Author's Note: Hey, I know it's been two weeks. The reason for the delay was a lot happens in this chapter. You can call this the climax. From here, it's all downhill. That, and because it's almost all a combat chapter, this turned out long. VERY LONG. 12,000 words long. I know that will scare away a lot of people, but for those that are still here, just know that I will never write a chapter this long EVER again.
A word to the wise: there are character deaths, blood, and violence in this chapter. If all that makes you queasy, you should not read this. If you have the courage, read on and enjoy if you can.
Chapter Twenty-one
July 7th, 1944
Caen, France
"WHERE THE FUCK'S OUR MEDIC?!"
Gunfire almost drowned out Renton's desperate cries for a medic. It seemed no one was paying attention except to the enemy quickly storming into the abbey plaza. He ducked behind a half-destroyed wagon to see the damage inflicted, keeping his eyes out for any medic to come by.
In the haze, a black Tiger tank with red numbers provided supporting fire, lobbing explosive rounds into the plaza. German troops in camouflage fatigues and wearing the SS emblem on their collars were pouring in from the main boulevards, poised to take back the Abbaye-aux-Hommes as quickly as the Allies had secured it. The situation, which appeared as bright as a new morning when he walked out with Jacques, now had transformed into a dark storm cloud, one that grew darker the longer Renton looked at Jacques' motionless, dismembered body.
After what felt like a day and half, the entire team of medics come beside Renton, their faces red from constant running and avoiding fire. Sakuya, the twin buns of her ebony hair frantically undone, greeted Renton first.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said hurriedly, "we got here as fast as we could. What do you need?"
"Jacques has been hit! I need you to retrieve him!"
One glimpse of the body of her friend, comrade, and fearless leader sent Sakuya into a shock, and her mouth hung agape, only emitting halting stammers and disbelieving groans. No, surely not Jacques! Jacques had never been hit in his entire life as a partisan! He always survived! He always led! He couldn't die now, not when they were so close to the end!
"What the hell are you waiting for, Sakuya? Go get him, now!"
"But, sir…he…he's…!"
Anemone, clumps of earth and dust clinging to her bright red hair, clearly saw her friend and the only glue holding their band together starting to buckle. One look at Jacques was enough to tell her any chance of reviving him was slim. The last reflexive twitch from his fingers, the gashes in his back and the bloodied stump that used to be his left foot told her everything.
"Renton, we already have eight or nine down at the aid station. We can't afford—"
"Goddammit," Renton shot back sharply, "don't argue with me, Anemone; I'm still in charge here! Now go get Jacques!"
"He's lost a leg, chief! Even if we got him, there's nothing we—"
A small tear mixed with sweat rolled down his cheek as he turned redder than a chili pepper.
"GODDAMMIT, ALL OF YOU!" Renton screamed, his voice choked with regret and grief. "WHEN I GIVE ORDERS, YOU FUCKING FOLLOW THEM!"
Eureka shrank in a moment of fear, having never seen her beau lose his temper before. He was always levelheaded and logical, in command of his senses in moments of crisis. Even when things looked desperate, he maintained the role of a leader, the one they all needed. Knowing that her boyfriend's very sense was on the line, she inhaled deeply and charged out from behind the wagon.
"Eureka, wait!" Sakuya called. "Where are you going?!"
She said nothing, but a single glance at the body was enough to let a tear from her ashen eyes hit the cobblestone as well. Just like Anemone, she knew what Jacques' fate was. The splash damage of that tank shell could kill or severely maim anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast. There was no hope except for closure, and deadly confirmation of what was obvious. Still she ran to Jacques' mutilated body, and lifted him up upon her shoulders. Bullets from all manners of small arms whizzed around her like rage-filled hornets, but she brushed them all aside as easily as she would an errant fly.
Slowly, and with severe straining and sweat, she carried him on her back while Renton, Sakuya, and a few scant other Resistance fighters provided her cover. The overturned wagon was ripped apart by the hailstorm of bullets, sending sharp splinters in all directions. Renton, firing his Springfield rifle from the hip, gave a single order in a choking, desperate voice.
"GET OUT OF HERE! FALL BACK!"
The men under his command did not need to hear another word, and complied. Sakuya offered to shoulder Jacques' body and allow Eureka to get away safely. As the heat slowly withered away from his body, Sakuya broke down in tears as well. Jacques' heavy weight sunk the terrible revelation into her mind, now fraught with panic and doubt. Her best friend, commander, and comrade was dead.
Anemone ushered her into the safety of a narrow alleyway behind a flower shop as the first Sherman Firefly tanks arrived to fend off the enemy counterattack. While she looked over Jacques, Holland's squad retreated behind the safety of the tanks, and the remnants of Denisov's shredded militia platoon soon joined them. Chief among them were Corporal Talho Yukieva and Corporal Weaver, who lagged behind carrying a badly injured Jonathan Stoner.
Stoner, who had been so eager to capture every moment of this monumental siege, was struck in the stomach with shrapnel from the tank shell. Blood caked his tunic and left a morbid polish on his black flashbulb camera. Weaver had his doubts that this man would live, but still carried on. He had to do something for him.
While Weaver took Stoner's left, Talho held the wounded journalist to the right and quickly laid out her plan.
"Okay, on my count, we lift him up. Ready, Weaver?"
"Do it," he said, huffing.
She nodded and gave a small smile to Stoner to assure him he'll survive.
"Okay…1…2…3…pull!"
At the command, all three stood up from the ground, earning pained groans from Stoner. Slowly but surely, they hobbled away and out of the crossfire at the plaza. The Abbey, where surely hundreds of civilians still took refuge, was not immune from the firefight even at this juncture. Large piles of cobblestone jammed the front doors shut, and several stained glass windows were shattered. Holland and the other members of his squad were struggling with the rubble, clearing out the door one rafter plank at a time, just as Talho slowly trudged to the fallback line.
Holland spotted her and Weaver from the corner of his eyes. His gold eye tooth flashed in a grin, knowing they were safe but it quickly disappeared at the sight of Stoner's condition. To the eyes of a hardened veteran, it was clear he wouldn't last much longer.
Holland left his squad without direction as they took cover among the piles of cobblestone and broken walls to see what he could do for Talho. He may have balked at the idea of helping a stranger, but at least Talho had the right idea of getting him out of the line of fire, and out of the way. Upon finding her, Stoner's grasp on life was visibly slipping as his face grew pale and the belly wound hemorrhaged.
"Here, hand me your legs."
Stoner obliged the young partisan, and what had been a slow plod was now a brisk run. The four people fled from the Abbey plaza, and made for an abandoned bar with a caved-in roof. Hardly a suitable place to recover, but they had to stop somewhere. With all the strength they could muster, the foursome ran into the rundown bar, set Stoner on the hardwood floor, and took a much-needed breather.
The instant his back touched the floorboards Stoner winced in great pan. Holland looked with grim certainty at the growing red splotch on his tunic, and clearly saw what they all must have seen. Unless he received immediate medical attention, there was no hope for him.
"We can't stay here," Holland reminded them all. "Germans are pouring in more troops. They'll overwhelm us if we don't fall back and regroup."
Weaver wiped a sheen of sweat off his scalp, and adjusted his peaked cap, flinching at every snap of a bullet that hit the windowsill.
"I hate to say it, but your boyfriend's right, Yukieva. We gotta get back."
