The Replacement III

July 12, D-Day + 36

"No matter how long you train someone to be brave, you never know if they are or not until something real happens."

Hill 192 was now surrounded. Here it was. The main attack. The same method that decimated Charlie Company. But now they had an additional company from another division attacking the reverse slope. But still, Able would be leading the attack. At the moment, Able's engineers under Sergeant Mercer were trying to disable the hedgehogs that Jerry set up to block the tanks advance.

Everything around the hill was a serene quilt of green, yet upon the rising base it quickly became a patchwork of brown dirt and blackened grass. Craters pockmarked the hill from the artillery rounds by Americans 105s in attempt to quell the German defenders, yet obviously they had failed.

As the engineers are removing the obstacles, the entire company was lying behind thick treelines near the base of the hill. Private Franks could hear Captain MacKay listening to the Battalion Commander on the radio, most likely telling him to hurry up and take the hill. The mortar section were setting up there 60mm tubes, one rifleman joked with them how they were lucky to be lying in the rear. The heavy machineguns were setting up an interlocking field of fire from both sides from the base of the hill. A soldier in 1st Platoon is praying, fervently and silently. Someone from 2nd Platoon is singing, Pop Goes the Weasel.

All the soldiers were kneeling together, their eyes on their respective officers and NCOs as they reminded them the basics of infantry tactics.

Lieutenant O'Leary stood tall and walked side-to-side, "Remember, we got to keep moving, don't get hunkered down. They'll be calling down artillery on us. Keep moving. Don't bunch up either. Keep your damn spacing. I don't need a lucky burst or mortar to wipe out an entire squad."

They all listened in silence. No one nodded in agreement. Franks clenched his Garand tightly within his sweaty palms. This was it, the final push up the hill which wiped out Charlie. He was exhausted, his legs felt limp. His company had fought so hard and fast for every yard of ground and so many Germans fell in their wake, but so many Americans lost their lives as well. He checked his watch; he was sure it was broken. To him, it felt like they spent the entire day reaching that hill; yet only half an hour had past when they first began their attack today.

Someone slapped his back hard. He yelped in surprised, then turned in irritation to the culprit, "What the hell was that for?!"

Lazzano gave a grin of savagery, he then turned to Adair, "See! I told ya he was still breathin'!"

Adair checked the magazine to his BAR, he scoffed, "Yeah, well I bet not for long if the Krauts got anything to say about it."

"Stow it, Adair," said Corporal Merrill fiercely, "Don't pay mind to him."

"Yeah, instead focus on Jerry and what not to do to get killed," Sergeant Hernandez grunted to Franks. "Listen, keep moving and don't get bogged down. Jerry loves sitting ducks. And for the love of God, don't bunch up, makes a bigger target. Got it?"

His nods were quick and his response short, "Got it."

Three tanks were positioned close to the base, Excalibur, Hitler's Bane, and Heavy Hitter. Their mortar section began a bombardment upon the hill. The engineers had just taken down the left hedgehog. Franks groaned loudly, he could do this, he told himself. He could. He had already killed a man. What more could the Germans throw at him?

Captain MacKay waved his hand, "Up the hill! Up the hill! Go! Go! GO!"

The three Shermans lurched forward, their sergeants behind the hands of the.50 cal. Everyone starts moving. Franks felt like his feet were stuck in taffy, yet some alien force made him move; he didn't want to be alone. Everyone instinctively went behind the tanks, but soon fanned out into a scattered line formation. Franks realized he was a few feet away from Merrill, he spread out farther away. Don't bunch up! Keep moving!

Machineguns opened up the moment his foot touched the incline. Everyone dived into the artillery craters. The Shermans start edging forward, blasting at the machinegun positions. Officers and senior NCOs are shouting at their men to keep up the forward momentum. They say that it was just like Omaha, no open ground, so they had to keep moving to get out of the open. Franks shuddered, he was never at Omaha.

