Tucker down. "30 seconds!" the captain yelled. "Right, listen up! Use the craters and obstacles for cover! Don't bunch up! Get off the beach as soon as possible!" Sarge continued yelling advice while the seconds ticked away. The sound of bullets smashing into our ramp became louder and more frequent, as did the water columns rising from the sea. Our boat now stopped moving and the ramp slammed down onto the water. We let out a loud battle cry as we jumped into the water, not that the Germans could hear it, but it boosted our confidence. All over the beach ramps went down and men jumped into the water to slowly make their way to solid ground. I jumped next to an obstacle and went to take cover behind it. I suddenly saw the mine attached to part facing the sea and decided I'd find myself another obstacle.

Bullets whizzed by as I rushed from one obstacle to another, slowly getting closer to the sandy beach. Cries of pain entered my ears, mixing with the constant explosions and gunfire. I wouldn't have been surprised if I went deaf right there, but I didn't. I saw Tucker and somehow managed to reach him just as we got to the actual beach.

"Bill! Wait up!" His real name was William Tucker, but we called him Bill on his own request. He turned behind 'his' obstacle and grinned at me. "You can't possibly be enjoying this!" I exclaimed wide-eyed. He nodded, keeping his grin. "This is what I signed up for mate! Action!" As he said that we heard the whistle of an incoming mortar. Even though he seemed inhuman, enjoying this, he covered like a normal human being as the large explosion ripped up a part of beach almost right next to us. "We need to keep going, Sarge said he was going to wait for us at the shingle!" With that he stood up and ran for another hedgehog. I jumped up to run after him, but a machine-gunner on the ridge seemed to disagree with that idea as he started spraying rounds at me. I let myself drop again, waiting for him to let up. When he did I made a dash for the shingle, but I had lost track of Tucker.

As I fell back first behind the cover of the shingle, in between some other soldiers, I noticed the carnage on the beach. Hundreds of bodies littered the shoreline, while destroyed LCAs and a lone tank that hadn't sunk were burning ferociously. I looked around, noticing several of the troops with me didn't even have their gear or guns with them. Almost half of them were wounded in one way or another. A group of men were now making the dash for the safety our cover provided, but the German gunners opened fire the second they stood up. Most of them just dropped down dead, but one of them was literally cut in half. His legs were still standing, supported by the obstacle he was covering behind moments earlier, his upper half dropped to the sand while he had an empty look on his face. Not even the flying body parts had affected me like this, as I had to turn around to prevent puking on the spot.

My eyes then fell on the most disturbing sight, at least for me. Lying there, on the beach, hands grasping his stomach while staring up to the sky, was Sarge. He was clearly on his last few breaths. He just lay there, in a puddle of his own blood, mixed with that of countless others. His heart was still pumping; it had to have, because the blood just kept on coming. I watched him die. I looked on and did nothing to help. I slipped into a sort of trance, along with so many others today. The sound of the machinegun fire slowly faded away, the world became nothing but a blur. I didn't feel guilt. How could I have helped him? By running over? By getting myself shot? By dying? And I thought training had been hell…

Training hadn't even been close to resembling this hell. How could anything possible resemble this? Sarge had always told us to keep our shit together, but now, Sarge was gone, and so was our hope. Our hope lay there in its own blood and had just given its last breath. It had been with us since our first training until just now. Our hope was Sarge, and now he was dead.

I had volunteered for the army after turning 18. Tucker and I had just met each other in the recruitment office when Sarge came in to recruit for his outfit. After brief introductions we were shipped off to boot camp. Forced to march all day, crawl a good portion and push-up about half. We then learned how to work all weapons. Through all the torment, our Sergeant had been there. He'd been there, a strict drill sergeant perhaps, but he had been our support as well. After that, we were shipped to England in a converted ocean liner. We then got to sit on our bum for a full year, with the occasional practice landing. During the final practice run, the most realistic one, several people got killed. Those had been a handful, now there would be hundreds.

Suddenly I was being prodded. I looked around, seeing nothing but vague silhouettes. I was being yelled at. "…. Com- n! Sn-… of it! Hey! Snap out of it!" It was Tucker, as I could now see. I could see the carnage all around me, and I could smell death in the air. But it wouldn't be getting me, I hadn't come this far to die now.

"Good to see you're still with me mate. Listen, this crazy Colonel says he can blow the blockade over at the beach exit. He said to gather everyone that can walk." Tucker said as he looked me over. "You're fine, and you even got your weapon. Good, come on, I don't want to miss the action!" With that he ran off to a growing group of soldiers. Well, everything was better than staying on this beach, so I followed him. Shortly after, several loud explosions were heard, followed by a battle cry and hundreds of soldiers trying to squeeze through. Yes, I would be alright, I would live…

To Be Continued…

AN: I hope you really enjoyed that. It took me a while to write it. Not the longest I've ever written, but still… I'm not sure what way to go though. It may or may not follow history, I have yet to decide what one. Anyway, please grant me the small reward I crave for and press that "Go!" button next to "Submit Review", will you? Constructive criticism is appreciated, and flames will be used to light my barbeque. Compliments will be framed and hung over my bed, so that I'll be inspired to write on, thank you.

WeirdDutchGuy