"Then we take Stoner with us! We shouldn't be that far from Renton and the others."
Just then, Holland looked down at the floorboards with a grim scowl, conveying his grievances regarding the journalist's fate. Talho's eyes widened, realizing what he was implying.
"No. We can't just leave him to die here!"
Weaver was about to say something with more rapid gunfire forced all of them down onto floor. Loud voices speaking in German could be heard not far off. Weaver was about to make a point when he heard a gentle clink below him.
One look at his feet made all their eyes widen in terror, as the familiar shape of a German stick-shaped hand grenade. The decision had to be postponed for later as Holland screeched, his voice almost cracking.
"POTATO MASHER! SCATTER!"
As if automatically, Talho's legs were going to an opposite direction. Her mind was telling her to go back and retrieve Stoner. She had to save his life while she still had the chance. However, the short haired teenager took a beeline for safety.
Not a second had passed when a loud explosion deafened all four of them, and a screen of wispy grey smoke filled the main room of the bar. Thanks to their quick reactions, Talho, Holland and Weaver had all managed to escape certain death and mutilation from that grenade. But while they all could run, Stoner couldn't.
Holland, who huddled behind an overturned table to avoid the grenade's damage, peered over the edge of the table and saw the damage. It was enough to make even him, who would be so accustomed to scenes of violence, turn away in horror. He bit back some bile that gathered underneath his throat as Talho gasped at Stoner's remains.
The grenade had cast several shards into him, and one especially large sliver into his neck delivered the deadly blow. His empty eyes stared up at the cracked ceiling, conveying neither grief nor fear. The only evidence of his final wishes was a small notepad, stained with blood, gripped in his free hand.
Talho's eyes shrank to the size of pebbles. Her legs were weak, struggling to kept balance. Her fingertips trembled with guilt. Disbelief changed into devastation as Talho collapsed from what was left of their friendly, confident acquaintance. She couldn't muster up the tears for the poor soul, considering they have only just met him a few hours ago. Even so, Talho could do nothing for Stoner in the end, not with such a doomed injury.
"I...I couldn't save him..." she said, soaked in shock. "I couldn't get Jonathan out of there..."
"You did all you had in your power to do," Holland offered. "We can mourn later; now's the time to leave."
Talho slowly reached out for Jon's bloodied notepad from his now unmoving hand. There must have been a good amount of information regarding the war. Jonathan Stoner was quite the ambitious worker. That was for certain. To honor him, she tucked it in her pocket. If she stayed survived this, perhaps she'll give this to the press, someday. After hearing Holland's ever aloof response, the girl turned her head towards him. Her expression was listless, at first.
"Is that all you have to say? Just a cut and run response?"
"For God's sake, Talhoya," Holland replied, "this is not the time. Our lives are at risk, too, you know."
Something in her snapped. Holland's aloofness lack of emotional support was enough to finally drive Talho over the edge. She quickly stood up and gave Holland the most furious glare no male soldier has ever seen in their lifetime. Even Weaver found himself stepping back to such a rare display of anger from his comrade.
"What the hell is your problem, Holland!? Do you not have any compassion for people?! This is the same shit you pulled back when we found those children at the village."
"And that's because I had a real concern then, just like I have a real concern now!"
"You never take time to just stop and look around you. It's always about what objective to take, who to kill next, who—"
"This is war, Talho! People die, and sometimes there's nothing we can do about it!"
"How would you know?"
"BECAUSE I KNOW!" he screamed. "I fought the Germans in my own city, I fought my own countrymen fleeing to America, and I fought starvation and poverty on the streets while you lived the good life!"
His hands curled tightly around the stock of his submachine gun until his bones cried in protest. Still, he continued on.
"If you lived on a battlefield like I have, you would know what it takes to survive."
In that moment, all they could hear was the spatter of gunfire and the boom of a tank's gun. Something glistened in Talho's quivering hazel eyes, and she understood how fundamentally different they were. The difference that amounted to a wall taller than the Empire State Building separating them.
"If that's how you feel, then I'm sorry I ever said I loved you."
She grabbed her rifle and immediately ran out the door to the fallback line. Holland could only watch as she, his one personal savior, the only love he had in his world, disappear like his life in Stalingrad, Mikhail, everything he had in his home country.
Weaver and Holland looked to each other briefly, as if searching for some meaning in this madness. They looked for words, but neither could speak. There was nothing to say. Holland sighed and cocked his Thompson submachine gun before running back out into the fire to rejoin his squad, who were now falling back from the plaza and trying not to get overrun by German panzers. At least here on the battlefield, Holland thought, he didn't have to face questions like that. Not when it was fight or die.
Weaver followed after Talho, still fuming from the spat. He was flabbergasted to see such an infuriated outburst from her. Despite always being condescended to and given menial work before Holland came along, she never voiced a single complaint and never raised her voice once. To see her red-faced and indignant was to see another person entirely.
He tried to console and talk some sense into his comrade.
"Talho, you're joking right? You can't just break up with him like that."
"I just did it," she said matter-of-factly.
"But you two have been through so much already. You should at least—"
"I'm not interested in hearing it, Weaver!"
He flinched at her angry retort, clearly seeing she was in no mood to take advice. The wound was still fresh, and to aggravate it further would only be dangerous. Hanging his head low, the corporal tepidly followed Talho as they reached Denisov's position, making a headcount to see who all was left in their platoon. Evidently, not many.
"Corporal Yukieva," he said, "you were with Holland last. What's he doing right now? Still with his squad?"
A moment of silence passed, and Talho looked to her superior with dead, empty eyes.
"Who the fuck's Holland?"
»»»»»
July 8th, 1944
The German counterattack had been stopped, and the northern half of Caen was secured. However, the price they paid for their progress was high. Jacques was declared dead before the night was out, and left all devastated. Their fearless leader, the man who had guided them through four years of occupation and battle against their enemy was gone. Renton had to fill the gap until someone else more suitable could be found, though many doubted such a prospect. It was only natural that Renton, the renowned American Russian and hero of Stalingrad would take charge after Jacques' passing.
Renton struggled to read out his orders over the crash of thunder and the heavy pounding on rain on cobblestone and pavement. It was clear to anyone that he was scarred from what he had seen, right down to the hesitant stammer as he read from a drenched sheet of notebook paper.
"The Bosch have taken defensive positions s-south of the Orne R-river," he said, breathing heavily. "They're not leaving C-Caen until we k-k-kick them out completely. So, our job…"
He paused and wiped some excess rainwater off his forehead.
"…our j-job is to advance with the British tanks over the river, and head t-t-to the southernmost c-c-city limits. If we do that…Caen is ours."
All officers and rank and file soldiers nodded. There was one who was unresponsive throughout the briefing: Sakuya Kobayashi, who stood frozen like an icicle in a cave, dead in her brown eyes. Renton could see Sakuya on the verge of cracking, much like how he was. This was all too much. They should at leave have some respite to honor and bury the dead! But there was no time for burials, funeral eulogies and final goodbyes. They had to keep pushing forward, even if it meant their lives as well.
"Look," he said with a leaden sigh, "I-I know some of you have r-reservations about m-m-me taking charge. I know Jacques is on everyone's mind. I want to stop as much anyone else. But we can't afford that right now. J-J-Jacques wouldn't have us stop when we're so close. So, if f-f-for nothing else…fight for him."