A man got hit in the chest and jumped backwards, coughing up a fit of blood. Another got hit five times and spun like a tornado until he fell to the burnt grass. Franks tripped over somebody, the corpse was bloated and flies danced around the man's decaying face. Was this a man from Charlie Company?

"Get moving! Go! Go!"

Adair was moving at a crouch, firing his BAR in short burst from the hip. Lazzano and Merrill were moving as well, but aiming down the sights of their rifles and firing. What the hell were they shooting at? Up the hill, he couldn't see a damn thing. He could hear the German weapons firing, but couldn't see any muzzle flashes or camo helmets or uniforms.

Franks realized he was still in the dirt, watching as everyone was passing him. He felt safe, lying lower than a snake, but then he realized that fortitude meant solitude. The last time he was alone he was almost killed. He gritted his teeth and propped himself up on his rifle and kept moving. He had to keep moving forward.

"Come on 1st Platoon! Let's move! Move it out!" the lieutenant said with a wave of the arm.

"Sniper!"

"Get down!"

"No, damn it, keep moving!"

"Let's go! Hurry up!"

Everyone's voice blended together, his father could have been out there calling him and he wouldn't be able to tell. Along with the burping ripple of MG42s? Forget about it. He wouldn't be able to hear shit. Several tracer rounds soared past their feet, some of the dirt shot up straight into his nostrils. But he kept moving, he had to play catch up with his squad.

Amid the gunfire, a screeching split the sky. All of the replacements in the area looked up. The veterans all dived to the ground for cover. Franks was lost in a daze at that screaming sound.

It was Sergeant Hernandez who was the first to shout, "Mimis! Incoming!"

"Spread out and get down!"

"Hit the dirt!"

Franks finally noticed his squad was lying on their bellies, he figured he ought to as well. His stomach slammed into the ground, then the earth was quaking with fiery thunder. Screams and explosions roared around him. A ball of flame burst in front of him, a wave of heat slapped him in the face; as if a volcano was a living being and suddenly belched. He closed his eyes, dirt was stinging his corneas. The ground continued to shake, he felt like Hell itself tried to claw its way up the earth to swallow them all. He wrapped his body around his rifle with clenched eyes and closed teeth; at that moment, that piece of wood was more precious to Clarence Franks than his own mother.

The tremoring ceased. His ears were ringing, his flesh was shivering. He looked up in front of him, his vision obscured by puffs of black smoke and brown dust lifting lazily into the air. Voices were all around him, blurred and droopy. Yet the burst of the German machinegun was unmistakable. He then recalled that he was still in the middle of a battle.

The smell of burning grass and wood wafted into his nostrils, deadening his nose. Dirt was in his mouth and his hands were blackened by the artillery shells. Figures kept running ahead of him, some of them dropping as blood shot out of them. He noticed someone he recognized, it looked to be Adair. He seemed to be crawling, yet part of his uniform was charred and ripped, crimson liquid seeped through his pants. His mouth opened, groans came out.

"Adair!" Lazzano cried out, he scrambled over to him.

Merrill had somehow appeared, blood dripping from a gash on his cheek. He screamed for a medic. Soon Hernandez was there as well, all of them checking for wounds on their fallen friend. A medic soon came to their position and took out his kit of supplies and began getting to work.

The screams of those broken by the bombs overtook the machineguns. Franks arms and legs were glued to the dirt. Nothing could move him. His mouth hung down, his eyes focused on his squad trying to help their friend. Don't bunch up! The lieutenant said don't bunch up! Sarge, you told me not to bunch up! He wanted to scream this at them, but he couldn't speak, he wasn't even sure he was breathing. I need to get out of here before that happens to me!

"Oh shit, here they come again!"

"Move forward!"

The wail commenced again. Fire fell from the sky and smoke rose from the earth. His squad left Adair behind and ran forward up the hill—the medic dived on top of Adair's battered body.

No! No! No! An unknown will forced itself into Franks' body. He stood up and ran from the incoming fire and headed off to the right of the platoon. His boots were trampling the flames on the ground, yet the fire was the last thing on his mind. He would not end up like Adair, he would not. Franks kept running, and running, and running. He wasn't going to end up like Adair.

