Chapter II: The Longest Day

June 5th, 1944

Weymouth, England – 1800 Hours

Lane found Carter outside. He stared out over the water towards France with an unblinking focus, fingers brushing over the letters on his dog-tag. His face was peaceful, no trace of apprehension or fear, merely quiet resignation, or perhaps brutal acceptance. Despite his youth, Carter was a war dog through and in. He'd been through many, many campaigns both as a frontline infantryman and commanding officer. This calm before the storm was normal for him, and something to which Lane had become accustomed. Everyone had their little rituals.

"Can't sleep?"

"No."

"Neither can I." He mirrored Carter's position, leaning over the railing. Inside, most everybody was asleep, or at least trying to be; they had a long, long day ahead of them.

"Do you think we can win?" Lane said at last.

"Well, we can't afford to lose."

Major Carter knew better than most what awaited them out there. One thousand yards of exposed sand peppered with mines, hedgerows, and barbed wire, and if that wasn't enough they were stocked with *Even if the bombers took out the heavy artillery they would still have the obstacles and the MG-42's to worry about. Those sons-of-bitches' could fire twelve-hundred bullets a minute, faster than any other gun in the world, and the Americans would be walking right into them.

Regardless of the odds, he didn't dare voice his doubts. To say them aloud was to give them more credence than they were worth. Instead he watched the tide splash against the jetty fifty yards out, the freezing winds rock the smaller vessels in port. It was cold out, but he didn't mind. It forced him to get his head in order and sort himself out; Major Carter was a veteran of the pre-battle nerves. The trick, he found, was not to banish the fear, but to reign it in with rationality and moor it with the true certainties of the pending ordeal. They were going to the beach, and many of them were not going to live to tell about it - Carter himself might end up as one of the casualties. He was just glad that Lane and Jones were bound for Omaha along with him; they were men he could trust with his life.

"Major?"

"Yes?"

"If one of us doesn't make it, I just want you to know that it's been an honor serving with you. I couldn't have asked for a better commander." Carter looked at him, surprised, but it was shortly followed by a smile. A genuine, earnest smile - the first that Lane had ever seen on him. In that moment he felt hope catch fire in his heart, as real, and true, and good as Carter's Yankee grin.

"Thanks, Jim. That means an awful lot." Neither of them said anything more, for there was nothing more to say. Both men, superior and subordinate, sat quiet and resigned for the remainder of the night, ready and willing to brave the coming storm.

0300 Hours

If Carter thought it was cold in Weymouth Bay, he was unprepared for the wind's ferocity out in the middle of the Channel. It was relentless, biting right through his clothing as though with adder's teeth. What made it worse was the rocking boats and the chemical aroma of their treated uniforms, a counter-measure in case of a biological attack. He gagged, trying to suppress the inevitable seasickness and focused on taking long, steady breaths through his nose.

They were eleven miles out, trans-shipping into their landing crafts. It was an unpleasant and exhausting affair what with the state of the sea, but they'd rehearsed this part thousands of times; they had it down to a T. Soon the boats were primed and loaded and quieter than the grave. Carter was the highest ranking officer in his craft and therefore, he had to be utterly unaffected by the whole business. Outwardly, he appeared as such. But he wondered if they could sense the thundering chorus of his heart, the clenching in his gut, or the cold sweat under his service blouse. He clutched his plastic-wrapped carbine tight and shivered, worried not for himself, but for everyone else.

"You ok, sir?" Carter turned to acknowledge the man who spoke. Sergeant Streicher cocked a pale brow up into his helmet.

"Right as rain," He said, "Glad I skipped breakfast." Streicher grunted his affirmation. The navy, in an attempt to boost morale, provided the GIs with a veritable plethora of food. Sausage, steak, beans, bacon… It was tempting, but Carter had been out on the water before; seasickness was no joke. It made you slow, stupid, and easy to shoot.

"Speak for yourself," Streicher said in his brazen, unflappable manner and lit a cigarette, "I wasn't going to let good chow go to waste."

"Indeed." Was all he said, Streicher watched him openly.

"You sure you're ok? You look pale." Carter shot him an irritated glance.

"Don't worry about me, worry about the beach, and bag a few Krauts on the way." Streicher grinned immodestly. He was one of the best snipers that Carter had ever seen – one hundred and forty confirmed kills – and he wasn't afraid to let people know. Carter had met him a while back. They'd been on a scouting mission down in Sicily and Streicher had blown the head off of an Italian gunner five hundred yards away. Suffice it to say Carter'd been impressed.

