Jackson slumped up against a tree, his lungs burning. His trembling fingers found his cross and he said,
"'Yea, though I should walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me…'"
Jackson kissed the cross.
"Private!!"
Both he and Reiben looked up at the same time to see Sergeant Horvath. They breathed sighs of relief.
"Am I glad to see your beautiful face, Sarge," Reiben told him.
"Oh, that's real sweet, Reiben," Horvath sneered, "I need you both to come with me."
Obediently, the two Rangers followed their sergeant along the line of trees. Reiben was clutching his forearm as they ran. Horvath took notice.
"I need Wade," said the private.
Horvath pursed his lips; he'd lost the medic in all the confusion. He looked back at Reiben's wound, noticing it was a large gash across his arm.
"Are you about to die from the pain, or can you live with it?" he asked.
"I'll be fine for right now."
Reiben glanced at Jackson, reading the expression on his face. Something had happened to Wade.
"Jackson, we need you up ahead, alright?" the private nodded. Sarge continued, "Miller was able to catch a glimpse of the Kraut that's been scouting out our position, but he and I both know you'll be able to spot him better than us."
Horvath looked back at them gravely, then.
"We're not safe here."
At his words, they heard the coughing of the mortars in the distance, and a neat row of craters were made inside the trees. There were still men caught in the field, screaming for medics and their commanding officers. The Screaming Meemies went off once again. Reiben swore as they ran.
They came up to a denser part of the wood, where a haggard Captain Miller crouched. Surrounding him were a gaggle of scared and wounded men. Miller had that familiar calm expression on his face, but his eyes told Jackson he was worried.
"We have to do something about that scout before we can get out of here," he said, "Jackson, you're up."
"Go get 'em, bible boy," Reiben told him, smirking. He hit him on the shoulder.
Jackson allowed himself a faint smile. He ran up to Miller, who grabbed him by the elbow and steered him away. More explosions sounded in the distance.
"Sir, have you seen the others?"
"…No Jackson, I haven't, but I'm sure they're fine."
His voice was stilted, as if he were very irritated. Jackson was surprised at how quickly the Captain moved. For an 'old man' he wasn't too slow…
"If I may say so, sir," panted Jackson, "This whole thing is 'Fubar.'"
"I'll agree with you on that, private," Miller said with a wry smile.
They moved quickly through the trees, finally reaching a clearing in the branches. A Lieutenant was already there, scoping out the area with Miller's field glasses.
"Out of the way, Jones. I've got the secret weapon right here."
Jones frowned, looking the gangly private up and down. The Springfield rifle looked like a toy in his hands.
"Who is this?"
"He's the guy that can get us out of this mess," the Captain returned, "But he can do no such thing if you don't move your ass!!"
The Lieutenant slid aside to let them look through the branches. Jackson lay prone, and Miller flanked him on the left. He held out a hand for the field glasses, and Jones dropped them in his palm. Jackson reached for the canister on his back, pulling out the special scope he'd hand-picked himself. He snapped it on the rifle, and peered through the crystal.
"Okay, look straight ahead, then pan slowly to the right," Miller instructed.
Jackson did so, pushing his helmet to the top of his head. The Meemies went off again, blowing away more men and finally caught one of mortars that had been set up. The field lit up in a brilliant orange flame. But the private ignored it, looking for his target; that was all that mattered right now.
"He should be over by the far off bushes, near a couple of trees."
They both watched as the tracer rounds from their machine guns tore through the dark sky, putting on an eerily beautiful show. Jackson was beginning to wonder how the Captain had managed to see the Kraut, mainly because it was hard to see in this light. Even he was having a hard time locating the German.
Miller watched the sharpshooter work his magic, knowing that Jackson would find the bastard.
"I see 'im, sir. He's a smart boy, I'll tell you what. He's all camouflaged. I wouldn't of found him if he hadn't made the wrong move."
"Have you got a shot?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take it."
Jackson lined up the shot, starting to take calm, slow breaths. But Jones interrupted, grabbing the lanky boy by the shoulder. Miller swore at the Lieutenant, shoving him away.
