A/N: Seems appropriate that on V-J Day I'd post a new chapter. And it falls on a Monday too! How about that? Anyway, after Carentan, in the original story, I cut out Renton's recuperation from his wound and went straight onward to the marching towards Caen. But of course, given how he was wounded, it seemed too sudden. He was hit by a tank shell after all. So I came up with the idea of the field hospital, where Renton and the other injured are treated by Eureka, Anemone, and the other nurses. It's sort of the last breather before the big battles start coming. There are plenty of them to go around, as I said, so it may be better to intersperse it with small breather moments like this. They're going to need it for what they're heading into.

Also, to the anon who so graciously posts reviews, I've included a little bit of exchange between Renton and the American paratroopers. Hope you like it. Anyway, enjoy.

Chapter Ten
June 14th, 1944
A field hospital near Carentan, France

After the 2nd Armored Division saved the skins of both the 101st Airborne and the French Resistance, the American landing beaches were finally united into a single, continuous front. At the end of the battle, the Allies had secured a firm beachhead 60 miles wide, and more than 15 miles deep. However, the victory at Carentan did not come without a price; out of more than 75 Resistance fighters engaged, at least 15 were dead, with 35 wounded. The first casualties in the campaign that would turn the tide. For Renton, it was a deadly portent of what was to come. Despite the egregious losses, the Resistance had to move forward and continue the fight. Caen was still in German hands in the east, while the Americans were turning their attention to Cherbourg in the northwest.

Almost immediately after the tanks had arrived, the wounded were rushed to a field hospital close to the town. The staff was limited, as most combat medics were still at the front, but the tide of battle shifted quickly. Because so many had been struck by enemy fire, the wounded had be triaged in order of severity of injury. For their part, Eureka, Anemone and Sakuya were up to their eyeballs in work tending to injuries and helping the chief doctors with patients.

Renton had been triaged with higher priority, including his own cot, considering he had been badly injured from the Panzer's shell. Eureka entered into the hospital and made straight for Renton's bed with a roll of bandages in one hand, and a bucket of cold water and a dampened cloth in the other. The Russian girl's lover was in the middle of putting on a new white shirt, his arm wrapped in white gauze and a tourniquet, a spot of red illuminating the cut. At that moment, Eureka had the opportunity fully examine and admire Renton's upper body.

Just two years ago, Renton Thurston had no definition in his body to speak of, and was rather thin and gangly for his age. Now reaching adulthood, he had a body any woman would gush over. His shoulders had broadened, and she could see the faint evidence of muscles on his arms. His abdomen was more toned from months of running and toting a rifle. The mane of oak brown hair had grown longer, reaching the nape of his neck.

Eureka couldn't help but admire at how much her beau had developed. He was no longer the shy and somewhat awkward young boy she met that summer in Stalingrad, but was transforming into a man. Suddenly, the Russian girl felt something…strange. Her heart throbbed slightly and heat rushed through Eureka's cheeks. No one but Renton had evoked such a feeling in her, albeit unwittingly. Was it womanhood creeping in at last, or a longing for his whole being?

As soon as the eighteen year old pulled the shirt down his stomach, he turned his head, glancing at his nurse and soul mate.

"Oh, I'm sorry," an embarrassed Eureka said, "I didn't mean to stare."
"It's quite alright," Renton assured her, "I was just having trouble with this shirt. The only sizes they had were small and medium."

Eureka placed the bucket down on the floor and wrung out excess water from the dampened cloth. After removing the old bandage from his right temple, Eureka gently dabbed the wound with the cloth As soon as he felt the cold, wet cloth, Renton winced. The wound was still fresh, and it would take time to fully heal. Eureka proceeded to wrap a new bandage around Renton's head, while asking on the state of his convalescence.

"How are you feeling?"
"Well, I'm not dead, yet, that's for sure," Renton replied, "But, I have to admit, this injury hurts like hell."
"I know. You should get some rest, Rentoshka. You've earned it. Besides, the doctor said you should be able to recover in a few days."
"That's some good news, at least. How are Charles and Ray doing?"
"They're already taken care of, Renton. Don't worry about them. They've been at this for a long time, after all. It'll take more than this to take them down."

