The Sergeant

June 26, D-Day + 20

"Soldiers go where their sergeants lead them"

Thank God for lulls.

The once chaotic chorus of exchanging gunfire that once filled the entire pier of Cherbourg had now quieted to occasional rifle pops. The hectic shouts of profanity in the face of fire had shortened considerably into an occasional bellow of NCOs ordering their men around. First Sergeant figured that the Americans and Germans had been beating each other so bad today that both sides deserved a little break. The boys of Able were crouched behind cover, seemingly counting their blessings that the shooting had died down to a minimum. But as they looked up from their cover, they witnessed their next objective, the German High Command of Cherbourg.

After destroying the coastal guns half an hour ago, the battalion had the German are on their heels, and drove them back to their port facility at the edge of the city. Conti took a good look at the massive building ahead of them that was the last bastion for the Germans in Cherbourg. Inside the building were multiple machine guns that protected the approaches, snipers lying in waiting to take your head off, a few AT guns to punch holes in their armor, and about an entire company of Wehrmacht who were convinced to hold on to this last bit of port. Yes sir, this was going to be a goddamn meatgrinder that their battalion was going to be thrown in. More than likely, Able was going first.

Conti shook his head and spat out some phlegm. The Army never changes…

Currently, Conti was in the midst of a discussion with the other platoon leaders of Able Company and Captain MacKay in their next assault. 2nd Lieutenant Ralph O'Leary of 1st platoon sat to the left of the Captain, his helmet was off as he wiped the huge beads of sweat from those bushy eyebrows of his. Technical Sergeant Crane led his 3rd platoon in the absence of an officer and sat in front of MacKay crisscrossed, finally taking the moment to smoke a Lucky Stripe.

The naval guns opened up once more and hammered the German building with what seemed like the wrath of God. Conti could swear hearing a German screaming to the heavens for the epic bombardment to cease.

Conti kneeled next to MacKay, "Navy's givin' 'em hell."

"Yeah and the Germans are on the ropes, but not down for the count. But battalion says we're going to be the haymaker in the 10th round," the Captain explained.

Lieutenant O'Leary gave a dark chuckle, "Aren't we always?"

Conti grunted, "Always Able."

For the first time in a week, Conti noticed a smile growing on MacKay. "I like that," the Captain said facing him.

"Sure hope battalion appreciates our new slogan," Crane remarked, scratching the back of his neck. "Just as much as they appreciate our growing casualties…"

The only retort MacKay made was a hard sigh. Conti glared at Crane who failed to notice. Goddamn it, Crane. MacKay was beginning to suck his teeth, but Conti spoke up, "When are we going to hit the HQ, sir?"

MacKay looked at his men, "Soon, actually. Kick off should be in about ten minutes. But I got some news. Battalion says German demolitions teams are placing explosives on the north pier, we need this port intact. So they request a platoon to neutralize the demolition station at the pier." MacKay tried to smile, but his effort was weak, "Conti, I want you to command 2nd platoon and take out that station."

Conti didn't usher a word, his eyes continued to linger on his friend. The whistling of a naval shell bursting into the command structure broke the silence.

Conti said, "Yes sir. It would be beneficial if they could turn those naval guns on the demo station. Save everyone a lot of trouble."

"Agreed, but all forward guns are being directed at the German HQ, they can't spare a single gun…so they say."

Command really couldn't spare a single goddamn cannon…the fuck…?

The Captain continued, "The rest of us are going to kick off the attack and the battalion will follow in once the ships begin reloading for another salvo. O'Leary, you and I will lead in with 1st Platoon and support Wilcox's tanks. Sergeant Crane, your 3rd Platoon shall reinforce once we move past the first building, and you'll swing around and hit the right flank of the building. Dog Company shall come right behind us and attack behind 3rd Platoon. Charlie Company is going off the left flank and Baker Company shall be in reserve. Make sure your men have sufficient ammo and grenades; if the Navy and tanks can't blast the Germans out, we may have to do that ourselves."

"Do the Krauts have any armor over there?" the lieutenant asked.

"Probably, O'Leary, but we didn't see any. But knowing our luck, the Germans are hiding their armor until we actually attack. If we see any tanks, we leave that to Wilcox, if he can't, then we use our sticky bombs. This is it, gentlemen. We take that HQ, Cherbourg is finally ours. Let's go, Able."

O'Leary and Crane stood to their feet and put on their helmets, leaving to relay the strategy to their platoon. MacKay was preparing to leave, but Conti needed a word.

Now that the others are gone… "Sir, why did ya pick me for this assignment? Why am I leadin' 'em?"

