Sgt. Faucheux easily overpowered the Axis soldier who'd tried to wrestle the weapon from his hands and knocked him to the ground. There was something rewarding in the man's eyes as he desperately, pathetically, scooted away for dear freedom. It was the fear, Faucheux guessed. He knew himself to be an intimidating sight to say the least, in his frogskin camouflage Bleeders uniform, protective gas mask, and helmet. He looked like something out of a horror film.
This nightmarish appearance was only further amplified by the rusty combat shotgun he was holding, what he liked to think of and sometimes affectionately refer to as his 'battle axe'. The soldier on the ground whimpered, begging for forgiveness from a man who'd just lost a friend to a bouncing betty and had nothing but vengeance on his mind and rage burning in his veins. Faucheux never broke eye contact as he slowly shook his head 'no' and leveled the barrel with the man's face.
Sans pitié.
His foe screamed and raised both hands in a useless defensive gesture. Faucheux split the man's forehead wide open with his trusty battleaxe and walked over him, stepping on his chest as he went. Faucheux looked around in approval at his team ransacking the house, scavenging for documents or supplies and sweeping up any remaining Axis. Cpl. Dumont called out to him, holding what appeared to be various sets of maps. Locations of other Axis strongholds, presumably. Faucheux nodded in acknowledgment and used a hand radio to get in contact with the American infantry unit waiting not too far behind.
He got a hold of Sergeant Peterson.
"The house is clear," Faucheux reported. "Your men can move up and take the bridge so our armor can roll across."
Though this was their first joint operation together and he didn't know much about him, Peterson was clearly a man who smoked too much, judging by the incredibly hoarse voice that came through the handheld. It sounded like the guy had been gargling nails and rinsing his mouth with quicksand.
"Roger that, we're pushing up now!"