The Chronicles of Able Company

by Kanuro5

This follows the exploits and ordeals of the ordinary men who rose to extraordinary occasions in the crack rifle company, Able Company, 29th Infantry Division, highlighting the individual men that made Able Company special. Follows the campaign of the first game from D-Day to to the end of the war.

7. The Medic

The Medic

June 26, D-Day + 20

"Observation, Reason, Human Understanding, Courage; these make the physician."

"Do not fucking die, do not fucking die, do not fucking die."

A downpour of bullets cracked against the street by his feet. "Do not fucking die, do not fucking die!" A Kraut mortar blew up a destroyed car to his left, the blast knocked him and the other man down. But he stood back on his feet and picked up the other man in a fireman's carry and ran back to the rear. "Do not fucking die! Do not fucking die! Do not fucking die!" As he moved further to the rear, the raging storm of battle began to fade into the distance.

Walter Conrad, 20, from Roanoke, Virginia, made it to the Battalion Aid Station held in the Town Square and placed down the wounded Private Blandford on a stretcher inside. Conrad fell on his ass and exhaled in relief, carrying a 200 lb. blind man on your shoulders through a warzone would have damn near killed the 175 lb. medic. But that's what he was, a medic of Able Company, affably nicknamed "Doc Rad". He would be damned if he couldn't get a wounded man out of combat.

Conrad took a swig from his canteen and rose to his feet. His eyes finally noticed the state of the Battalion Aid Station. GIs were being operated on blood-soaked stretchers, many had no arms, no feet, some men were left alone without any heads. Many had second and third degree burns from Kraut flamethrowers, white phosphorus grenades, and HE shells from Panzers. He couldn't even hear himself think with all the moaning and crying from the wounded, and the frantic calls for morphine and sutures by nurses and surgeons. It was as much a bloodbath in here as it was out there.

A surgeon came by and examined Blandford, Conrad noted the Captain bars around his collar. "The hell happened to this man?"

"Potato masher, sir. Got him in the front and chewed him up with shrapnel, got him in the throat, chest, and above both eyes. He has a three inch long shrapnel sticking out his chest sir, couldn't remove it."

The surgeon looked over the wounds, "How much morphine did you administer?"

"One syrette, sir."

"Wait, where's this man's dogtags?"

"Chewed up in the blast, sir."

"Shit." The surgeon pulled out a small notebook and a smaller pencil, his hands were stained with fresh blood and it was staining the white paper, "Blood type?"

"A+"

"Name?"

"Blandford, Robert, E. Private."

"Alright, then." The surgeon tore the paper from the notebook and pinned the paper to the man's jacket. The surgeon looked up at Conrad, his eyes were bloodshot and baggy, his breath was haggard, and his teeth were yellow from what Conrad figured of chain smoking during his breaks. The surgeon gave him a weak smile, "Thanks, Conrad, now get back out there."

"Thanks, Captain." He moved over Blandford, whose arms began to lightly flail in fear. Conrad placed a soft hand on the man's chest, "Alright, Blandford. You're in good hands, I gotta go."

Conrad turned to leave, yet Blandford moaned and seized Conrad's hand, "Doc, please don't go! Please. I can't see! Please don't go, please don't! Doc, please!"

Conrad's throat dried at the wounded man's whimpering. He wrenched his hand free, "Sorry, Blandford, I have to. You're in good hands."

He left the begging man and the tent of horror in search of his company. Leaving the wounded that you treated was hard, but leaving the ones that begged you to stay was even harder. When one is wounded, it is loneliest moment you shall ever feel. The only one with you is your pain, and no one could possibly understand the agony you are undergoing. Conrad knew such isolated pain better than most.

"What can you do? Huh? Nuthun! Nuthun! You can do a-nuthin but minun' like me and my Pa! Coal runs in our kin, boy! You tryun' to be smart and shit, tryun' to move away, y'all get people dyun' 'cause o' ya actions, boy! They die!"

Get out of my head Pa... He snapped out of that cold memory from Roanoke, and remembered that he was stuck in the port city of Cherbourg, where Able Company was in the most brutal fight they had since Omaha.

Cherbourg was surrounded. The Americans knew it and the Germans knew it. But the Krauts refused to surrender. As far as Conrad knew, the whole Invasion of Normandy led up to the Allies claiming the port city of Cherbourg. The fighting for Cherbourg has waged for weeks, and would have gone smoother if the American naval ships could get closer to bomb the Germans out of their ratholes. But being a port city, the Germans made defenses along the coast, establishing huge coastal batteries that could punch holes through the Navy if they came too close.

That was Able's objective, take out the coastal guns to allow the USS Texas to support the battle. But as always, Able was chosen for the hardest task. The colossal gun was at the main docks up north, the most heavily defended part of the city, defended by the 739th Grenadier Regiment of the Wehrmacht. And here he was, a man running back and forth throughout the city, bringing the wounded from the front line back to the Aid Station. His role as an aid man was to prevent the men from bleeding out and deliver them to the surgeons; it was the surgeons' role to actually save them from their wounds. His job wasn't done, he had to move back to the front.

