[Type the company name]
Thundercat
Norman's return to the front lines
Jack
[Pick the date]
Having been recently discharged from an Army hospital in France, Norman is back on the front lines, in command of an m26 that bears the name "Thundercat". His rag-tag crew struggles to keep their lives and sanity during the final push toward Berlin.
"All tanks, all tanks. Stop near barn." Norman said into the radio. He rests his arms on the sides of his hatch, just like Don would use to. "Watch the treeline for activity." He tapped his thumb on his binoculars. Alongside him, in a Sherman, rode the Hellbound, commanded by his best friend, Lt. Pete Howell. His quiet thoughts were interrupted by the shriek of incoming artillery. "Rain! Button up!" He slammed the hatch down, hearing shrapnel whistle by. He tuned his periscope onto the barn. Suddenly, smoke blocked his view. "Where the fuck is that smoke coming from?" Hearing the brief artillery seize, he popped open the hatch, only to see his partner tank far behind, a burning heap of twisted metal. "That was from a field gun. Throw some Willy Pete into that barn!" The gunner drew a bead on the barn. "Clear!" yelled the loader, and the tank shook, the round screamed on its way into the barn. Instantly, the structure was engulfed in a maelstrom of flame. "Target destroyed." Said the gunner quietly, watching the burning German soldiers run and yell in pain.
Norman's reluctance to kill had since faded from that decisive night at the crossroads. As he lead the column of armor toward a small village on the outskirts of Berlin, his mind drifted to the memories that lay behind him. Emma, Don, Bible… they all seemed to haunt him with a sense of supervision. The village, now within sight, brought back painful memories of the day with Emma.
Emma. Oh, how her beautiful, curled hair fell just past her shoulders. Her cute, round cheeks. Her innocent, caring eyes. He was back in the apartment, holding her in his arms, whispering in her ear. She was cooking at the stove, and their small children waddled past. They laughed and kissed, dancing around the little floor space their modest flat had. That night, he fell asleep next to her…
…he woke up in a gully of mud to the sound of screaming and the smell of human flesh burning. He pulled his head up, barely finding the strength to get to his feet. Disoriented, he reached for his .45. Somewhere far away, a voice was yelling his name. The voice was feet from his face. "Norman! Norman!" He continued to stare off into the distance. A drop of blood rolled down his soft skinned forehead. The voice threw him to the ground, and Norman continued to stare blankly, as the tracers zipped by.
Suddenly, like a wave smacking a beach, Norman snapped to. He found himself systematically picking off Krauts one-by-one with his .45. He ran back to the closest tank, only to find the inside a smoldering, smoking hell. The two mug-sized holes along the turret's side told him all he needed to know. His platoon was now two tanks short.