He took a misstep in his mad dash and tumbled ten feet down the hill. The sounds of the explosions died away, yet for some reason, the sounds of machineguns were even louder than they were before Franks started running. "Medic!" someone bellowed. Franks buried his face into the earth. He couldn't believe he was going to die like this.

"Is that all you got?! I'm right here! Hit me!"

Who the hell is saying that?

He swore he heard the rabid grunting of a gorilla.

"Hit me you fucking Krauts! Come on! I'm right here!"

A large corporal was walking up the hill with a smile of evil on his face, firing his Garand at the hip with each step. He was grunting and screeching, he asked for the Germans to drill a hole through his head if they could. Dirt and grass shot into the air as bullets danced around him. He kept advancing, his eyes as big as plates as he kept firing. His white teeth showed fully as if he was enjoying himself through this carnage.

"Blackwell! Get down, dammit!" someone called out to him.

The wailing of a woman came screaming down on them. The wild man dived to the ground and crawled forward, even as everywhere around them burst into smoke and fire. Franks sent his face into the dirt and clenched his eyes. The concussion sent his helmet flying; he could feel the heat on the back of his neck. He bit into the dirt, and counted to ten, his mother told him that anytime he would go through something rough, just count to ten until it passed. When he got to ten, the shelling was still continuing.

A lone helmet came bounding down the hill, it stopped in front of Franks. A singular, gaping hole was present in the front of it, the rims of the hole was caked with blood.

Another woman screamed. The ground erupted into fire. Men were cursing. Some man shouted he would kill all the sons of Germany. Again, they're shelling us again… He continued to crawl forth, his hand falling on a jagged and dismembered foot. They keep doing this, again and again and again! He grabbed the lone helmet, imagining the relief the GI must have felt, getting it from one bullet to the skull. An easy death. He recalled Adair, he was going to die in agony. They all were going to die in agony. It felt unreal, this fear and anger bubbling inside of Franks. He was angry at everything around, but afraid of one thing that he could not see.

He roared aloud to himself, tears forming in the crack of his eyes, not caring who heard or saw, "I hate you fucking Krauts!"

"I know, right! Can't they just let us kill them all!" Cunningham sneered, reloading his rifle.

The wisecracking replacement he met yesterday had vanished. This Cunningham was helmetless and had the eyes of derangement in his sockets. Franks didn't even think to question where the hell he even came from, he was only ecstatic that he had a buddy beside him that hated the Germans as much as he did right now.

Cunningham patted Franks quickly on the shoulder, yelling to be heard, "You alright there, Frankie?!"

"Yeah… I-I think so! You?"

"Bastards almost got me with those goddamn Mimis!"

"Me too! It took out Adair!"

"Who?!"

"Adair, a guy from my squad!"

"Yeah? They killed McClure and Jemas! Blasted those guys to bloody pieces!

The angry corporal sprang to his feet and kept firing his weapon at the hip as he moved up. His bellows were animalistic as if possessed by a demon. He got to a crater and tossed a grenade, then he commenced with a walking fire, fell into another crater to lob a grenade, then walked again grunting as he fired.

Franks pointed at the sight, "Who the hell is that?!"

"Corporal Blackwell! He's in my platoon! That maniac was birthed in a goddamn nuthouse, I tell ya what!"

"Wait!" He finally noticed. "You're here, he's here, where the hell is 1st Platoon?! Where the hell is my squad?!" He brought his head up, he couldn't see Merrill, Lazzano, or Hernandez. Not that he could see their faces, or anyone's for that matter. Everyone looked the same and had their backs turned—climbing the hill and firing their weapons.

"I don't see them, Cunningham!"

"I know that 1st Platoon should be on the left! But you can't go out there, Frankie! Stick with me buddy, we'll find them when this is over! Alright?"

"Ye-Yeah, alright!"