He rushed past the rear, moving ahead of the Able Company's mortar crew. Corporal Jelenic was barking barrage missions for his crew to support the advancing infantry. The crew dropped a mortar in the tube and made a cursing comment towards the Germans as the mortar shot into the air.

"Give the bastards hell!" Conrad cheered them on as he passed them.

"MEDIC!"

Conrad's head looked to the horizon; he heard the distant call, "MEDIC!" It seemed to originate past 1st Platoon. He ran forward at a sprint, passing by bullet-ridden corpses that littered the ground, German and American.

A shower of incoming small arms fire came from several German squads hiding within bombed out buildings. 1st Platoon was close to securing the sector before they reached the main docks, yet Kraut fire was hampering their progress in every way. Conrad spotted the Company HQ taking shelter behind the ruins of a bombed out store. First Sergeant Conti was yelling at the members of 1st platoon to get into a position to provide an accurate base of fire onto the Germans. Captain MacKay was barking into the receiver of Fat's radio backpack as Fats himself was leaning out of cover and returning fire with the Germans. Conrad dived next to Fats to catch his breath, but through the chaos of American rifles crackling, he could hear the cry for a medic come from the distance.

Fats was reloading his carbine and spotted the medic below him, "Lovely fucking war, ain't it, Doc Rad?"

"Who's wounded out there?"

"Don't know. But it's coming in the direction of 3rd platoon."

"Really? Where are they, Fats?"

"You might wanna stay here for a while Doc, it's pretty hairy out there."

"Where are they?!"

"Shit." Fats leaned his beefy face over the side of the store and pointed down the main road. "Down that main road, the Cap ordered them to neutralize the coastal gun at the north dock, but the Krauts pincered us good by coming from the east. Just head north and stay to the left!"

"Thanks, Fats."

A German rifleman rushed out of cover about 15 yards away and was prepared to throw a grenade at Fats and MacKay, but the husky radioman had his sights trained on the German and squeezed the trigger thrice; Conrad noticed the German's face twist in agony as he fell backwards, his own grenade exploding on top of him.

The Captain shouted into his phone, "Dog 6! Dog 6! Come in…Bishop, where the hell are you! I need your men to tie into my flank, an entire Kraut platoon came in from the east and split my company in half, over…what…where…shit, fine hold them at the bridge, we'll make do here. Able Six, out!"

Sergeant Conti rushed forward to his CO, "What's going on, sir?"

"Bishop says Dog is holding the bridge to the eastern dock against a massive armored attack. He's stretched thin and in need of reinforcements." Two German mortars exploded twenty yards behind 1st platoon.

"Oh, look at that, so are we!" Conti grimaced.

"I know! I know! Middlebrook, get me Sergeant Wilcox." The radioman switched the dials on his backpack with his chubby fingers before handing the receiver to MacKay. "Excalibur, this is Able 6, requesting immediate armor support in the north sector before the docks! I say again, I need immediate armor support now! In contact with entire platoon of infantry! Over!"

A rifle grenade exploded overhead, Private Anderson received shrapnel in his arm. Conrad dashed over and promptly got him treated with sulfa and bandages.

MacKay spoke through the receiver. "Understood, Excalibur, but we cannot advance further without armor…alright…understood, Able Six out!"

Conti was reloading his Thompson, "Is that tank crusader comin', sir?"

MacKay grunted, "No, him and Hitler's Bane are with Dog Company at the bridge and are repelling a German armor counterattack that could split the battalion advance in half. They'll arrive when they can."

"And we'll be dead when they can."

"Welcome to the infantry, Sergeant!"

Fats was leaning out of cover firing his carbine until he fell backwards with a high-pitch grunt. The shoulder piece of his jacket was blown away by a bullet.

"Middlebrook!"

Oh shit! Conrad pulled the overweight soldier against the low wall and examined the wound. The top layer of his meaty left shoulder was taken away by the German bullet, leaving parts of the white bone exposed yet untouched by the rifle round.

Fats followed the medic's eyes and gave the frightened lad a soft chuckle, "Tell me, Rad, this worth a heart?"

Conrad tried to smile, "Yeah, and a parade on Pennsylvania Avenue. It's not that bad, Fats, it just got…your fat."

Fats chuckled through his teeth, the pain really starting to kick in, "See, I knew all that fat on my bones was good for something."

"Looks like it avoided bone, I can get it treated right now—"

Fats shoved out his heavy hand into the medic's face, "No, Doc! I'm good, I'm good! Just a scratch, save the meds for someone worse."

"You'll be worse if you don't let me sulfa that wound, you ain't getting infected on me!"

MacKay grunted once more and peered out of the side of the store, more Germans were reinforcing the sector. "We've overextended the attack! Crane's 3rd platoon needs to withdraw or they'll be cut off."

"I couldn't reach them on the radio, sir." Fats answered.

Conti snorted, "I'll go tell 'em, sir."

MacKay did a double-take, "It ain't like you to volunteer."

"Ain't like me to still be alive neither."

The cry went out for a medic around 3rd Platoon's sector. Conrad rose to Conti, "I'm coming too, Top, they need a medic over there!"

"Fine, kid. But you stay two feet behind me, got it?"

