Pretty sure this is the longest chapter I've made for this story yet. It wasn't meant to be this long, but the story just progressed, and here we are. I can understand if you take a break from reading. With that said, please enjoy!

The Rifleman

July 14, D-Day + 38 1500 hrs

"Courage is being scared to death... and saddling up anyway"

"Ow… Owwww… Ow-Ow-Ow… Oh God, ouch… ah shit…"

Private Shawn Lyle pulled himself up to his knees with a groan. God, his upper back, right arm and leg were so sore. A part of his head had a sharp prickling sensation, no… was that coming from his ear? He reached over to his right ear and fondled it gently. When he pulled his fingers away, they were seeped in blood.

"Oh God…"

The earth underneath him rocked violently. An erupting blast nearly shot his heart out from his chest. He looked up and could see smoke arising from a ledge fifteen feet above him. Lyle gasped as he remembered what happened. Wait, was he still there?

Lyle looked around and spotted the groaning form of Technical Sergeant Crane seven feet away from him. Lyle crawled over weakly to his Platoon Sergeant and shook him gently, "Sarge? Sarge, are you all right?"

Crane could only utter short moans with half-opened eyes.

"Sarge, it's me, Lyle, from 3rd Platoon. Can you hear me?"

Crane's response was the same as before.

Lyle fell on his bottom, "Oh God, what now, Shawn? What the hell do you now?"

"Ly-Lyle?"

"Sarge?"

He was stirring slowly, his eyes flickering open and shut, "Shit… my fucking head… God…" His eyes finally fluttered completely opened. He looked around, "The hell? Where's the rest of the platoon?"

"Don't know, Sergeant."

"What do you mean—wait, that ledge, the explosions… did we fall?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Holy Mother of God…" he groaned. "Are we cut off from them?"

Lyle nodded bitterly, "Looks that way."

"Shit... what the hell can w—AAAAAAHHH!" he suddenly screamed as he tried to push himself up with his arm. He quickly fell back down and was clasping his left shoulder.

"What?! What's wrong?!" Lyle said panicking.

"My arm! It fucking hurts!" The sergeant gnashed his teeth for a moment and gently patted his shoulder. His eyes grew wide. "Oh God, don't tell me…"

"What?"

"Lyle, help me out of my jacket."

The replacement nervously but quickly undid the jacket and took it off as gently as he could, until Crane was wearing his olive-drab T-Shirt. Crane pulled down the open neck of his shirt and Lyle saw a large bump protruding out forwards on Crane's left shoulder.

Crane clenched his eyes in irritation and shook his head slowly, "Not again, not now… fuck!"

"Oh my God! What is that?!" Lyle asked, "Is your arm broken?!"

"No, my shoulder… oh God… my shoulder is dislocated."

"How do you know that?"

"It happened to me once. Football," he groaned through his teeth.

"What should I do? Oh, wait! I can just pop it in… right?"

Crane tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "Are you a medic? Are you a trained physician? Don't be stupid. It's a technique in that procedure and you sure as hell don't know how to do it. I don't even know how to properly pop a joint back in. If you do it on me, you'll probably damage my arm beyond repair."

"Oh…"

"Yeah, that won't be a good idea, Private."

"So, what should we do?"

"Fortunately, Army training taught you how to make a sling correct?"

Lyle nodded surely, "That they did, Sergeant."

With his good arm, Crane handed Lyle his combat jacket. Lyle folded the jacket and gently wrapped it around arm and tied the sleeves around the back of Crane's neck. For extra security, Crane took off his belt and instructed Lyle to tie sling around his chest.

"How's it feel?"

"A bit better. As long as I don't it move too much, I guess I may be fine. You did a fine job on that sling, Private. I need to get to an aid station quickly though."

Lyle looked around, "Sergeant, I don't even know where the hell we are."

The sound of Nebelwerfers fired up in the air again. Then came the screaming of their rounds as they fell off into the distance.

"Did you hear that, Sarge?" Lyle asked.

"I did, those were the Mimis that nearly blasted us. And the way they're firing… they're close. If only we had more men… Lyle, where's your weapon?"

"I think still up there on the ledge."

"Yeah, my rifle too… fortunately…" he reached to his waist with his right hand and pulled out his .45 pistol. "Thank God it was the left arm that got popped, huh?"

"Yeah, good for you, Sarge. But I got nothin."

"That ain't true, take out your bayonet."

He did so. "What am I going to do with this? Carve 'em a cake?"

"Stab a Kraut if they get close. Don't underestimate the blade, Private. You're infantry, you use whatever you have to in order to kill the enemy. How many grenades do you have?"

"Uh, I got one."

"I got two. So push comes to shove, we can use these. Now c'mon, get on up."

Lyle rose to his feet, "Where we heading to?"

"Out of this dank alley. Three objectives, we navigate through German territory, we rendezvous with Able and knock out those Mimis that are destroying us."

Was he serious? "Uhhh, in what order do we complete these objectives? Is it first, second, third? Second, third, then first? Cause we're just two man and you have a bum arm, what sort of plan do we have? We ain't in the best situation, Sarge."

"We're infantry, Private. When shit gets tough, we improvise."

"Is that what you call it?"

"I do. You're an example, that explains why we're both alive instead of being itty-bitty little pieces."

The two men traversed their way through the back alleys, sounds of rifle fire and artillery echoed in the distance overhead. The entire city was alive with fighting that surrounded them. The alleyway led the both of them to entering the backroom of a bombed bakery. The dining tables were splintered in half from the ceiling debris, chairs were fractured, and a ceiling fan hung low with broken fins.

Crane leaned against the wall next to a broken window, he winced from the pain in his shoulder. "Let's wait here for a bit."

Lyle could feel the earth tremble; Crane was already ducking behind the counter. "Tank, get down, Lyle!"

He peeked over the counter and could count two Panzers and around thirty infantrymen jogging behind the tanks, heading in the direction of the bakery.

"Oh crap! That's a lot of Krauts!"

"Get down, damn it!" Crane growled.

"Sarge, I think some of them are coming inside."

"Just friggin' perfect!"

Crane pulled out his pistol as he gnashed his teeth in frustration. Lyle was looking around frantically for a place to hide. It would be crazy to take on all those Krauts. He went to the backroom and noticed a hatch on the floor. He opened it to see a cellar below.

"Sarge! In here, it's a basement cellar!" Lyle announced in a loud whisper.

They took to the cellars below with Lyle locking the hatch to the door.

"Good thinking, Private." That welled his chest up with pride.

They could hear the Germans overtop of them, conversing with one another, some of them even laughing. Then a static-filled voice reverberated above, it could have been a German radio. Their heavy boots stomped and creaked the floorboards with every movement. Lyle prayed to God that none of them realized there was a cellar below. All it would take was for one of them to drop a single grenade for both of them to die.

Lyle's heart was in his throat, yet it seemed that Crane was cool as ice. How? His face never betrayed an ounce of emotion, his eyes were glued to the floorboard above with his pistol pointed upward. How could he be like that? He was like that when 3rd Platoon was engaged with Krauts earlier and the Lieutenant started screaming— Lieutenant Sleeman… Lyle made a soft gulp, he knew he should be quiet, but he must know the reason.

"Sergeant?" he whispered

"Yeah?" Crane whispered back, his eyes not losing focus on the floorboards.

"Uh… what was wrong with him?"

"Who?"

"Lieutenant Sleeman?"

Crane didn't respond.