Renton smiled, buoyed by her optimism.

"You're right. Forgive me if I sound like a worrywart, Eurekasha."
"Not at all..."

Eureka clutched Renton's hand, tightly. She leaned in gently. Despite her official role as a medic, the demands and circumstances of the battle had committed her to stay with him. For the few fleeting moments when they fought together, there was a great apprehension. A fear they would never reach home again.

"I'm just glad you're still alive after all of this."

Renton squeezed Eureka's hand affectionately as he leaned his head against hers.

"So am I, darling."

For a moment, the two lovers were simply lost in each other's eyes. Sans the clatter of medical equipment, the chatter of doctors and patients, Eureka felt content. She could easily just stay there with him, for the rest of her life. That is, until a familiar voice snapped her back from her daydreams.

"Eureka, where are you?!" called out the impatient Anemone. "We could use your help, here!"
"Oh!"

Eureka blushed heavily and jumped away from Renton's cot.

"I better get back to work. So many are injured."
"I'll be alright here, Eureka. I'm not going anywhere."
"Good. I wouldn't recommend you to, anyway. Get some rest, alright?"
"Of course. Thank you, Eureka."
Renton and Eureka exchanged a brief kiss before she left his side. She still had to help other injured soldiers, after all. Not ten minutes after leaving him, Eureka ran into her brother, Holland.

Miraculously, Holland had survived the battle without a scratch. His former life as a partisan in Stalingrad had kept him alive, but also out of sight from her and most others in the Resistance. He had a few marks of battle on his person, from small precise tears in his black leather jacket to smudges of grime on his face. His grey hair had an errant twig stuck in his head. Eureka, smiling amusedly, plucked it out.

"You really ought to groom yourself better, brother."

"Prostitye," Holland said, somewhat embarrassed, "sometimes after battle you forget to tend to yourself. So, how's our hero?" (A/N: Sorry)

"You mean Rentoshka? He's doing better, certainly more so than when I first brought him here."

"That's good to hear. I was a little worried we had lost him for a moment."

"He's stronger than that, Holland. You should know that."

"I should hope so," Holland laughed, his gold teeth flashing in the rays of the sun. "Else he'd still be struggling to say 'I love you!'"

"Even if that were the case, I'd get it out of him. One way…"

She straightened her beret and rolled up both her sleeves. Her forearms had a slight definition to them.

"…or another."

Holland chuckled as he hugged his sister.

"Is he lucid enough for me to talk to him?"

"Of course. Go down to the end, and you'll find him in the last bed on the right."

"Spasibo."

Eureka bade him goodbye and quickly rushed off to aid Anemone, while Holland made his way to the end of the field hospital. Lying quietly on white sheets was his lifelong friend, and brother in all but name. Renton had white bandages wrapped around his forehead and his left arm, which failed to hide the touch of red, evidence of the immense pain he had endured. Holland almost felt ashamed, when he had been lucky to never be shot once in this battle. Granted, Chertov had shot him in the shoulder, long after the battle in Stalingrad was over, but it was in different circumstances. Still, he had to put on a smile, and give Renton any bit of strength he could to pull himself up and continue on.

Holland pulled up a chair and sat next to his friend, grinning wide.

"Good to see you're still with us, my friend. I guess not even a tank shell can stop the Hero of Stalingrad!"

Renton sighed, and smiled wistfully.

"Even you are on the 'hero' bandwagon now?" he asked tiredly.

"I have to be. It wouldn't look good for your lieutenants not to praise you, nye pravda li?" (A/N: Isn't it/isn't that right?)

"Da, znayu, znayu," Renton said with a slight groan. (A/N: Yes, I know, I know.)

The American looked to his Russian friend and saw hardly evidence he had been hit at all. During the battle, Holland held a section of the line closer to the militia on the right flank, so he had relatively fewer troubles compared to the shattered and hard-pressed left. All he could see was dirt smearing his face, a few small rips in his jacket and grimy hands. Obviously, the training he had received as a partisan in Stalingrad paid dividends, as he survived this first battle completely unscathed.

"How is it I get hit with shrapnel, and you barely get a scratch?" Renton joked. "That doesn't seem too fair, does it?"

Holland shrugged unaffectedly.