Captain MacKay gave the two men a nod and ordered 1st Platoon to reload their weapons. His eyes locked on Conti, "Prepare to move." He turned to the platoon who looked at him with confident eyes. He ordered, "First Platoon! Covering fire!"

MacKay's Thompson opened up, followed by the ripping of BARs and Browning machine guns, and the popping of M1 Garands and Carbines. MacKay urged the two men to move forward.

Conti ran out of cover with Conrad right behind him, Kraut bullets dancing around their feet.

"Stay right on my ass, Doc!" Conti shouted over his shoulder.

The two men sprinted at a low crouch, their minds set on reaching their destination. Bypassing the entire German platoon, Conti and Conrad ran through the alley and arrived at the main docks. The brick labyrinth of buildings in Cherbourg had melted away, there only stood the vast ocean in front of them and the American Navy stationed in distant waves, refusing to advance with the coastal guns still operational.

At the entrance to the main docks, the two Americans were greeted by another German platoon, all taking cover behind blasted low walls and sandbags, returning fire at the remnants of 3rd platoon who were seeking structural cover inside a string of connected homes.

At the top window, Sergeant Paine's MG was ripping an entire German squad to shreds whilst the riflemen at the bottom level were popping any Kraut that bared his head out of cover. A GI was waving for the two men to come inside.

"Doc! We got wounded!" the soldier shouted to them.

Conrad croaked loudly, "Who is it? How?"

"It's Davies, took a slug to the pit!"

Conti shouted at him, "Move those legs, Doc, and keep low!" The two men passed by two dead Able Company soldiers. MG42 bullets kicked up a long trail of dirt behind Conrad's heels. Conrad juked out of the way of the trail, witnessing the bullet riddle the corpses, one round blasted the jaw off one of the corpses. "We ain't out of the frying pan yet, Conrad!"

"Do not fucking die! Do not fucking die!"

Both men rushed through the door with such speed they nearly ran over the soldier who called out to them. Conrad wasted no time and asked to see Davies. Davies was bleeding considerably on the table, the men of his platoon had already removed Davies' combat jacket to better assess the wound. Davies stared at the Red Cross on Conrad's helmet and smiled.

"Oh, Doc Rad! You're a sight for sore eyes!" he said through his teeth.

The bullet entered his left armpit and exited out the back of his left shoulder blade. Conrad administered morphine into the Davies's torso and lifted him into a sitting position and poured sulfa into his shoulder wound. Davies was shaking the entire time and was looking pale. You ain't going to delve into shock on me!

Conrad removed his bottle of plasma and stuck the needle into Davies's vein and had another soldier hold the plasma bottle as the crimson fluid flowed through the tubing and into Davies's body. Davies's trembling began to soften. Conrad breathed easier. Davies smiled, "Thanks, Doc."

Conrad could overhear Conti's barking behind him at a soldier, "Corporal, where's Sergeant Crane? Get him here now!"

"Yes, Conti. He's upstairs…Sergeant Crane! The Top's here to see you!"

Technical Sergeant Lloyd Crane, the acting platoon leader of 3rd platoon, came jumping down the stairs and ran to Conti.

"Give me the skinny, Crane?"

"We can't push any further. An entire Kraut platoon came knocking at our flank, Top. Stopped us in our tracks."

"Same here with 1st Platoon."

"Conti, we need 1st Platoon and Weapons up here! We can't hold or advance without support!"

"No, Cap says fall back to his rally point by the General Store."

Crane nearly purpled. "What? But we pushed so hard to get here! I lost five men moving this far up here!"

"And Able's overextended, you push farther and 3rd Platoon's cut off! Fall back now!"

Crane's brow furrowed, "We're giving up all our gains?"

"Either give up yer gains or give up yer lives!" Conrad could hear venom in the crusty tone of Conti. "Don't argue with me, Crane."

Three riflemen came rushing back from the main docks and miraculously evaded the bullets from the Germans, all except Private William Hoyts. As he ran through the doorframe, he fell screaming and clutched his ankle that was shooting out blood.

Hoyts was lying on his stomach and was yelling through his teeth, a bullet had torn through his Achilles tendon. His right foot was dangling awkwardly as he flailed his leg. Conti and Conrad pulled him in deeper into the house.

Conrad breathed slightly easier; this was a walking wounded case. Yet Hoyts was still shouting.

"Shut up, Hoyts! It ain't that bad!" Conti berated.

"Go to hell, Conti! My foot's falling off!"

"And I got shot in the ribs and shoulder once, damn it! I gauran-damn-tee you that mine felt worse!"

"Oh God it burns!"

Conrad sprinkled sulfa powder on the wound and made a tourniquet around the shot-out ankle. Conrad took out a syrette of morphine and injected a half dose into Hoyts thigh, within twenty seconds, he began to calm down.

The wounded man sighed, "Oh that's good."

Conrad began sewing the wound up and bandaged him, "Come on, Hoyts, I'm taking you back to the rear. Use your rifle as a cane."

Conti assisted Conrad in getting Hoyts to his feet, and then turned his attention back to the Platoon Sergeant, "Dammit Crane! Cap's orders, we need to fall back to the General Store! You ain't gonna last out here."