Sakuya moved her empty eyes towards Renton and slowly nodded her head. Ray, like a mother to a child, placed a soothing hand on the girl's shoulder and pulled her slightly closer to her. Charles nodded solemnly to Renton, knowing just how much this was effecting all four of them.
"I promise you when this is over, we'll bury him, along with everyone else. For now, just focus on fighting the enemy in front of you."
His jade eyes darted to what remained of the militia, whose uniforms were all but drenched from the downpour. When they started this campaign in Carentan, they were 25 raw recruits. Now they were only 10 combat-weary veterans. Dougherty had been killed, and the few survivors of his squad had merged with Nechayev's. Denisov, his normally straight pencil mustache drooping from the rain, hardly looked alive.
"Lieutenant Denisov."
The tired lieutenant stepped forward and stood up as best he could.
"Sir?"
"You're in command of my old section until we're out of Caen. You'll be guarding the bridges over the Orne. Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir," he said resignedly, removing his peaked cap to wring out water.
"The Germans are b-bringing in their c-c-command elements. They're g-g-getting desperate to hold on to this city, so I want you all sharp and r-ready for anything."
And with that, the briefing was over. Everyone was dismissed. Each unit went on their separate positions and readied their weapons and their resolves. Despite what they have just been through not too long ago, they knew Renton was right. They had to stay strong and brave if they wanted to get out of this city and avenge their fallen resistance leader. Sakuya attempted to reload her rifle with her uneasy, shaking hands but to no avail. How could she focus at a time like this? Her worst fears from her nightmares were coming into fruition. Eventually, she will be the last one amongst the shattered rubble and bloodied corpses.
Just then, Ray, who soothed her pain just moments ago, took the weapon from her hands and reloaded it herself. She gave it back to her broken comrade and friend with a smile
"Here you go."
Sakuya gave her French friend a small smile as a thank you before retrieving her weapon. Her brown, dull eyes were now fixated on her combat boots, slowly cleaned of dirt from the heavy rainfall.
Renton's voice called and singled her out.
"All medics to me!"
Sakuya was helped along by Eureka and Anemone, who, despite being chilled to the bone, were determined to see this through to the end. They had to survive this. They had to make it home. The three girls lined up, hardly at attention as Renton gave them his own personal orders.
"Listen, girls," he said, "we've taken a lot of hits getting here. So…I want you all to stay behind and take care of the wounded."
Eureka's grey eyes widened slightly at the order Renton issued out for all three of them. What did he mean, "stay behind?" It couldn't be. He wouldn't dare. Without mental restraint, Eureka blurted her confusion out loud for Anemone, Sakuya, and Renton to hear.
"What?"
"I want you all to save as many lives as you can. We can't lose any more people, especially not after what happened yesterday."
It was understandable for Renton to keep the medics away from danger. But Eureka was far from a simple medic now. The Russian teen transformed to a frontline combatant, alongside her beloved commander. To be assigned back to the sidelines after coming this far with other soldiers was akin to an insult. She held her silence until the brief meeting was over.
Once her friends were dismissed and left for the aid station, Eureka now had a chance to confront Renton on his decision. He was about to leave to rejoin Jacques' old section before a firm and sharp voice caught his attention.
"You're not going anywhere, Renton. We need to talk."
The oak brown-haired boy turned his head to see his lover of two years, glaring softly at him.
"What the hell do you mean, 'stay behind?'" Eureka demanded.
"Exactly what I said," he replied. "We've taken far too many casualties getting here, and we can't afford any more."
"Don't give me that!" Eureka snapped, water shaking off her sodden dark brown locks. "I know what's really going on. I understand you wanting to keep me safe, but, for God's sake, I'm not some helpless little girl anymore! Sakuya taught me to fire a rifle! Ray taught me how to fight hand-to-hand! I can hold my own out there just like anyone else."
"I'm not questioning your ability to fight. You've fought hard and well up to now, that much I know. That's not why I gave you these orders, Eureka."
Eureka's glare faded slightly, relived to know that, despite the turbulence of emotional destruction he was going through, he at least he acknowledged her capabilities.
"You just want to keep me safe, right...?"
Her beau nodded, Eureka sighed in light frustration.
"But, Ray gets to stay with Charles, doesn't she? Why not the both of us? I'm really concerned about you, Rentoshka. You're one step closer to returning to that place..."
"…that place?"
"The same place that causes you torment. The place you went to when Chertov came after you, and after you fought in Stalingrad."
There was a daunting moment of long silence between the lovers. Both parties were now in a standstill with what to say next.
"I thought we were out of that place, darling!" Renton spluttered, clearly straining to go against what his heart told him.
"Maybe, but I thought we had made an agreement," she reasoned. "I promised to follow you anywhere, even into hell. I vowed to never turn you away and always stay with you, for better or for worse!"
He shook his head in refusal.
"I can't let you stay with me this time. Once I meet the enemy, I may end up losing myself, Eureka. I don't want you to see me like that. Not ever."
Eureka bit her bottom lip, seeing it as more proof of why they should stay together during this time. If Renton was going to lose himself to darkness, Eureka had to be the one person to bring him back to the light. Just as she was the only one to save him when he almost killed Chertov in a rage on that snowy day in Stalingrad. She was the only one keeping him grounded.
"I've already seen that side of you, Renton. That's why—"
Without any forewarning, Renton grabbed Eureka by her coatdress' collar, and his thin, wet lips crashed into hers. Eureka's eyes bulged in surprise at his unexpected advance. But rather than feeling anger at being cut off midsentence, Eureka slowly melted into his kiss, curling her arms behind his neck. She missed these moments with Renton so badly. All this killing and bloodshed had spoiled any potential for a romantic moment to share.
"Please Eureka," he quietly pleaded as raindrops fell off his hair, "don't make this harder for me. I don't want to lose you…not after I've lost Jacques."
After breaking apart from Renton's lips, Eureka blushed as she fought the urge to pin him down and continue their tryst. However, that would be pushing it, considering the dire situation at hand. Realizing that her commander was serious, she finally relented.
"As I said before, I'm really worried about you. But, it's quite clear to me now and I won't protest any further. Just...be careful out there, you hear me?"
"I'm not planning on dying just yet..."
With a final whisper in her ear he bid her farewell, and shared a hint at what he meant.
"…because I have to tell you something before we go home."
And just like that, he shouldered his rifle, and carried on to the front.
»»»»»
Charles and Ray elected to go along with Renton, since the other radio operator's kit was shot and in need of replacement. After losing Jacques, Renton would normally disallow it, but he needed a radio operator to serve as a link with the others. The friends he still had left.
The plan was a simple, straightforward one: escort the tanks, and push the Germans out. Along the way, they would kill anyone who resisted and destroy any hard point of defense. By now the British had rolled in their heavy artillery, and were standing by awaiting coordinates. Charles kept the radio line open, as he knew full well they may have need of their overwhelming firepower. He flinched as his friend and now overall commander barked orders to the Resistance troops, mingling in with the British regulars.
"Keep in groups of six per tank! C'mon, boys!"
Ray's beret, blouse and dress were soaked through by the heavy rain, clinging to her skin like a wet napkin. One would think she had just taken a swim in the river. Charles was always the first to remind her that when this battle was over, the first thing they'd get would be hot showers and new battledress. It was hard to think of anything positive as long as the rain kept pelting them as they went forward. As she and her beau looked about them, it was clear that this campaign had taken a heavy toll on Jacques' section as well; it was a skeletal force of less than 20 people at most, many of whom were barely in their teens. Such was the case with partisans, always drawing the young and fresh-faced who were eager to do their part. Compared to them, Charles and Ray were old folk.