A sergeant from 2nd Platoon was rushing up the incline, braving the bullets. "Keep moving! Keep moving! Off your asses 2nd Platoon! We got a job to do!"

Cunningham patted Franks' shoulder, "C'mon, Frankie! Let's go!"

"R-Right!"

Using the butts of their Garands, the two replacements stood as one and darted up the hill. The entire momentum of 2nd Platoon was carrying them up, despite the casualties they were sustaining. Franks passed by a good number of men who lied in the dirt groaning for deliverance. But ahead of him, he could see. He could see them. Those bastards were hurling down potato mashers at them. One bounced in the dirt. Franks called it out. He and Cunningham dived behind an American corpse for cover. The blast shook that bit of earth, the force from it shook the cadaver. As the smoke clear, Franks rested the neck of his rifle on the charred and shredded body and opened fire at the peak, Cunningham fired as well.

Fire from a '42 raked alongside them. He could see it hiding through the dust in a concrete bunker. He gasped. They were close enough to see the freaking bunkers. Able men kept rushing upward, Franks and Cunningham followed, they refused to be left behind and killed.

"Panzer!"

The German tank traversed down the slope of the hill, its machinegun spurting rounds into the charging men. Its cannon blasted at a Sherman. The American vessel rocked violently, but returned fire with interest. The blast split the main cannon of the Panzer. A bazooka team fired from behind a tree stump. The round exploded off the hull, brown smoke was wafting from the tank; yet it was still operational. The tank began to retreat back up the incline of the hill.

"They're pulling back!"

"No, they're waiting to ambush us on top that hill!"

"Well let's go after it!"

"Keep moving! Let's go!'

Cunningham and Franks looked at each other and rose to their feet as one and charged once more. The earth around them kept exploding, their lungs were on fire; but they would be damned if they stopped to catch their breath. The peak of the hill was coming closer into view. Franks saw three men go down nearly at the same time. Two of them were squirming in pain, the other was still as a rock—dead. He shoved Cunningham into a crater next to a dead GI. Bullets viciously raked the rim of the crater.

Heavy Hitter fired its cannon and the concrete pillbox burst into rubble and smoke. Men cheered as the tank continued to tread on forward victoriously. It couldn't have reached more than ten feet until an 88 tore clean through the hull. The tank split open and a ball of fire shot out from it. No screams came from the tank, all the crew were killed instantly—what a merciful end.

And like that, all firing stopped, from American and German weapons. The only thing audible in and around the hill were the moans of the dying and low barking of orders.

"Where the hell are we?" Franks asked.

"Where the hell is everyone else?" Cunningham replied.

Franks instinctively shot his head up, but retracted it immediately back into the dirt. He dare not raise his head. He recalled that bouncing helmet.

"What do we do, Frankie?"

"I… I don't know, man. We can't pull back, hell, we can't move. Maybe—"

"Shhh!" Cunningham muttered with an extended hand. Franks listened, he could hear some low jabbering in a foreign tongue, it was ugly and low-pitched. Then a small fit of laughter. It came from up the hill.

The laughing continued. Franks' teeth pressed together tightly. Fear turned to shame. Shame turned to anger.

Cunningham seemingly read his mind, "They're goddamn laughing at us…"

"Yeah they are…"

"Those Kraut bastards…"

How the hell can they think this is funny? They're killing us and they're laughing! He began breathing frantically through his nostrils, his fury reaching the breaking point. The dying men he passed, the limbs that he stepped on that were blasted off by artillery; all this suffering…

Cunningham unsheathed his bayonet with a trembling hand, and snapped it unto the front of his M1. Franks held his breath in his chest, bobbing up and down like a yo-yo. With shaking hands, he took his bayonet and snapped it on his rifle as well. They were too close to the laughing German not to use bayonets. Franks knew that upon the next rush, he was going to skewer that bastard.

"What the hell are we waiting for?" Cunningham asked.

"I don't know."

"Shouldn't we just get them?"

"I don't know."

"What if they come down and—"

"Man I don't know! Christ, I don't know, stop asking me!" What the hell could he say to that? Where's an officer when you needed one?