Crane growled before saying, "I still got 2nd Squad with the Engineers out there on the docks!" Crane turned to Hoyts, "What happened out there?"

Hoyts answered, "The three of us couldn't even get close to reconnecting with them. They're pinned down at the casemate; they're receiving so much fire that they can't even blow the gun."

Conrad peeked out of the house, his eyes falling to the concrete casemate that housed the coastal battery. He could see a monstrous black cannon protruding out from the casemate and facing the sea and firing its evil shells into American ships off the coast. The entrance to the casemate fell into a slight decline, about four feet deep; within the decline, Conrad could see American helmets bobbing up and down.

Crane turned back to Conti, "Both squads are cut off by the Germans over by that coastal battery. I'm not leaving them, Conti!" Three German grenades exploded outside the door, shoving smoke and debris inside the home.

"You're not! Pull back your platoon, Crane! I'm getting those squads back."

"Damn it to hell…Alright, fall back to the General Store, now! Fall back, fall back! Edgell, your squad's rear-guarding! Let's go, let's go, out the back, out the back! Cauthen, go upstairs and tell Sergeant Paine to pack up his MG and fall back." Crane leaned out of cover and fired four shots from his M1; Conrad witnessed a Kraut falling from a window.

Conti was preparing to make his run out to the cutoff squad, the German rounds crackled off the house. Conti was a fearless individual, every man in the company knew. But Conrad knew fearlessness led to death, and he was not going to allow Conti to die on him or the company.

He heard the call coming from the casemate; he heard their cry, "MEDIC!"

Conrad's left hand couldn't stop shaking. He looked at Hoyts and back at the casemate. Most of the platoon had fallen back, several men carried Davies out of the building, but Conti was halfway out the door when Conrad called him.

"Conti, I need your help!"

Conti spun back around, "What the hell is it, Doc?"

"I need help with Hoyts! Help him stand."

Conti got on the opposite side and placed Hoyts's arm over his shoulder. "Alright, Doc. Now what?"

"Now take him back to the Aid Station. I ain't letting you become a casualty out there!"

Conrad didn't feel his feet moving, he couldn't feel his chest heaving in exertion, he couldn't even recall rushing out the house. His only thought was that wounded man at the casemate. The only sounds that entered his mind were the torrents of mad firing from the Germans and somehow, Conti's screaming that seemed to overtake the gunfire.

"Doc! Get back here now! Conrad, get down! Get down!"

But his feet kept moving. He was the only American running forward into danger, and he was non-combatant.

A mortar blast sent Conrad soaring in the air; he never recalled hitting the ground. His lungs were on fire and the sounds of rifles cracking somehow turned into a ringing of school bells. He opened his eyes, and the once blue sky had turned into a queer green hue.

Some of the bullets were popping around him. Were…were they targeting him? Couldn't they see the Red Cross on his helmet, armband, and satchel? You couldn't shoot at him! It was against the law! He was protected by the Red Cross! To shoot at him would endanger the lives of the wounded. This was a fucking war crime! Were…were the Germans so unchivalrous that they would shoot at a medic?

He would not dare find out. He crawled forward like a dog. As moments passed he was able to stand to his feet and returned on his run, explosions going off around him. "Do not fucking die! Do not fucking die! Do not fucking die! Do not fucking die!"

The ringing of the bells ceased and the tempest of cracking small arms returned. "Medic!"

"Y'all get people dyun' 'cause o' ya actions, boy! They die!"

No Pa, that ain't happening!

"MEDIC!"

"Do not fucking die! Do not fucking die!"

A few more bullets flew overhead, but the medic dipped low and jumped into the decline; finally joining 2nd Squad. Conrad gulped at the sight of them; they consisted of Sergeant Hissing Hilberman, Privates Ruby, Badmouth, and Duffy. They were two men short…the first casualties of Able Company's involvement in Cherbourg.

Aside from 2nd Squad was the engineer squad consisting of the section leader for Able's Engineer Section, Technician Third Grade Adam Mercer from Brooklyn, New York. His assistant was Tech Corporal Louis Birch who looked on helplessly at their wounded comrade, Private Oliver Orson who was screaming his lungs out as blood shot out of his sternum.

These seven men were pinned down right next to the Coastal Battery from the onslaught of Kraut bullets that were targeting them. The Coastal Battery was in a hardened casemate of concrete with steel doors barring all entry and can only be unlocked from the inside. Conrad's mind flashed back to Omaha, how he witnessed MG42s churning up bodies from the inside of casemates such as these.

But he couldn't think of this now, he had to worry about Private Orson.

"Aw thank Christ you're here, doc!" Staff Sergeant Mercer smiled at Conrad.

"Orson's hit pretty bad!" Birch screamed.

Conrad leaned over Orson and talked to him softly, "Alright, Orson! I'm here for you! You got it, buddy?"

"Sweet Jesus! Sweet mercy!" he screamed. A pool of blood had already formed under Orson's back.