She laughed to herself as her boots splashed in a small pool on the pavement. Old. And she was barely in her twenties.
Charles nudged her in the shoulder.
"Mon cher, ça va?" he asked, concerned. (A/N: My dear, how are you/are you okay?)
Ray sighed, uncertain.
"Je ne sais pas. It's hard to believe that Jacques is actually gone." (A/N: I don't know.)
Charles bit his lip, knowing what she meant. The death came as a shock to all of them. It happened so quickly, and it seemed impossible. Jacques was never wounded in his entire tenure as their leader. Now, he was gone, snuffed out like the flame on a candlestick.
"He was our best friend."
"Sakuya is taking it really hard, you know. Before we left I got one last look at her. She standing in the open with this dead look in her eyes. Hopefully she'll survive this."
"All of us will, mon cher," he said assertively. "We have to. We promised each other we'd see the end of this war. Non?"
She nodded, although it was hard to believe in such things right now.
"Oui…"
It was clear Ray was still stuck in the pit of depression, as all of them were. How could anyone carry on after Jacques' end, like it was nothing? Yes, there was still a city to capture, a war to be won, an occupier to be kicked out, but couldn't they spare a moment to mourn? To lament? To remember every good moment they had with him?
Charles tightened his grip on his Kar98k, and wondered if anything at all could shake her out and give her strength to move forward. In a split-second, every possible phrase of encouragement was considered and thrown out. But then he remembered a promise he kept to himself, and one that may finally need to be shared.
"Ray, listen. This may not be the best time to talk about it, but…"
Ray looked to him with a note of interest.
"What would you say if, after this war is over, you stayed with me?"
The raindrops on her cheeks evaporated as she blushed. Was he seriously proposing in the middle of a battle?
"Is…is that your way of proposing, mon cher?"
Charles averted his eyes and smiled sheepishly.
"…oui."
Before Ray could even give an answer, Renton relayed new orders, indicating their changing locale.
"Pipe down and stay sharp, boys. We're entering kraut territory."
Charles growled quietly, and resisted the urge to slug his best friend. He just popped the question, and Renton had to ruin it!
In the dark shadows of a one-way street perpendicular to the Allies' line of advance, a lone Tiger tank sat idling, waiting for the right moment to make its presence known. It barely fit in-between the row of houses, its treads scraping against the stone and plaster. Inside, Jurgens's tired eyes peered over the edge of the cupola, watching as the British infantry and tanks came into view.
"We've got a clear shot," Humbert noted. "What are we waiting for?"
"For the 'American Russian,' as the Captain calls him," Brandt noted sarcastically. "He thinks he's here in the city.
"I don't think," Jurgens retorted. "I know he's here. I saw him at Baron-sur-Odon, and at the Abbaye-aux-Hommes. He is here, and we're going to finish him."
"Even if the stories are true, he's just a kid. Why are we wasting our time on him?"
"Because he's their hero! Because he humiliated us twice! Because if we kill him, we'll strike a blow to morale!"
Jurgens continued on, explaining how the famous boy had traveled all the way from America to fight in Stalingrad and secured a name for himself. He relayed all the horrific stories from survivors of that climactic battle, stories of a boy who fought ferociously, with no fear of death and no pity for his enemy. The same boy who had survived, arrived on the shores of France and inspired the Resistance with a newfound determination. Some of Jurgens's crew were skeptical, while others thought the idea downright laughable.
"A little kid like that does so much damage?" Eberhardt posed incredulously. "It's impossible! How did he even survive Stalingrad?"
"Even if it is true," Jaeger put in, "I doubt any Russkie or Tommy will care if he dies. He's just one boy."
"I didn't ask for your opinion, Jaeger," Jurgens replied sharply. "Just keep your eyes open and be ready to fire on my mark!"
The effectiveness of their attack depended on remaining hidden. Normally anyone would engage the first tank they spotted, but Jurgens recognized the superior firepower of the British tanks. If they timed it right, they could come out behind the column and wreak havoc. But his other reason was to finally confront the boy who had caused him and his company so much ire. Peering through his binoculars, he searched in the see of faces to find that one boy. Then, right behind the third Firefly tank, leading a group of six Resistance fighters, he spotted a faint speck of oak brown hair.
"Jaeger, target that Firefly and fire at will!"
The gunner did as he was told, and aimed the main cannon at the chassis of the Firefly, using a crown painted in white as his marker.
"FEUER!"
At the same moment the Tiger opened up, Renton heard the shot and sent everyone running for cover. Two seconds passed when a loud "whoosh" was heard followed by the harrowing explosion of the Firefly. In a flash, the initiative in this battle completely changed hands. Jurgens seized on the opportunity and barked his next orders.
"Brandt, forward! All power to engine!"
The tank's motor groaned as it lurched forward, slowly emerging from the street like a terrifying specter. Renton's entire body locked up in a fright, but it wasn't just the sight of that Tiger slowly inching its way into combat. It was the sound of rapid machinegun fire to their front, and the screams of British infantry as they were cut down unexpectedly, wheat before the scythe. Charles and Ray instinctively followed him into an abandoned florist on the other side of the street as the other British tanks brought their guns around to counter the new threat.
"Charles, follow me!" he called. "We need to radio our positions to the artillery!"
The young couple pelted their way up the stairs to the second floor, only to be greeted by a German trooper wearing the emblem of the SS on his collar tabs. In his hand he held a polished Sturmgewehr-44, its muzzle pointed right at Renton's belly. Without a second thought, Ray opened fire with her MP40 at the same time as the German, and all were left deaf by the rapid fire. Thankfully for all of them, Ray was quicker on her draw, but they did not escape unscathed.
Renton had received a small scratch on his right arm, tearing his trench coat sleeve and leaving a splotch of red behind. But there was no time to dress the wound, not when they would be destroyed at any moment. So the trio approached the windowsill and looked down.
Clearly if they idled any longer, their entire battlegroup would be on the ropes. Two Firefly tanks were down, and the Germans were starting to bring in their shock troops and heavy panzers. British soldiers valiantly managed to slow the advance, hiding behind piles of stone, in buildings, or more gruesomely, behind the corpses of their dead. The remainder of Jacques' section was wavering, searching for any means of escape back to the safety of the north side of the Orne River. Renton had to rally them, and time was not on their side.
"Either of you have a smoke grenade?" he asked.
Charles and Ray looked about their person, searching for said munitions. At the same time, Ray kept an eye outside the window to make sure any German troops wouldn't swarm them. Sadly, she was not to be so fortunate.
A squad of submachine gunners in camouflaged fatigues advanced down a narrow alleyway towards their position. The lead man, presumably their officer, spotted her in the window and pointed to her. Without thinking she pulled a stick grenade off the body of the German she just killed and lobbed it out the window. As it spun out she screamed,
"Have a taste, Fritz!"
She ducked down right after tossing it as a hail of bullets greeted her and splintered the doily. The grenade's "boom" followed some seconds later. If she caused any casualties, she may never know. There were more important things to attend to than one's own kill count.
Charles reached behind him and grabbed a small tin canister off his utility belt. Renton smiled in approval, seeing they did indeed have what they needed.