Lyle kept talking, "I didn't see much, but I heard him screaming. We thought he was hit with all the noise he was making. Me and Bertz turned around and he's there in a ball crying that his hand is on fire. So, what happened with—"

"I don't know. I don't know," the NCO responded curtly, but quietly.

"Oh."

"Look, Lyle, it doesn't matter anymore, right? He ain't here right now… hopefully that son of a bitch is locked up in Leavenworth by the time this war is over."

"Seriously?"

"Or some damn nuthouse." Crane shook his head and turned to Lyle, "This isn't a game, Lyle. If a soldier hesitates, the enemy wins. This is especially true for riflemen, we cannot hesitate. For every time we do, someone on our side becomes a casualty."

"I, I understand."

"Do you?"

"I believe so, Sarge."

"Hmm, Lyle, I'm wondering, why the hell did you tackle me off the side of the bridge?"

"I… I don't really know; my feet were moving before my brain was. I guess, that Bertz was safe in cover, and here you were… my sergeant who I knew hated my guts, who came back to get us out and now he was in danger… I don't think I could live with myself if you bought the farm on our account… And now seeing as your arm is dislocated…"

"You think I hate your guts?"

"Well, don't you? You were pissed at me for what I said, and by the way I understand why, I was way out of line. You remind me of our drill sergeant, y'know, so serious and stern. My second day here and I get on your shit-list. Yeah, I was pretty sure, and kinda still am, that you hate me."

Crane shook his head, "Lyle, anybody can get on a Sergeant's shit-list, but that doesn't mean I hate you. If singing a song and defending your actions was enough to be hated, then I'll just about hate probably 90% of Able Company by that logic."

"Oh, I see. Well that's good then. Kinda got the impression that you thought me and Bertz weren't real soldiers. And y'know, it is our second day here and all…"

Crane raised his head up, his eyes looking down on the private, "Why are you here, Lyle? Why are you in this war? Were you drafted?"

"Uh, no, actually. I volunteered… I'm probably… uh, the only Lyle in my family history that ever joined the military, let alone fight in a war."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm from this city in Nebraska called Schuyler; my family's been in Nebraska since the Civil War. My father's a minister and my mom's a schoolteacher. Both of my granddads worked for the post office and both of my grandmas were schoolteachers as well. I hear kids in my neighborhood boast that their fathers fought in France in the last war and how they had grandfathers and great-grandfathers fight in the Civil War. Me? Nothing. My family always avoided fights. My father even admitted he elated he was he didn't fight in the Great War."

Crane looked at the ceiling and mused with a reminiscent smile, "I had an ancestor who was a Minuteman who fought under Isaac Davis at Concord. I had two great-grandfathers who fought against each other at Shiloh. My grandfather was a Marine and fought in China. My dad was a sailor during the Great War. And here I am now, as a soldier in France. We Cranes have been in every war our country has fought in."

That got a soft chuckle out of Lyle, "See? Like that. I want something to tell people about my life and my family. If someone asked me, 'what did your father do during the Great War?' 'Oh, he just preached on at Schuyler, Nebraska.' Or, 'Shawn, what did you do in this great conflict during the Great Second World War?' 'Oh, you know me, I shoveled cow dung in Schuyler, Nebraska.'"

"Recognition, that's why you joined?"

"I guess. It kinda sounds bad the way you phrase it, but I guess so. I want… something in my life, something I can be proud of. I want to fight! I want to show everyone that the Lyles aren't no pussyfooters. Besides, everyone else was going and volunteering, and I would be damned if I look like a coward. I want something that people will remember me by."

"Like win the Medal of Honor?"

Lyle smirked, "That would be nice, but no… just saying, that I did my part. That I was in the gritty with a rifle in my hand, that I did my duty for my country. That when I come back home, I have stories to tell… And when I come back to Schuyler, I've learned something from war and the Army. I could say that I did my part."

"And here I thought you were a naïve draftee."

"Really?"

"Yeah, funny… I joined the Army—"

The earth above them suddenly quaked violently, a loud noise emanated from on top of them. From the sounds above, the Germans started scrambling and blabbering in their language. Then more quakes occurred in rapid succession. Lyle knew it was artillery.

"Sarge," Lyle muttered, "Is that incoming or outgoing?"

"The Germans are right here. That's incoming. Those are our shells!"

The building shook violently, dust fell on top of their helmets. Pieces of the ceiling were collapsing downward and crashed hard on the floorboards. A large chunk of debris slammed downward on the floor. They could hear several Germans bolting out of the door to escape. The bombardment endured for a solid minute, then all was quiet. The two men waited cautiously for three minutes before Lyle decided to investigate. The bakery was deserted, but was smothered in debris, dust, and broken wood. Crane came out of the cellar, both men walked outside. Six dead Germans were scattered around the smoking and burning ruins. Both men realized they had to keep moving.

After coming up to a narrow street surrounded by buildings on all sides, the two men noticed the distinct firing of a Nebelwerfer and the smoke trail that it made. Both of them approached closer and spotted an artillery battery consisting of a Nebelwerfer and an 88-flak gun and a MG42 guarding the rear approach. The battery itself was surrounded by sandbags and the Germans inside were laughing and joking amongst themselves. Close to the street and the battery were the exposed bodies of dead Americans; from what Lyle could decipher, they were wearing the patches of the 4th Infantry Division. Next to what remained of a squad was a splintered Sherman tank with the tank commander lying on top of the hull missing his legs.

Crane observed, "Christ! So that's what been killing us."

"Sergeant Crane, you sure about this? I mean, j-just look… armor couldn't break this position, and neither could artillery."

Crane cracked a dark grin, "That's why God made infantry."

"You can't be serious, Sergeant? It's just the two of us! And you only have one arm!"

"I know, Lyle. But we're cutoff with Krauts all around us. We can't go back to our lines, cause that's where the hornet's nest of the Wehrmacht is. The only plausible place we can go is forward. Besides, this position needs to be taken care of. Remember Bertz? Our attack stalled and he was wounded because this arty was supporting the Kraut's position. Think how many other GIs are becoming casualties because of this thing. And I ain't having that."

"B-But Sergeant…"

"I know you're nervous, Lyle. But remember, we're infantrymen, Private. We don't give up."

Through the wreckage and broken bodies, Lyle spotted a German lying over top a MG42 with its bipod folded. He was hesitant at first about touching a corpse, but he realized that he was a soldier, a dealer of death, and he would not look afraid in front of Crane.

"Sergeant Crane, we can use that '42!"

"Good thinking, Private!"

He held his breath, forced the corpse off of the machinegun, seized it, and picked it up. It seemed heavier than a BAR, but Lyle knew better to complain, especially as he looked at the one-armed Crane.

Lyle counted ten men; three were on the 88, three were on the nebelwerfers, and four were just security for the battery. It seemed asinine to take on ten men with two… well, one and a half since Crane had only an arm and a pistol… hell, might as well have made it one, since this was Lyle's second day with Able Company and first day in combat.

"We're infantrymen, and we do not give up." How did Crane seem so calm and collected when he said that? Why couldn't he be more like Crane at that moment? Was that what it meant to be a hardened soldier, to stare death in the face and to never flinch? Could he be like that one day?

"You worked a machinegun at Basic, right?" Crane asked him.

"Yeah, I did."

"Good, remember don't squeeze hard, nice bursts, okay? Keep 'em nice and smooth."

"What about the heavy weapons?"