The rifle squad had already stripped off Orson's combat jacket; he had two entry holes the size of quarters in his stomach, and one entry hole two inches below his left nipple. Conrad bent low and patted down Orson's back to locate the exit wounds. Orson was still screaming like a banshee. Blood was spurting from the entry holes. Gut shot, the most painful place to take a bullet…

"Oh my GOOOOOD! Oh fucking shit! Oh God!"

Shit, he's in shock! "Listen to me, Orson! I'm gonna fix ya up! I am! Just calm down, man! Be calm for me!"

His screams were mixed with sobs. "Fuck you! Fuck you, man! I'm fucking dying here!"

He needs to be stabilized! Conrad pulled out a syrette and administered it into Orson's thrashing body. Orson bucked like a jackass.

"You're not going to die on me, Orson!"

"I'm fucking dying! Don't bullshit me, Doc! I'm fucking dying!"

Shit…these exit wounds are as big as a fist…wait, this one… "Sorry about this, Orson…" Doc Rad shoved his two fingers into the exit wound, Orson screamed harder. Conrad's fingers dug inside his comrade's body, the blood felt velvet-like; it was warm and stuck to his fingers like melting ice cream. He touched an organ and shuddered at what he discovered.

Fuck! The bullet shot his spleen apart! Fuck, fuck, fuck...!

"Oh God it hurts! It hurts! Oh God!" Christ, Orson, stop that fucking screaming! I can't concentrate!

"Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! Fucking—!" He wailed louder and flailed harder.

"Damn it, Orson! Stop moving! Stop moving now!" Conrad ripped the sulfa and poured it into the wound. Orson's squirming caused most of the powder to miss the wound and fly to the ground. Damn it, he's going to open his wounds even more with that movement! "Fuckin hell—hey Duffy, Ruby, hold him down!" I don't want to insert another syrette, but I may have to…he's a big guy, maybe it'll be alright?

The two riflemen held the wounded engineer down; Conrad sprinkled a new pack of sulfa into the wound. Conrad held another syrette of morphine within his fingers and paused. A second injection…does he need it, so soon after the first…? Orson's unfortunate screaming provided Conrad with the answer. He injected Orson. Mauser rounds bounced off the casement with several cracks.

"Fucking ass-sucking Krauts!" Conrad heard Badmouth swear.

Badmouth leaned out of cover and ripped a large burst from his Tommy Gun, "Fuck off! Fuck off!"

Hissing Hilberman was reloading his Garand, he leaned over the wounded engineer and gulped loudly before turning a sneer-like gaze to Conrad. "Hey, Doc Rad, the man'sss turning pale, you're losssing him!"

No shit, Sherlock! He's bleeding out! Why don't you be useful and… "Sarge, I need your help! He has three giant holes in his back, place your hands under him and apply pressure."

Hilberman gave him a look of queer bitterness, but complied without uttering a word. Conrad took out a suture needle and tried to sew the wounds shut, but Orson's thrashings prevented him to even close one entry wound properly.

Mercer watched over them like a hawk, "Come on, Doc! Ya gotta fix him up!"

"He needs to be evacuated now! I ca—" I can't fix him. Not with these wounds… "We pick him up with these wounds and he's going to die!" I can't fix him here, but I'm not going to let him… "Orson!" No, your lot leaving us!

The engineer was hyperventilating, his head was shaking from side-to-side, his screams grew louder.

"Doc! Do sssomething!" Hilberman yelled.

"Shut up! I got this! Orson, listen to me! Hang in there! I can't fix him… Orson, do not fucking die! Do not fucking die!" He's going to die…he's going to die… "Do not fucking die, Orson!"

Orson's spasms were getting more violent, at this rate; the shock was going to kill him more than his wounds.

Mercer moved to Orson's side, "Look at me, Orson! You'll be fine! Just hang in there!" He cupped the dying man's face, "Look at me, man. Look at me!"

Orson replied by hollering in his face. He thrashed more, and more bubbles of blood flooded from the entry wounds. Orson had just opened up his wounds even more.

Oh Orson…with his spleen like this and the loss of blood, we need a stretcher to move him…if any of us picks him up…what the hell can I do…? Oh God, if he's in this much pain…

Mercer looked up at the medic, his eyes beseeching him for an answer to this pain for his friend. Orson coughed violently, blood bubbles were forming in the corners of his mouth. Doc Rad groaned, and with a shaking hand pulled out a third syrette.

Mercer's eyes went wide, his voice was soft, somehow reaching Conrad over the cracking of bullets overhead. "Doc…?"

The medic ignored him, shoving the third syrette of morphine into Orson.

"Doc!"

The violent shaking began to quell, Orson's screams began to soften. Finally, the morphine was taking effect. He finally looked at Mercer above him, his eyes were soft as a child's "Adam…am I dead?"

Mercer's Brooklyn accent held a strange smoothness, "Nah…ya still speaking, Orson. Ya still kickin'."

Orson sobbed, his eyes were glazed, but he somehow focused in on Conrad. He gave him a weak smile, "Doc Rad…thanks for keeping me alive."