"Knowing when to duck helps a lot. I guess the bullets don't like me as much as they like you."

"Well, I guess as long as I'm not dead, I shouldn't complain."

"Konyeshna, moi drug." (A/N: Of course, my friend.)

Renton turned his head, not minding the slight twinge of pain from his wound, to face Holland. Out of all of his "lieutenants," he trusted him the most. He had the most experience, had seen the most combat, and was the most accustomed to living the life of a partisan. While Renton had seen action in Stalingrad, this was far different. He wasn't fighting in the streets, but in open country. He wasn't evading the Germans, but rather openly engaging them. Whereas the Soviets had been on the defensive in Stalingrad, the Allies (and by extension, the Resistance) were on the offensive here. For them to survive, for him to survive, he would need the advice of a veteran.

"So how did I do?"

"Shto-shto?"

"In battle. That must have been the first time you and I fought together. So how was I?"

"As a soldier, or as a commander?"

"Both."

Holland rubbed his chin for a moment, which Renton noticed had a bit of stubble. Creeping manhood did not even escape his closest friend.

"You kept your cool under fire," Holland remarked, looking out on all the wounded. "When I was in Stalingrad, most new kids wouldn't last five minutes in a battle like that. You never broke and ran. Always you kept firing, and never deserted your post. You inspired a lot of confidence for a commander in his first battle. I'd say for your first command and your first engagement, you fought hard."

Holland's gold teeth cast a beam of light upon him as he smiled. A smile of God, bestowing His blessing.

"Very well done."

Renton sighed heavily in relief as he rested his head and gazed upward towards the olive canvas that was their ceiling. He did have what it takes, as Jacques had so adamantly said. He could survive a battle. But this time, the task before him was more daunting. He wouldn't be staying on the frontlines for a few days as he did in Stalingrad. Instead, this was a campaign that could take weeks, possibly months to conclude. The invasion had only just begun. Far more bloodshed and potential losses awaited him.

"You know this is just the start of it all, right?" Renton asked forebodingly.

"Now is not a time to get cold feet," Holland reminded him gently. "We're all here on your account, Rentoshka. If you get squeamish, this whole Resistance could fall apart. They're depending on you."

Holland leaned in close to him, his sky blue eyes casting a spark to light a fire of determination in his belly.

"I'm depending on you."

A shiver ran down Renton's spine as he knew exactly what was at stake. As underserved as he thought he was for command, the fact remained he was the commander. Everyone depended on him being steadfast and committed to his responsibility. To walk away now when it had only just begun, when there was still much left to do and more battles to fight would be beyond cowardly. It would spark questions both here and back home. What had he come all this way for, after all, if not to help his friends? Jacques told him what he needed from him, and he had to provide that.

"Then we have to see this to the end," he marked with a sense of portent. "No matter the cost."

"That's the reality of command, I'm afraid," Holland replied, nodding. "But know this, Renton: if you ever feel shaky or need a word of advice, you can always call on me."

Renton smiled, encouraged by the knowledge that he had a dependable friend in Holland. Just as he always had been to him.

"You've stuck with me this far. That's more than enough."

The Russian teen readjusted his scarf as he nodded. Off in the distance he saw his sister tending to another wounded soldier. Despite her effectiveness as a medic and nurse, Holland couldn't help but sense some trepidation for the job in her. When they first joined the Resistance, Sakuya Kobayashi, the Japanese girl, had taught her how to fire a rifle. Even in the heat of battle, there seemed an inkling of a desire to dive in, like a child being tempted with adventure.

"I heard that sister stayed with you until the tanks arrived."

"That's right," Renton acknowledged. "She did."

"On your orders?"

The boy breathed and weighed the options of telling him the truth. Eureka was still Holland's little sister, after all. To put her in harm's way ran the risk of her meeting death. At that time, in the heat of the moment, he was more concerned with driving the Germans away. By involving Eureka, he also put her at risk.

"I asked her to carry me back to the line, and then to load up a machine gun. We had to hold the line until the tanks came. In that moment, it was all that mattered."

"Can you say you were willing to risk Eureka's life in that moment, if it meant victory?"

Shocked to hear such words, Renton struggled to sit up, only to have the wound in his left arm strike him back down in pain. Wincing, he tried to explain.