"Okay, now toss that smoke grenade down to the street. We'll use it as a target marker for the artillery."
His friend nodded and approached the windowsill, watching outside as a group of Germans advanced behind a monstrous Tiger. The Tiger fired its main cannon, and the shell landed behind the British infantry, flinging some high into the air along with splints of timber and chunks of cobblestone. Charles gulped at the sight, curling his finger around the pin of the grenade, waiting for the right moment to toss it.
The Tiger and assault infantry slowly passed, until the trio were right on top of them. Just as it went beyond, Charles pulled the pin and threw it down onto the buckled pavement. The grenade hissed as a cloud of red smoke slowly rose towards the cloudy skies, still birthing rain. They had their marker, and now had to call it in.
They all ducked down as Charles handed the radio receiver to Renton, and was put through to the artillery positions at the northern edge of Caen. A gruff, Canadian voice greeted him.
"King Battery, this is Bonaparte. Do you read? Over."
"Go ahead, Bonaparte. Send your message. Over."
"We have a fire mission for you. Coordinates are as follows: azimuth 240, target reference red smoke. Grid point 4-5-7-9-6. HE rounds, fire for effect. Will adjust, over."
"Roger that. We have your smoke. Firing for effect."
With the job done, now was the time to leave. However, they were not stupid enough to go back out and get caught in the blast of their own artillery. Instead, Renton, Charles and Ray exited the building out the rear and came out on the other street, running parallel to their own line of advance.
What was left of Jacques' section now scrambled for the bridge over the Orne, as the Germans brought in more of their heavy tanks. Renton, knowing that this was their one chance to finally kick their enemy out of the city, did his best to rally his men. Just as the shells began to rain down on the opposite street.
"Stand fast, boys! Find cover!"
Charles gripped his commander's shoulder.
"Renton, we should use the artillery bombardment to fall back. It's obvious we can't take these krauts by ourselves. We need Denisov, Holland and the others!"
"He's right, Captain," Ray agreed with her beau. "Let's take them out all together!"
Renton clicked his tongue in frustration. It was a mistake to think that dividing his forces would be the right strategy. He nodded and quickly relayed his new plan.
"Okay then. We'll regroup on the other side of the river. We lure the Germans in and hit them with everything we have. Then we push onward. Sound good?"
The trio nodded in agreement, and Renton went to the business of gathering what was left of the section for an organized retreat. As they ran at a bull's pace towards the safety of their lines, something unexpected happened. Out from the bottom floor of a two-story inn jumped a German holding an assault rifle. He was grizzled in his face, blood smudging the SS emblems on his collar. In his hand was yet another Sturmgewehr-44, loaded and ready. As with the previous German in the florist's, he aimed right at Renton, zeroing in on his chest. Renton's heart leaped into his throat at the sight and thought for sure he was dead in that moment.
"Captain," Charles yelled, "get down!"
Suddenly Charles' heavy hands shoved Renton to the pavement, almost slamming him as the German opened fire with his assault rifle. Renton's ears were filled with the rapid bursts of automatic fire as he found his Springfield rifle and blind-fired to his front. One bullet went through the German's leg. With a quick shift of the bolt and aiming down his sights, he clipped his enemy through the neck.
Everything stopped at that moment as Ray revealed herself from the trash cans for cover and slowly looked on. Her soft and gentle eyes enlarged with horror and shock at the soul-crushing scene in front of her. Charles, her childhood friend, lover, and future husband, lay on his back in an almost black pool of his own blood, chest ripped apart by no less than 10 bullets. His rugged face showed that of pain, eyes wide with raised eyebrows.
Just like that, not even a full day after Jacques, Charles met his sudden, untimely end. After a few haunting moments of complete silence, Ray found her voice again, and unleashed a blood curdling scream of horror and despair.
Renton jumped to his feet, and saw behind him the terrible sight. His grip on his rifle loosened and his lips quivered in loss and confusion.
"Jesus Christ…!"
Ray fell to her knees, collapsing in grief. Her sobs were enough to echo throughout the streets and alleyways of the ruined city. She reached out to his now cold hand with both of her own, begging for him to stay alive.
"Charles…please wake up…you're not really dead, right?"
"…what the hell…are you waiting around for…?"
Ray looked down in shock, and saw that Charles still had some life in him as he gently turned his head.
"Get out of here…do you want the Bosch to…?!"
Charles choked as spittle mixed with blood slowly streamed from his mouth. Renton covered his own mouth in shock and horror.
"No!" Ray protested. "I'm not leaving you here! What about what you asked me moments ago, about staying together after the war? Was that a lie?!"
He weakly squeezed Ray's hand.
"Nothing I ever said...was a lie. I love..."
His head went limp along with his hand, and as his mouth gently fell open, Ray broke down in tears mixed with rainwater. There was a sharp pain in her heart unlike any ever felt in her life. More painful than a stab and twist of a knife. With a sorrowful cry her entire body went numb, and she was rendered blind by the endless flow of tears.
"NO! PLEASE GOD, NO!"
A tank shell and a spatter of machine gun fire reminded Renton of the deadly situation they were in. Even Ray, lost in a forest of grief, realized she would be next if they lingered too long this side of the river. Renton helped her up, fighting back his own tears and they headed towards the bridge, followed closely by what was left of Jacques' shredded section.
Inside the turret of the Tiger tank, Jurgens peered over the edge and watched a girl wearing a dark maroon coat and matching skirt run towards the bank of the river. Escorting her was the blonde boy that, in his mind, now had to be destroyed.
"What the hell are you waiting for, Alfred?!" Jurgens barked. "Feuer!"
Alfred Jaeger, who saw that nothing would be gained from killing these two partisans, aimed the cannon slightly above them and at a distant café overlooking the river.
He pulled down on the lever, and the cannon opened up.
Renton was pitched several yards forward like a baseball before catching himself near the water's edge. There would be nothing worse than dying from drowning rather than fighting the enemy. Behind him was a loud crash and rumble, like he was caught in the path of some great avalanche. The avalanche of an unrelenting foe.
Upon regaining his senses, Renton looked over his shoulder, and everything, even the loud ringing in his ears, was muted upon the ghastly sight that greeted his eyes.
Behind a cloud of white dust was a large pile of stones, plaster and scrap wooden planks. They were the victims of a tank shell that ripped through the café just above. Renton's eyes scanned and spotted a single, frail hand reaching out, as if beckoning him back into the terrible melee. Blood formed a ring around the forefinger and thumb as it errantly twitched. A few inches away was Ray's favorite beret. Red, adorned with a white pompom, covered with a coat of grey from the excess plaster. Looking closer, Renton thought he could see a small lock of black hair peeking from beneath the pile.
"No…Ray…!"
What at first was shock turned to grief, and as his hands clenched the stock of his rifle, to anger and rage.
"You bastards…" he hissed as he checked the rifle chamber. "…you'll pay for that…you took everything from me…YOU SONS OF BITCHES!"
Every moment of loss and grief piled on top of itself. Renton's father leaving him and his brother to fend for themselves. The years of worrying about Eureka's wellbeing. Seeing her home one wreck and ruin, and her family reduced to poverty. The destruction of every childhood memory he had, the peaceful life he led, all due to the coming of war. The war brought on by a German madman who, in his grand delusions, thought he could rule over all things and all people.
