Breathe in, breathe out. The rifle in his hand felt warm, much warmer than the cold sea-spray around him, and although he knows his left hand is mechanical he still imagines he can feel his ever-present glove. He'd been gripping the weapon hard, far too hard for his own liking. His first foray into combat had been in '42 with Patton in North Africa, then in Italy. Corporal Joseph Joestar was no stranger to combat, though there was something different about today, the tension hung in the air thicker than just about any sense of danger he'd ever felt before. Even Wamuu and Kars had been incapable of producing such dread in his heart, and the men in his unit had it even worse than he. Breathe in, breathe out. Steady, regulated breathing to ensure the flow of energy through his body and keep him alive. He would have died down in El Guettar had he not managed to deflect that sniper's round from his head by throwing his rifle in front of it. Breathe in, breathe out. Now, as he heard the call to get ready for the ramp to drop, Joseph opened his eyes and stood up.
He has no chance to use his Hamon. The frantic sprint to get to cover began the moment the ramp dropped and the '42s opened up at them. Half his platoon was already dead before they got out of the water. As Joseph reaches the relative shelter of a shell hole, he shuts his eyes and yearns for the days of proper fights: single combat to prove who is stronger, who could train better. A 33 day death sentence didn't phase him, but the merciless and faceless fighting that has defined his experiences on his second trip to Europe has left a bitter taste in his mouth. A flash of memory assaults him, his time training under his mother alongside Caesar making him ache, climbing the oil soaked - a bang brings him back to the present. He can see Private Morrison huddling in the shell hole with him, curled in the fetal position and weeping. Joseph grabs him, yelling for him to just get the fuck up before a bullet lodges itself in Morrison's chest. The gasping kid, no older than 19, just lay there with distant eyes, crying out for his parents as his chest let out a horrid sucking noise. Joseph couldn't see a medic nearby, the chaos all making it hard to tell they were even American even though he knew they all were. As Joseph got to his knees and began to sprint, he knew Morrison would be there for at least fifteen minutes before he stopped breathing. Joseph's own breath was getting ragged; the movement was different, the adrenaline pounding, the air being sucked away from his with every explosion before the dirt and sand slammed in to him like a wave. He learned to keep his mouth shut during combat back in Tunisia when he was chatting away with another private before a chunk of that private's leg landed in his mouth, a landmine having taken both legs off him before any of them knew of the danger. Eventually, Joseph had reached cover at a berm just beneath the bunkers from where the Germans were shooting at them. He caught sight of a few officers scattered about and let out a sigh of relief that he wouldn't need to do anything for now.
The breach had been fast and they ran quickly. Once they were underneath the bunkers, the buzzing sound of the 42s nearly burst his eardrums. He slumped against the wall as a few of the crazier bastards dealt with a machine gun nest at the top of the hill. He had a very bad feeling about the rest of the day and he felt a sinking in his gut. The last time he had a similar feeling, just four months ago, he felt despair even greater than that which he felt upon finding Caesar's body.
February 1944, outside Monte Cristo, Italy. Joseph sat on a collapsed Roman pillar as he thought about his life for the past three years. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, Joseph had been drafted into the Army. It wasn't like he wasn't excited to fight; he, more than anyone else he'd met after being drafted, felt it in every fibre of his body to fight. He wanted to adrenaline, the feeling of being just one step from death before getting that one blow in to prove that he was better. The rush he lived for, the rush that he had died for before Suzi Q resuscitated him. He hadn't known, of course, that he would not experience that rush here. The technology used meant that one-on-one combat did not happen, that it was a relic of a past. He was snapped out of his reverie when gunshots broke out nearby; grabbing his rifle, Joseph rushed to the nearest person he saw: Private Patrick. "Patrick, what's happening?" "I have no idea! Grant's hit, but I don't know where they are!"
Joseph looked to his left, around the tree he had taken cover behind. There were far too many gunshots to be a sniper. From the sound of it, there were at least twelve of them, centered... There! "Patrick, let everyone know there are at least twelve hostiles over on that hill to the North-West. You know if they're Germans or Italians?" "Italians, Joestar. Closest German battalion is supposed to be at least thirty kilometers down the line." The voice of Captain Eckerman boomed over the cracks of rifles and whizzing of bullets. As orders were given and men scrambled, Joseph's platoon advanced on the hill the Italians had set up on. The number of rounds being sent at his friends lessened as, time and again, Patrick's keen eye and steady hand brought their numbers further and further down. As Joseph crested the top of the hill, he saw only a single Italian standing. His Italian was a bit rough, but he was able to chalk it up to a dialectic difference rather than being inarticulate. Rifled pointed at the man, Joseph shouted at him, "You are beaten and surrounded, put the gun down and give up."
The man glared at him, rifle still raised and pointed at Joseph's head. "No, Roma is my home! I cannot allow myself to continue on as a man if I were to give up and dishonor the memory of my friends who you have killed!" At this he threw the rifle to the ground and began to charge at Joseph, drawing a knife as he came. Joseph's throat locked up; he had killed before, yes, but never a person. Never someone who spoke like that, who understood what it meant to fight alongside your friends. His reflexes were fast and his movements faster. For the first time, Joseph's mind could not keep up with his actions. He fired.