"I wasn't really thinking about that at the time. Besides, it's not like I had anyone else to help me back. Charles and Ray were wounded as well, so they were out of the fight altogether. In the end, I guess you could say I involved her because there was no one else."

Not wanting to lose her brother's and his best friend's confidence, he struggled to turn his head over to Holland.

"Holland, you know I would never intentionally hurt Eureka."

"That's not what concerns me, Rentoshka," Holland reassured him. "Rather, what concerns me is that she stayed by you. Even when she didn't need to, she kept by your side, feeding you the ammunition."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying she may want a larger role than what you're giving her. Eureka may not be content with just playing nurse."

Renton never thought about that. Though even he sensed in Eureka a desire to fight beside him rather than just aid in the sidelines. In Vladivostok, she took a pistol and fought pursuing NKVD agents, and shared the burden Renton carried. She was not content to be cast a bit role in this grand play about to unfold. If any harm came to her, Renton would never forgive himself for it. He had to watch over her, and make sure she would survive this ordeal alive. They all had to come home alive.

"I'll have to watch her more closely, then," Renton concluded.

"Somehow," Holland noted with a knowing smirk, "I doubt sister will let you keep her consigned as a nurse for long. The only question I have is: how will you deal with it when she wants a bigger part to play?"

As Holland and Renton debated and calmly cast their predictions for the future, across the hospital Dominic was just coming to from the suturing procedure. Despite his wound being harmless compared to Renton's, it required stitching and meant him being put under the ether for the operation. Anemone was just returning to his bed as he finally emerged from his state of unconsciousness.

Despite hell and chaos raging all around her that day, Anemone did not bear a single scar from battle. Nowhere on her face or on her body was there any evidence of the ordeal she and all of them had been through in the past day. Instead, she wore a face asking for challenges to overcome and more people to help. How was it that she could endure to keep working so calmly under fire?

"I see you're awake now," Anemone chirped with a smile. "So what's the word about your wound?"

"Doctor said I was lucky," Dominic remarked quietly. "If the bullet struck a little lower, it would have hit my lung. I'd be done for."

"So do you know when you'll be fit to leave?"

"I think they said a few days, at least."

Anemone sat next to him and exchanged the cold compress on his head for a new one, but not before bestowing a kiss on her beloved with a smile. Yes, he was lucky to have survived with what could be called a scratch. Far too many others weren't so fortunate. Even those who weren't fatally injured had suffered terribly. At that thought, Dominic remembered Renton and the wounds he had sustained in battle, which far exceeded in severity of his own.

"So how's our chief doing?"

"I talked with Eureka just now. He's doing better; he'll definitely make a full recovery soon and we can go back to the front."

"That's amazing. After taking such a big hit, he can still get up again."

"Determination can drive a man to do anything. Along with love."

Anemone sat next to Dominic for a brief moment, and their gazes connected, silently exchanging a thousand vows and a million words they had all heard before and would give everything to hear again. They had been together for more than three years now, but they still treated each other like it was the first day of their courtship.

"You know what amazes me more, though?" Dominic asked.

"What?"

"You."

Anemone laughed, and a touch of pink ran across her cheeks.

"How's that?"

"You kept doing your work the whole time. Throughout the entire battle you never broke and ran. Most people I know wouldn't last five seconds in what we were just in."

"Well, it helps to have the love of your life on the front with you."

She kissed him again, more deeply this time, as Dominic was still left searching for answers. He expected such an answer from her, but it was not enough. Even if she had him beside her, it would still be an incredible strain for any but the hardiest of souls. It still left him with the question of how? How could she endure all the pandemonium and carnage of the battlefield? It would make any girl turn away in disgust and fear.

"Anemone?"

"Hmm?" she mumbled in-between kisses.

"Why did you want to be a medic?"

His girlfriend pulled away, taken aback by the question. Surely he knew, she thought, after being told face to face on the night they departed!

"I didn't want you to go into this alone, Dom. You should know that. I also didn't want you worrying about me getting hurt, so I chose this. Besides, you know how good I am with first aid."

"But is that your only reason? You could have picked up a gun like anyone else. There are girls here who fight, you know."