A lone Sherman lurched up the hill, Franks could feel its vibrations. It looked to be Excalibur, who swiveled its cannon to the crest of the hill and broke the silence. Its belching cannon shot out and demolished a pillbox on the opposite end of the hill. Concrete went flying and the Germans were no longer laughing, but screaming.

Someone yelled out, "The 88 is gone!"

"Now's our chance!"

"Everyone, up and at 'em! Go! Go!" someone shouted.

To the left of their position, Franks noticed a tall man who looked to be Lieutenant O'Leary bound to his feet with a horrid scream. Everyone behind him bolted to their feet, everyone double-timed. Behind Franks and Cunningham, the mad Blackwell charged up as well, followed by the entirety of 2nd platoon. Such fervor swept up to Franks and Cunningham, the crest of the hill was right there! The Germans were right there! This could all end! With bayonets on their rifles, they charged up; they felt they were giants among men. Nothing was going to stop them, all the way or bust! Amid the screaming, Franks felt like he was invulnerable, wrapped in the holy armor of God's beloved hand. His feet never stopped moving, he knew that he could run an entire lap around the world, and then run to the sun itself.

But the Germans fought back.

As soon as the first American boot reaches the top, the air was dissected by lead and fire. Green, brown, and grey all blended together. Franks kept screaming as he ran. Cursing, screaming, crying, begging… all interwoven. Franks kept running, his rifle an extension of his arm, firing at all faces that looked towards him from afar. Everyone is saying everything at once.

Hulking men wearing German uniforms place the machine guns at their waist and fired at the attackers. They got cut down, as they did the Americans. Several Germans stood and fought, running at the charging Americans. Rifles were used as clubs, bayonets as meat cleavers, profanity on both sides ruled the air; fighting with teeth and nails that would fill their ancestral Neanderthals with pride.

Cunningham is sprinting faster. They both spot a bearded face pop up from the trench, Cunningham moves first. He lunges at the Kraut and buries the bayonet into his sternum with the ferocity of a savage. The German topples on his back with a scream. Cunningham retracts the bayonet, dark blood sprays out like a fountain. Cunningham stabs the German again. And again. Franks passes him, continually firing his weapon at the hip.

The Panzers turned their guns on the infantry and belched fire and spat lead. Men of the 2nd Platoon collapsed on the ground in heaps, several were crying within craters. Franks kept moving, his brain repeatedly telling him to run. Beneath his feet the ground was uneven, he knew he was running on top of corpses. American bodies. A mother's son. But he didn't care. He had to keep on moving into the Germans' fire or he would join the corpses.

Excalibur and Hitler's Bane reached the summit and blew the Panzer apart. The unfortunate bastards who were close enough to the tank fell from the blast and shrapnel. The Shermans then they turned their 50 cal MGs unto the infantry. The Germans were falling back hard to the reverse slope, anything to escape this direct onslaught.

More men in camo retreated back as the spoke gibberish frantically. Invisible darts enter their body and they drop heavily in the dirt. Three men are running back, Franks drops to his knee in instinctual training and lines up the middle man. He fires, the man falls. The man squeals in gibberish fit for a pig, and recoils in the dirt; trying to regain his footing to flee. Franks fires twice more, one of his invisible rounds hits the man again. Yet he still thrashes in agony. His two comrades stop to try to rescue him, but does Franks target the two men? No, just the man he shot and couldn't kill. Franks fired the last five rounds, dust and blood popped off the camo uniform and the man finally laid still.

Within the whirlwind of madness, Franks spotted Hernandez a short distance away, firing his Garand at the enemy until a shirtless German—who had blood-stained bandages wrapped around his torso—leapt from behind at the sergeant, waving a menacing bayonet directed to the center of Hernandez's back. Franks called out his rank, but his voice was lost around the chaos. Hernandez slightly pivoted at the last moment, something else had caught his attention; the German's bayonet entered into Hernandez's left arm. The wounded German tackled the screaming sergeant to the dirt, pulled out the bayonet, and tried to stick the American in the chest. Franks shouldered his weapon and hastily aligned his sights with the German and fired rapidly—failing to take into account that he could hit Hernandez. After the fourth wild shot, two bullets tore through the German knifeman, and he fell dead on top of Hernandez.