The dust settled and the smoke slowly dispersed, and the first to emerge were not friendly faces, but a pair of German soldiers in camouflage, holding Gewehr-43s. They saw him, kneeling beside the road with the river at his back, and called out to him to surrender.
"Kommen sie hier, banditische schwein!" the taller one with a scar bellowed. "Ergeben sie!" (A/N: Come here, bandit swine! Surrender!)
"Komm, schnell!" said the other one with a shriller, younger voice.
Just the sound of those foreign words was enough to make him seethe. These people ruined everything. They set the whole world ablaze. They robbed him of any chance at a normal life. For that, they must pay!
Renton quickly fixed a bayonet onto the edge of his rifle and charged, screaming.
Caught off guard, both Germans opened fire from the hip, but Renton dashed with the speed of an Olympic marathon runner. Within seconds he was less than a foot away from them, and was quick with his attack. With one animalistic roar he plunged his bayonet into the taller German's belly before twisting it, causing his enemy to moan in sharp pain. Renton alleviated the suffering gruesomely by pulling the trigger and blasting a hole big enough for his hand. As the taller German went down, the younger one came up behind, hoping to beat him over the head.
Renton saw this immediately and spun around on his heel, connecting his rifle butt with the younger German's jaw. It succeeded in knocking him to the ground, and putting him at Renton's mercy. His beaten scuffed brown shoe planted itself firmly on the German's stomach before Renton brought down the rifle again on his face, bloodying the butt with each blow.
"YOU…MOTHER…FUCKING…FASCIST…PIGS!"
Several rapid gunshots echoed down the street, and bullets snapped near a broken building. That sent Renton running to an alleyway, and peering out. Even an inch of exposure sent him back into the darkness of the alley. Renton ground his teeth in frustration as he searched for a way to kill the German opposing him. Kneeling down, he slowly twisted his way out of the corner so he was not as clear a target. He spotted the shooter: rather young, the red and white Hitler Youth armband standing out in the darkness, against the rain. Carefully he lined up the sights of his rifle with his head, but before he could pull the trigger, several more shots were heard, this time from down towards the river.
The young Hitler Youth fell to five bullets, and forced Renton to turn to his rear. There at the edge of the street, a small, square Cromwell Tank made a sharp turn and approached him, firing its coaxial machine gun. Close behind the Cromwell were the silhouettes of supporting infantry. He spotted many a familiar face among them.
"Hey, chief!" Dominic yelled, waving his garrison cover. "Did you miss us?"
Renton smiled at hearing his friend's voice. He quickly stood up and waved.
"Dom? I thought I told you all to stay on your side of the river."
"You didn't really think we'd leave you here to fight by yourself, did ya?"
Dominic laughed, but in the back of his mind, noticed how drastically Renton had changed. Before he was forlorn, and understandably so from the sudden death of Jacques. But now, eyes strained and almost lifeless, his coat ripped in several places and reduced to short of a cheap rag, it was clear something else, more terrible, had befallen his good friend.
"Well," Renton said as Dominic came closer, "now that you're here, you might as well help me push these bastards out."
The stony tone in his voice betrayed every emotion swirling around in his heart. Dominic took note.
"Chief, are you okay?" he asked, concern shining through. "Did something happen?"
Renton quickly looked down the road, and saw the Cromwell tank advancing, firing its cannon at an unseen target. How much he had lost in mere minutes! He gripped Dominic's collar and pulled him closer, relaying quietly,
"Charles and Ray are dead."
At that revelation, Dominic froze in shock and terror. He always took Renton's two friends to be tough, and to last long in a fight. They always managed to escape with only a few scratches, as Jacques did. Jacques was a terrific loss, but now Charles and Ray, too? The last of Renton's connection to this country? To his old past?
"Listen to me, Sergeant Sorel," Renton continued, not missing a beat. "Your orders are as follows: advance down the street in support of the tanks. Kill every German you find. Take no prisoners. Show no mercy. Do I make myself clear?"
Dominic slowly nodded his head, wanting to help Renton as much as he could. With the way he was now, Dominic didn't want to say anything to irritate him.
"Y-yes, sir. Of course."
"As you were, Sergeant."
He sharply saluted his commander, and returned to his post with the tanks.
As Renton reached for his rifle, the entire section streamed past him. He filed his way through to the other street parallel, where he met that dreaded Tiger tank. The black paint, the red numbers, surely written with the blood of his friends, was now stuck in his mind. He had to find and destroy that tank. Damn anyone who get in his way, now. As he made his way to the other side, he shouted a chilling, yet also inspiring cry for battle.
"Those bastards killed Jacques! And now they've killed Charles and Ray! Don't let any of those Nazis live! We'll take Caen block by block, BLOOD FOR BLOOD!"
Every soldier shouted with fury, confidence, and determination. But Holland didn't like the almost heartless sound of Renton's call. It was not in his character to become a beast, seeking revenge. It grimly reminded him of how close he came to losing himself with Chertov on that cold December day, before Eureka intervened.
Holland saw his commander, his best friend, and his soon-to-be brother-in-law slip away from the advancing columns through a narrow alleyway. He bit his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood as he feared what may become of him if he was left alone, in that pit of darkness. In a desperate bid, his light blue eyes scanned the area before him, a sea of marching troops and tanks. He couldn't stop Renton alone, he thought. He could use an extra helping hand or two. Just then, his eyes stopped at an available option. Probably the only option.
Talho Yukieva was marching along with her fellow militiamen as she reloaded her rifle.
She hadn't spoken to him since their spat the other day. Perhaps with good reason. Even if he was more callous with strangers than with family and friends, even if he held back everything from Talho, he still needed her, if only because two bodies were better than one.
"Talho!"
The former lover of Holland's stopped what she was doing and looked to see who addressed her. She lightly scowled at him and averted her hazel eyes away, before continuing the march.
Holland ground his teeth and pelted after her. Before she was lost in the advancing column, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to the sidewalk.
"Look, I know you're angry with me," he said, "and you have every right to be. But something is off about Renton."
She resisted the urge to wrench away, and relented to listen.
"What about Renton? Is he in trouble?"
"Didn't you hear it in his voice? It's not like him to be so eager for blood. Charles and Ray's deaths may have sent him over the edge."
Talho saw the desperate, almost fearful look in Holland's eyes. The fear of losing someone near and dear to him had compelled him to act on his gut and confide in her for help. If only she knew Ray and Charles better, she thought. Renton must have cherished them, and now they were no more.
"Are you saying that he might...?"
"I don't know what he might do, and that's what scares me."
Holland reached his free hand for Talho's.
"You can keep marching, but there is a limit to what I can do by myself. Please Talhoya..."
Talho nodded firmly and offered her help right away.
"Tak, ya pomogu tebye. Let's stop Renton before he does something stupid." (A/N: Then, I'll help you.)
"Spasibo. I won't forget this."
Without another word, both followed Renton through the alleyway to the other street, now rocked with craters from the artillery bombardment.
Thanks to Renton, Charles, and Ray's quick action, the artillery barrage managed to knock out two heavy tanks, and kill at least two dozen infantry. What difference that would make in the grander scheme of this battle? Renton didn't know, and he was not in the business to care. All that drove him was to kill the next German he could find. Kill every last one. Inflict the deep pain he felt back onto those that caused it.
