A/N: More thanks to Imjusthere61944, and any other reviewers. Note to Imjusthere61944: the aim I came up with was the angels vs devil on the shoulder idea, and I think it worked out quite well.
Disclaimer: See first chapter, or chapter before.
June 22nd, 1944
Cherbourg, Normandy
Operation Overlord (D-Day)
9th Infantry Division, mixed with the 4th and 79th.
1300/1:00 PM
Pounding of boots, the Shermans rolling... That was two weeks before, and now the Shermans had achieved their objective, helping the infantry clear their way through the hedgerows across Omaha and Utah beaches. Now they were just outside their target for the week: Cherbourg.
Neal was a nervous wreck as they hurried up the nearly silent street. It should be a heavily resisted area, but for some reason there was no fire on them as they entered. Something was wrong her,e and he knew Gimmons and Preston could sense it.
Charles Victor, a hearty young man from Florida, was oblivious. After Omaha Beach had been secured weeks before. The recruit was too shiny in Neal's opinion, and soon he would figure out how hard the combat in the war was.
The other replacement was Bill Chalk, a man who had experienced combat briefly in Italy, been injured, got back in the fight, got injured again, and was now back for his third time, probably even more nervous than Neal.
"It's too quiet, Sarge..." Neal muttered, nudging Preston with the butt of his M1. Preston was thinking along the same lines, and as they entered the town, held up a hand to signal a stop. There was another squad behind them, and they stopped as well.
"I know..." He replied in a low voice, and then raised it so the others could hear, "A'ight, LISTEN UP! It's too quiet out here, and I want my squad to take the left, Wall's squad take the left. We clear these damn buildings floor by floor until we find these bastard!" With that, Preston raised his Thompson and headed off to the left, his squad trailing him.
"Okay, here's what we do, exactly," Preston stopped next to the door of a building that looked sealed. "I'm going to sit here in case any of them decide to escape through the front. Chalk, you'll break the window, and Gimmons will toss in a grenade. Neal, Victor, you two will wait in the small alley next to the building, to see if they escape through that door." He finished giving the orders, and everyone took up their positions.
"BREACH AND CLEAR!" Preston yelled. The glass shattered, and the sound of a pin being pulled entered his ears, and then, a few seconds later, the grenade exploding, shrapnel hitting anything it could within the range it had.
"Grenade!" Neal yelled, the pin from his grenade clattering to the floor after he ripped it away with his teeth. That memory... It was from too long ago...
Preston kicked the door in, and inside they found several ruined chairs, an overturned table, and a bleeding German behind it, shrapnel in the center of his throat, in his left cheek, and just below his left ribs.
"Poor bastard." Chalk muttered, striding past the man as he struggled desperately for air. It appeared his windpipe and throat had been pierced, and now he couldn't obtain any air, let alone put up a fight.
They heard whispering voices upstairs, followed by the slamming of a door.
Another door was kicked open, and Neal and Victor walked in, each staring up at the stairs. Footsteps could be heard from the stairs, and it sounded as if they were preparing to be in a last stand defensive position. None of them were going to take the chance of jumping from the upstairs window to the street below, so this was their only option.
"Gimmons and Victor, head outside, chuck a couple grenades through the window, then fire a few shots." Preston ordered, beginning to slowly walk up the staircase, Chalk and Neal following slowly behind him.
As they reached the door where the voices seemed to come from, they were replaced by panicked screams, and then explosions. Silence followed, and then the anguished cries of pain as the survivors examined their wounds.
Neal kicked the door in this time, and the scene before them was amazing, even though they knew the town had been a long occupant of the Nazis. From the walls hung several German Eagle signs, as well as swastikas, and even a picture of a starving child, a propaganda message written in German.
"Sick..." Chalk muttered, looking at the starving child's picture, and kicking the nearest wounded German. He cried out in pain, and then rolled over, exposing shrapnel in his lower abdomen and right side. Chalk put a round in his head with his M1, and then turned to the rest of the men.
There were originally six, based by the bodies, and only one was now alive, blood streaming from his chest and shoulders. It looked as if he'd taken a direct him from the grenades, and was now barely alive, struggling to breathe from the pain.
Before any of the men could put him out of his misery, a crack of a Kar98k ripped through the air, followed by a cry of "MEDIC!" From Gimmons. They heard a shuffling sound, followed by a door slamming, and then silence.
Chalk proceeded to shoot the injured German and then the three hurried downstairs, where they found Gimmons try to keep a wounded Victor conscious. It appeared that the replacement had taken a bullet in the upper chest, near one of his lungs, and was now bleeding profusely, his uniform staining a deep red right before their eyes.
"Damn! Sarge, the bleeding won't stop!" Gimmons was pressing on the wound with a makeshift tourniquet he'd cut from Victor's pants leg, the blood staining it and the bleeding man's uniform in front of their eyes.
"He's a goner, Gimmons..." Preston muttered, crouching down next to the man who had slipped into unconsciousness. At least he wouldn't die a very painful death, he'd just feel the pain from when he was hit, and then nothing more.
Neal reached out for Newman, but then the tank shot again, showering him with rubble.
Neal shook his head. He knew he shouldn't be remembering those horrid times back in Sicily, but he couldn't stop himself. This scene was both alike and very different at the same time.