"Because I need an experienced man leading them in the attack. 2nd platoon is the most understrength platoon we got right now and I can spare them. I'm going to need 1st, 3rd, and Weapons, in this assault on the HQ. If I remember right, the highest ranking man in 2nd platoon is Corporal Hudson. Besides…" MacKay cracked a soft smirk, "You're dependable, Joe. I trust you to get this done. You're the Sergeant of the company."

All these years, and you still believe I'm dependable…? "I'll feel more comfortable if I was granted an actual platoon. Jeezus, sir, when the hell are we going to get more men?"

MacKay inhaled through his nose and sucked his teeth. "Conti, we've been over this…"

"And I'm sayin—"

"The colonel told us they are 'en route'."

"The replacements are always, 'en route', but they're never in here."

"I'll gladly give you an ink pen and paper to write him, but it seems we're in a middle of a damn battle here, Conti."

"J-Just give me more men, Captain. Give me a MG squad. A mortar squad, just some goddamn support."

"I'm going to need the MGs and mortars in this attack, Conti. If you want weapons support, I can spare Troy. I know it isn't much, but…"

Troy the Boogeyman? Hell, an experienced sniper can be worth more than a MG and mortar crew combined. But still… "I guess, the sniper will do."

"He'll have to. And what did you use to tell me about the Army? 'We're the Army, we make do'."

I gotta stop being so damn quotable.

"Conti, the day…the day isn't even over yet…just," MacKay seemed to pause to gather his thoughts, "Just do as I ask, alright?"

Conti nodded with a wipe of the nose, "Yes sir…"

"Thank you, Conti. J-Just do it…I know it seems tough, but I want this damn day to be over." Did MacKay always have those bags under his eyes…? Conti watched MacKay walk away to Fats to speak to the colonel over the radio.

Conti walked over to 2nd platoon's position, the dire need for replacements was stuck in his mind. He never felt it was appropriate to argue with the commanding officer in front of the men. No matter how much he disliked the order. It was often viewed that the Captain was the father of the rifle company, while the First Sergeant was the mother; and Conti could relate to the experience that children never enjoyed seeing Mommy and Daddy arguing.

If only the lieutenant colonel could give them more men. God, if he could face that smug nosed son of a bitch colonel… But there it was. They had to make do with what they had. Conti sniggered curtly. That ought to be the motto of the infantrymen. The company had about 65 men left. Able had 180 men, 20 days ago. Conti needed a drink, at this rate, the whole company would need to be replaced.

Conti placed his beat up helmet over his skull and took a knee, "2nd Platoon! Break's over, back to the war! Gather round."

Many of the riflemen groaned at the beckoning.

"Shut up and gather round."

The men formed a semicircle around him. The unit looked more at home as a rifle squad than a legit platoon. Out of an ordinary 40 – 50 man platoon, 2nd platoon only had 9 men remaining. It was impossible for Conti to refrain a growl. Where the goddamn hell are our replacements?

Conti's strained eyes fell on "Duck" Hudson, the only NCO left in the platoon; everyone else got knocked out of the war. One way or another. Duck was a bit screwy, but he seemed to be able to handle command well enough with his skeleton of a platoon, especially when it came to controlling Blackwell. Conti almost chuckled at the nickname, "Duck". The kid got it claiming that no matter what he did; fighting, constructing, scavenging, leading, drinking, fucking, all of it came natural to him like a duck on water.

At the end of the semicircle lurked the goddamn sociopath, staring at Conti with his pitch black eyes that seemed to be devoid of all emotion. He was leaning on his Garand, almost as if he was bored. Why am I not surprised that he's still in this war?

The remainder of the 2nd platoon consisted of: Rawlings, Lovett, Hannigan, Pappas, Saywell, Hefferman, and King. All were privates and half of them were eighteen with chips on their shoulders. This only seemed to reinforce Conti's belief about the New Army, it consisted of nothing but kids and smartasses.

"Hey Sarge, mind telling me why I'm here?" Private First Class Troy walked up to the platoon and knelt by Conti, grime and dirt had coated his face, making him seem as if he was several shades darker than he actually was.

"Listen up, everyone. Command found a Kraut demolition station on the northern pier, they got enough explosives to blow this port to hell. With the entire battalion attacking the HQ, guess who got assigned to take out the station."

"Really…" Blackwell chuckled darkly, "We're only a quarter of a platoon, and we're going out there?"

"That's right, and bitchin' about it won't change our situation. Anyway, we go to the north pier, and take out the station in order to secure the pier. Understood? Good. How are y'all situated? Got enough ammo, grenades?"

"Sarge?" It was King, the translator of 2nd platoon. "I'm out of grenades, Sarge. And no one else got any spares."

Conti's head rotated from side-to-side. His eyes fell on a dead German. "Scavenge what you can on that Kraut, take his potato mashers, Lord knows he won't be needing 'em."

"Thanks, Sarge."