The man himself was blonde haired, blue-eyed, and a Jew, with a hatred for Germans that ran far deeper than anything Carter had ever seen. It was only after their first meeting that Lane disclosed a rather ironic part of his personal history: Streicher had in fact been born in Hamburg, and his father was an old German flying ace. It was hard to believe at first, given Streicher's thick South Carolinian sensibilities, but once he knew what to look for Carter found it almost impossible to deny the man's heritage. Either way, he comprised a valuable asset to the company.

"I plan to. If I'm going to die, you can be damn sure I'm taking a couple of those bastards with me." He shouldered his rifle and sat back, eyes closed against the wind. Overhead the last of the planes passed by, each carrying a portion of the 101st airborne. Their job was to take out gunning positions or occupy certain spots in order to link up with the landing infantry later. Carter didn't envy their jobs; air surveillance revealed that the Germans flooded the land with waterin preparation for an airborne assault.

It was deadly silent when the planes were gone. The air was rank with fear as the men, most of them no older that eighteen, hunkered down to wait for H-hour. Carter looked over the soldiers in his craft with a resigned concern. How many of these boys are going to die today?

0430 Hours

The engine started with a rip and a growl, and after a gut-wrenching lurch they were mobile, speeding through the choppy waves toward their destination: Omaha Beach. The wind was fierce and freezing, the sea spray even more so. It was not calm as the forecast had predicted, at least not on this stretch. Carter shuddered when a wave came over the side, dousing him and the sergeant who was looking greener by the second.

"Steady on Streicher, we'll get there eventually." Streicher glared at him, doubled over, and then vomited into the sea water. A man behind him did the same. Seasick. Carter ground his teeth, gripping his carbine tighter while the rest of them opted to stare stonily down at their hands, quiet and ashen-faced. Safe ground was rapidly disintegrating and quicker than anyone was ready for them, the cliffs appeared as a black streak on the horizon. Halfway between friendly shores and the killing floor. More men lost their breakfast over the side. With every yard they advanced, a little more of their composure waned and Carter knew something had to be done.

"Gentlemen, this is what we've been trained for. It's going to be hell, but by God, we're going to take that beach," Carter said, voice solemn, "Every one of us has a job to do, so I suggest we get in there and get it done." A chorus of 'yes sirs' answered him.

Bayeux, Normandy – 0630 Hours

"General Beilschmidt! General Beilschmidt! The Allies are invading!"

Germany's blood ran cold the moment the lieutenant's voice broke his light slumber. He had not slept in thirty-six hours but suddenly his fatigue vanished and he was wide awake. He leapt from his bed, heart pounding in his stomach, and hastily grappled with his boots.

"Notify Rundstedt this instant!" He ordered, "I am going down there!"

"But sir-"

"Now Lieutenant!" The man instantly vacated the room.

Germany was under instruction not to go to the front lines, but he would disobey this morning. He could feel the direness of the situation stirring in his bones, a foreboding ice harden in his heart. This was not a ploy, he was sure of it. A radio broadcast from Britain last night, longer than usual, had raised his suspicions enough that he elected to remain nearby; he was prepared to face the reprimands of his superiors.

"Sir, communications are down! We cannot contact anyone!" The same lieutenant addressed him as he stalked briskly down the halls.

"Damn the Resistance!" He snarled, "Get the auto. I want to leave as soon as possible!'

"Yes sir."

"Kemmerich! Get on the radio, if anything comes through, anything at all, I want to know about it!" He said to another of his subordinates. The man departed and Germany continued on his warpath to the streets of Bayeux where his chauffeur waited, "Take me to my division." He was soon a cloud of dust on the French road.

H-hour

A sound like a zipper tore away from the cliffs in a flash of gunpowder as soon as the LCTs became visible. The Germans had opened fire. Carter felt his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest, as fast as one of the guns. At once the chill began to dissipate from his skin as adrenaline rushed his system. He inhaled deeply the salt and gunpowder aroma.

"Thirty seconds 'til we land! Move fast and get the hell off this thing!" He shouted over the boom of the artillery. Evidently the bombers had missed their marks, for the big guns were intact and fully operational. The men looked now upon the white shore with terror. They'd been relying on those bombers! A shell properly placed was deadlier than any machine gun; if the concussive blast didn't kill you, the shrapnel would.

Another soldier up-chucked his breakfast into the churning waters.

"Steady on gentlemen!" Carter yelled one last bit of encouragement, and then the boat breached the sand bar.

