The Scout

June 12, D-Day + 6

"Luck never gives; it only lends."

"Listen up, Gaines. To be a forward scout of a unit is to be in a most distinguished position of the unit. You act as the eyes and ears of the company, a very vital assignment given to the bravest of men and—"

What a load of bull.

Private Dennis "Dice" Gaines knew that being a forward scout meant that when the shit hit the fan, you would be the one to get shot first.

He didn't know why Lieutenant Rogers gave him a five minute spiel on the advantages and prestige of being a scout, then immediately placing Dice as a forward scout before D-Day. Maybe it was out of spite for Dice swindling the lieutenant in game of poker. Dice didn't understand the problem, why was he angry that he lost? Officers shouldn't even be gambling with enlisted men, maybe he was furious that he took the lieutenant's watch that Rogers' girlfriend gave to him? Then again, why bet with anything you're not prepared to lose? But that didn't matter now.

Lieutenant Rogers didn't matter anymore; he was killed on D-Day once the ramp of their landing craft came down. Dice saw it. A mass of bullets tore through the lieutenant like paper. Most of the men on Dice's boat died once the ramp came down. The only reason Dice survived was that he tripped over a corpse and fell into the water on the way out of the boat. It had only been six days since D-Day, but Dice and every man in Able Company realized that the only way you make it to the next day is through sheer luck.

That's how he got his name, "Dice", he was heralded to be the luckiest man of Able Company, and he also received the name for the pair of dice he always kept in his pocket. He was an average 18 year old kid from Atlantic City, not too stocky and not too lean; he walked with a certain swagger that most kids from Casino cities were born with. His father was a small time hustler who knew how to place a bet and knew when to cash in and out. Upon being drafted, Dice's father gave him his lucky pair of dice. "Just play with these in your hand, son, and kiss 'em, and you'll be married to Lady Luck herself."

One of the men's fondest memories of Dice's exploits was the seduction of a colonel's English mistress. Whenever the colonel visited the battalion, his mistress was in the jeep with him. She had blond hair and looked as if she was smuggling cantaloupes in her chest. But no matter what clothing she sported, she always wore a huge turquois bra that bled through her clothes. One night after his leave, a drunken Dice "stumbled" into Regimental HQ and found his way in the colonel's bed with the mistress. After several hours of tumbling with her, the colonel came into the room, but the quick-witted Dice hid under the bed and dressed himself, then rolled to the door of the room without the colonel noticing and exited HQ and came back to Able. The proof of his sexcapade? He took her turquois bra for all enlisted men to marvel at. Yes, those were the good times, gambling and girls; but of course, those two don't win wars.

Now, it has been an entire week since the Normandy landings, and Able Company was moving down the Norman countryside, with the entire company following behind Dice. It was a humid noon day in Normandy, the clouds hung low and the mosquitos were enjoying a feast on Dice's neck. He slapped his neck and got three of them. He sneered as he wiped them on his trousers, his eyes scanning the open lush Norman terrain for elements of American tanks or Germans. How he prayed if he had to spot something, it would be the former. He could feel the summer clamminess in the air and heard the distant pops of German rifle fire and machine guns and American rifles a mile away from him, the slow rhythmic pounding of distant artillery, thankfully outgoing. He hoped the other Allied outfits were giving the Krauts hell. The sooner he could return to England the better. But if he had to be honest, after surviving the hell that was D-Day, he wondered if any of them would survive to see England or the good ol' USA. He shook his head to get his thoughts back on scouting. Being the lead scout brought a primal sense of loneliness to a soldier where his only companions were his own thoughts.

His thoughts drifted back 20 minutes ago when Captain MacKay got a new assignment for Able. After the entirety of Able Company arrived—73 men out of 180— 90 of which were lost on D-Day, MacKay cleared his throat for his briefing. "Okay men, we're moving out to the city of Carentan. Division just got word that the 101st Airborne had just captured the city hours ago, pushing the 6th Parachute Regiment out the town. But Command fears that a counterattack is going to be launched to retake Carentan and we are being sent along with the 2nd Armored Division to reinforce the 101st. Carentan is the focal city that can link up elements from Utah and Omaha Beach in our drive to Cherbourg. The entire battalion is moving out now, with Able Company in the lead."

The men groaned and scoffed under their breath. Conti told them all to shut up. Able Company was always the first to do everything. The first to lead the battalion, the first to attack a beach, and the first to get shot to pieces. Maybe it was because they were the first company of the regiment? Or maybe it was because they were so damn dependable? But to the common infantryman it mattered not, he was just sick and tired of always going first.

MacKay continued. "The Battalion is moving out in fifteen, which means we have to move out in five. We should be linking up with the frontal elements of the 2nd Armored within six to seven miles. Gather your gear and your weapons, 2nd platoon will lead. Tactical column. Let's move."