"Anything else, fellas?"

"I needa crap."

"Tough shit."

"Actually, it sure feels like one."

Conti glared at Private Lovett. Lovett cleared his throat apologetically, "I just felt the urge a minute ago."

"Ya betta hold that bastard in or do it in ya trousers, Lovett. We ain't stoppin', ya hear?"

"Yes, Top."

"Anything else from anyone?"

"I guess that means it too late to bitch about this war, isn't it?"

"You had your chances at the beaches. Bitchin' won't kill Krauts. Anything else? No? Sweet Mary and Joseph, finally. Let's get going."

The platoon shot to their feet with surprise acuteness, all except Private Pappas, who rose to his feet as if he was a grandmother. Conti sighed, all he knew about Pappas was that he was a 19 year old Greek kid from Arlington, had a nose redder than Rudolph, and terrible yellow teeth. What the hell was bothering him?

"Pappas, get over here."

"What is it, Sarge?"

"You're slow."

"What?"

"You're moving slow. It's taking you longer to get up and sit down. Even getting over here you took your time. What's slowing you down? You eager for a Kraut bullet?"

"No Sarge, it's just…" Pappas looked over his shoulder at his fellow platoon, "I got a bad feeling about this, Sarge. I feel like 2nd platoon isn't going to survive this war. We always go in and get chewed to shit. All the time. I…j-just—"

"Well you won't be returning home at all if you keep that fear bottled up, will ya?"

Pappas' headed tilted down. "No, Sergeant."

"We're going to stay alive, kid, as long as we do our job and remember our training. And if that don't work, follow my example. I'm not gonna allow that prediction of yours coming true. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it, Sarge."

Conti patted him on his arm, "Alright, go on son."

The kid shook his head meekly and went back to the platoon. Conti stared at Pappas' back, he wondered how accurate Pappas' prediction would be.

"Hudson, front and center."

Duck hustled to him, "Geez, Top, how come you don't call me "Duck" or "D" like everyone else?"

The day I use that stupid name... "I could call ya "Dung" or "Dumbass", if that would suffice?"

The corporal sighed with a bemused smirk, "I understand. What do you need, Top?"

"How are ya men? How they feeling?"

The smirk faded from Duck, his eyes softened, revealing several levels of exhaustion in his gaze, "About as well as you expect for being in a sub-unit that's been cut to pieces since the beaches. Hell, it hasn't been a whole month and we're down to squad numbers here. Jesus…we're just sick of this shit, Sarge."

Conti squinted his eyes, "Ya tired?"

"Yeah, I am."

Conti lightly patted Duck's cheeks with the right amount of force to get him alert. "The hell was that for?" the corporal asked.

"Trying to wake ya up, Hudson. You're a leader now, and ya can't afford to look tired or gripe like this in front of them. If they see ya beaten down, then they'll be beaten down. Buck up, keep usin' that horrid sense of humor of ya if it helps them, keep masking that fatigue."

"With humor, eh? Huh, alright I can do that, Sarge."

"That's all I can ask of ya, Hudson." Conti turned to the remainder of the men, "C'mon ya bums, chop-chop, this war ain't going win itself."

Pappas said under his breath, "Sure as hell know we ain't if we kept getting thrown into the grinder like this…"

Kids and smartasses.

The platoon that could pass for a squad made its direction north. They came along the long strip of the northern stone pier; at the very end of the pier was a moderate size one-story warehouse that stood with a bizarre degree of menace, there was no doubt the demolitions were inside that warehouse. The pier itself was filled oil drums, wooden crates, and stacks of pallets that seemed to litter the approach. And in this long stretch of pier, there would be no possibility of flanking the station. They had to do a frontal assault.

To the western sector of Cherbourg, the men could hear the battle raging on in the attempt to destroy the German HQ. The tank cannons firing, the endless rattling echo of automatic fire, the endless echoes for medics and the ground shaking booms of naval shells dropping. The men knew they were missing one hell of a fight, but in truth, after fighting so hard in this city; they didn't mind missing this one.

At the start of the pier, the men of 2nd Platoon were crouched behind a low wall, waiting for their sniper to return from reconnaissance of the pier. Troy came back in a running crouch and went to Conti, "We got a doozy over there, Top. We got 16 Volksgrenadier, 8 Grenadiers, 4 Pioneers, and a 3-manned MG42 crew that's pointed right down the middle of the pier, right where we have to approach."

"And what, no Santa Claus?" Duck couldn't help but add.

"What else, Troy?" Conti asked.

"The pioneers are wiring something in the back; I think it's the charges for the port. I took a look at the warehouse, and they are armed with enough explosives to blow this town up twice. There's also another large shed near the edge of the pier adjacent to the warehouse, but I couldn't see what was inside.