"He's gonna lose the idiot! What is it that's so damn important?!" Jones fumbled for words, but Miller didn't give him the time to come up with something, "Get out of here!!"
Jones looked bewildered for a moment, then finally caught the drift. He quickly went away and kept as many soldier from Miller and the kid as best he could.
The Captain could tell that Jackson was frustrated, but he recovered quickly. The private was trying to drown out all the sounds; the screaming, shouting, explosions…
"O Lord, grant me strength," he whispered, "Many a man is counting on me…"
He exhaled, relaxing his muscles. The helmet of the German soldier was right in the crosshairs. Gently, he pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed. The German fell in his sights before the distinctive, hallow sound echoed across the plains.
"Hell of a shot, son," Miller breathed, peering through the binoculars.
"He was S.S., sir," replied Jackson, "I could tell from the helmet-two black lightnin' bolts right on the side."
"You sure?" Miller's face was stern
Jackson nodded, bringing the Springfield closer to him. It was then the Captain felt the anger. Seeing his sniper's youthful face only reminded him of the lives being lost.
"This whole thing is fouled up! The damn B-17s were supposed to take care of all this!" he growled.
Jackson had never seen the Captain look so frantic. He could tell from the way he gritted his teeth and the tensing of his muscles. He noticed Miller's hand was shaking again.
"Sir, we have to get out of this forest," Jackson told him, and he seemed to snap out of it, "The Germs don't have a scout, but that doesn't mean it won't stop those things from launching."
The kid was right. Miller closed his eyes to gather his bearings. I can't send these kids up against the S.S. by themselves, he thought. It made him so angry that they were doing this. But they won't be going alone.
"Lieutenant!"
"Sir!"
"Get those soldiers over here, would ya'? I'm going to be taking a group through the field to take out the Meemies."
Jones gaped at him. It was the most insane idea he'd ever heard. But then again, that kid Jackson was a crack shot…
"Go!" Miller shouted, "What are you waiting for?!"
Jones ran off to gather the required men. Jackson was watching the end of the field, making sure no more Germans were running to get the scout. He didn't think they would….
Private Richard Reiben was spouting curses left and right. He was alongside fellow soldiers, helping to drag the wounded out of the field. He had managed to find Beasley, and the two of them were helping as best they could.
It wasn't until they took a weary pause in their task did Reiben realize that the Screaming Meemies had stopped. He laughed to himself, in disbelief over having lived through that. He had thought he'd heard Jackson's rifle cracking over head earlier.
His arm was still bleeding, and it stung, but he'd live. He still hadn't found Wade or the others. There had been a very frightening moment when he thought Mellish had gotten killed, but it turned out to be someone else.
The Rangers had suffered a savage beating. But Reiben realized this was only the eye of the storm.
"Private Reiben!" shouted the Sarge's voice, "Beasley!"
The two of them were on their feet, running to where they were needed. Relief washed over the B.A.R. gunner upon seeing Captain Miller, looking livid and ragged, but alive. Jackson was beside him, and a cluster of Rangers were waiting patiently around him.
"You okay, Beez?" Jackson asked.
The private nodded silently as Reiben said,
"He's fine, now."
Captain Miller spoke.
"Gentlemen, very soon you will all be crossing that field to get rid of those Meemies-"
"What happened to them 88s, Cap'n?" Reiben questioned him, the trace of a smile on his face.
"Well, I can guarantee they aren't here yet, Private, so we still have some time before they show up," Miller returned. He permitted them a quiet laugh at his dark humor, then continued. "A group from Charlie is going first. The group from Baker will come behind, but attack from the right flank. That means you will be going through the trees and around to the other side."
"With all due respect, Captain," the Lieutenant interjected, "We don't even know where the Jerries are. They could be miles out- you know how far those shells can reach."
"Can't be too far- those 88s were only supposed to be a mile out."
Lieutenant Jones did not look convinced, but he knew Miller was an experienced soldier. The Captain read the expression on his face.
"If we need to know where any of them are, I have Private Jackson right here to help. This kid is the best, Phil. He could snipe a fly off Hitler's head if he wanted to."