Dice was already tired of this war. They spent a full week fighting the Krauts, actually getting a decent rest three days ago, and still had little progress to show for it. Every day they took casualties, familiar faces quickly disappeared. And the promises of replacements for their battered company have been empty. But what nagged Dice the most was that after all the action they've seen; he had never fired his rifle. He would listen in on his friends bragging about their kills during the lulls in the fighting, while he silently played with his dice, dreading that he might be the only man in the company to never fire his weapon in the war. It wasn't because he was a coward; the chance to properly zero in on a German in his sights just never came up. Anytime a German was near, one of the other men popped him off before he could raise his rifle. Many men asked off-handed questions on his kill count, expecting it to be in double digits, but he would respectively change the subject when it came up. If he was truly the luckiest man in the company, then shouldn't he have earned the Medal of Honor by wasting hordes of Germans by now?

Speaking of Kraut killers, Dice looked over his shoulder, there was Private First Class Troy, Able Company's sniper, walking slowly about 20 yards behind him. Since D-Day, it was clearly established that the sniper had killed dozens Germans within his scope, yet he never bragged about it. Whenever Troy dropped a German, Dice would feel nothing but envy for the Krauts to literally walk into Troy's sights instead of his'. Behind Troy was Corporal Hernandez's six-man rifle squad who were to reinforce the scouts if they ran into trouble. Dice gripped the stock of his rifle tight, why was he up here when Troy was behind him? The man is a damn sniper. If you blinked, he could dive into the grass and seemingly turn invisible. The sniper should have been the lead scout and point man, but for some reason, when the snipers when out to stalk their prey, their pace slows to that of an old man's; just to ensure that the enemy wouldn't see excessive moment. It was effective at going unnoticed, but ineffective timewise.

Down the road emerged a two-story farmhouse on the right of the road. Dice silently signaled the scouting party to take cover. In front of the house was a low stone wall that the men took cover behind. Dice raised his head and further examined the house. On the lawn was a decrepit stone well and not too far from the house was a broken down wagon. The house looked empty and he couldn't hear any noise coming from the house. He shook his head. This was exactly the place that the Germans would hide in.

"We got to clear that farmhouse and make sure it's empty," Hernandez said, he turned to Dice, "Go on, we'll cover you."

He scoffed loudly, "Ya kiddin' right? I ain't going up there alone."

"Just get to the damn door and I'll send Merrill up with you. We'll cover you on your approach."

Dice looked at the house once more, "Why me?"

"Cause you're the lead scout. And besides…" Cpl. Hernandez smiled, "Don't you have Lady Luck on your side? That's an order, private."

Dice grunted and grumbled lowly, "That fucking figures."

He crept along the wall but was stopped by Troy whose face shined of reassurance, "Don't worry Dice, I got you covered." Somehow, that made Dice feel better about his crap assignment.

He peered over the stone wall and eyed the stone well not too far from him. He decided to approach the well, then beeline to the broken wagon, then to the front door. He grabbed the dice in his pocket, and played with them before kissing them. He gritted his teeth and moved at a crouch towards the well. His eyes never left the farmhouse, training in on anything that moved into the open windows.

With each step he took, his heart began beating faster. He knew he was going to get shot, but his body kept moving. He wanted to get a kill, but he didn't want to get shot in the process, no soldier in any war did. He knew his comrades were behind him covering his advance, but they were safe and he was not; they were together while he was alone. His role of scout often required him to be alone, to risk his neck to scout enemy positions to save the unit, but he often wondered whether his unit would have saved him if he was trapped?

Out of the dark corner of the second story window, a rifle slowly protruded out and aimed at Dice, but an American sniper rifle crackled behind Dice and the German rifle fell.

"Krauts! Dice get down!" Troy called out, chambering another round into his rifle.

A hail of bullets descended on Dice from the farmhouse, kicking up dirt around his feet. Dice dove behind the stone well and cradled himself as the rounds cracked and bounced off the well. He let out a multitude of curses, cursing to God to strike down the Germans in the house, but they still kept firing.

Hernandez called out to the trapped scout, "Dice, fall back! Get out of there!"

"I think he's pinned down," Private Merrill answered back, squeezing off shots into the farmhouse.

"Troy, they got an automatic on the top floor! See him?" the corporal asked.

The sniper trained his scope on the top window and saw a German with a machine pistol firing down on Dice. "Yeah," he said calmly, his voice was cold and sharp as steel, "I see him." He squeezed the trigger and placed a round in the submachine gunner's heart.

The Germans inside the house changed their focus to the rifle squad by the stone wall and returned fire. The squad dipped low, the bullets cracking overhead. Hernandez came up with a plan. Him and three other men in the squad: Adair, Lampton the radioman, and Pines; would lay down a base of fire, while Merrill and Lazzano would flank the house from the right. Troy would stay in cover and pick off the Germans in the house.

As the fire eased up on Dice, he decided the best opportunity to get the hell out of dodge was now. But as he stood to run back, a German grenade landed right in front of him, blocking his path back. He was extensively trained to never throw back a grenade if he had to, for fear of the fuse being too short to throw back and exploding in the soldier's hand or face. He turned around and ran for the cover by the broken wagon in front of him, all the while receiving fire from the Germans in the house. The grenade exploded behind him, the concussion sent him into the cover of the wagon, the shrapnel tore into his pack, but he was unharmed.