Gunfire. Shells booming on the sand. Men screaming and howling as the MG-42's found their way through the safety of the rocking craft, cutting them down. In thirty seconds they'd entered the gates of hell and very few were getting out alive.

Carter, along with those who'd gathered their wits, hefted his carbine and hurtled over the edge into the sea. But the water, he swiftly realized, would offer no more refuge than the craft. His equipment dragged him down, down, down into the freezing Atlantic surf. Lungs burning. Fingers fumbling. Come on you sonofabitch! Panic rose in Carter's stomach, coiling and contracting viciously, building up to a final crescendo when hyperventilation took over-

And then his radio dropped.

Weight gone, Carter kicked hard to the pin point of light four feet up. Soldiers that he had trained personally bobbed to the surface alongside him. Some were dead, others coughed and spluttered as he did, but at least they were alive.

"Move it! Move it! Get to the beach!" He surged forward with all his might. One hundred yards of water lay between him and solid ground where the lucky bastards who'd managed to weasel their way out the front took cover. Guns from both sides barked like a trilling crescendo, rattling the teeth in Carter's skull and shaking him to his bones.

A shell exploded twenty feet to his right, blasting a man in the air. Bloody water rained down on the rest of them. Carter spat out the red minutes in and already so many casualties… What happened to the damn airstrike? Carter huffed with rage and fatigue and pulled himself from the water, uniform dripping and heavier than ever.

"Sir, what do we do? We're getting killed out here!" A private shouted when the harried officer took refuge beside him. Carter bared his teeth, returning fire with a savage ferocity. On the bluff, a German fell.

"We have to get to the dunes-" A flurry of bullets cut off the rest of what he was fixing to say. They hit the sand, covering their heads until the gunner moved on, but it was a millisecond too late. One of the privates lay dead, four gaping holes in his chest, sputtering blood. His eyes were wide and sightless, staring at Carter.

"Shit." He growled, looking away and out over the white sands. It wasn't right. This shouldn't be happening! All around him, men fired blindly at the Germans so thoroughly stowed away in their concrete nests while the American officers ran about in an effort to restore some semblance of order. They made easy targets. Carter watched as one commander after another was shot dead in between obstacles, only adding to the quickly growing body count.

He stayed where he was only out of common sense, though ever present in his mind was the urgent compulsion to get up and take control like an officer should, but it wasn't so simple anymore.

The lucky ones were pinned down same as Carter, the rest lay shot to pieces. It didn't matter what did it, be it mortar or machine gun, thirty minutes in and the surf ran red with American blood. Carter retched. Cannons and trench spikes and bayonets hadn't come close to this level of carnage. Strewn on the bloody ground were not only dead men, but ravaged entrails and gruesomely severed limbs. The survivors of such events howled desolately into the air. Some cried for their mothers or dragged their disattached limbs with them, others appeared to have simply gone mad and meandered aimlessly about the battlefield until the bullets found them too. Carter had eaten very little beforehand, but he fought to keep it down as he caught sight of yet another man holding his mangled, bloody intestines inside his body.

Another shell upturned the earth and knocked the wind out of his lungs.

"God help us all." He said.

0800 Hours

A break finally came when one of the gunners stopped to reload. Carter rushed and dove for cover again, the others close behind. There was still a six-hundred yard gap between them and the cliffs and it would be near impossible to consolidate. There was too much confusion and uncertainty; Carter had no idea whom among the commanding staff was alive or even if they were in the right sector. He couldn't lead if he didn't know what the hell was going on.

A grave voice interrupted his desperate machinations.

"Carter, thank God, I thought you were KIA already." The major breathed a sigh of relief. Lane was haggard and torn up and the amount of blood on his uniform was enough to rival that of the corpses, but he was alive. That was more than Carter could've ask for.

"Likewise." They flattened themselves to the sand when a smattering of bullets spotted the earth, "Who else do we have?" Lane huffed, eyes forward and intense.

"We're all that we have."

"Pardon me?"

"We're the only officers left."

"Good Christ…" Carter's sweaty, bloodied face momentarily took on the shadow of defeat. The whole invasion had gone from bad to worse in a matter of hours. Their hopes were damned, their ammunition was low, and as long as their forces remained leaderless it was sure to stay that way. Lane could see no possible way out. Omaha was a disaster.

But then a look came over Major Carter's face. A terrifying, proud look. He bared his teeth, glaring up at the German gun bases with eyes colder than a Russian winter. Determination was etched in every feature.