"…I'd rather be aiming at Hitler, sir," Jackson said.
The others laughed nervously around them. Lieutenant Jones appeared convinced. Miller addressed the Rangers once again. Now it was serious. No more joking around.
"Due to the fine planning by the Allied command, we still have our primary objective. Therefore, once we eliminate those Meemies, then we get the 88s. I'll lead my squad through first. Baker circles over to our right flank. I want covering fire if we need it, is that understood?"
A chorus of 'yes sir's sounded around him. Miller nodded. He assembled his men- Reiben, Jackson, Beasley, Horvath and Talbot. He knew he was still missing Wade, Mellish, and Caparzo, but they would have to do this without them.
Miller led the group quickly into the field, where they maneuvered around the craters as best he could. An odd feeling had gripped him-the knowledge that he was responsible for each young life around him, including his own.
"Captain, sir?"
Miller suppressed a gasp of disbelief. That Brooklyn kid just couldn't shut up for anything.
"What, Private Reiben?" he asked through his teeth as they jogged.
"…Is it too late to apply for a furlough, sir?"
The Captain peered over at Horvath, a motion he was so used to it was almost second-nature. The Sergeant's eyes said the same thing, the nerve of this guy, huh?
"I'll set up the papers myself, Reiben," Miller answered him, "At least then you'd be out of my hair."
"You're too kind, Cap'n."
They jogged through the field, tripping over rocks and their own comrades. A few medics had taken advantage of the break in the fighting, and were working as fast as they could to get the wounded up and running again. One of these particular medics had the same baby-face each member of Miller's squad remembered clearly.
"Wade!" Jackson hissed through the darkness.
A dark figure looked up, and what was left of the moonlight caught his face to reveal the medic they had needed. He looked happy at the sight of his comrades, but quickly hid it. He rose to his feet and addressed the Captain.
"Will you need me, sir?"
Miller took a moment, as if realizing for the first time what he was about to do. He nodded.
"Yes, a little extra help couldn't hurt."
Wade exchanged the news with his fellow aid men, then rejoined the squad, silently contented to have been reunited with them.
"Good to have you back, Doc," Beasley said as they continued.
"Don't suppose you could fix me up?" Reiben added, presenting his arm.
Wade treated him without any complaint.
Jackson could tell that the Captain was more at ease now that he'd found where the medic had been, but his eyes gave him away. They were weary of the task at hand. Miller and Horvath still took point, looking over to their right flank every now and then to make sure the Baker squad was following.
Jackson held the Springfield at the ready, his deep blue eyes set firmly on the horizon once again. He was a bit angry that the few tanks that had traveled with them did not fire on the German's position, but a man in the Baker squad had a radio that could contact the Shermans if necessary.
They still traveled onward, maybe a half-mile or more away from their position in the woods, when Miller and Sarge stopped them. They all crouched in the grass, rifles at the ready. Jackson heard the sputtering of the motors before anyone else did. At first he thought it was a halftrack, but as it came closer, he understood that it was smaller than that. The Sarge practically strained his arm as he waved at Beasley furiously to get down. Jackson snatched the private's arm and pulled him to a prone position. The others watched tensely as the vehicle came into view. It was a Kettenkrad- an armored German motorcycle. Jackson gulped; Beasley whimpered.
The vehicle roared past the squad and stopped a few feet away. Jackson watched as the Captain mouthed a foul curse word. His men peered at him for direction, but he only put a finger to his lips. They nodded as one, watching the Germans like hawks.
They were talking very quickly. To Jackson, it seemed as if they were bickering about something. Carefully, he inched his way up beside Beasley.
"What're they saying, Beez?" he whispered.
The private took a moment to listen, then turned back to him.
"They're confused on where we are. One guy says that the scout was killed by a sniper, and another says they sent a squad out this way."
Jackson knew that the former was correct.
"They're looking for us," Beasley squeaked in his ear.