"It's more than just that…"

The fiery redhead looked away and off into the sea of hospital beds. The doctors and nurses were sailors lost at sea, in the midst of the squall that was war. In another time, and in another place, all these men would be perfectly healthy and back at home with their families and significant others. Instead, they were caught up in a tragedy that wasn't their fault and forced to pick up the pieces of a broken world. In a way, she filled that role present throughout history: a maid picking up the pieces, a nurse tending to a world's wounds.

"It runs in my family."

Dominic turned his head with interest to Anemone's face. She brushed away a renegade hair from his forehead, resting her hand on the compress.

"My mother was a nurse for the rebels in the Easter Uprising. It filled her with pride. So when she came over to the States and had me, she taught me everything she knew."

(A/N: Easter Uprising: An armed rebellion staged in Ireland during the week of Easter, 1916. The objective of the uprising was to end British rule over Ireland and establish an independent Irish Republic. It only lasted six days as British troops were called in to suppress the rebellion. Most of the rebel leaders were executed, but the rebellion set the stage for the Irish War of Independence three years later.)

She laid her head down next to Dominic's so she was at eye level with him. Deep in her amethyst eyes Dominic could see stories he only wished he was privy to play out. Her mother, hiding in a cathedral and tending to wounded soldiers. The horror and agony of the rebels' defeat. The humiliation of fleeing to avoid persecution. The joy in finding refuge in America.

"So did your mom inspire you to be a nurse, then?" Dominic asked, seeing an answer clear before him.

"Not exactly," she explained. "The Uprising ended in failure, and a lot of people were executed. Mother fled here because she would have been killed if she stayed. Those stories scared me, and for a long time, I didn't want to be a nurse. I feared if I followed the same path, something like that might happen to me."

"What changed, then?"

"This war, for one. But you entering my life, most of all."

Anemone opened up Dominic's shirt to examine the sutures. The stitches had been made with clear thread, making it indistinguishable from the rest of his skin. There were no signs of bleeding, but to make sure the wound wasn't infected, she dabbed it with iodine. Dominic winced as he felt the acidic pain of the element contact his injury. If it hurt, it meant it was working. Iodine was a potent disinfectant.

"I knew that a lot of poor souls coming home would need the treatment, and I know how much you want to be a soldier. If something ever happened to you…"

She closed Dominic's shirt, and whispered quietly,

"…I want to be the one to make you well again."

In that moment, he felt a kindred spirit, another reason among the countless others of why he loved her, and why she was a perfect match. He saw himself in her, her passion for what she did, and her reasons for helping those in need. In much the same way she wanted to heal him when this war was over, he wanted to protect her as long as this war raged. In the same way Anemone's family informed much of what she did, he had similar family ties to the martial way.

"I'm much the same," Dominic admitted softly.

"How?"

"My father and grandfather served in the Army. For a time, I thought I would be the first who wouldn't serve, until the war started."

Dominic struggled to sit up, but Anemone pushed him back down, reminding him his sutures were still delicate and could not be strained.

"When I saw and heard what was happening in Europe, it felt wrong to just sit on the sidelines and watch it all burn. I couldn't just live through this without trying to make a difference."

"And that's why you joined the ROTC."

"Not just for that, but because of you."

He reached out his uninjured hand to her and cupped her cheek.

"If this war hit home, I wanted to be the one that had you covered."

Anemone took his hand and giggled softly in embarrassment. Encouraged, Dominic beckoned her down, to share another kiss, but now Anemone hesitated. If anyone saw her like this, it could very mean a stern reprimand. She put a single finger to his lips and quelled his amorous sense of want. They had been down this road before in solitary moments, alone in each other's apartment. Always one of them stopped the other before it continued too far. Instead, she smiled and rested her forehead against his.

"I'm glad that we're together in this," Anemone whispered. "If you get knocked down, I'll help you back up."

"And I'll keep you safe until it's over."

Their noses touched, and Anemone bade him farewell before leaving to tend to the other injured. There would be far more treatments to be made, antiseptics applied, and lacerations closed before they could move again. A single battle could do terrible damage, even if it ended in ultimate victory. For Dominic and Anemone, however, the knowledge both were looking out for each other was enough to keep going. They'd see this through to the end, no matter how many more bullets he had to take or tourniquets she had to tie. Once they had recovered, they would move on ahead at full speed, with love as the fuel in the engines of their souls.