Conrad's fists clenched, he wanted to say something compassionate and uplifting, but no words came from his lips. He cursed inwardly, what would they say in times like this in the movies? What could he say to a man he killed? To a man he failed. No words came to Conrad's mind, he just lightly patted Orson on the chest. Orson's left eye closed completely, the air escaped from his lungs, and Private Oliver Orson became another entry in Able Company's list of KIA.

No man said a word, all eyes were on Conrad. He was shivering hard, but he forced himself to look upon the eyes of Sergeant Mercer. His eyes rang of confusion and bitterness, Conrad imagined he wanted an explanation, a possibility to justify the loss of a good engineer like that.

Conrad croaked with an explanation, "It's my job to ensure no soldier suffers, that is my job and I will do it to any man here. I'll expect you all to do it for me…"

Mercer's eyes did not change. He turned to his fellow engineer, Birch, and growled to him, "We ain't dying here! Get the demo charges on this door now!"

Birch's bottom lip quivered, "But Sarge, all this incoming fire can spark a—"

"A blast is quick, a bullet is agony!"

"Y-Yes, Mercer."

Mercer turned to 2nd Squad, "Y'all better lay on some covering fire now!"

Hilberman nodded, "Will do. SSSquad! Covering fire!"

The four men brought their weapons up and unleashed a torrent of fire at their enemy. Doc Rad simply hugged the ground, his eyes trained on Orson's lifeless form. Conrad pulled off a dogtag and stuffed it in his pocket. He pressed his hand on the man's chest, half-expecting a heartbeat. He wanted to tell him something, he wanted to tell him—

"Shit!" Ruby recoiled backwards and landed on Conrad.

"Ruby, you hit?" the medic asked.

"The only thing hit is my rifle! 'Fuckers shattered it!"

The wooden hand guard of Ruby's M1 Garand was shattered into splinters by an MG round. The rifle was broken in half; Conrad never saw anything like it.

"Here use this!" Conrad handed Ruby a M3 Grease Gun and its ammo clips, Orson's Grease Gun. Ruby was in disbelief from the act, but Conrad shrugged, "My job's to ensure nobody suffers, by any means necessary."

Ruby took the Grease Gun and rose to a crouch; he targeted a Grenadier behind a sandbag and pulled the trigger. The Grease Gun ripped a six-round burst and tore through the German's torso. Ruby smirked, "I can get use to this!"

"Everyone, charges are set!" Mercer announced.

"Thank God, everyone get down!" Hilberman roared.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

Conrad forced himself to the hug the dirt even more, he believed he was lower than a mouse. He covered his head and his ears and braced for the deafening boom. But he felt someone or something heavy dive on top of him. Before he could examine what it was, the whole earth quaked like a volcano erupting, thunder from the wildest tempest exploded over him, his ears were ringing hard.

He felt someone patting his shoulder, and the weight from on top of him finally stood up. Conrad rolled on his back and was surprised to glance at Ruby who was on top of him.

"The hell is wrong with you?" Doc Rad demanded. "The blast could have gotten you!"

"It could have gotten you too, you're our medic, who's gonna patch you up if you get wounded, Doc?"

Black smoke was flying from inside the coastal battery; the steel-welded door was torn asunder from the blast. Loud groans emanated from inside the battery as if it was haunted. Three disoriented Germans ran out of the burning battery, choking on fumes and blinded by smoke.

With their Thompson and Grease Gun, Badmouth and Ruby respectively emptied their entire 30-round clips into the three Germans. The murderous automatic fire at close range tore chunks of cloth and flesh off the Germans' bodies, the force from the shooting even knocked two of the men back inside the burning coastal battery. The three men fell screaming.

Ruby, Badmouth, and Duffy pulled the pins from their grenades and tossed them into the black slots of the coastal battery. All the men hugged the ground, Ruby jumped on top of Conrad again.

Ruby bellowed, "FIRE IN THE HOLE…again."

The battery blew and flames from the exploding shells inside shot out from the casemate on both ends. The men moved out of the way of the flames until it died down.

"Yes! Battery destroyed!" Engineer Birch exclaimed, "We got it!"

Badmouth just rolled his eyes, "Yes, hip-hip-hooray, we did it. We're awesome, but did you forget, oh I don't know, WE'RE IN A FUCKING SHITSTORM HERE!" Almost as if to emphasize his point, six to ten Mauser bullets cracked off the street in front of Badmouth's face. The German infantrymen were still advancing and still had the squad and engineers pinned.

"Don'cha see all this a-firin'?!" Duffy shouted back. "We stand on up, we a-dead as Dillinger!"

The ground began to quake, the smell of a gas engine polluted the air, and an explosion that mimicked a colossus belching, broke through the din of small arms fire. The fire that 2nd Squad was receiving suddenly died away. Duffy raised his head and smiled at what he saw.

"It's Excalibur an' 3rd Platoon! Thar a-comin' to save us!"

Slowly, each man of the squad raised their heads from the dirt, Duffy was right. Sergeant Wilcox stood tall in the hatch of his Sherman, Excalibur, squeezing an entire belt from his .50 cal as the 76mm cannon continued to burp HE shells against the Wehrmacht infantry. Following close behind Excalibur was Sergeant Crane, leading the entirety of 3rd platoon to rescue their isolated squad. They fired with every weapon they had and the German bodies were falling to the dirt. Coming behind 3rd platoon was the combination of 1st platoon and Weapons platoon, being led by Captain MacKay. Conrad smiled at the sight of the Captain, Thank God they broke through!