"Good work, Troy."

"What's the gameplan, Sarge?" Pappas asked. All eyes of the squad-size platoon fell on Conti.

"The Gameplan"? How about not dying for starters, but then again, war isn't a game. "We move on both sides of the pier, we got a lot of cover on the way to the station and we're gonna use it. They have wooden crates and oil drums in which we can use in our approach. We move cover-to-cover in short intervals, low and fast til we get right on top of the Krauts. Hudson will take half the platoon up the left, and I take half up the right. Troy, once we get close, ya take the first crack at the machinegunner. When Troy opens fire, we all start shooting. Even if ya don't have a bead on a Kraut, just keep shooting, we need to move quickly and keep their heads down to capture that demo station. Questions?"

Blackwell raised a hand. "Yeah, what are we to do if we meet heavy resistance? What if we can't take that station?"

"If we can't take it, then we're going to keep on trying to take it. If they work out all those explosives in there, this whole port is going to be blown to hell, with us with it. Blackwell, we keep going."

Blackwell wasn't satisfied with the answer, in fact no one was. Neither was Conti to be honest. But there was no time for asking everyone's opinion of the mission, that came after its completion.

"Any more questions? No? Alright then." Conti flipped the safety off his Thompson. "Safety's off. Let's move, men."

They rushed down the long stretch of pier at a steady crouch; the platoon broke off into their two teams and moved on their respective sides of the pier. They crouched behind cover and slowly but surely approached closer to the demolition station.

It was like training; a few men moved up and took firing positions, while the men behind them would leapfrog in front of them into cover. And they repeat and repeat. A brimming feeling of hope was rising in Conti's chest. This was a textbook stealth approach. Conti's eyes fell to the ocean that surrounded the pier; the loud waves crashing against the side would and the rage of the battle for the German HQ to the west would muffle the platoon's movements. He took a sniff of the salt water, his mind drifted back to D-Day. To the grisly carnage that cut down most of Able Company when they had no choice but to charge an entrenched positioned manned by machine guns.

No…that shit won't happen again. I won't allow it!

2nd Platoon fell into position; each man rested their weapon on an article of cover, their sights trained on their individual targets. The Germans were in an alert state of readiness; half of them were standing or crouch with their weapons at the ready, yet their focus were not on the approach, but the fighting raging at the HQ across the body of water. The German pioneers were moving to and fro around the warehouse, extending wiring from spools that was linked to the other ports around Cherbourg. And as Troy pointed out, there was the MG 42 pointed directly at 2nd platoon, yet fortunately, the gunner was focused on the fighting at the HQ as well.

Conti gave the sniper a firm nod. Troy's voice dropped an octave and he whispered every word. "Time for the hunt." A faint smirk crept on Conti's face, Troy had been possessed by "The Boogeyman."

Troy crawled dangerously close to the Germans, his body was hanging precariously out of cover, his rifle pointed right at the MG42; and yet the Germans still could not spot him.

Conti swore he saw Troy mouth to himself with a twisted sneer, "One shot…One kill."

Troy's Springfield cracked. The German machinegunner's head exploded.

American rifles and SMGs opened fire in unison. Conti estimated about five or six Krauts collapsed with screams as their bullets ripped into their flesh. The rest of the Germans dived for cover, some were scrambling so hard for safety that they dropped their weapons.

"Keep shootin! Keep shootin!" Conti shouted. It seemed like an obvious command to tell soldiers in battle, but it was only too common when men would freeze up in a fight, even some veterans. Besides, they had to advance up quickly and keep the Germans' heads down.

A German arm popped over a sandbag and a potato masher soared in an arc. Blackwell called it. The grenade fell a few feet short of the sandbags Blackwell was behind and blew. As the dust fell over him, Blackwell popped from cover with a growl and aimed his Garand at the grenadier and got him in the heart. The German rolled out of cover with jerking muscles.

Conti shouted, "Move up! Move up!"

Blackwell and two men ran forward at a crouch and dived beside Troy's cover. From what Conti could see, Troy was still in "Boogeyman" mode; he was apparently mouthing something to himself, but as his sniper rifle cracked, a Grenadier fell to earth, a pool of blood forming around his carcass.

Conti could see the grey helmets of the Krauts bobbing up and down behind their sandbags—seemingly undecided whether to stay in cover or return fire; Conti sprayed a burst at their directions, and the helmets stayed behind cover.

A German was darting from sandbag to sandbag, with each run, that German was closer to the vacant machine gun.

Conti was reloading, "Don't let 'em man that '42!"