"Target the crew of the 88 first. You can get two of them, and the third one may just bug out. I'll get close enough to the Mimi to dispose of it with a grenade. But you are the one with the fire power on your side. You have to make sure that not one of them is standing after. You'll do fine, Nebraska."

Crane crouched low and moved from cover to cover, getting closer to the artillery battery. Lyle gulped, he had a job to do, but he wasn't all that confident. But he had to do it. Lyle found himself some good elevation and unfolded the bipod. He laid on his stomach about thirty yards away from the battery, his machinegun cocked, and ammo loaded. His sights lined upon the unsuspecting crew of the 88. He had to remember his training and be calm about it.

Crane made his way to as close to the battery as possible and pulled out a grenade. From that distance, Lyle noticed Crane giving him a signal.

'Nice bursts.' The machinegun burped to life. The rounds entered the main gunner's chest and eviscerated the assistant gunner's stomach. The Germans scrambled in a surprised panic. Lyle could witness them all moving slowly within his field of vision. He had to find the third gunner on the 88, and he popped out of cover and began to run. Nice bursts… He squeezed off a good five-rounder but missed, then squeezed off a ten-rounder and killed the retreater. A fourth German raised his rifle over the sandbag and started firing at him. Lyle gave him a nice squeeze. The German fell backwards, wounded and bleeding profusely, he was anguishing loudly in his foreign language. Lyle didn't hesitate. His finger jerked and the Teutonic pleader was no more.

An American grenade exploded near the Nebelwerfer, demolishing the wheels and one of the cannons. Lyle spotted Crane, his left arm tucked into the sling, running forward with his pistol drawn as if he was a Hollywood hero. The Germans were not expecting him; Crane ran forward and fired twice into a surprised German's chest before the man thought of raising his rifle. He turned his .45 over to another German and shot him thrice in the chest. He got to cover behind sandbags right as the other Germans spotted him with raised rifles. Lyle swiveled the machinegun and laid down some fire. With the Germans suppressed, Crane painfully pulled the pin of another grenade with his good arm and tossed it. The explosion blew away the last of the defenders. There were a few groaning wounded littered across; Crane walked over to the moaning bodies with his pistol pointed downward and pulled the trigger on each of them.

Lyle couldn't believe how hard he was breathing. His trigger hand was vibrating hard and sweat ran down the back of his neck. That whole engagement couldn't have lasted a minute, but it felt like ten. Never had he felt this exhilaration.

Crane walked around the now quiet battery, eventually waving Lyle to come over to him. Lyle folded the machinegun up and took it down with him. His eyes were as large as the moon upon staring at the aftermath of his MG handiwork. Larges pieces of flesh, organs, and bones were jutting out of the German bodies, their eyes were all open and staring off into the beyond.

Crane nodded at Lyle, slowly but proudly, "Should have been with Paine and his MG section. You're a natural gunner, kid. You even shot that wounded Kraut full of holes. Good work."

"Thank you, Sarge," he replied. Unbelievable, that was amazing, he felt a sense of total accomplishment. He had just wasted four people, but he didn't look at it like that. He had just wasted four Krauts, in a role he wasn't specifically trained for, and fulfilled his obligation to the Army and his country. And he was ready for more.

"Lance!" came a sudden voice in English.

Their breath stopped. Both men crouched to their knees behind the sandbags. But Lyle recalled that word. The challenge! We need the password!

"Boil!" Lyle cried out.

"Who's that?" Crane asked.

"Cr-Crane?" a voice came out.

Crane blinked in confusion before answering, "Yeah? Yeah, who's that?"

"It's Duck. Is that you over there?"

"Yeah, I'm with Private Lyle, we're coming out."

Nine men came out of hiding from the debris. One was a buck sergeant and he had a look of relief as he told Crane, "Son of a bitch."

Lyle was quiet, these men were apparently in the same company as he was, but a different platoon, he had never seen them before.

"Thank God, you're here. We heard that you were missing," Duck said.

"I would have been dead if not for Private Lyle here."

Duck looked to the private and smirked, "You're a replacement, right?"

"Yep, I am."

"Well good on you for saving Sergeant Crane. I'm Sergeant Hudson, Platoon Sergeant of 2nd Platoon. You can call me 'Duck' or 'Sergeant Duck' if you want."

"Wait, 'Duck'?"

"Yeah, there's a story behind that name." He then turned to Crane, "Anyway, what happened to that arm, Crane?"

"Dislocated my shoulder, I need to get back to my platoon. Where are they and what the hell happened?"

A corporal with the meanest eyes that Lyle had ever seen, spoke up, "The Krauts counterattacked. When our company attacked, we stalled against the defense and the Krauts counterattacked, hard. Their artillery bombarded us heavily, especially 3rd Platoon's sector. Hit them hard, had to make them fall back."

"Yep, and that's where we got knocked down into the alley, Blackwell." Crane grunted. "How many casualties did we have?"

"I don't know, Crane." Duck told them, "We didn't get a chance to see them, that's just what we heard."

And speaking of hearing, a static-filled voice emanated from the dead German's radio. It sounded loud and urgent.

Duck looked to his man, "King, what's that Kraut saying on the radio?"

The young translator brought the headset to his ear. He shook his head while gritting his teeth.

"It ain't good, Duck, hold on… uh, they're bringing in reinforcements to attack us. And it's heavy. We got about a Panzer and a Panther with an entire platoon of infantry coming up here… right now!"

A soldier with the busy mustache walked forward, "Here? Now?"

King nodded, "Here. And I guess pretty soon. They're trying to… push through narrow street next to the Nebelwerfer battery."

Duck sighed through his teeth, "And that's where we are."

Blackwell looked around, "If they come through where we just did, then that's Able's HQ. And if they breakthrough there… they'll keep going and splinter through the Battalion."

One of his men was laughing bitterly, "I thought moving through this city would be too easy… Well, let's all head on back before Jerry shows up and—"

Duck had eyes of steel. "We ain't going anywhere, Hannigan."

"What? Sarge we can't—"

"We are, damn it! Like Blackwell said, we can't let Jerry come through here, they'll splinter Able in two and cut us to pieces."

"He's right," Crane affirmed. "We can't let the Krauts stop the battalion's attack with this counterattack of theirs."

The private with a bushy mustache spat out, "What do you suppose we do, Crane?"

"We hold them off, Saywell," he answered back. "If we can perhaps get them in an ambush here… you see that large impact crater that's big enough to hold a squad… yeah, we can ambush them here and hold them off."

"Great, friggin' perfect! We have to stay here with no arty or armor support!"

One of the privates smiled smugly, "I dunno, perhaps they'll surrender if they see us here?"

"Shut the fuck up, Cunningham!" Saywell cursed before continuing, "We ain't even got heavy weapons or machineguns to hold this place."

"Uh, I got a '42," Lyle meekly spoke up.

Duck gave a half-hearted smirk, "See? We got a machinegun here. How much ammo in it?"

"Uh, not a lot."

"Oh… well we still got an MG."

"So how the hell are we going to knockout a Panther? Especially with no armor." Saywell asked irritably.

"Well, we don't have to knock it out, just stop it, right?" King countered.

"Exactly. We still got some sticky grenades with us. We target the treads and it becomes a multi-ton roadblock," Duck pointed out.

"You're going to be that close to put one on a Panther, surrounded by a platoon?" Blackwell asked skeptically.

"We have to do something. We can't just let this counterattack roll up and splinter our line."

Lyle rotated his head to the yellow 88 flak gun. "Uh, what about the 88?"