"Sarge, I think it's now or never." Ruby said to Hilberman.

"Don't tell me what I already know, Private! I'm in command! SSSecond Sssquad! It'sss now or never! Let'sss get out of here! Mercer, you too!"

The team bolted from the ground and made a dead run to a blasted out house, leaving the destroyed battery behind them. Conrad looked over his shoulder, the engineer's body was out of his sight, yet the man's screaming was still in his thoughts.

The entire resistance of the northern dock melted away in a hail of bullets, Excalibur's mostly. The Germans that survived the Able Company advance lowered their weapons and stuck their hands high in the air. Two disheveled, helmetless Germans came out of the house by 2nd Squad, muttering over and over, "Kamerad! Kamerad!"

" 'Comrade?' You're saying that?" Ruby gritted his teeth and shoved the barrel of his M3 into the nose of one of the Germans. The yielding man broke out into weeps. Ruby roared, "Tell that 'Kamerad' crap to Fuller, Johnson, Orson, Dikeman, and Clooney, ya fuckin' Heinie!"

A grizzled hand lowered the Grease Gun. "That's enough, Ruby! That's enough!" Conti was sneering at him, then spat at the direction of the two Germans. "They ain't gonna do anything." He looked over at a corporal, "Corporal, take these two Krauts back to HQ."

Hilberman ran to MacKay and stood tall like he was preparing to be inspected, "Sssir, I usssed my sssquad to dessstroy the battery, sssir!"

MacKay nodded, "Good work, Sergeant. Middlebrook! Get me the USS Texas now!" Fats handed his CO the receiver, "Able Company to USS Texas, coastal battery has been silence, you may approach and fire at will!"

It wasn't long until Able Company heard the distant, muffled explosions erupting from the sea, producing a wonder showering of salvos unto the German defended part of the port to the east. With each thundering explosion on the German position, the men of Able cheered.

"Attaboy! Rip 'em a new one!"

"Blow the bastards to bits!"

"Fuck 'em up! Fuck 'em up!"

At that moment, Conrad could feel that Wilcox was looking down on him from the tank hatch, his face was blackened by repeated tank fire. "Hey, Doc, I got something to tell ya?"

"What?"

"Coming back here, I spotted two wounded men by the alley close to the eastern bridge, there medic was killed and they were too bad to move."

Do not fucking die… "Thanks, Sergeant. I'm on it." Conrad asked permission to rescue these men from MacKay and the Captain agreed.

---

Conrad rushed down to the location in the rear where Wilcox told him and he found them. They were already gone, bled out like pigs. He could see crimson bandages already wrapped on their wounds, most likely inexperienced riflemen who tried to patch these guys up. These two Americans were surrounded by a litter of German corpses who were shot to pieces by Excalibur's machine guns. Conrad wondered if these two boys called for a medic, maybe they were screaming for one. Screaming to be saved…like Orson.

But…all in all…I came out alright, right? I've saved ten lives today, and only lost three men. Not bad. Objectively, not bad at all…but… Orson's screaming face shot in his mind.

It…it hit instantly…the morphine hit…was Orson coming down from the second injection…was the third shot really necessary? Why did I give him up? If I waited, would he have calmed down? Would he… His father's face shined in his mind, his slurred voice reverberated, "Y'all get people dying 'cause o' ya actions, boy!"

The medic's eyes shot towards the sky at the screech of a falling shell. Shit, short round! The naval shell slammed into a house nearby. Conrad jumped to the ground and braced the quake the explosion made. Conrad rose to his feet and examined the now smoking building. Before he moved on, he heard someone coughing from inside.

Conrad froze. He held his breath to ensure that he wasn't hearing anything. But the coughing still persisted, and he heard debris inside the house rumbling, like someone was walking through it. Through the smoke, the coughing man exited the house and to Conrad's surprise, the man was a German medic.

The German medic wore a white jersey over his grey combat jacket and wore a white helmet, both carried the Red Cross. This medic was young, about 17 probably; he had a bare face and baby blue eyes. The Kraut took five steps from the doorway and stopped as his eyes met those of Conrad's.

The two men were still, the war seemed like a distant memory now; the explosions and cracking of weapons was a dull murmur to them. The only sound that each man heard was their respective hearts beating.

A low, mournful moan rumbled from a German body. Both of the medics' eyes flickered to the now moving body of a German soldier. The soldier had an open wound in his sternum, be it from a bullet or a shell, Conrad was too far away to tell. The wounded man's grumble turned to loud groans. The German medic exchanged a glance with Conrad—and dashed forward to the wounded man. The medic was frantically searching in his satchel for supplies to use and at the same time he was whispering words of sympathy for his wounded comrade.

Conrad watched in silence, the wounded man was groaning louder. His blood was beginning to pool. The German medic cursed in his language, Conrad figured he didn't have the right supplies—that always got him to curse when the situation called for it. Without thinking, Conrad dug in his satchel and pulled out his spare packaged bandages and extended out his hand towards the medic.