The German sprinted towards the gun, firing a machine pistol from his hip as he ran. To the man's credit, Conti admitted the German was accurate while strafing with his automatic weapon; the German's bullets cracked over the wooden crates over Conti's helmets. To the Sergeant's fortune, the German emptied his magazine, allowing Conti to squeeze off a large burst from his Thompson, most of the rounds entered the man's chest. His body twisted violently as he fell to the ground, his machine pistol went flying in the air.

"My team, move up!"

Duck's team provided a base-of-fire, allowing Conti's team to move several yards forward into cover. Pappas was reloading his Garand as he spoke to Conti, "Sarge, I see a whole cluster of them by the '42. I can take them all out with a grenade and knock out the gun, but I'll have to leave cover."

Glad you volunteered, kid. Conti peeked out and saw what he speaking of. About three Germans were by the sandbags next to the empty machine gun, while a fourth German was moving to man the gun.

"Alright, Pappas, get ready to move."

Pappas removed a grenade from his jacket and nodded to the First Sergeant, "Ready, Sarge."

"Men, covering fire!" The platoon blasted away with every weapon they had. Pappas made the run to the gun. A Volksgrenadier trained his Mauser rifle on Pappas, Conti gave him an eight-round burst, and the German spun as the bullets slammed into his chest.

Pappas heaved the grenade and ducked behind several sandbags, barely avoiding the bullets that popped off the top of the bags. The pineapple landed directly at the foot of the machinegunner as he reached the '42. The German rotated the deadly MG towards the pinned Pappas. The gunner squeezed the trigger; the frag grenade was the first to go off blowing chunks off the gunner and the nearby occupants and thoroughly destroying the machine gun.

This is going good! The MG's gone and they're suppressed and if we can pin them down and move close, we can blow them out of cover with grenades. Just need to keep this pressure goin—

The sounds of heavy engines revving broke through the rifle fire. The ground began to quake, the creaking of gears somehow broke through the rifle fire. The smell of diesel wafted into the air. Out of the eastern shed, the one Troy claimed was empty; a Stug tank came out of hiding and began shifting towards the direction of 2nd Platoon with its motors roaring like a lion.

The riflemen leered at the sniper. Troy remarked, "I-I told you I didn't get a good look what was in that adjacent building!"

Conti couldn't feel his teeth gnashing at the sight of the tank. Oh fuck me!

The machine gun on the tank spurted out streams of bullets that ricocheted off the cover of the Americans, forcing all of them back into cover. Conti could hear them all cursing; worse, he heard the tonal fear in their profanity. Blackwell was sitting behind sandbags and was parallel to Conti. He yelled at him, "Conti, we need to pull back! That thing will rip us to shreds."

Kasserine Pass. That's how it all went down back in '43 in Tunisia. The Germans rolled in with tanks and the infantry fled. Same situation here, the men couldn't go forward, they couldn't flank, they were isolated on a single strip of a stone pier with a tank about to roll down their throats. How am I going to get my men out of this?!

"Joe, I gave you this command cause I trust you to finish this. You're the Sergeant of the company."

Conti closed his eyes, and inhaled through his nose, the image of MacKay shined in his mind. Conti exhaled, his tone was soft, it seemed like he was almost amused. "Goddammit, John…"

Conti snapped to Blackwell, his voice carried to the entire platoon. "If we fall back then all that we've fought for today is gone! They're gonna destroy the pier and set us back further. That ain't happenin! We ain't leavin'!"

Blackwell's face contorted into a sneer. Private Rawlings was beside Blackwell and asked Conti, "Then how we gonna take out that tank?" As if to emphasize their peril, three bullets cracked off the top of their cover.

"Men, take out your sticky bombs! Now!"

"Run, Pappas, run!" Private Saywell screamed.

Conti popped out of cover to see. Pappas' feet were slamming the ground so hard in his run that he was kicking up dust. Conti could see the fear on the Greek kid's face as he ran back to his comrades. The barrel of the tank's MG traversed to the left, belching crimson fireballs within every five bullets it fired. Pappas suddenly jerked forward, his face was contorted in pain. He fell flat on his back and his rifle went flying in the air. He wasn't moving.

Fuck, he's dead!

Pappas' head jolted up and a squeal exited his teeth, "Jesus! I'm hit!"

Bullets bounced around the wounded man. He's too far from cover… "Pappas, stay down! Don't move."

An image of him running out to drag Pappas back into cover popped into Conti's head, and so did the image of bullets smashing into his body.

"Somebody help me! It hurts! Can't move!" Pappas shouted.

Damn it, kid. I know it hurts, but suck it up! Just suck it up.

But Pappas kept yelling in agony. The tank was grinding closer. Conti noticed several men popping their heads out of cover to stare at their wounded comrade. Many of them were biting their lips in frustration; they couldn't just leave him out there in the open suffering.

"Give me suppressing fire, I'm going to get him!" Duck ordered.