Everyone stared at him, then back at the gun, then back at him. Lyle continued, "Uh, I know we drilled upon using this if we ever caught one back at Basic, so... why not this…?"

"Yeah… so did we," Blackwell said softly, looking at the antiaircraft flak gun. He ran behind it and looked through its targeting sights, then smiled. "Oh boy, wouldn't you know? This thing can be pointed directly to the road in front of us, and yet in a defilade behind this building next to it!"

"So we can shoot an unsuspecting tank first without it noticing us," Lyle stated.

The layout of the area among the soldiers was narrowed by close buildings and debris, that for two tanks to traverse forward on the street, they would have to be moving in a single file. But once they got passed the obstruction, then they could move forward side-by-side. The 88 was located right at the junction where the tanks could possibly break free.

Crane got their attention to the narrow street, "If we stop the front tank here with the 88, it'll create a bottleneck for the second. What's better, the second tank won't have a clear line-of-sight of the 88. Then we'll have to worry about infantry."

"That can work." Duck said.

"Yeah."

Saywell was more into the plan now, "If we stop the second tank, and wait out Jerry, then we can get some Armor support for ourselves—"

"And give Jerry a little counterattack of our own," King concluded.

Duck chuckled at Lyle, "What was your name, again?"

"Lyle, Sergeant."

"Hey, Crane. You got a sharp replacement in this Lyle, here. Y'know that?"

A grin broke out on his face, "Yeah, I'm beginning to realize that myself."

Lyle was trying to mask his smile but failing badly.

Hannigan rubbed his jaw, "So I'm hearing we're going to hold them off. Hold them off till what, exactly?"

Duck cleared his throat, "We ain't got a radio with us and the other half of the platoon is back at HQ. We send a runner back to the Captain, telling him to bring up Wilcox and Excalibur, along with any other armor up here to stop their attack. All right, this is what's going to happen. We need three men on the 88 and one pulling security in the area of the battery."

Blackwell stepped forward. "Leave that to me."

Duck nodded, "Okay, then Saywell and Montana, you're on there with him. Rawlings, your BAR is pulling security, make sure no Kraut gets close to that gun."

"Aye-Aye, Duck," Rawlings told him.

Crane looked further down the street, "Lyle, do you see that bombed out house that overlooks the alley. I got a good feeling that's where Jerry will be coming. Set up that '42 by that blasted out wall of that house. Jerry will be coming through that alleyway and you'll blast them down if they get close. That should bottle up most of the infantry."

"You can count on me, Sergeant Crane."

"King, Hannigan, Cunningham, help me with these dead 4th Infantry boys… Take some ammo from them and grenades if you need some. And show some damn respect as you do it. Let's move them out of this upcoming firestorm."

Cunningham walked over to the American dead and groaned mildly, "I didn't come all the way to Europe to do this."

"I know, Private. But the infantry is an ever-expanding skill-related profession. You'll be surprised what you'll have to do in the field."

"What about me, Sergeant?" one of Duck's privates asked.

"Tackett, head back to HQ and get the Captain, tell him of our situation and how we need some tanks up here."

The young Private looked ashamed by the command, "But Sarge, I want to stay here and help!"

"This will help. Now you just got here yesterday, and it's going to get hairy here real quick. And don't argue with me next time, now get on going!"

"Yeah, I got it, Sarge." The replacement took off running back to HQ.

"All right, boys, let's get going. Hurry, now!"

The ragtag mix of soldiers dispersed at once to do their respective jobs. Before Lyle left, he needed an actual weapon incase his MG ran out. He picked up a discarded Garand and reluctantly fished through the body of a soldier and examined the ammo to find only sixteen rounds were left. He stashed the extra bandolier in his ammo webbing then slung the semiautomatic over his shoulder.

"So, Crane, are you combat effective with just one arm and pistol?" Duck had asked.

Crane gave him a smirk, "You kidding me? I'm like Wild Bill with this thing. Don't need to worry about me, Hudson."

"Hey, Sergeant Crane?" Lyle asked.

"What is it, kid?"

"Um, I'm going to be by myself? Over by the house with my MG?" he asked hesitantly.

It seemed to Lyle that Crane had just come to the same realization he had. "Oh, I guess you will be, Lyle." He stood up straight and began to smirk, "You're not afraid, are ya? Cause I've seen you do stuff on your own. You and Bertz advanced when everyone else was falling back, when Bertz was wounded and you ran to him and tried to bring him back all by yourself, hell, you even saved me from the bombardment without even thinking of yourself."

"Yeah, I guess… I guess I did."

"I had my reservations about you earlier today. But Lyle, you're proving me wrong. And I think you will continue on until this war's over, kid. You can do it. Just stay in that blasted out wall, and if you think your position will be overran or you're out of ammo, then fall back, immediately. Loop around the back, we'll be firing from the front, don't want to shoot you by mistake."

"Yeah, I… I got it, Sarge."

"Remember, hold your fire until the boys fire the 88. You hear me? Hold your fire until you hear the 88. We need to draw in the Germans as close as possible. Once you hear the first tank explode, unleash all you got."

"Got it."

"Hey, you've been doing well so far, keep it up, Lyle."

Lyle nodded with a smirk and moved on. He was doing good? That was great! Maybe Crane wasn't so bad after all. He just wanted Lyle to prove himself, and he has. Now there's just a few more things to do.

Lyle made his way to the bombed-out house and set up his machinegun on the bottom level which looked out to the alleyway. He draped a dusty blanket over his back and moved several bits of debris and bricks around him to better camouflage his location. He was ready. He could do this by himself. Sergeants Crane and Duck had put a lot of stock into him, he would not fail them or the men.

After three to five minutes of waiting, Lyle could feel the rumbling of the debris and hear the creaking of heavy metal on gears. The smell of gas was getting thicker in the air. Germanic commands were being uttered loudly. Lyle's palms were beginning to sweat, he was out here by himself, his comrades a safe distance away and together. But he had to keep his emotions in check, he had a job to do.

Four Germans cautiously walked past the house where Lyle was, he inhaled hard through his nostrils at the sudden surprise. The Germans' heads were rotating everywhere to spot any hidden Americans; fortunately, their eyes didn't land on Lyle. He was elated his more detailed camouflage was working. He was so tempted in blasting them to kingdom come.

Not yet… I need to wait for the 88 to go off… not yet, Shawn, not yet…

He held his breath, believing somehow that it would turn him invisible. Several more Germans were walking in front; but the tremors and creaking of the tank were growing louder. The first sight of the tank was its long cannon which seemed endless. The first tank was a Panzer that kept driving forward, the commander not even looking in Lyle's direction.

Oh my God! They looked colossal, up close. Were tanks really supposed to be that big?

Not too far behind, the second tank made its way into view, the Panther tank. Lyle was even more surprised by the size of this one, how could Germany produce tanks this fearsome looking? And just like the Panzer, the Panther didn't notice him. After the tanks had passed, many Germans emerged from behind the street and from inside the alleyway, all hoping to launch a deceptive attack on the American HQ.

The sudden explosion of fire and screeching metal nearly caused the young man to jump out of his skin. To his left, he could see that the captured 88 flak had blown the Panzer apart. The hull was cracked open and fire was brimming from the damaged hatch; the crew inside had been killed instantly. Jesus, that smell of burning gas! The Panther had stopped right in front of it, and with the alarmed infantry directly behind the Panther, disallowing it to back up so quickly.