Hernandez looked down to Franks with widened eyes. Franks came rushing towards him. Hernandez waved him away telling him to get down. Franks ignored it. Hernandez was having trouble pushing the dead weight off of him until Franks arrived.

To his right, Franks noticed the First Sergeant rushing ahead, stopping in his tracks and opening fire on the Germans. A German tackled Conti, but the grizzled Sergeant tucked his Thompson's butt under his armpit and placed the barrel directly into the German's gut and held down the trigger. The rounds exited bloodily through the Kraut's back. The Top mounted the dead soldier and repeated rained heavy punches with his right arm into the German's face with emphasized cursing.

Franks turned back to Hernandez and managed to get the dead German off him, "Sarge! Are yo—"

"Move! GRENA—"

In the briefest of moments, a trumpet blared in his right ear and a warm wind kissed his neck and cheek. Something immediately yanked him down. His nose was stopped up and he was spitting out dirt through his cracked and bloody lips. The palm of his hand is course and rough, he wipes away the sweat and grime from his face; the dirt stings his eyes. He swore moments ago that he was on top of Hernandez, but now it seemed that Hernandez was on top of him. He was calling him, not by his name of course, but by "New Guy". His vision kept getting hazy, the world was spinning. The fragile grain of dirt underneath him was so warm. He felt like he was being dragged. He spotted a figure in an American jacket fall to the earth, clutching his bleeding throat. Three feet ahead of him, two men were wrestling for control of a shovel; one man won, and bashed the loser's face in with it. He then fell into a trench, his face rested on the soil; it was so soft. Someone was shaking his jacket and calling to him. He was so tired, his head was throbbing. He closed his eyes.

Mumbling stirred him awake. That or maybe the hammering in his head. Something heavy stepped on his hand, he winced, then rose to his knees. Two Americans were going through the jacket of a slain German right next to him. He recognized them from his platoon, Santiago and the country-boy Smitty.

"Keep looking, Smitty!"

"I dun ain't thank we gonna find any up on this here hill, Santiago."

"Not with that pathetic attitude! If you find it, I'll give you 15% of what I'll sell it for."

"I dunno, Santiago, thar an awful lot of dead Krauts."

"Come on you yokel, help me out! There's a lot of bodies here, lot of officers to find—"

"Hey! Who y'all callin' a doggone dirty yokel?!"

"You, Mr. Nine Fingers. Now help me find a Luger before these other guys get wise."

Franks' ear was throbbing, he wiped the grime away from his mouth, "Uh, fellas?"

Both veterans turned to him, Santiago's eyebrow shot up, "Oh man, you're still breathing, huh?"

"Yeah, uh… seems like it…"

Smitty grinned, "We reckon' you dun did gave up on y'all life. Hernandez will be mighty tickled to see you."

"He would?" He couldn't even recall his sergeant's face at that moment. He looked to the scavenged German, and the memories came back. "Did we win?"

Santiago chuckled, "Well we wouldn't be here conversing if we didn't."

Around him, the world began to lose its obscurity. He realized that he was kneeling within an elaborate trench network on top of the hill. Scores of Germans were dead all across the hill, their tanks were broken and burning brightly. There were plenty of medics and stretcher teams moving up and down the hill to care for the wounded. A long line of German prisoners were being escorted down the hill, they were spat upon and mocked by several GIs. In the center of the trench was a blasted-out German bunker that held an American flag fastened to its flagpole.

"Good God," was all that Franks could say.

Santiago looked up, "Hey, New Guy, here comes your squad now."

The three surviving men were following First Sergeant Conti, listening intently on every word that he uttered. Merrill had a large Band-Aid on his cheek, Lazzano appeared to be fine, while Hernandez's left arm was bandaged up several times where he was stabbed. Santiago got their attention and pointed to the dazed Franks.