Two Hitler Youths saw him coming from the windows of a bakery, and opened fire. Renton almost shrugged off every bullet that came his way as he jogged over to an abandoned truck, and reached for a grenade. He pulled the pin, and screeched over to his two enemies,
"Open up and say 'ah,' you kraut bastards!"
The grenade was tossed and landed with a "plink" near the feet of one of the Hitler Youths. He screamed for his comrade to quickly escape before it detonated. It was too late for one, but the other flipped out of the windowsill and rolled onto the sidewalk as the grenade exploded and cast a sheen of dust over his platinum hair. As he rose, Renton charged, his voice hoarse and his cheeks wet with tears and rain.
The Hitler Youth immediately blocked Renton with his Kar98k as they two collided, almost sending his rifle flying out of his hands. Renton was undeterred and jabbed his rifle, tipped with bayonet, at the young lad again and again but without success. Renton laughed, almost maniacally.
"C'mon, whadda you got? I'm not afraid to die! You've already taken everything from me!"
Even though he couldn't understand a word Renton said, the Hitler Youth screamed as he flailed his Kar98k around, hoping he would knock this unstoppable enemy down. Renton saw through it and parried with the stock of his Springfield before kneeing the boy in the stomach, hard. This managed to put some distance between the two before Renton finally finished the duel with a sharp stab to the lung. The boy cried in pain as he went down, his mouth filling with rainwater.
"I'm mailin' my shoe to the Fuhrer with your ass wrapped around it, Fritz!"
Renton looked on in satisfaction at his kills. Just then, a figure in the shadows revealed himself, another German soldier. With his back turned, Renton was exposed to attacks. Without hesitation, the older German stormed towards him, rifle in hand. Renton sensed a presence but turned his head too late as he felt a hard punch to his cheek. He fell down on his rear, dropping his weapon.
The enraged German proceed to pin Renton down on the drenched ground, grab his shoulder and growled at him with hate.
"Das waren meine Brüder, Arschloch!" (A/N: Those were my brothers, asshole!)
And with that, he proceed to stab his bayonet at Renton's shoulder and punch him in the face. One, two, three, four times in a row. Renton reached up with a free hand to claw his enemy's eyes out when all of a sudden…
RATATATATATAT!
Gouts of blood erupted from the German's back as he groaned out the last breath of life from his body. He lost all his strength and collapsed on Renton's chest. His shoulder still smarting from the wound, Renton shoved the corpse off him as he looked up to see who his savior was.
"Holland…" he whispered, breathless.
"You look like you could use some help, my friend."
"Yeah. Didn't think there'd be another kraut nearby."
"Get up."
Holland and Talho both pulled Renton up by their hands, and could clearly see the downward spiral he was on. His eyes darted around, searching for the next victim of his hatred. The wet oak brown hair did little to veil the anger that had infected him. For any observer, he was a soldier ready to be shipped home. Holland knew better, as he saw Renton scrounge around frantically for his rifle.
"Your shoulder is bleeding," Talho pointed out. "You should have Eureka look at it."
"Now's not the time to slow down. We have a city to reclaim."
"You need to stop," Holland insisted, his voice stronger than before. "Look at you! You're a fucking wreck! You think you can keep killing Germans like this?!"
"Piss off! You think I did all this shit to myself?! There are Germans everywhere, creating suffering and pain in our world. They're killing our friends and our families! I'll do whatever it takes to rid them all. I'll make them suffer just like we're suffering!"
"Do you realize how crazy you're sounding right now? This is not who you are! This is not the friend I know and love, and it certainly isn't the Renton Eureka loves!"
Renton's crazed glare disappeared, being replaced with a blank stare of unreadable emotions. Why was that being brought up now of all times? He would never hurt Eureka, not the way he was killing these Germans now….would he? He looked down in the ground, lost in self-realization. In a large pool of rainwater, he saw his reflection staring down, and saw for his own self just what he had descended into. The look in his eyes. The tremble in his fingers. The blood on his face, his hands, his bayonet.
"No…I'm…not…"
"Leave these Germans to us, sir," Talho interjected. "We can handle them just fine. You find Eureka and get patched up."
Renton sighed as he shouldered his rifle. How had he so quickly slipped into madness?
"Holland…Talho…I'm so sorr—"
A tank shell landed near them, and a loud voice from down the street heralded the arrival of a new, deadly enemy.
"TIGER TANK! TAKE COVER!"
A trigger was pulled in Renton's mind as he ran for a capsized newspaper stand, and looked down the road to see the silhouette rolling down the street. It was the same tank. The same tank that opened fire on the advancing column and sowed chaos. The same tank that crushed Ray. The same tank that hounded and hunted them in the hedgerows like animals.
Inside the Tank, Jaeger spotted Renton and opened fire with the coaxial machine gun. The bullets made Swiss cheese out of the newsstand, and forced Renton to relocate inside the bakery. At the same time, Holland and Talho had to make themselves scarce and ran recklessly across the street back to where they came.
As Talho pelted her way across the street, a sharp sting in her right leg, just below her hip, paralyzed and sent her careening to the pavement. Holland quickly ran back out, grabbing his former lover by the wrists and dragging her to the other side. Now in a daze from the stabbing pain, Talho could only look up at him, as they made their way into an alley. Until the medics arrived, they couldn't do anymore.
Renton, in the meantime, seemed to plunge right back into madness as quickly as he was pulled out. This was it, he thought. If he could nail this tank and its crew, the scores would be even. He'd have avenged everyone he lost.
But he was armed only with an old bolt-action rifle of Great War vintage. A fight against a tank was hardly fair. He would need to use every ounce of wit and skill at his disposal.
"Tigergruppe," Jurgens spoke, "primary target is the American Russian. Kill him at all costs."
Sensing the folly in this game of revenge, Eberhardt turned his eyes away from the vision slit and protested his commander's order.
"Herr Hauptmann, that boy isn't a threat. We should focus on the armor and kick Tommy back out!"
"Goddammit, I gave you an order, Klaus!" Jurgens barked. "Now keep your eyes on that kid!"
Brandt, the driver, likewise voiced his concerns.
"Due respect, sir, he's just a kid. Even if all the rumors are true, we—ack!"
Jurgens responded with a hard kick to his shoulder.
"Do your job and watch the road, Heinz!"
Jaeger interceded and tried to talk some sense into his commander and friend.
"Johann, that kid is not the person we should be worried about. What will we gain from killing him?"
Jurgens was silent for a few moments, considering just what the costs were of continuing to pursue this boy. Eberhardt broke in, seeing through the vision slits a giant white cloud.
"The boy is gone!"
"What?!"
"He must have thrown a smoke grenade to cover his escape."
"Find him! Schnell, schnell!"
The Tiger pitched forward and rolled down the street, towards the smokescreen. Brandt still had severe reservations about the whole thing, but he couldn't just up and leave. So they kept on. Eberhardt focused on the vision slit, trying to see through the smoke and spot any silhouettes. Even without the smoke, the heavy rain and mist made it all but impossible to see targets clearly.
Crushing a wagon beneath its tracks as it rumbled through the smokescreen, Eberhardt cursed to himself the poor weather.
"Verdammt noch mal. Visibility is utter scheisse…"
He flipped the hatch open and stuck out his head to see. He certainly had a better field of vision than through the narrow slit, but there was still no sign of their target. Maybe he fled at the first sight of their tank?