I can do this! He lined the startled Germans in his sights and fired. They were close together and with the penetration of a MG42 round, six men fell down screaming instantly with a long burst of 20 rounds. The other Germans shook in surprise before their NCOs yelled at them to take cover. Lyle kept the fire in controlled bursts, suppressing the Germans effectively. He aimed his bursts at two Germans who were too slow to crawl into cover, killing them outright.

To the corner of his eye, the Panther was having trouble trying to move pass the ruined Panzer roadblock. Fortunately, the tank commander ignored Lyle's machinegun and was too busy trying to spot the 88 that knocked out the Panzer. Lyle could hear the popping of American rifles and grenades going off, his boys were really giving the Krauts some hell. And he had to stay focused in bottling up the majority of this German platoon.

In the line-of-sight to his far right, Lyle caught a German awkwardly trying to climb a rubble of debris. Lyle arced hard to the right and squeezed a quick burst into the German's torso, and watched the body bounce off the rubble and unto the ground. Lyle suddenly ducked his head, a potatomasher exploded several yards in front of him. In fact, the Germans' firing was becoming more accurate. Machine pistols were laying down a base of fire as bolt-action rifles were trying to pick him off. Pieces of wood and chips of stone were flying around him from the bullet barrage, the dust from the rounds were getting in his eye, yet he had to fight through it.

He had to reload. As he opened the feed and loaded the belt, the Germans took full advantage of the lull. Several of them began to rush forward and started heaving grenades at him. One man overthrew his grenade, it landed several yards behind him and blew. The force of the blast rocked Lyle's boots, the black smoke and dust wafted over him.

He finished reloading in a mad coughing fit and went right back to firing, catching an advancing German in the chest with his shooting. The charging Germans dropped and started firing at him again. That's right, you better stop coming at me, Lyle thought. He was a rifleman. He wasn't going to sit there with his thumb up his ass and allow them to kill him. He was in Europe to fight, and he would fight with all his might, including using the Germans' own weapons against them.

With the last amount of ammo, he squeezed hard against several Germans in the open. His bullets sawed off a German's leg at the knee. The man fell to the rubble, clutching his bloody and jagged stubble of a leg, screaming horrifically. Lyle squeezed the trigger once more, but the machinegun wouldn't fire.

Shit! I need to get the hell out of here!

He saw some ammo-bearers earlier, if they got a hold of an abandoned machinegun… Lyle quickly opened the ammunition feed to the machinegun and awkwardly jammed a stick grenade into the feed. He pulled the cord and took off to the alley to reunite with Crane, the machinegun exploding into pieces behind him once he made it to safety.

He could hear the Germans coming after him in the alley. He heard rifle cracklings as the bullets slammed against the walls around him. He had to keep moving. Can't let Jerry catch him now. The alleyway made a sharp right to the crater containing the rest of the squad. Lyle jumped into the pit, landing beside a surprised Crane. But Lyle recalled he heard bootsteps that were following him in the alley. He swiftly unslung the M1 from his back, shouldering it tightly and securing his arm in the sling for extra stability. Within seconds, a German came out from the alleyway and Lyle put three rounds into his enemy's chest. He collapsed lazily to the ground and did not stir.

No other German came through that alleyway, but just to be sure; Lyle heaved his own grenade down the entranceway to the alley, watching the grenade kicking up dirt and smoke in its explosion. He wasn't sure if he got any Germans, but that explosion and recently killed comrade would deter them from charging out into the American flank.

Crane witnessed it all and was smiling at him, "Glad you made it back, kid!"

Lyle smiled back, "Me too, Sarge!" A potato-masher exploded five yards away from their crater, both men ducked their heads down. "Now what do we, Sarge?" Lyle asked, debris and dirt raining down on him.

"We hold on out till support comes!" he answered back.

Hannigan grumbled as he reloaded his Thompson, "Sure hope Tackett made it back to Able!"

"C'mon boys! Keep firing, we need to hold these bastards off!" Duck bellowed.

Cunningham was chuckling, "Well at least we still have that 88! With that on our side, that Panther better not show its ugly ass out from—"

The Panther's cannon began rotating in the direction of where the 88 gun was. It fired an AT round which shot a clear hole through the building and bounced off the ground past the anti-aircraft gun, exploding into a distant building. Because of this new hole in the building, the Panther had a clear line-of-sight to the gun, and the American crew realized it. The three men quickly hopped off of the gun and made a run for it with Rawlings hauling ass behind them. The Panther fired again, and blew the gun into a splintered, blazing scrap.

"Oh shit…" Cunningham muttered weakly.

Hannigan elbowed Cunningham hard in the arm, "Thanks a lot, Cunningham! When will you learn to shut the fuck up?!"

"What the hell are we going to hit that thing with now?" King asked open-endingly.

"The last resort," Duck answered solemnly.

Some of the men took out their sticky grenades and looked nervously at each other. The four men of Blackwell, Montana, Rawlings, and Saywell who were by the 88, had sprinted back to Sergeant Hudson. Saywell roared to Duck, panting wildly, "God! Never ask us to do that again!"

"No promises." Duck replied.

"We got a bunch of Krauts coming over to that side, Duck. They're going to come knocking pretty soon!" Rawlings warned, propping down the bipod of his BAR.

The Germans were beginning to scatter out and take cover behind debris, their firing became more disciplined and they started tossing grenades to mask their encroaching approach. Montana took a bullet through the top of his shoulder; Duck and King pulled him into the crater to administer first-aid.

Lyle was counting his shots. He initially had two bandoliers of eight rounds apiece, now he was down to seven—no, six, a German moved from cover and Lyle had fired, but he missed. He couldn't afford to miss anymore. To his left, Crane was mostly lying low in the crater; he would occasionally rise up to shoot at the Germans with his pistol if they had moved 20 yards in front of him.

"I'm running low on ammo, Sarge," Lyle somehow managed to say calmly.

"Same here. Where's Tackett with our support?"

"Panzerschreck!" Cunningham announced. "2 o'clock!"

The riflemen turned to the direction, spotting a two-man Panzerschreck team moving across the mound of debris, hoping to blast the Americans out of their positions. The riflemen squad blasted the two men; they collapsed clumsily over the rubble.

"Maybe we can knock out the Panther with that Panzerschreck!" King said.

Blackwell scoffed, "The Panther's armor is too thick for a Panzerschreck."

"But it can still be weakened if we use the Schreck. Maybe we can disable the treads as well."

"He's right," Duck declared, "I need two men on that!"

"I'll do it!" Lyle instantly volunteered. He didn't even rightly know why he did so.

"Me too," Hannigan volunteered.

"Okay, both of you get ready!" Duck told them. "Covering fire!"

The men opened fire, allowing Lyle and Hannigan to fetch the rocket launcher. Both of them were jumping over the debris, German fire following their every movement. Hannigan told Lyle to check the loader as he got the launcher. Hannigan was running forward, spraying his Thompson at the hip as he charged. Lyle slid next to the dead ammo carrier and searched his bag, only to find there was one rocket inside.

A German was preparing to lob a grenade at him, Lyle spotted him first, fired three rounds into his chest. As the grenade fell back on him, two Germans next to the grenadier scattered out of cover for safety. Lyle popped two rounds into the first retreater, he fell to the ground wounded. He then leveled his M1 and squeezed off the last round in the Garand. The German's feet went flying backwards in the air and he landed face-first into the dirt.

"I'm out!"

Hannigan got the weapon from on top of the mound and called down, "Replacement! I got the tube! How many rockets we have?"