»»»»»

June 18th, 1944

The victory won at Carentan gave the Americans the opening they needed to move westwards, as the VII Corps under Major General J. Lawton Collins, or "Lightning Joe," as some called him, raced to cut off the Cotentin Peninsula from the rest of France. The Germans, demoralized by the losses suffered in the landings and from the American paratroopers, retreated northward to Cherbourg in disarray. Both sides knew that control of the port of Cherbourg would be key for securing or denying a flow of supplies for the Allied armies landing in France.

Meanwhile, in the east, Caen still lay firmly in German hands, and every attempt by the British and Canadians to capture the city had been blunted with heavy casualties. It was becoming clear that battle for Caen would become the focal point for the entire campaign. To Jacques, it was therefore imperative that the Resistance race eastward to aid the Anglo-Canadian forces in taking the city.

For the Resistance, the time had finally come. It was the battle that everyone had anticipated. A fully recovered Renton Thurston looked on at the rising sun. He shielded his green eyes from the bright, blinding rays. Joining next to him was his old friend Jacques, grinning from ear to ear. He knew this day would be quite the adventure. For a stiff like him, Renton thought, it was rare of him to smile so wide. On the other hand, he could tell how much this day meant to the older man.

Jacques removed his grey flat cap, letting his head of black hair sway in the gentle breeze blowing from the east. To the east lay Caen, and further, Paris. He had seen many battles, had killed Germans before, and had hid in the shadows. The time for hiding was over for them. Now was the moment to strike back, and reclaim their homeland once and for all. It was a good thing Renton came, he thought. He needed his experience, his tenacity and valor to inspire everyone. He needed his leadership to usher everyone forward.

"If we follow the main highways," Jacques said looking down the roads, "we can reach Caen in about three days by marching."

"Are you sure about this, Jacques?" Renton asked with trepidation. "Seems to me like we'd have an easier time if we headed for Cherbourg with the Americans. Almost the whole German Army is in Caen. It won't be an easy fight."
"I am sure," Jacques reassured him. "We have friends in Caen. And if we take it, we will have a clear road straight to Paris."

Renton was amazed to hear that Jacques had connections as far as Caen. Just how closely knit were the various Resistance movements? They were spread far and wide throughout France, from Brittany to Provence and everywhere in-between. Surely coordination was near impossible!

"You have friends in Caen? Do you know how they are holding up right now?"

"They're probably in hiding. With the Germans still controlling the city, they won't be coming out any time soon. Not until the British and Canadians have taken it."

Renton now saw the other reason for joining the fight in Caen. If the Resistance fighters could be brought out of hiding, it would surely increase their manpower and their capability to fight offensively. They stood an even greater chance of taking Paris themselves. While the Resistance was spread out across the country, with members in every major town and city, the more that joined them the stronger they would be.

He nodded, and shook Jacques' hand.

"Then we should make our way to Caen as soon as possible."

"Agreed. I suggest we split up. There are two highways that head straight for the city."

Jacques pointed off to the east, and in the distance Renton could see a fork in the road, leading to two major highways. One, paved with black asphalt marked N13 in red capital letters, led north and east. The other, a dirt trail with small pebbles of sand and terracotta marked D5 led in a more easterly direction. The young commander immediately saw what Jacques had in mind.

"I'll take my section on the northern route," Jacques suggested, "while you take the southern one. We will meet up again at the junction in Bayeux."

"Fair enough, I suppose. If anything were to befall on the whole group, it would be a disaster if we all went the same path. Will you be alright until then?"

"We've been at this for almost four years, Renton," Jacques laughed, slapping his friend hard on the shoulder. "I'm sure we can manage. If you run into trouble, just radio us and we'll come to you."

Renton nearly stumbled over and winced slightly. Even after several years, Jacques still had a heavy hand.

"Right then," he said, rubbing his shoulder, "and you know who to call if you get in a tough bind. I'll leave the northern route to you, then, mon ami."