Oh hell no! Don't do it! With all this incoming fire— "Stay where ya are, Corporal! Nobody goes after, Pappas. Ya leave to rescue him and ya get picked off!"

The cannon of the tank belched. The wooden crates that Duck, King, and Lovett were hiding behind exploded into smoke. The air in the sergeant's lungs froze at the sight.

And out of the smoke with bullets cracking all around them were Duck and King dragging the helmetless Lovett's dust-covered form by his combat jacket. They dragged him back to cover further down the pier. Lovett's eyes seemed to be closed and blood dripped down his face.

"What's Lovett's status?" Conti yelled back to the corporal.

"He just got the wind knocked out of him, Sarge?" Duck called back.

"We need to get out of here, Sarge!" said Troy, relocating back to cover further away from the demolition station.

"No, we ain't leaving, we're gonna win this fight!" Conti assured them, yet was he just as sure as he sounded?

He heard Blackwell's voice, "Conti, the tanks coming at ya! Relocate!"

The creaking treads grow louder, and closer. The cover in front of him began to shake. Conti popped his head out of cover, and bore witness to the metal monstrosity lurching forward at him. Fortunately, the MG wasn't firing, Conti figured they had to reload; though such a minute blessing would not last long.

And indeed, what Conti was witnessing was not a blessing in the least. The lurching tank had an obstacle in its path, an obstacle it would have no problem running over.

My God, it's moving right over—

Pappas was screeching, "Help me! Oh my God! Help me!"

He was trying to roll over, yet the hole in his waist prevented Pappas to move. He was practically wailing as the menacing metal tread was heading right for his torso.

Private Paulson…Kasserine Pass. He remembered the eighteen year old kid, his goofy face and overbite mouth that shook whenever he laughed. He remembered his past life in the Big Red One before he joined Able Company. Conti had seen Paulson being ran over by a tank, he remembered as the tread stood on his torso… Fucking hell, poor kid screamed like a scared pig. He was screaming til the end, the tank crushed his torso, he finally stopped screaming. Well…it is hard to scream when your organs were forced up through your own mouth by the sheer weight of a tank, like a kid rolling up the end of a vial of toothpaste.

Conti closed his eyes, gritting his teeth with a disappointed growl. The fuck am I about to do?!

"Help me! Oh God! Jesus! No! Sarge! Help me, Sarge!"

Conti's feet were moving before his brain registered the actions.

He moved forward, squeezing the trigger to his SMG so hard that he threatened to break it. The bullets were bouncing off the tans like marbles against a brick wall. He didn't know what the hell he was doing? He tried telling his feet to stop, but they simply picked up the pace.

What the hell? What am I doing?! The tank's gonna cream me good, I'm gonna di— … fuck that! I ain't leaving my boys here to die! I know this won't do jack shit, but maybe it can buy Pappas some time. Ah hell, I lived too long anyhow…

The earth was quaking now as the tank grinded closer. The cannon rotated to Conti's direction, he could hear the tank commander inside the behemoth bellowing orders. The cannon belched, the granite from the ground exploded with fire. The First Sergeant was forced off his feet.

The air was knocked out of his lungs; a terrible bell was going off in his head. The ringing bell reminded him of grammar school back when he was 12, back when he was known as "Fightin' Joe" among his classmates. He always got into a good scrap every other day for some menial things; such as a boy stepping on his sneakers, bullies messing with his friends, bullies messing with him, or even when Conti was bullying others.

Those were the good days…good? No, they were just…they weren't too bad but neither…why the hell do those days matter to a dead man?

He closed his eyes and felt the warm dirt fall onto his face like a breeze of frost during winter. Through the muffled din, he could distinctly hear the words, "One! Two! Three!"

He raised his head off the ground and opened his eyes. His sight was muffled but he could still see somewhat. The gears on the tread of the tank were clinking, through the dust he saw the metal figure backing up. From behind the oil drums, he saw figures draped in dust throwing something at the tank, from the size of them; the thrown objects looked like the sizes of hero sandwiches. The objects stuck to the tank and within a few seconds, the side of the tank blew up in flames. The tank stopped in its tracks.

The shadows in the dust began speaking in what seemed to Conti, jumbled English.

"Yahoo! We goot ittn!"

"Thunk Gaad!"

"Kovuh 'im, kovuh 'im. Doo 'it Brackmell!"

A shadow darted towards the tank and began climbing it until it reached the top. The shadow suddenly stopped moving and an explosion erupted inside the tank, fire was jetting out from the top of the hull.

After the explosion, the cracking of small arms died away completely. The smoke had cleared and Conti's hearing returned to him…somewhat. Everything still had a muffled echo to it, the jumbled English became clear once more.

"Platoon! Sound off!" someone said.