"We only have—"

Hannigan was abruptly shot through the chest and died instantly. Lyle gasped in shock. What was Lyle going to do now? He was by himself, how was he going to— Wait, what the hell was he thinking?

"We're infantry, Private. When shit gets tough, we improvise."

Crane was right. He still had a job to do. He inhaled through his nose and rushed on top of the mound of debris amidst the bullets and obtained the launcher from the dead American. He then spotted Crane of all people, rushing forward amid the gunfire with one arm.

"The hell you doing here, Sarge?!" Lyle yelled over the cracking bullets.

"Shut up! You got the launcher?"

"I got the 'Schreck!"

"Are the rockets damaged?"

Lyle checked the tailfins and examined it furiously for any signs of dents or damage.

"We're all clear, Sarge!"

Two rifle rounds cracked off the edge of the debris near Lyle's head. Crane hollered, "How many rounds do we have?"

"We got one round, Sarge! The loader only had one!"

"Then don't miss, kid!"

Crane switched places with Lyle and began firing his pistol at the Germans. He looked back to the replacement, telling him, "Get that round primed! I'll assist you once it's done!"

They drilled on this relentlessly. How to wire the round incase they ever captured one.

"I'm ready!"

Crane dipped back into cover. Lyle pulled the safety tape off the round and handed it carefully to Crane, "Careful, Sarge! That's a live round!"

"Understood! Get set up, Lyle."

Lyle shouldered the cumbersome launcher. Though this launcher packed more of a punch than its American counterpart, it was sure as hell heavier. He aligned up the sight in the shield with the side of the tank, he just prayed that the sights were established to be accurate upon firing.

Crane quickly but gently pushed the rocket into the tube until his wrist was touching the breech guard. Crane patted Lyle's helmet twice with a "Go!" and cleared out of the way of the back-blast. Lyle fired, the round boomed against the German armor. It looked like it penetrated, but the Panther was still operational. The launcher then seemed to have gotten hotter than the sun, and Lyle quickly dropped the Panzerschreck with a sharp yelp.

The Panther swiveled its cannon towards their position. Lyle scampered off alongside Crane.

The tank fired its heavy shell, exploding behind the two. Both men went flying and landed hard on the ground. Dust and smoke began to obscure Lyle's vision and clog up his lungs. He let out some loud coughs and groans, his Garand was gone from his side, as well as his helmet. Parts of his face stung from where his cheeks and temple scraped off the debris from the impact of the fall.

Crane was groaning loudly through his teeth, slithering curses as he grabbed his arm in the sling with his good hand. His eyes were closed from the pain. Lyle pulled himself up to his knees, he was breathing so hard he thought he ran a mile in under ten seconds. A German silhouette peered from the smoke and leaned over Crane; his rifle was raised against the groaning NCO.

Without hesitation, Lyle unsheathed his bayonet and dashed madly behind the German, shoving the knife deep into the German's lower back. His momentum caused both he and the German to tumble over Crane and unto the ground. Lyle retracted the bloody weapon from the squirming man's body and stabbed him in the chest, yet the German still lived.

Crane could only gawk in pain at the sight, "Lyle?"

The German's quivering hands grabbed Lyle's arm weakly and protested in agony, "Nein! Ne-Nein! Nein! Nei—" Lyle wrenched his hand free and sank the blade into the man's heart.

"Good God, Lyle…" Crane remarked in surprise.

Lyle was panting, "Like you said, Sarge, 'Don't underestimate the blade', huh?" Lyle picked up the Platoon Sergeant by his good arm and brought him back to the rest of the Americans.

The Panther tank turned its cannon to the impeding building on its left and fired into it, demolishing most of the wall and loosening the entire structure. The Panther then switched gears and actually drove partially into the building, its cannon acting as makeshift wrecking ball and razing the two-story building on top of it. But once the smoke cleared, the Panther drove through the rubble and had past the destroyed Panzer tank. The Americans blinked in disbelief.

"Oh my God, the Panther's loose!" Cunningham commented.

"Yeah, no shit!" Crane groaned.

"Didn't think it would actually bulldoze a building just to get to us!" King said.

Blackwell looked at his sergeant, "Duck, we need to pull back! We have to get outta here!"

"Wait! Wh—What about our grenades?!" Lyle countered, "We got stickies, we can use 'em, right?"

"That tank's surrounded by infantry, kid. We can't get close enough to use them!" Blackwell replied.

"Blackwell's right, too risky. We're pulling back! Sound good, Crane?"

"Yeah, let's go! We did all that we could!"

"Rawlings, you lead the boys back," Duck ordered.

"On it!" Rawlings rushed to his feet outside the crater, looking back for a moment. "C'mon! C'mon! Let's g—"

A sudden burping of a MG42 erupted from the rear. Rawlings flew backwards into the crater with a shriek, his BAR falling outside the rim of the crater. Rawlings had seven holes in his chest. He gasped hard and loud for five seconds, and then suddenly went still, his unmoving eyes glued up to the sky above.

"Shit! Rawlings!" Saywell muttered, "Oh God… they got him…"

Blackwell moved over to where Rawlings was shot, lurching his head above the rim of the crater. Germans rounds popped off the rim, Blackwell shrank his head back in. "Damn it! They flanked us! They got a '42 in the house where we need to withdraw from!"

"Christ! Now we're trapped!"

"Any ideas? Anyone?!" Cunningham frantically asked.

"Goddammit, that tank's getting closer to us!" King exclaimed.

Lyle could feel the tremoring of the tank increasing. His mind was already at work. Maybe, if somebody could suppress that gun… then everyone could escape and get out of this crossfire. To do that would be crazy, but what else could they do?

"Hey, I got an idea!" Lyle announced. "If I can get out of this crater and lay down some cover fire against the MG, you all can get outta here!"

"Are you serious, replacement?" Saywell asked with a sneer.

"Absolutely not!" Crane interjected.

"Yeah, man. Besides, let's all beat it together," Montana told him.

"No, if we all go up, then we're a bigger target than one guy; from that machinegun and that Panther. All we need to do is draw the '42 fire away from this crater! C'mon, I can feel that tank getting closer!"

"You don't have a weapon!" Blackwell told him.

"Let me get Rawlings' BAR outside the hole. I'll grab and use it! C'mon!"

The experienced men looked at one another. Duck gazed upon Crane, "Your call, Crane."

"Crane! Let me do this! You gotta let me do this!""

Crane frustratedly nodded, "Alright, fine!

Lyle dug through Rawlings' ammo webbing and removed two extra magazines for the BAR and stuffed them in his jacket, along with Rawlings' sticky grenade. Lyle scooched himself to the very edge of the crater. He looked back to Crane who nodded at him surely.

Duck roared out, "Suppressing fire, now!"

The riflemen shot up from the crater and laid on a thick amount of gunfire against the flanking MG. Lyle sprang to his feet and ran out the crater.

Lyle moved in an angle to the suppressing fire, seizing the automatic rifle, heaving it up, running like the wind. In those three seconds, German rounds were cutting the wind around him and driving past his head. Keep moving, Shawn! Keep movi—

It felt like a baseball with jagged edges slammed into his left arm. The impact caused Lyle to stumble and fall into a separate bomb crater. His left bicep was stinging ferociously, then a quick burning sensation was filling inside of his left arm. He could see a hole through his sleeve with red liquid seeping through it. He witnessed pieces of flesh and muscle hanging out limply through the hole.

