Not too far a walk from the coastal road of northern France lies a small collection of towns, cities, rural settings, and farms, all woven intricately by a netting of roads and paths. The coastal breeze rocks the trees in a calming manner, whilst the bushes and hedgerows sway comfortingly amongst the greenery. Just to the left hand side of a nearby dirt road laid the farming town of "St Fredrique du Clamont" the town was known for harvesting some of the finest and best quality barley in that entire region of France. There wasn't many houses or buildings in the village; save for the farm house and several stranded cottages. The stacks of barley stood as separate entities guarding the village from intruders. Even as the sun crept back over the horizon, and the murmur of indistinct voices became more apparent, all was calm in the village. All save for five minutes later.

The machinegun had flared into life and spat bullets with uncompromising force. Panic and commotion had torn the section into pieces. Only two remained, yet they were unaware. The din of the machinegun from the stately farmhouse had drowned any chance of communication. Staff sergeant Jim McIntyre was curled up in a distorted bundle behind the shrinking brick wall, just opposite the farmhouse. Private Edward Williams lay behind one of the guardian stacks of barley; McIntyre had pushed him out of the way of the passing machinegun fire as soon as it started. He looked on to his commanding officer to see bullets dithering all around him, tearing up chunks of earth, brick, and mortar.

Without pause, Williams detached a grenade from his bandolier and threw it at the direction of the farmhouse. It detonated with a roar of dirt and dust. In this moment of confusion, he signalled McIntyre to run around the house. He acknowledged and darted around the side of the house. No sooner had he gotten around the corner did the machineguns splutter back into life in a wild hail of panic fire. The bullets whizzed and span past Williams, he clumsily wriggled his way down the road to a muddy embankment and hid in the ditch till the situation unravelled.

McIntyre cautiously creaked the door open and slinked inside. The corridor of the farmhouse was a surprisingly well-built, sturdy wall, painted a calming blue, with paintings of the surrounding countryside adorning the walls. On the second floor he could hear the Germans blaring their machinegun at the wall outside. They thought he was still behind the brick wall. From the lower floor window he saw the spent machinegun casings fall like molten rain onto the grass below. He looked back up to hear the machinegun click dry. He feverishly scrambled to the stairs and pressed his back to the wall. He slid up the staircase to what appeared to be the bedroom where the Germans were. Each breath he drew became more laboured and quivering the nearer he got to the door, their voices getting louder and clearer. He wished he didn't understand German, but it all came so clear.

"Hans, suppress them, I'm going to reload the MG42."

"Shit, shit, shit, the gun's jammed. Shit, we're gonna die!"

"Hans, calm the fuck down, just throw this."

It was then McIntyre took his chance, pulled the safety latch from his Sten and threw the door open, both Germans looked in despair at McIntyre, one of which was holding firmly to his grenade. McIntyre pulled the trigger and pumped several rounds into each soldier, blood popping and spraying from every bullet mark. Suddenly dropping to the floor, crippled in a growing pool of their essence. He slung his sub machinegun and went to the window, Williams peeked from his ditch to see McIntyre wave to him, "Area clear, meet me at the back door of the farmhouse" Williams saluted and began to amble his way to the farmhouse.

McIntyre pulled off his helmet and trudged out the room, his foot catching one of the dead soldiers. He looked at who he presumed to be Hans; his face strewn with fear, pain, and horror, all swirled together in calming agony. McIntyre sat at the top of the stairs and crumbled.

Today was D Day plus two, word had spread that several towns and villages needed to be cleared for the safe passage of an American squad on a high priority mission. Out of the two sections sent to heed this call, only two men had survived. All they had left was an empty village bursting at the seams with corpses. If they were going to complete their mission, and that of the Americans, they would have to put in everything they had, and that of everyone around them. Sleep was not an option.