"Bandages."

The German's eyes grew wide, his jaw slacked low. But he nodded and held his hand out. Conrad tossed the kid the bandages. The German elevated his comrade's legs to keep the blood within his torso, and sprinkled sulfa powder into the wounds. He took the American bandages out of the paper and prepared to wrapped it around his comrade's torso.

The German raised his head at Conrad, and with a quizzical raise of an eyebrow, yet with a grin that hinted of gratefulness, the medic said to him. "Thank you."

Conrad's clenched fist softened. Yet unbeknownst to him, his lips formed a soft smile, "Gern geschehen."

Crack.

Conrad jolted upward. He spun around. Not ten feet behind the American medic was Private Blackwell, the muzzle of his M1 was smoking. Conrad shrank as he peered into the dark voids that were Blackwell's eyes. Blackwell calmly walked over to Conrad, his eyes scanning the desolate street and empty buildings.

With nonchalance, Blackwell muttered to himself, "Hmm, it seems he was right, we can use this street to get across the bridge. Hopefully Jerry won't get wise."

"B-Blackwell, what the hell are y-you…"

"Hmm, what did you say, Doc?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, since our ships are tearing Cherbourg a new one. We have new orders, Charlie Company has run into opposition across the bridge and we need to aid them in capturing the last Kraut HQ in the city. Corporal Hudson, or "Duck" as everyone calls him, told me to scout out a road to see if we can flank the bridge. And here I find you with Doctor Kraut." His smiled was sadistic, "Clean shot if I do say so myself."

Conrad's head snapped back. The German medic was no longer kneeling over his wounded comrade. His body was lying on the street, matching the other German corpses that littered the road.

Blackwell approached the wounded man and kicked the German in the ribs. The man grunted. Blackwell plugged a round into the man's skull.

A sharp pain emanated deep within Conrad's chest. He couldn't stop shaking.

"Wh-What the…the FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" the meek doctor snapped.

Conrad was grinding his teeth at this monster who wore the uniform of his country. But the monster simply blinked once, then twice. Then a third with a raised brow. "Wha'cha mean, kid?"

"He was a medic! A medic like me goddammit!" His shouts turned into blubbered sobs, "Like me!"

"He ain't like you, Doc, he was a Kraut."

"He was a medic, you fucker! And you shot him like a dog! Why?! You don't do that in war!"

For the first time, Conrad witnessed true disgust on Blackwell's face. "The fuck are you talking about? Weren't you on Omaha? Didn't your good buddies and fellow medics die? That was war! Why the hell are you complaining about war? You don't know what I've seen, I seen war! I've seen what it does to men. I'm here to end it!"

"By shooting medics?" he sneered.

"So be it. It's weird, but it seems like the Krauts in this Theater of War don't shoot American medics. Don't know why, but count your blessings, Doc. Kraut medics heal their men, and then we got more Krauts out there killing Americans. A good medic can be worth a whole platoon, you know this. If he dies, then so do the men. The more medics we kill, the less Krauts we face and the more American lives we save."

"Is that how…is that how you rationalize that?"

Blackwell's eyes burned with a phantom fire, "Yes."

Conrad rose to his feet. "It's still a war crime, goddammit."

"All war is a crime. You sure as shit didn't cry when I offed the wounded man."

"Y-Y-You won't get away with this! I'll—I'll—I'll tell the Captain what you've done."

Blackwell turned to walk back to his platoon. "By all means, go ahead. Tell MacKay if it makes you feel better. But you disappoint me, Conrad. I thought as a medic who survived Omaha that you would've been hardened by this fighting. But guess not. Well, allow this experience to toughen you up. Trust me, this is still the first month, wait until the third month. You won't feel a damn thing, especially for the Kraut medics. So take a good look at that dead German, and count your blessings that you can still be useful to your unit. Now hurry on back, once I tell them about this road, Able's probably moving out immediately."

Blackwell turned on his heels and left Conrad to the silence of the streets. Conrad's teeth were gnashing as he gazed at Blackwell's back.

Conrad walked over to the body; Blackwell had shot the lad between the eyes. His left eye socket was shattered and his eyeball sunk backwards deeply into the crimson pulp of a face that used to be his nose. Conrad was retching hard at the sight.

"Trust me; this is still the first month, wait until the third month…First month….First month…"

Oh my God, all that blood, all those bodies, and it's not even been a full month yet…

"So take a good look at that dead German, and count your blessings that you can still be useful to your unit."

He heard the distinctive shriek of a German mortar fall to the rear of where Able Company was supposed to be. After ten seconds, the cry went up, "MEDIC!"

Conrad leaned over the dead medic and dumped out the German med-kit from the Kraut satchel into his own satchel. He seized the bandages he gave to him, but were not yet used. Conrad looted five syrettes of morphine from the German's pants pocket and removed a flask of bourbon from his shirt pocket. Conrad rose to his feet, his eyes softened at the corpse, "Danke."

Conrad turned and ran towards the cry for help. "Do not fucking die, do not fucking die, do not fucking die. Do not fucking die…"