"Oh, God! I'm hit! I'm hit!" his eyes were going wide. Was he going to die? Could a medic reach him in time?! Would he—

Kraut bullets cracked against the lid of his crater, snapping him back to reality. He could hear voices in English crying out that they were pinned down and needed help. Some even called out his name, others shouted out that he was dead. Lyle looked at his arm again and gritted his teeth. He recalled the time in his youth where he fell off his bike as he traversed down a steep hill and cut up his knee. It was a fair amount of blood and tears were in his eyes, but he had to go back home; he was determined to go back home riding on top his bike, with blood and tears in all.

He was nine at that time, and here he was eighteen. No one was dying in those days, but now, men are. Was he going to cry now?

With gritting teeth, he crawled to the edge of the crater and spotted the German machinegun firing at the Americans from within cover of the house. He pulled the bipod down on the BAR and lined up his sights and squeezed a full burst from his magazine. The rounds tore through the housing and the Germans inside ducked for cover, the MG fell silent.

Lyle could hear, "Jerry's suppressed, let's bug out!" followed by GIs getting out of their craters to relocate.

"Lyle, you did it! Fall back, now!" came Crane's voice.

"Keep going, Sarge! I'll be right behind you!" he called back.

"What? No! NO! Lyle! Get back here!"

He finished reloading his BAR and pushed himself up to his feet with the butt of his rifle. Those Krauts were still alive inside, he could feel it. And as long as they're kicking, his comrades were in danger.

He burst through the door to come upon the three-man MG42 squad. One of them spun around and shrieked, "Yank!" Lyle leveled the barrel against the announcer and plugged him in the stomach with a five-round burst. Whilst still holding on to the trigger, Lyle rotated to the left and gave his automatic fire to the gunner and assistant gunner. Large bundles of uniform, flesh, and blood were shot out into the air from the three Germans. To receive such automatic fire from a BAR at close range was devastating. The room was being decorated with buckets of blood spraying out, one round found its way into a skull and popped the man's head like a balloon.

The rifle ceased, and the barrel was glowing in a low red with smoke exiting. His trigger hand felt numb and his left arm was burning intensely, but Lyle's thoughts for that moment was the bloody aftermath of his MG42 slaughter. Then it returned right back to his fellow Able men. He had one last bandolier left for his BAR.

If the Germans flanked this position to catch them in a pincer, they could certainly do it again. He went to the back of the house; sure enough, three Germans were running towards the house to reinforce it. Fortunately, Lyle was in cover and hidden from the encroaching Jerries. He fired the BAR in long bursts against the three Germans. Two of them fell fatally wounded from the burst, the last one took six rounds in the chest and flopped backwards dead from the momentum. And with that, his automatic rifle was empty now.

What seemed to be the last of his comrades had escaped the crater and fell back to HQ. The Krauts and the Panther were right on their heels. As if we would let Jerry shoot his brother-in-arms in the back as they retreated! That tank was still an obstacle, his sticky could take it out, if the infantry around it was neutralized.

Without a second thought, Lyle threw his empty BAR on the ground and mounted the MG42 propped up against the window inside the house. He reloaded it quickly and shouldered it tightly. He spotted four Germans by the tank; two of the soldiers were barking orders, the NCOs. He lined up his sight and squeezed. Four of the Germans quickly fell dead by the tank from his withering fire.

Several Germans were waving for him to knock it off, convinced he was their comrade. One private had even brazenly stood up out of cover waving at him. Lyle gritted his teeth and tore open the man's ribcage. At once, he heard a vengeful cry, "Amerikaner!" Then a squall of rounds cracked off the rim of the window. Dust fell into one of his eyes, blinding him partially. A bullet entered his left hip, sending him down to his left knee.

The Panther tank began rotating its cannon towards the house, lowering it down to the ground level. "Shit!" was all Lyle could say, spinning on his feet, running to the back of the abode. Running through the pain, the backdoor was in his sights. He dipped his shoulder and slammed against it; the door swung out with force. He heard the walls, wood, and brick from the house crashing out behind him before he heard the tank firing its cannon.

Debris slammed against his back as he stumbled to the ground, the smell of smoke and fire wafted around him. A thick cloud of dust descended on his coughing body. His hearing was muffled, his left arm felt like it was dead. That damn tank… how many times was it going to try and kill him?!

Ahead of him was a discarded Mauser rifle. He crawled on hands and knees and retrieved it; he opened the bolt to find it fully loaded.

The tank was cleared of most of its German defenders. He had to stop that tank! An image of Bertz flashed in his mind. No, there would be no more casualties like Bertz, Hannigan, and Rawlings, that Panther had to be destroyed before it reached Able's HQ.

The Panther tank stopped momentarily, unleashing a rippling of its bow gun and main cannon against unseen Americans. Most of the infantry had already advanced ahead of the armor support, the tank was now about twenty yards away from him. Now was his only chance. He used the rifle to stand to his feet, every time he put pressure on his left leg it felt as if a sledgehammer was bashing into his hip. But he had to keep on moving to the tank. A machine-pistol suddenly erupted. Two rounds hit the American; one bullet hit him in the right thigh, and the other bullet hit him in his right side of his lower back. Lyle was screaming through his teeth on the ground.

I can't stop… I won't!

His entire right side of his body burned, but he had to fight through it. He started clawing his way forward with his hand and his rifle, pulling his body slowly toward the tank. The gravel and stone dragged on his wounds; he didn't know he was leaving a trail of blood behind him.

I ain't stoppin! I'm an infantryman! I ain't giving up!"

Seven yards away, he took out the sticky grenade. Four yards away, he stopped briefly and lit the fuse. By the time he was three yards away from the tank, it started to move forward slowly. It was now or never! He summoned the last of his strength forced himself forward in a desperate lunge, and firmly planted the sticky in the last segment on the treads of the tank and lit the fuse. He rolled himself over to a crater with his rifle like a carpet, a few yards behind the tank, and covered himself.

A loud boom emanated from the side of the tank. The metal behemoth grinded to a halt with a busted tread. God, everything was so painful for Lyle! The tank commander opened the hatch, he was blabbering in a mix of fury and confusion. With the German rifle in hand and lying on his back, Lyle lined up his sights with the commander, and squeezed. His rifle barked, blood shot out of the commander's throat; the commander limply fell back inside his tank as he gagged and clutched his bleeding neck.

The wounded eighteen-year-old exhaled mightily. God, he was so tired, and everything below his neck was in agony. The right side of his body was throbbing while his left side felt as if he was being torn apart. Rest. Rest seemed so beautiful right now. He wanted to close his eyes and drift off like he was back home. But he knew he couldn't. That tank was still operational, there were Krauts still inside that could still kill his fellow soldiers.

Not yet… Not yet… I can keep on going!

He gritted his teeth and once more used his rifle to painfully stand himself up. His right leg was so heavy, and the left side of his waist felt as if he was being shanked by many daggers, but he had to keep moving. He had no anti-tank weapons to destroy that monstrosity. But he did have one more fragmentation grenade, and the commander had opened the hatch to the hull and died before he closed it…

Have to climb it, I have to before it kills us all… He got to the back of the tank and placed his bleeding arm on the back and was slowly lifting his ever-growing limp leg to mount it.

He spotted two Germans behind him, with rifles drawn on him. They were fifteen yards away. He turned around and faced them in surprise. Both of their rifles fired at once. The breath left Lyle's body, his back slammed against the immobile tank. He slid down to his bottom, watching two reddening holes in his chest growing in diameter.