His accuracy was, of course, excellent; muscle memory and a desire to perfect the arts of fighting had led to him being the best shot in his entire battalion when he was focused. He would swear for the rest of his life that, had his eyes kept up with his hands, he would never have pulled that trigger that day. Had his eyes kept up with his hands, he would have seen the name stitched on to the uniform: Zeppeli. The bullet hit the man in the chest, stopping him mid-stride as he collapsed to the ground. Joseph dropped his rifle and ran to the man, turned him over. He yanked off the helmet with all the strength in his body and saw the golden hair, the green eyes. His eyes saw two at once, his late friend and rival and now another. He saw the man's confusion, heard as his formerly steady breathing became gasps. He heard the man's last word: "Joe...star?" He saw his fallen friend's younger brother die to a dishonorable bullet wound given by none other than he, Joseph Joestar. He saw a reflection in his eyes of a man who had seemingly forsaken all his values for his own life. He saw a coward. That night, Joseph cried until dawn.
Present day, Normandy. The platoon he was with had breached one of the bunkers. He had no idea where what was left of his own platoon was. He had ended up joining in with another who had lost their corporal in the water. Joseph took point, clearing room after room of Germans, catching them almost completely unaware with his speed and precision. Turning a corner, he had to dive back behind the wall as a machine gun took chunks out of the concrete. Peeking around, Joseph saw a flash of gray before the gun way gone. He rushed ahead, trying to prevent the crew from escaping. He kept going, forward, forward, forward! If they escaped they could ambush him again! Finally Joseph reached the end of the path: a hallway that terminated in a ladder leading to an open hatch. Of course, there was no other way but forwards.
The sky was gray and cloudy, the sea left him chilled to the bone, and he couldn't shake the horrible feeling in his gut. As he peeked over the edge of the trap door, 1911 in hand, he saw only one man in standing by the edge of the bunker's roof and watching the battle. Keeping his gun trained on the man, he climbed out and stood atop the bunker with the determination to win which had carried him through previous battles burning in him. Hearing the movement, the German turned around to reveal a robotic replacement over his eye and a ripped open shirt displaying his chest for all to see.
"Stroheim?!" "Ah, Joseph Joestar. I had known that your courage and will to fight would not keep you from this war. It is unfortunate that one such as you would appear here before me, Rudol von Stroheim, as an enemy. You see, I am the one in command of the beach defense against those who would threaten Germany! And you must have seen from your comrades falling about you that NOBODY can beat Germany, that our superior weapons and technology are an insurmountable advantage which not even you can defeat!" With this, Stroheim's chest opened to display the machine guns within his chest, for the first time pointed at Joseph.
"Stroheim, you know I cannot allow you to harm my comrades. The men you killed today were good men, who wished only to free Europe from the oppressive regime which you so proudly serve! Tell me Stroheim, did you know what the plans were back then? Did you know that Germany planned to invade France and Poland? TELL ME, STROHEIM!" Laughing, Stroheim pointed his finger at Joseph in a show of superiority. "Of course I knew, Joseph! I knew from the beginning, why do you think I was in Mexico? Yes, the threat posed by Kars and his cronies threatened Germany enough for us to be allies, but we are no longer facing that threat! Now the only threats to Germany are your weak Allies and the cowards who will not fight for our Fatherland!" With this shout, Stroheim's machine gun began to fire bullets at a breakneck pace, prompting Joseph to begin dodging for his life as he opened fire on Stroheim. The metal chassis he called a chest reflexively closed as Joseph pulled the trigger, seven bullets bouncing off him. "You fool, you cannot pierce the metal of my chest! GERMAN SCIENCE IS THE BEST IN THE WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORLD!" Joseph's only warning was a brief flash of light in Stroheim's mechanical eye before his Ultraviolet Radiation Beam cut through the concrete forming the bunker in a path towards Joseph. Thinking quickly, Joseph dodged to his right and forward, shouting "And your next line is: How could you dodge that with your purely human body!" "HOW COULD YOU DODGE THAT WITH YOUR PURELY HUMAN BODY?!" "Simple: My will to win is based not in superiority but in the desire to protect my home, and the home of my grandmother!" Joseph's speed was near blinding, Stroheim's tracking capabilities not being able to keep up with him at this pace. If he fired his rocket arm, he would not be able to block any of Joseph's strikes. He couldn't disrupt Joseph's breathing either, the short jog having given him his rhythm back. Stroheim saw the punch coming as it came in, the Hamon glowing a vicious yellow as it struck his chest. Stroheim coughed a thick substance, a mixture of blood and oil. As he sat up, he saw Joseph's pistol pointed at his face, the one vulnerable part of him. "And your last line is: You never reloaded, you're out of ammunition!" "You never reloaded, YOU'RE OUT OF AMMUNITION!" With this Stroheim's chest once more began to open before a single crack split the rapidly quieting air. The last round in Joseph's pistol went through Stroheims forehead, once more killing the German Colonel. Joseph turned around to see an American poke his head through the trap door, before the man climbed out. "Corporal, the Captain said we're gonna continue on through the trench line. We need you."
Joseph sighed, knowing that the day was nowhere near over. He glanced at Stroheim's remains, his heart aching for the man who fought alongside him while recognizing that he was, quite frankly, a terrible person. Looking at the messenger, he began walking forward as he reloaded, holstered his pistol, and pulled his rifle off his back. "Yeah, alright. Let's keep moving."