By the time he reached the wagon, Merrill and Lazzano had already flanked the house and threw in grenades on the ground level. Dice could hear the thundering explosions of the grenades, along with the screams and smoke that shot out of the house. The firing from the farmhouse ceased. Dice trained his rifle on the front door.

A lone German bolted out of the door, wheezing from the smoke with a rifle still in hand. Dice's heart jumped in his throat, he leveled the rifle to the man's chest and pulled the trigger. Click. He pulled the trigger two more times, and he heard a click two more times. The trigger wasn't moving all the way back.

The German recovered and aimed his rifle at the now panicking Dice. The lead scout heard the distinctive crack of a sniper rifle, witnessing the German's brains being shot out of his skull. Dice looked back to Troy who gave him a confirmative nod.

"Told you I got you covered!" Troy said.

"Move out! Look for any more Krauts!" Hernandez ordered.

Dice stood to his feet, his eyes were glazed as his frantic heart began to decelerate. Just what had happened back there? He checked his rifle to see if it had jammed. Turns out that he forgot to switch the safety off.

"That fucking figures…" he cursed, examining his still virgin rifle.

"The house is clear!" Merrill announced.

"Rest of the farm is cleared too." Adair added.

"Good work, gang. Dice, you alright?" Hernandez asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I can't believe I survived that."

"There you go, told you that you were still lucky. Now guess what? You're back on point."

"You're an asshole, Hernandez," Dice said dryly with half a smirk.

He took a few steps on the road and looked back at the farmhouse that nearly killed him. Hernandez was an asshole, but he was right, luck held him in a tight embrace in that moment. In those quick and harrowing events, he could have lost his life in so many moments, but he was still here, still beating the odds like he did on Omaha. His old man would have been proud.

He played with the dice in his hand, enjoying the soft clacking they made and kissed them. The hard dice reminded him of his Pop; it reminded him of home, the worse place the mind can wander in war.

They say you never hear the shot that gets you. Dice would agree with that statement. He heard nothing, but felt everything, at least for a second. Something hard hit him square in the head; it felt like it was a baseball made of iron. All he felt for the brief second was thundering pain, and then the pain quickly evaporated. His helmet went flying, his body crashed to the dirt. His hand slammed to the ground, releasing his father's dice.

Everything was black to him, but he could make out the screams that quickly began to soften.

"Sniper!"

"The sniper got Dice!"

"Find some cover…some cover…"

"Find the snip…"

The cracking of American rifles erupted, but they too grew soft. Dice could hear everything around him beginning to muffle and fade. He squeezed his hand for the dice, but felt nothing.

Fucking figures.

Within moments, Captain MacKay and the medic, Walter Conrad, came on the scene and ran to the Cpl. Hernandez.

"What happened?"

"There were some Krauts in the farmhouse, sir. It's clear now. And there was a sniper hidden on the opposite side of the road near a grove. Troy got him. I sent Merrill and Lazzano to check out the grove, sir."

"Any casualties?"

Hernandez sucked on his teeth and extended a finger to Dice's body. His helmet was a few feet away from him, his mouth was widely agape, and blood trickled down his skull from where the bullet struck.

"It was the sniper, sir." Hernandez added. MacKay sighed.

"I'll get his tag," Conrad said gloomily as he began to walk over.

The medic removed an extra poncho from his pack, preparing to drape the body. As he stood over the body, he noticed Dice's closed eyes were twitching. Must be his nerves still acting up. Damn, Gaines…at least it was quic—

The body began to groan as the head was moving slightly. Conrad's jaw dropped. He kneeled over and checked his pulse. "Sir, he's still alive!"

The captain, corporal, and sniper hurried over to the unconscious man. Conrad wiped away the blood from Dice's forehead, revealing the German bullet lodged tightly in Dice's skull.

"Son of a bitch…" Troy said softly with a smile.

"Can you remove the bullet?" MacKay asked the medic.

He shook his head, "He needs surgery for something this delicate. Sir, he definitely has a concussion. And he's going to have a bitch of a migraine when he wakes up. The way the bullet is in… there may be damage to the brain, but I can't say for sure. I…I just can't believe he survived. His helmet must have saved him."

"The bastard really is lucky," Hernandez chuckled, "It fucking figures."

Conrad called down the line for a stretcher-bearer to assist him as the rest of Able Company proceeded down the road, all eyes passing down on their wounded comrade. Word had already reached that he took a bullet to the head, and many have confirmed with one another that Dice was the luckiest man in Able Company, if not the entire 29th Division.

As Dice was placed on the stretcher, Conrad stepped on his scattered pair of dice and placed the pair within Dice's breast pocket. He patted the unconscious man on the chest and watched as he was carried back down the road to the Aid Station.

Hernandez looked to his squad member, Adair, and smirked, "Congratulations, Adair. You've been promoted."

Adair was excited, "To corporal?"

"No to lead scout, now get moving forward, and make sure no Krauts spot ya."