The group was trapped with the sniper stationed outside, so they'd have to wait it out for a while, and see how things went. Neal smiled and looked over at Preston and Gimmons, who were solemn.
"This reminds me of Sicily..." Neal remarked, causing the other two to look over at him, and then make their minds wander back to Sicily, where they'd thought they'd face the most danger. They'd turned out to be wrong, and the biggest danger they'd seen so far in the war were those damn hedgerows.
February 1st, 1944
Kwajalein Atoll, Marshall Islands, Roi-Namur
Marshall Islands Campaign
4th Marine Division
1601/4:01 PM
Up and walking again, Crone couldn't get the two visions of the dead men out of his mind, and felt as if they were following him wherever he went, always watching and waiting for him to screw up, so that Norman could criticize him, and then White reassure him.
He was walking around blindly with no intention on where he was intending to be, and then he heard a voice interrupt his train of thought.
"Sir, Pvt. Jeff Harrows reporting, sir." He turned on his heel, and there was a young freckled man, no older than eighteen, who was his replacement. The man didn't even have dirt on his face yet, but he sure would when they were done with this godforsaken island.
"Lt. Jack Crone, good to meet you, Private." Jack stuck his hand out, but the replacement didn't take it, and just saluted, leaving Jack's hand hanging.
"Well, I suppose we'll be moving out soon again, Harrows. You might as well stow your gear and get ready, because we're nearly done here." Crone told the man, who nodded and headed out in the direction Crone had been walking in, his stride still that of what the military had taught him, the way they were supposed to march.
"He'll be gone in an instant, just like White." Norman was suddenly leaning on a stack of boxes to Crone's right, that evil grin still on his face from last time, the cross necklace swaying with the slight breeze, even though it shouldn't have been.
'Wow, my imagination has detail.' Crone thought, as Norman turned into White, just as he had before.
"Jack... You can protect these men, but you can't do it alone. You have to learn to trust people, even the recruits who are just out of the fucking school, even the ones who don't know the sound of an American rifle from a Japanese rifle." White said to him, pointing at Harrows just before he turned a corner at a tent, and then was out of sight.
"Both of you... Go away, I don't need this right now." Jack mumbled, and Norman's figure appeared in front of him, White's to his right.
"What'd ya say, Jack? Something about not needing us?" Norman was sneering, something the living Norman never did. Jack was slowly going insane, and he knew it, these men were just accelerating the process.
Crone said nothing, and took his helmet from his head, his deep brown hair slowly moving with the slight breeze. He studied the outside of the helmet, where the American flag was painted, along with a gold star. It meant nearly nothing to Jack anymore. The military had sent these men out into the Pacific, to Italy, to Europe, and expected them to fight for their country day after day after day after seeing their comrades die the day before or moments before. They were expected to be super soldiers, and nobody could do that, even the famed Generals that were praised so often. Even they had their limits, just like everyone else.
"I said I don't need your shit, Norman." Jack growled, baring his teeth on the right side, his left side closed.
"You don't need me? My advice? My constant support? Oh, how painful. You know how you'll die, and that you'll never see your home country again!" Norman was just mocking him now, and White looked like he was about to stab the ghostly figure of the former sergeant.
"I don't want to die, Earl..." Jack muttered, running a hand through his hair.
"Oh, you don't want to die? Don't you think I didn't want to die? I wanted to believe that God had sent me here for a reason other than dying of heat in a jungle, other than killing crafty Japs in their trees, other than watching my men die in front of me every day."
"You died because you couldn't leave your damn problems back in your mind and just try to help out..." Jack's voice was now low and solemn, as if he was speaking to a dying man.
"Yes, but the fact remains, nobody gives a care about what you want, but humor me. What do you want other than to not die, Jack?" Norman wasn't hostile in that statement and question, rather a curious tone took over his voice.
"I want to... I want to go back home and see my siblings again... My twin brother and sister... I want to hug them and tell them everything will be fine, that nothing will ever hurt them..." Jack was fighting back tears now, remembering his siblings. They had always looked up to him, and he was sure that they were hoping that he would be home for Christmas this year, and not still be in the jungle, so far away from them.
"Oh, that's it? Your family? Your family expects you to die, Jack, all families expect their sons to die in war, it's just the way it is... But what else?"
"I want to eat my mom's delicious chicken again... I want to wake up early in the morning with my siblings and watch them open their gifts on Christmas, and watch their eyes light up when they get exactly what they want... I..." He trailed off, a tear making its way down his right cheek.
"What? What else, Jack? Don't make yourself cry, now that you're a big strong officer." Norman was mocking him again, but Crone didn't care. He was back with his siblings in 1939, watching them open their presents.
"I want to hug my parents, and tell them to look after those two... I just want to see them again, and if you keep bothering me, none of it will come true, I will never see them again, I will never see another Christmas dinner, and I will never hug them again!" He was suddenly angry, and nearly tossed his helmet at the ghostly figure.
"For the last time, get the fuck away from me..." He muttered, and Norman chuckled, disappearing. White followed, a ghostly tear on his nearly transparent cheek.
A/N: Well, that was a touching moment wasn't it? I'm sorry there hasn't been much combat in the last few chapters, but the aim of this story IS to focus on the psychological and emotional effects of the war. The psychological wounds of Crone are getting worse, and his hallucinations are taking on the devil vs angel on the shoulder type thing.
~DeltaG