BET YOU WERENT EXPECTING THIS!

Random Intensity: Interlude

It had been quiet, so very quiet, before the shells began to explode all around Sgt. Baker's foxhole in the middle of the Ardennes forest, on the bank of hill 180. Their small platoon had been assigned to control this ridge, to keep it secure and prevent the Nazi's from taking it at all costs. Basically, they were ordered to stay there, fight German grenadiers and panzer divisions with no support. In summary, it was a suicide mission, but Platoon Charlie from Baker Company, as some called it, "Baker's Dozen", of the 502nd Airborne were ready to take on the assignment, and hold that ridge to the last man. Pvt. Hartsock and Pfc. Legett were also hunkered down with him in his foxhole. "Well," he thought, "if they hit us, we wont know it…" he looked down to his cigarettes, he only had three left. He looked up just slightly, his eyes catching a glimpse at their spilled lunch, which had already frozen solid to the dark earth.

It was 1944, and the deep French winter that had strangled the American 3rd and 5th armies to a grinding halt, here in the Ardennes Forest, where the German Army had blasted their way through only four years earlier. There were still small areas that held the wear and tear from the tank treads of the tanks that had rolled carefully through this forest. To be honest, it amazed Baker how they made it through.

A shell exploded right next to them, and he felt something solid give a resounding ping off of his steel pot. He dove to the ground, slamming hard against the frozen earth below him, his hands flying to his head as though to examine the extent of the damage. All he felt was a large dent in his steel pot, and after a few seconds, he regained his senses, rising slowly to a knee as he heard the shelling starting to ebb away, replaced by the sound of heavy duty engines, and the sounds of treads pulling at icy ground, the constant turning of machinery, and the guttural shouts of Nazi Infantry.

Baker sighed, looking up at Hartsock and Leggett, then nodded, "Here they come boys. Hartsock, use that BAR and lay down some fire, don't let them get up this hill. Leggett, alert the AT teams to get up into the TB's and take care of those tanks when they are sure they can make a hit." His voice was nervous, a little stressed as he looked up at them as they hesitated, their muscles slowed by the cold, the olive drab uniforms a bit stiff from freezing. The Sargent gave a growl, "What are you waiting for you dumb fucks! I said move it!"

Leggett gave a startled yelp and scrambled from the foxhole, glasses askew on his long face as he darted as fast as his legs could carry him, his radio bouncing along on his back as though he were out for a pleasant backpacking trip. Hartsock wasn't very slow on the uptake after the barked order, as the deep throated bark of the automatic rifle sounded into the woods quickly filling with enemy targets.

Sgt. Baker looked over to a small detachment of Germans visible from his position, proceeding up the bluff to his right. One of them was carrying what, from a distance, looked like a long steel bar, and another behind him carrying two small lunchbox sized boxes. But Baker new from experience not to let them set up, for what they carried could easily cut their position into shreds faster than a hot knife through butter. He looked up to the foxhole on his left, where Coriell and McCreavy were dug in, pointed to them, then to the advancing MG42 squad that was setting down their equipment, then pumped his fist at them as though trying to send a punch through the air at the gunner's face. As one, both of them raised their rifles and proceeded to blanket them with shots, but it wasn't going to be enough, or was it? Baker smiled when he saw the loader for the team drop like a sack of potatoes onto the cold earth, the snow quickly turning red around his corpse. The gunner turned as though to check on his fallen companion, when his lower jaw was removed by a well aimed .30-06 round. He fell to the ground, his legs flailing as he grabbed his face, as though trying to substitute the missing flesh and bone with that of his hands. After a minute, the man stopped moving, his legs shuddering, then relaxing slowly, as though he were a cat reclining for an eternal catnap.

Baker turned from this grisly scene and looked down at his cigarettes, instinctively putting one between his lips with a quick motion of his hand before bringing his M1A1 Thompson Submachine Gun to bear on an advancing soldier, cutting across the long lightly wooded field before their position. He waited, tracking him, watching as beads of sweat dripped from his face, caught by a sudden ray of sunlight through the thick fog hovering above their position, and pulled the trigger in a short burst, watching as dirt spit up behind his target, splashes of red intermingled on the wounds in the earth as the man staggered forth on only his right leg, the kneecap of the left shattered by one lucky .45 slug, making blood stain his pristine white snowsuit, turning the left leg of it dark red, and making his camouflage totally useless against the lightly snow-covered ground. Baker pulled his face from the stock of the gun, looking over to the left of the lightly wooded area to see, to his horror, the looming sillouette of a Panzer IV slam through the trees before it, making them slam down to the ground with a uproar of crackling and splintering wood, that he could still here even though he was hundreds of yards away from that area of the battle.