It was supposedly settled between them, and both called their respective sections together. For Renton, he knew he was taking a much more treacherous road. There would undoubtedly be stiffer resistance, as the road was undoubtedly still controlled by the enemy. They would all have to be on their guard. Immediately Renton heard footsteps, and turned back towards the town. Instead of seeing the Resistance fighters or one of his squad leaders, he instead found an American paratrooper running towards him.

He had a young face dotted with freckles, which accentuated his innocent blue eyes. The paratrooper was easily only 19 years old, and had never seen combat before now. His hands were clenched as if holding some pendant given to him by his parents or siblings. Dressed in fatigues, the paratrooper stopped short of running into Renton and held his helmet to prevent it from falling. He panted for a while, and Renton calmly approached him.

"Are you alright, trooper?"

"I'll…be fine in a minute…kid…"

The paratrooper uneasily stood up, and spoke, in a surprisingly masculine tone for one so young.

"Listen, kid, we don't want you thinking we didn't notice what you did a few days ago. You really helped us out in Carentan."

"Don't think anything of it, trooper," Renton replied, smiling.

"But we have to!" the paratrooper protested. "See, that's why I'm here. A lot of the wounded in our company got medals, but some of us didn't feel it right for you to walk away with nothing."

He slowly opened up his hand and revealed a medallion. It was black, shaped like a heart with a gold border around it. In the center of the heart was a profile of his country's first president, George Washington. Above Washington sat a small white shield with two red bars and three stars between clusters of green leaves. The medal was hung on a violet ribbon with white borders on either side. Renton recognized the medal instantly; it was something his own father had been awarded with for his service in the Great War, thirty years prior.

"The Purple Heart…"

"Yeah," the paratrooper confirmed. "You got busted up pretty bad by that tank shell, and if that doesn't deserve a Purple Heart, I damn sure don't know what does!"

Renton felt honored for being recognized, when he wasn't even a member of the military. But, just as in Stalingrad when General Chuikov bestowed him his nation's highest honor, he felt undeserving. So many others had given their lives that easily deserved that medal more than him. He didn't come to fight for his country; he came to fight for his friends. It was the most natural thing in the world for him to do, something anyone else in his position would have done.

"Thanks, trooper, but…I can't. I don't deserve it."

The paratrooper cocked his head to the right in confusion.

"Why not? You came all the way here and didn't even enlist! You could have easily stayed home! I'd say that, and getting wounded on top of it all, is more than deserving!"

"Maybe, but so many others died that are more worthy—"

"I suggest you take it, Rentoshka," said a familiar voice to his left.

Renton turned his head around and saw his old friend Holland, highlighted by his black leather jacket and ubiquitous yellow scarf around his neck. His mouth was open in a large grin, casting a flash of the sun's rays from his gold teeth. Holland knew how humble Renton could be, almost to the point of obtuseness. Now, just as in years before, he would save him from making a humiliating scene.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, my friend. The man must have pulled a lot of strings to get that for you."

"Actually," the paratrooper admitted, "one of my buddies gave this up for you. He didn't talk to officers or nobody. He said you deserve it more than he does."

"There you have it," Holland said finally.

Renton, not wishing to make a scene that would surely end in embarrassment, he allowed the paratrooper to pin the medal on his trench coat. It was another token of the path he had to take in protecting those he loved most. Just as with Eureka before in Stalingrad, he would gladly carry all the bloodstained laurels on his person. At least he was doing it for Jacques. For Charles. For Ray. For everyone who had chosen to come with him.

"You really helped us out, kid. I know you and your Frenchie friends got a lot of work to do, so all I can say is…"

He snapped his feet together and saluted Renton sharply.

"…give those Krauts hell!"

Renton returned the salute, slowly.

"We will, of that you can be sure."

The paratrooper left them and returned to his outfit, leaving the Resistance fighters alone with each other, and their paths clearly before them. Without wasting another minute, Jacques and Renton directed their troops to their respective paths, and marched. To the fork in the road, and to Caen further east. As the two friends parted, both called out to each other to be safe. To be vigilant. Both promised that no matter what would happen, they would see each other again, and carry out this campaign of liberation.

Carentan was just the beginning. Of that, all were certain. Now came the much more difficult task: to free their country, step by step, village by village, by their own hands.