Jackson watched as the two Germans in the back argued on with the driver. He peered through the scope on his rifle to get a good look at them. The distinctive symbol of the Waffen S.S. glared at him in the dim light- two black lightning bolts against a white background. Jackson swore under his breath.
He gently took a small pebble in his hand and tossed it so that it struck Miller on the leg. He whipped around to look at him. Jackson signaled an 'S' shape to him twice, and the Captain appeared to understand. He would have signaled something back, but the one of the Germans began sputtering loudly. He sounded agitated.
"He's really angry," Beasley explained under his breath, "He thinks the others are being stupid, because they want to head back and just use the 88s." Jackson felt a drop in his stomach, and his wide eyes met with Miller's. Beasley exclaimed, "Oh, no!"
"What?!"
"…L-look, Jackson-!"
He did so, frowning. His breath caught in his throat at that moment. One of the Germans had a rocket launcher on his back; an SMG was balanced across the knees of the driver.
"They're gonna blow us all up back there," Beasley hissed frantically as the Germans spoke in apathetic tones.
"Jackson, they'll be shooting any second!"
As he said this, the German on the back of the bike raised the barrels of his Panzershreck and took aim. Without even thinking, Jackson lifted the Springfield and fired. One soldier slumped over, falling over the side of the Kettenkrad. The second, having been startled, fired off the shell, but it soared over their heads. A burst of light trailed over them and a deafening boom sounded, tearing a tree on their right flank in half. The squad stood up, firing at the occupants of the vehicle. The B.A.R. was roaring. When the loud pings of the M1s sounded, signaling they were out of ammo, silence finally fell over the fields once again. The Germans were dead. Jackson was stuck in some kind of strange world, feeling as if he were in neither reality nor dream.
"Sound off if you're hit!"
"Hey…!"
Jackson recognized the voice. Beasley…Wade was on duty within a few seconds, in spite of the fact his helmet had fallen off and a clump of grass stuck to his hair.
"Anyone else?" came the Sarge's voice.
No answer. Jackson was expecting a snide remark from Reiben, but he said nothing.
"This is getting insane," the Captain snapped, "The S.S. isn't supposed to be here-just those dumbass 88s!"
Jackson pretended not to hear Miller's outburst, walking over to the Kettenkrad and its dead occupants. He was more interested in the armored bike itself then the people surrounding it. He reached out and grabbed one of the handle bars, inspecting the vehicle with a frown.
"Hey, Li'l Abner, don't go thinking that's yours," Reiben said. The sarcasm had returned to his voice, but he still wasn't back to normal yet.
Jackson ignored him, looking ahead at where the motorcycle had come. He was still frowning. By that time, Beasley had been all fixed up; he'd needed a shoulder bandage and a small head bandage, but he'd be alright.
"Dames love scars, Beez," said Reiben.
When Miller realized that the squad was alright, he prepared them to continue toward the German outpost. Two more squads had joined them, including Lieutenant Jones' men.
"Is everyone alright?" he asked sternly.
As if to save the Captain from any sort of scrutiny, the Sarge spoke up.
"We're just fine, sir; couple scratches, that's all. We took care of it."
Jones nodded in approval. He gathered up his soldiers and readied them to travel on. Miller was once again at the front. Jackson was still by the Kettenkrad, deep in thought.
"Let's go, Jackson," Miller told him.
Almost hesitantly, the private complied. The Rangers walked through the long grass, heading for that distant 88 station. Jackson made sure he was distanced from the others. A strange emotion reached him. He shuddered.
Reiben was a few feet away, and Talbot was ahead of them, the satchels of Composition B dangling from his shoulders. Jackson was beginning to sense that something was wrong. It felt as if a fist had grabbed his stomach and was not about to let go…
"Cap'n?" he asked.
He barely got the word out before it happened. An explosion ripped the field apart, a large flame flashing above them, followed by a plume of greasy smoke. Jackson threw himself to the ground. The others panicked as Sergeant Horvath and Jones began to scream for them. More explosions cracked through the air. Jackson turned away, the scarlet-orange light illuminating his face. Talbot was laying one or two feet away from where he'd stepped on the mine. It didn't look like he would be getting up.