Those two Germans then ran on ahead. Lyle tried to raise his arm, but it felt heavier than an automobile. He tried to breathe, but it felt like an anvil was sitting on his chest. We wanted to scream in pain, but it felt like his lungs were filled with flames that burned his insides. Only thing Lyle could do was use his eyes to see directly ahead of him and use his ears to listen.

He heard several German rifles cracking, then heard a creaking of metal similar to a tank… was that someone cheering in English? The ground's trembling… it was a tank. But the Panther wasn't moving, he himself couldn't move, but he knew that a tank was moving. He spotted two German soldiers running past him, falling back hard for safety. Were they the same two that just shot him? Then three more Germans started running away, followed by five more. What the hell was going on? Why were they— A furious crashing explosion went off directly behind Lyle. The force of the blast moved Lyle's body several feet forward. Lyle was in so much pain from his chest that he couldn't feel that his right eardrum had been blown out from the concussion of the blast and chunks of his back were shredded to bloody ribbons by burning shrapnel.

He smelled burning gasoline directly behind him. He somehow found the strength in himself to twist his head, just a little bit. The Panther was ablaze; out of the corner of his eye was an American Sherman followed by American soldiers.

We did it, we held out! We did… We did it…

Lyle could hear someone crying for a medic. And that cry was getting louder, as if the voice was approaching him. He then heard someone calling a name, his name… Why were the extremities of his limbs getting so cold?

Somebody flipped him over to his back. Crane was kneeling over him with eyes of fear and worry. With his one good ear, Lyle could hear the words from the Sergeant's mouth, "Lyle, thank God you're still alive! Medic! We need a medic over here, now! Lyle, 2nd Platoon came with a tank, you did it! Just— Jesus Christ! How many bullet holes do you have in ya? Now just stay with me! You're going to be fine! C'mon and speak to me!"

Sergeant Crane… Lyle opened his mouth, but the words couldn't come out.

"Lyle? Lyle?! Goddammit, where the hell is that medic?! We got a mortally wounded man over here!"

With his one good arm, Technical Sergeant Crane was shaking Private Lyle frantically. Lyle could only feel the aching pain in his chest, but that began to dwindle. Darkness was enveloping in the corner of his eyes. The world was losing its sound and color. He took a lingering look at the pleading Platoon Sergeant, who still called out to him. "Lyle! Stay with me! Stay with... Stay... Hey, Lyle...! Ly... sta…"

After the counterattack by 2nd platoon, the German advance had stopped across Able's sector and a lull occurred. Baker Company would move in and join Able and push on the attack as Able rested and reorganized in this momentary reprieve. Crane finally found his way back to 3rd platoon; the first ones to greet his return were Sergeant Duhaney and Staff Sergeant Hilberman.

"Lloyd! Oh, thank Christ, you're alive!"

Crane only nodded and smirked weakly, "Yeah… glad you're alright too, Rhett…"

"What happened to your arm?"

"The fall I took had dislocated my shoulder."

"Yeah! I saw that fall, scared the hell out of me. Thought you were dead, Lyle too. But lo and behold, right?"

"SSSergeant Crane," Hilberman said to him, "I led the platoon to the bessst of my ability, SSSergeant!"

"You led the platoon?" He looked around, "Where's Sleeman?"

"I… I had the men pull him out," Hilberman admitted, he looked as if he was admitting that he committed a horrible crime. "He kept blabbing about a wound that wasssn't ssserious. After that, I decided to lead the platoon."

"After we pulled back, Hilberman and I told Conti, and Conti told MacKay. I don't think we'll be seeing Sleeman again, Lloyd."

"I had to, it wasssn't good for the men."

Crane patted the Staff Sergeant's shoulder, "That was a good decision, Hilberman. Really, you did good on that one." Despite being a hardass and a suck-up, Hilberman was not without his qualities. "How are the men?"

"Morale ain't doing too hot. After falling back and losing Morgenstern and Deane, then we thought we lost you and Lyle. We weren't doing so great, Lloyd. But seeing you're back will lift the boys' spirits."

"What about Private Bertz?"

"He took a grenade blast to the face, but he survived. Conrad was a brave medic and still fetched him during that bombardment on the bridge. He's back in the rear."

"That's good… that's good."

"Hey, uh, speaking of… we saw Private Lyle tackle you off the ledge? Where is he?"

"H-He saved me… several times, in fact. And he stopped a Kraut counterattack, damn near by himself… killed about a score of Krauts all by his lonesome… he was shot maybe about six or seven times, but that didn't stop him. And he disabled a Panther tank all by himself while wounded. And… and he's dead."

"Oh man… he did all that?"

"Yeah, Rhett. He did that…"

" Lloyd? You all right?"

"Yeah… just fine… Bertz is back in the rear?"

"Yesss, he isss. Uh, SSSergeant Crane… are you sssure, you're all right? You look… I dunno, you jussst don't look right."

"I'll be fine, gentleman. I uh… I just need to head back to B.A.S and have the docs check on my arm and see about Bertz. Hilberman, you did a damn fine job in my absence. You got 3rd Platoon till I get back. Keep it up, got it?"

"Uh… yesss, SSSergeant."

Crane wordlessly walked on ahead, much to the confusion of the sergeants he left behind.

The tent area outside Saint-Lo was littered with medical personnel treating scores of wounded and crying men. Crane navigated his way to a medic who kept track of the incoming wounded who had just come out of surgery. He gave Crane the directions to find the wounded replacement.

"Bertz?"

The young man had the top half of his face wrapped in bandages, both eyes were obscured by the blood-stained cloth. Bertz squirmed a little, his voice was weak, "Hmm… who's there?"

"It's Sergeant Crane, your Platoon Sergeant, son."

"S-Sergeant Crane? You're alive?"

"Yeah, I am."

"That's good, Sarge," the side of his mouth rose in a smile. "Did you bring Lyle with you?"

Something cold crawled down his back. "I-I d-didn't…"

"Oh, okay, well he's all right, right?"

"Lyle, he uh… he… Lyle was killed."

The side of Bertz's mouth fell, "Oh God." His voice was breaking, "Oh God…"

Crane put his hand on the blind man's shoulder, "He… he saved Able Company. Your friend did that… He stopped a German counterattack, and even disabled a Panther tank by himself. That man was as tough as they come… and I wrote him off as useless… I wrote many of you replacements off as useless… Bertz, I need—"

"Excuse me, Sergeant," a nurse came up to him, "Forgive me, but I need to change Private Bertz's bandages."

"Oh, go ahead, ma'am…"

Bertz was still shivering from the revelation as Crane left that tent. Crane stood there, lost in thought for a minute, until a doctor approached him.

"Sergeant? Have you been treated already?"

"No…"

"Okay then, have a seat over here and I'll take a look at you."

"Thanks…"

Crane sat down and emotionlessly watched the doctor examine his arm. The doctor gritted his teeth softly, removing the sling, "That's quite the color on your shoulder. How long has it been dislocated?"

"Don't know…"

"Can you guess?"

"…About an hour or two…"

"How did you dislocate it?"

"I fell off a bridge and landed on it…"

"Oh, uh, this wrap is pretty good, your medic is a good man for administering this."

"There was no medic, just me and a fellow soldier. I dislocated my shoulder before and remembered what to do. He helped me with the sling…"

"Well he's a good man for doing so."

"Yeah, he was…"

He opened up his good hand, staring at the dogtag in his palm. He read the name once more, "Lyle Shawn W." That man was a true rifleman. Crane looked at his arm in his sling. That man was a real soldier.