Something cold pressed against Eberhardt's right temple, and sent a shiver down his spine. His head turned, and there in the alleyway stood Renton, the muzzle of his rifle not an inch from his face. Eberhardt cried in surprise,
"Fuck me! He's on us!"
It was too late, and Renton pressed on the trigger. The rifle cracked over the hum of the engine while Eberhardt's life was violently ended with a single bullet. His lifeless body fell back into the tank, and ushered a scream from Brandt.
"Jesus, he got Klaus!"
"Fall back!" Jurgens ordered. "Get the hell away from him!"
Brandt pulled hard on the directional stick and slammed his foot on the pedal. The engine groaned sharply as it surged backward through the smokescreen. At the same time, Brandt caught a glimpse of Renton emerging from the alleyway, loading a new clip into his Springfield rifle. Just the sight of his bloodstained coat gave him chills.
"The stories weren't all lies…" he thought aloud. "Heralded by his bloodied bayonet…killing enemies at point-blank range without mercy…"
"Der Amerikanner Russen," Jurgens said, nodding. "A soldier with no fear of death."
Suddenly the tank rocked about and the center of gravity shifted towards the rear of the tank. Brandt pushed hard on the pedal, but he couldn't see them moving back, or much of anything. Unluckily for them, the Tiger had rolled straight into a crater left by the artillery barrage, hampering their movement as Renton quickly covered the distance.
"C'mon, goddammit!" Brandt cursed. "Move! MOVE!"
"Get us unstuck already, Heinz!" Jaeger shouted. "We can't do shit here!"
Brandt reasoned that continuing to move in reverse wouldn't work, which meant they had to go forward. He took his foot off the pedal and shifted the directional stick first into neutral, and then into forward. But at the same time, Renton had closed the distance and shoved his rifle's muzzle through the vision slit. Brandt, at the same time he pushed down on the pedal, tried to throw Renton off.
"Get off my tank, you monster…!"
A yellowy flash emanated from the muzzle as Brandt's vision went black, and his body went limp. His foot now a dead weight, the tank pitched forward and almost threw Renton off, but he clung on to the railings of the tank. The inside was now filled with the smell of blood and death, as the three remaining crewmembers frantically wondered what they could do now.
"Someone take Heinz's place! Stop this thing, hurry!"
Humbert jumped down into the bowels of the tank, and was greeted by Brandt's body, slumped forward with a large, dark red hole in his forehead. His eyes and face had the look of fear, as if seeing the devil himself. Humbert shoved his comrade's body to one side, and took control of the tank. Driving a Tiger was much like driving a car, and had similar controls. Humbert's foot slammed on the brake, forcing the tank to a stop.
The momentum soon transferred to Renton's body, and he was violently thrown off, hitting the pavement with a hard thud. As he shifted the bolt one last time, he found he had three rounds left. One for every remaining crewman. A deadly, foreboding silence settled over the street, save for the muffled booming of cannons and spatter of gunfire in the distance. Even as these two foes waged their private battle, a larger war with farther-reaching consequences raged. Would anything be gained by this duel?
Jurgens panted, and considered his options. Half of his crew was dead, but at the same time, he had the American Russian right where he wanted him. He could end this all right here and now. But before he did, he had to know: what drove that boy here? What made him fight so furiously? Why did he risk his life for people he barely knew?
Jaeger broke the silence.
"Ihre befehle, Herr Hauptmann?" (A/N: Your orders, Captain?)
Jurgens shook his head with a crushing certainty.
"Keine befehle. Lassen Sie dieses für mich." (A/N: No orders. Leave this to me.)
The battle-hardened veteran reached for the pistol on his belt. A Luger. He cocked it, and opened the hatch before standing up in the cupola, and casting his eyes on the boy which had caused him so much trouble.
Renton readied his Springfield, though he hardly had the strength to lift it to his shoulder, let alone stand. He shifted his weight as the rain finally put out the fire of rage in his heart. A single figure arose from the turret, dressed all in black and wearing an officer's cap. The man's mustache curled as he called out to him in a thick German accent.
"Firing at point-blank range, with no fear of death. Sounds familiar, ja, American Russian?"
Renton's eyes grew to the size of ping-pong balls at the utterance of that moniker. The name by which everyone the world over knew him. How did even this German know? Had the Allied propaganda found its way even to the Axis countries?
"Last I heard," he continued, "you were in Stalingrad, fighting for a people you barely knew. Now I find you here in France, fighting for a people you barely know. Why?"
In any other circumstance, Jurgens may have had a point. But Renton did know people here. At least, until they were all killed. Likewise he knew people in the Soviet Union. But it was a damning question, all the same. The same question his own brother asked not long ago, before he started on this long journey. Why risk his life for friends he met as a child one summer day? Why put himself out for people who could have easily forgotten him, had he not bothered to maintain contact?
Jurgens outstretched his arms, revealing his Luger in one hand, and offered himself.
"Why don't you shoot me, Yank? Huh?"
The tank commander laughed ruefully.
"Here's another you can add to your list of 'heroic deeds!'"
He brought his Luger around and pointed it straight at Renton.
"C'mon, here's your chance! Shoot me!"
Two shots were fired, both landing near his beat up oxford shoes. Small specks of dust were kicked in his face, but Renton refused to respond to his dare.
"Why are you fighting this war, American Russian? Why do you have to be here?!"
Why, indeed? Jacques, Charles, and Ray were all dead. His friends were gone, and so too was his connection to this place. Why did he bother staying? Why was he even fighting at all?
Out of nowhere, a shot rang out, and a bullet ripped through Jurgens's right arm. He almost dropped his Luger, as a gout of blood shot out like some morbid geyser. But the shot didn't come from Renton, who was left in a mystery. He looked around, trying to see who was assisting him in this effort. To his left, and in the windowsill on the second floor of an abandoned bookstore, he spotted his ally.
A thin trail of smoke rose from Eureka's Kar98k like a chimney draft on a cold day, as she shifted the bolt with a steady hand. How did she manage to find him in this chaotic battle? Such a question didn't need to be answered as Eureka turned her head and stared down at her broken beloved with concerned, ash eyes.
Jurgens was not about to give up, and with a note of struggle, raised his arm again to finish the work. But Renton was quick to act, and leveled his rifle first, firing a shot the instant he had his sights lined.
His aim was true, and struck at Jurgens's heart.
The tank commander died instantly, as his body fell back into the tank, and his Luger clattered to the pavement. Spent from his rage and lost in depression and aimlessness, Renton likewise fell onto his back with a heavy sigh. British rear echelon soldiers surrounded the Tiger, and pulled out Jaeger and Humbert, who quietly, resignedly, surrendered. Their war was over.
Renton couldn't say for sure if his was over as well. Looking up at the sky, as rain fell upon his face, he wondered what lay ahead for him now. All his reasons for fighting here had disappeared, leaving an empty, numb void. Was there any point to continuing on, once Caen was captured?
Eureka approached him, looking down with a mixture of dread and shock.
"Renton…?"
"Eureka. How did you find me?"
"Holland told me what was happening. I couldn't just leave you here."
He said nothing, but closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, trying to gather strength for words. But Eureka didn't need him to say anything. She only knelt down, picked him up and embraced him. Never mind why they were here. Never mind Jurgens's questions. Just be. Just live now, in the moment. Just enjoy Eureka's company. Just be.
"Take me home, Eureka. I've had enough of this."