The names of 2nd platoon survivors blurred together. He could feel approaching vibrations in the ground, his ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming towards him. Of all people, it was Duck who ran to his side.

"Hey! Is the Sarge alright?" someone asked.

Duck looked over him, his face scrunched together in horror. "Oh my God!"

What? What?! What the hell happened?

Conti tried to get up, but Duck pushed him back down, his face still terror-stricken. "Hey guys, bad news, with all this dust on him…I…I think I just unearthed a fossil!"

Kids and smartasses.

Conti slugged him in the gut. Duck bent over coughing up dribbles of spit.

The corporal wheezed, "Al-Alright, alright, I deserved that one…"

"Goddamn right, Dung," the sergeant snarled, stepping up to his feet and brushing off the dust on him.

"I w-was, just doing…as you told me…with humor. Oh Jesus, that hurts…" Duck continued to say with shortened breaths.

"Yet not at my expense, asshole. Christ…how's Pappas?"

Duck was still hunched over but said, "Still breathing thanks to you, Top."

And there was Pappas, a foot shy of the tank treading running over him. Tens upon hundreds of sweat bullets were falling down Pappas' brow. The poor boy was trembling so hard it looked embarrassing, but a smile of relief was glued to the kid's face. Private Hannigan was by Pappas' side treating his wound.

"The hell happened?" Conti asked.

Duck finally managed to stand up, "After the tank took a shot at you, Troy sniped the two pioneers trailing the tank. We threw our sticky bombs on the treads and hulls and disabled that metal contraption. But the real man behind it was Blackwell, up there."

From on top the tank, Blackwell was aiming his rifle right at the demo station, but turned his head back to Conti and Duck at the mention of his name. The deranged soldier gave a wolfish grin to the Sergeant with a nod of the head.

Duck continued, "That crazy bastard actually mounted the tank, popped the hatch on the hull and drop grenades down the tank and…voila, fried tank a la mode."

Conti softly nodded; he twisted his head, "What of Lovett?"

"Like I said, he got the wind knocked out of him and got a few scrapes on him, but he's find. Sarge, how lucky are we? Pappas is the only wounded he have. What can we say, everyone was ready to fall back, and there you go charging the metal bastard like Gary Cooper. Guess that motivated us to move. I'm surprised the Lord didn't take you away."

Conti touched his chest and exhaled. Yeah, I'm surprised he didn't as well…Conti turned to Lovett who was sitting up by an oil drum, "How you feel, Lovett?"

It seemed like the kid was blushing, probably out of delirium, "Sarge, I don't think I need to crap anymore…"

A weaponless German waved his arm out frantically behind cover, pleading, "Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen!"

"Wait! Hold your fire, they're surrendering!" announced Private King.

Conti leveled his Thompson at the waving arm, his finger on the trigger. He told King, "Alright, tell 'em to c'mon outta there now with their hands up!"

Without missing a beat, King translated the First Sergeant's command. The accent he used was flawless, you could mistake the kid for a real German just by voice alone.

The Germans complied. They threw down their weapons and began walking forward in a single file with their hands out in the air, the joys of relief were painted on their faces. From inside the station, at least thirty Germans walked out and surrendered to the 11-man platoon.

King, with his rifle trained on the Germans, walked up to one of them and began interrogating him.

King walked up to Conti, "After seeing us destroy the tank and killing most of their men, they had enough of the fighting."

The German prisoners continued to walk past Conti, "Thank God, these bastards got sense in their brains. Alright keep moving, that's right Fritz, war's over, let's go."

"Holy shit! Look!"

The Americans followed King's finger which pointed across the pier to the Axis HQ of Cherbourg, crumbling to pieces. The repeated shelling and blasting out by tanks had finally destroyed the colossal building. A screen of dust and debris shot high into the sky with the thundering of stone and metal crashing into the stone echoing across the entire pier of Cherbourg.

The men of 2nd platoon cheered, Blackwell lit a Lucky Stripe with a smirk on his lips, Conti just exhaled. That crashing sound was beautiful, it was the sound of victory. Finally, the battle for Cherbourg was over.

"Good work, men." I'm damn proud of you. "Blackwell, Saywell, Troy, King, keep these prisoners separated. Hefferman, run along and get a medic for Pappas and some engineers over here. Hudson, Hannigan, you two check out that warehouse. Rawlings, you got perimeter watch."

"S-Sarge…" it was Pappas, who was grinning underneath the tank.

Conti took a knee, "The hell ya grinning for son?"

"You do care," he said it as if he had discovered some ancient secret. Conti could see the glaze in his eyes, he figured Hannigan must have shot him with morphine from his first aid kit.

Conti looked around, no one was looking at him. He leaned close and patted Pappas' chest, "Of course, that's what a Sergeant does. Now if ya yap to anyone what I said, I swear imma come to the aid station and kick ya yella teeth in."