Hernandez actually looked relieved. "Good, you're awake, how are you?"

"My head's ringing like a bell, Sarge."

"I ain't surprised. A Kraut grenade went off close by you. You little lucky bastard, all that hit you was the concussion."

"It was? Huh… and you dragged me into the trench."

"Yeah, I did."

The Top looked at him with inquisitive eyes, "Your name was Franks, right?"

"Yes, Top!"

"Hmm…" he then turned to the squad leader, "Heard that he saved your ass, Hernandez. And to think you had him walking point just yesterday."

Hernandez didn't say a thing. His eyes went to the dirt.

"Get your squad squared away, Hernandez, I need to speak with the Cap."

"Yeah, got it, Conti."

Lazzano and Merrill sat by the trench, Merrill said first, "Good Golly, man, where did you go? Last I remember, you were behind us when the Mimis hit, then next, you're gone. We thought you were hit, or dead."

"Uh, I just kind of drifted over to 2nd platoon and assaulted up the hill with them. We got to the crest and then I saw Sergeant Hernandez, and then… uh… well…"

"Hey."

"Oh, uh, yeah Sarge?"

"You thirsty, kid?"

"Uh, no?"

"Course you are." Hernandez handed him the canteen with his good arm. "Here, drink."

Franks was more parched than he realized. He drank nearly half the canteen. The squad chuckled lightly.

"Hey, what did you say your name was?" Hernandez asked.

"Franks. Clarence Franks."

"Name's 'Franks', huh? Hey Franks, guess what day tomorrow is?"

"Uh… Thursday?"

Hernandez grunted, "Well yeah, it is. But for you, it'll be Day 3. Guess what, Franks, you made it."

Merrill grinned and patted him on the back. Lazzano offered him a cigarette. Franks stared at it, then looked to him if it was alright. Lazzano gave his smug Italian smirk and nodded. Franks took it in his lips, Lazzano lit it for him. He inhaled; he could feel the smoke reaching the back of his throat. He didn't know what to do, he never smoked—he only saw the actors do it in the movies. He inhaled too much and coughed up a fit of smoke. The others broke out into a fraternal laugh.

Lazzano remarked, "Look at this, huh? Franks smoked his first Strike, killed his first Krauts, and made it to Day 3; our little boy is a man now."

"Good on you, Franks." Merrill smiled.

Warmth flushed to his cheeks, his chest was tight with elation. He nodded to all of them, "Uh, thanks guys. Yeah, thanks." This feeling… camaraderie? Did it truly feel this good?

Hernandez started again, "Listen, Franks, you went through all this effort to prove me wrong and that you're a dogface soldier; you are not allowed to die on me or get wounded. You understand me?"

Franks noticed a man screaming as a stretcher team lifted him up and walked him down the hill. Franks chewed his bottom lip and rose to his wobbly feet. "With respect, Sergeant Hernandez, with all that we've seen today… on the condition of me dying or getting hit…" he shook his head slowly, "I don't think either of us have a say in that."

It started as a chuckle and then evolved into a laugh. Once Hernandez finished, a grin broke on his face, "Look at you, you really are a dogface now."

"By the way, what happened to Adair?" he asked.

"Adair is banged up somethin' fierce, but's he going to survive," Lazzano said. "He's a tough son of a bitch."

Franks exhaled in relief. "That's good. That's good."

Hernandez nodded, "Yeah it is. So, I'm moving Laz up to the BAR. You did well with him apparently, so I'm making you his assistant, Franks. You'll be holding the extra ammo for him."

He nodded, "Sounds good, Sarge." He then recalled something important. "Oh man, uh thanks for seeing me guys, but I need to find 2nd Platoon."

"It's over there to the right," Merrill told him. "Don't get lost now."