He saw two olive green ghosts flit up to the side of the clearing near the charging mechanical beast, one holding a bazooka, kneeling in front of the V-notch of a tree, settling his launcher on it to steady his aim, his loader holding four rockets from his hands, dropping them down next to their position, ready to go. The loader swiftly slid the first rocket into the back of the bazooka, patting it in so it was at the firing pin. At that exact moment, a German Sargeant spotted them, raising his ugly, dull grey MP40 to his face and fired two shots, taking out the loaders exposed right leg, one to the thigh, and one to the calf, and he dropped, screaming at the top of his lungs for a medic, for mother, anyone to help him. The gunner held his ground as bullets zipped on either side of the tree, or over his helmet or slammed dully into the thick wood. He did not flinch, he ket his sights on the side of that tank. His eyes widened when the turret began to turn in his direction. He let out his breath, held on for one more second, then pulled the trigger. A jet of flame flew from the back of the launcher, then the rocket barreled from the tube, whizzing to its target with a high pitched screech, then slammed into the side of the tank, exploding on the inside of the right track, blowing the gears to ribbons and making the tread grind to a halt.

Baker watched, horrified, as the crippled tank's turret completed it slow rotation towards the AT team, and the muzzle flashed, the tree erupting into a pillar of smoke and a cloud of splinters, several enemy soldiers falling, with large splinters of broken wood puncturing their bodies, one man's head was rolling on the ground, a stake about the side of a football sticking, quivering, in a tree directly behind the trajectory of the projectile and its target, soaked with blood and brains. Baker winced, looking down for a split second, then brought his submachine gun to bear and continued to mow down enemy troops.

Hartsock's BAR was suddenly silenced as something warm and liquid flecked onto his cheek and quickly froze, followed by Hartsock's horrified screaming as he let the weapon fall, his hands on his gut, as though trying to hold in his own guts. Baker reacted instinctively, he pumped his fist once more at the enemy with a resounding shout that was lost in the heat of battle, "TAKE EM OUT!" He dropped to a knee, kneeling over his fallen brother in arms. "Hartsock! Hartsock! Can you hear me? Stop screaming! It's gonna be okay!" he kept saying, as though trying to convince himself that Hartsock was not going to freeze to death in this hole in the ground in the middle of a forest in France.

Hartsock was writhing on the ground like an earthworm, his entire body undulating as warm wetness ran down his leg, red quickly changing the green of his usually squeaky clean GI uniform.

Baker tore at the uniform, tearing its top and Hartsock's white undershirt aside. It was a rifle wound, he could tell, it looked as though some small mammal had dug straight through the young man and hadn't been back to patch up the hole he left. His organs were strewn all over the back of the foxhole, the stink of it filling Baker's nostrils, making him want to vomit but he kept it down and tried to keep Hartsock comfortable as he looked over to the other foxhole, and shouted "Coriell! Get a medic, god damn it!"

Coriell looked confused for a second, but then acted with skill and precision, ducking, then running like a mad man up the hill, making his way back to the medical station at hill 173 directly to their rear.

He growled as he watched McCreavy fall back in his foxhole as his head exploded inside his helmet from a well placed rifle round, the helmet falling to the ground like a marionette that had just had all of its strings cut, his body slumping to the ground, just a corpse now...

"Damn it!" he thought angrily, "Why did they give me this assignment?" he instantly knew the answer, and it was very simple. They were the best, the best trained and the best equipped for the job, all the way from the drops into Normandy to this foxhole, they always were the best.

He came to a decision, and that was clear. He would hold his position, his pride would allow nothing less. he had heard someone say back in drop school, "Retreat! What, that think broken pussies do?" they had all gotten a good laugh out of it,but he was no broken pussy.

"KEEP FIRING!" he cried as he pointed to several targets as he summoned one of the boys over from the left, then brought his hand down, as though he were chopping wood with akarate chop,in the direction of the foxhole that contained the headless man, "defend that position, Tucker!" he shouted, giving a nod as he said these things.

Tucker gave him a quick glance as if to say, "ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS!", but the look cleared after he remembered who and what he was, he was the best, and he ran for the fox hole and took cover, slinging his Springfield 1903 sniper rifle's barrel over the dead paratrooper's chest as he lay in the foxhole, thanking god above for that little bit of cover he had been provided, and looked into his scope.

Through the pristine lens he could see everything occuring in the battle, he had a view of it all. An American counterattack was occuring on the enemy's flank, driving them back and away from the base of the hill, and quickly out of thier range as the soldiers advanced, stopped, advanced, stopped, shoving the white snowsuited german infantry back yards at a time.

Baker smiled. They had survived, but they had lost Hartsock, his last breath echoing in his ear, just that deathrattle, shaking him to the core. Just then, Legget ran back to the foxhole, leaping inside, and landed on the frozen body of Hartsock. It took him a second to realize the man was dead, even though his hand had dug inside the still wet insides for a second, then pulled out, almost black with blood. the man got up quickly, scrambling to his feet and held his hand to his face. "Oh... oh god... oh god..." he whispered over and over again, just staring at his hand and then down to Hartsock's corpse. "Wh... what happened?" he asked, shocked.

Baker smirked, "Leggett... where the hell were you? you should have seen the fireworks..." he laughed, looking out at the advancing olive green uniformed men. Although he was jovial on the outside, inside, he was grieving the losses. he turned quickly, and got out ofthe foxhole. "Leggett, your in command, i have to make a report back to CP."He carefully trudged up the hill, making sure to keep his back well covered by trees so he wouldnt be easy prey for snipers. You had to keep your head at all times in this hell of war, or you'd be dead before you took another step.