Pappas gave a dopey smile and started laughing, but only to stop and wince in pain. But his smile returned, "You were right, Sarge. I'm glad I was wrong about this bad feeling."

Conti exhaled. Yeah, I am too…

"Hey, Top!" shouted Hannigan, from the inside of the warehouse, "Come in here, we found something…"

"What is it?" Conti walked over to the warehouse. He almost jumped back when once he went past the door, there was at least a hundred pounds of explosives and wiring stretched around the warehouse. Conti wondered what would have happened if a naval shell landed in this warehouse.

Hannigan waved Conti over to his position in the warehouse, and swept the explosives away with his foot, uncovering a large metal hatch in the flooring. Conti nodded to Hannigan to open the hatch. The private pulled it open, and within the shadows of the opening were cold metal stairs that descended downward.

The crusty Sergeant's eyes shot open. "Jeezus…they made a bunker complex down here?"

"What do we, Top?" Duck asked.

What to do…what to do…

Conti walked out of the warehouse and spotted Blackwell, "Blackwell, we're gonna check out an underground bunker in here. Keep guard of the prisoners with the rest of the men. Hudson, Hannigan, King; you three are following me in here. Let's go."

Conti took soft steps down the underground complex; he entered first with his Thompson ready at the hip. God help him if he walks into an ambush down this dank bunker.

The bunker itself was large and cold, dimly lit bulbs partially illuminated the hallways of the dark bunker. Crates with German warning labels taped on top seemingly littered the hall. The four men of Able Company walked down the hallway with the soft steps of mice until the hallway split into the left and right.

"Alright, King and Hannigan, search the left corridor. Hudson, you're with me and we're searching the right. Light and noise discipline, we don't know who or what is down here. We rally back here in ten minutes. Move out."

The men went their separate ways, their eyes and ears ever sensitive to anything moving within the bunker. Conti and Duck roamed the dark bunker for about five minutes, surprised to see how deep the Germans built this elaborate underground complex. They found no Germans on their side, nothing at all except crates that had to be pried open with crowbars and German writing stenciled in white written all around the box.

The cracks of American rifles suddenly echoed throughout the metal bunker. Conti and Duck brought their heads up with scattered deer, and darted towards the sounds of gunfire. Conti and Duck rounded the corner where plumes of black smoke were wafting through the air. They entered an isolated room where King and Hannigan were coughing up a fit from the smoke inhalation, and at their feet stood the bodies of two dead German officers, in dress uniform. Behind the Germans stood stacks upon stacks of papers that were burning brightly.

"What the hell?"

King was coughing as he spoke, "We saw smoke coming through here and we see these two Germans burning papers in this garbage pail. I told them to freeze and they reached for their pistols, so we…"

Conti's eyes shot open, "Ya said burning papers? Goddammit why ya standing with your thumbs up ya asses, that's Kraut intel they're burning!"

Conti reached for his canteen and poured the remaining contents into the burning the pail, Duck and the two riflemen did the same with their canteens until the flames died away. Duck scrambled for the dry papers in the column, "Sarge, I think this intel might be worth its weight in gold."

"Sarge, look at their collars." Hannigan was leaning over the dead German officers. He wore three pips and double stripes on one collar and on the other collar he wore the silver rune that were shaped in two letters.

"What the hell? They're SS."

Hannigan began to laugh, "Goddamn Nazis, eh?" He quickly unfastened the pin from the collar and stuck the silver SS rune inside his breast pocket.

"The hell you doing?" King asked.

"Souvenirs, dummy. Oh boy, won't Christa love this when she gets it. We're gonna be shacking up something fierce when I get back."

King made a soft gulp, but turned to Conti, "Hey, Top, you want a souvenir?"

"Take a good look at him," Hannigan said, his eyes focused on the Germans, "He is a souvenir."

Kids and smartasses.

Conti smacked him in the back of the helmet, "The only souvenir, 'Christa' is gonna get is ya tanned ass in the mail once I'm done with ya! Souvenirs can wait, Hannigan. You and Hudson keep searching throughout this bunker; we don't know who else is down here."

Duck nodded and patted Hannigan to follow him. Hannigan sighed, "Alright, Top, but don't let no one touch that Kraut officer, I still need his cufflinks."

King was stammering, "Uh Conti, you're gonna want to see this!"

"What is it? Anything good?"

"Oh yeah, oh yes it is…"

"What's wrong?"

"I-I-I…I just…look…"

Conti grabbed the pieces of paper from Duck's hand and combed through every word. He could only read basic German, but these words were advance and…dealt with physics? But he didn't need to read German to understand the last page. His eyes widened at the blueprint, his jaw began to shake.

"Is…that a missile?"