Franks was pulled out of the trench by Hernandez and Laz, and started on his way to find his buddy. Soldiers were lying everywhere, dead and alive, Franks tried not to step on any of them. He spotted the Top walking and talking with Captain MacKay. The C.O. looked disheveled, dirt and dried blood caked his face; his Thompson was slung awkwardly around his shoulder. He knew he shouldn't be listening, but curiosity got the better of him. He took a knee and faked tying his boots.

"What happened with the Colonel, sir?" Conti asked.

"He's astounded."

"Well we did capture 1-9-2 and got some payback for Charlie."

"He wasn't astounded about that, he expected that from us. Y'know, 'Always Able' and all that. It was just how we managed to capture this position within short of an hour when Charlie couldn't even do it in a few days. He saw the assault from the rear with his field glasses, he was claiming something about medals and commendations."

Franks continued to fiddle around with his boot trying to look busy, but he noticed the steel glare in Conti's eyes. "Guess he didn't figure that we got here this far because of Charlie and the Second. They laid the groundwork for us."

"Yeah, they really did. I need to actually talk to whoever's in command from the 2nd Infantry."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I heard the company that attacked with us lost their C.O. and two officers. Their assault on the rear slope and from the north drew away the real brunt of the 352nd away from us. If they were all here… we could have ended up like Crazy Charlie."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm. And plus our guys… All of those boys, the 29th and the 2nd, just for this piece of a hill?"

"Yeah…"

"Well… since we took this here hill, does this mean we can rest and recover?"

The Captain shook his head, bitterly, "No. Our next objective is Saint-Lô and that's soon."

Conti spat out some phlegm, his lips pursed together in irritation. "Ah Christ… when?"

"Soon."

The Top groaned. The Captain nodded. Both of them walked away together. Franks swallowed hard at the thought of their next objective. He kept moving, he had to find him.

"Holy smokes, Frankie!" Cunningham was once again helmetless as he sat against sandbags, his field jacket was peppered with holes in the back and his left sleeve had a large open tear in it from triceps to forearm. He looked different, though. Franks couldn't but a reason to it, but he looked different. He had the same cocky smile, his joking attitude had returned, but his eyes… they were different somehow.

"There you are, Cunningham."

"The hell happened to you, Frankie? You a magician or something? You were gone like a puff of smoke."

"I don't know. All I remember was charging up that crest, and…" he shot his hands in the air with a shrug, "I don't know, it was all just a blur. Yelling, shooting, stabbing. I helped my Sarge out though, killed the Kraut who was going to knife him."

"That was you? I heard the boys in my platoon talking about someone doing that. Well look at you." His smile vanished. "We did it, we took this son of a bitch."

Franks sat down next to Cunningham in front of the sandbags. The view from the top was nice, they could see woods and hedgerows for miles. Even Saint-Lô to the west. "Yeah, we did. On our second day here, no less."

"Get the hell out of here… this is our second day. Christ, it felt like months…"

"Yeah."

"Hmm."

"You alright?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." He took his canteen and recalled how it was empty. There was a dead German a few yards away. His eyes were closed and he had two holes in his chest. He eyed the corpse's canteen, and reached out, then hesitated. His first thought was what if he came back to life just to stop him. So what if he does, I can take care of him. Besides, he doesn't need water where he's going. He took the canteen and drank it, it was sweet.

Cunningham chuckled, "Didn't know you smoked?"

"Hmm? Oh, well, yeah I don't. But you know, why the hell not?"

"Got another one?"

Franks instantly took the one out of his mouth and gave it to Cunningham, who inhaled it with gusto. Franks examined his hands that held the canteen, they were black and red, dirt had rooted itself deeply within his nails. He clenched his hand into a fist, then unclenched it, his fingers stuck together from blood and grime. He looked at the German body he took the canteen from. His gaze turned to the dozens of German dead littered across the hilltop. He watched as his countrymen scavenged their bodies in methodical fashion for any suitable trophies. It was queer, but he no longer felt that flaming rage he once held. It subsided completely. His eyes lingered on a group of German dead lying together in a large crater. He looked at them, and felt nothing.