"Major?" Said Lane cautiously.

"We're not finished yet," He picked himself up at once, "We are getting off this damn beach."

0900 Hours

What Lane witnessed then was something he would remember until the day he died. Carter went about their stretch of beach, shouting orders and words of patriotic encouragement. Eyes blazing and reservation shattered, he could have brought a king to his knees. He was a Napoleon, and a Washington, and an Augustus Caesar all at once, and no one could have stopped him. He sped freely between the groups of soldiers, his guts and determination fueling their own, and marshalled their confounded courage. Not a thing touched him, for he was on wings that morning. It was glorious, frightening and wonderful.

Carter, with rallied forces behind him, charged forward unimpeded. Four hundred yards he gained in this manner, ushering on the more timid men against the bullets and shells. The mist of fear that had once clouded the beach began to fade as Carter's courage drove theirs' to new heights. He was fearless and infallible, daunting and dauntless, and so were they. What's more, the follow up forces were landing and, seeing the rally, took heart as well. At their helm was a very unlikely figure.

"General Jones?"

"The hell is he doing here?" Carter said when they were both safely stationed behind a hedgerow; Lane couldn't quite tell if his expression was one of wonderment or exasperation. Jones was eager and earnest, and he had come when the brutalist part of the killing was over, when spirits were rekindled, and bravery restored. He didn't know the killing floor like they did.

In spite of his cavalier attitude, Carter could see the waver in his intent when he saw the bodies. In the instant it took for fifteen bullets to leave a German MG-42, his bright, young face became as old and pained as any of the other generals.

"Jones!" the Major waved once to get his attention and ducked down again just as quickly. Jones glanced once at them, flashing his iconic Yankee grin. He was up to their level in a matter of minutes.

"Holding down the fort?" He sent a few pot-shots at the Germans. They scuttled for cover atop the cliff face, but were soon back in position, returning fire as if nothing had happened.

Carter looked critically at his superior. Even after crossing six-hundred yards of bloody beach he still looked clean and put-together, unlike Carter and Lane who were sweaty, bloody, and miserable.

"As well as we can." Came Carter's trademark cynicism.

"Well what are we still doing here? Let's show the bastards some good-old American what-for!" He was raring to go, and would have if Carter hadn't yanked him back. A trail of bullets followed the path he would have taken.

"You jackass! We made it this far, don't go doing something stupid!" Lane's jaw hung open. He wouldn't have dared talk to Jones the way Carter did, but the man seemed to exact a certain modicum of authority over Jones, and it showed. The general said nothing.

"Listen here, we go fast and we go smart. These boys can't afford to lose us officers." Carter loomed over Jones in a manner that seemed almost superior and then backed off just as quickly. Their roles were proper again - Carter subordinate and Jones superior - though he made no move to apologize for his breach in etiquette.

Together, the last commanding officers on the Fox Green stretch, made their way, sprinting and dodging, up the sand. Behind them the tide encroached ever faster, cutting the once thousand yard trek to a mere hundred. There were few options at this point other than to advance and to do so with the least bloodshed possible – at least on the American side. Carter and Jones were damn good shots.

"We got to find a way to get up to that gunner," the major jerked his head toward the concrete fortress nearest them, "Bastard's giving us a hell of a time." They pressed themselves flat to the sand bar as the guns passed over them.

"Agreed." Jones said, "How are we getting up there?" Carter furrowed his knife-sharp brows, though the movement was invisible under his helmet. He motioned to Lane a few yards away.

"Is that Streicher I see over there?" Lane squinted down a ways.

"Well I'll be damned, it is!" Indeed, the ex-German was brandishing his famous rifle and yelling at a private. Even at this distance, dirty and haggard, he was impossible to mistake. His hair was so yellow it could've outshined a canary, "Strike! Over here!"

"Lane?" He crept over to their position, "I thought you were dog-meat."

"Not yet, I'm not. Look, you think you can hit that som'bitch in there?" They watched closely as Streicher stuck his helmeted head over the rise and pulled it back down just as quickly. A few shots followed.

"I can get 'im. But another one'll take his place, it'll only give you a second." Carter smiled coldly.

"That's all we need. Wright!" He barked, "Where's that torpedo?"

"Here sir!" Came the reply a few yards down.

"Once we blow the wire I need you to take the shot. I want to get as many of our boys through as possible." Carter's proper language had been disintegrating all morning, at this point his speech resembled that of a half-bred, Statten Island Italian. No one commented on it.

The privates, under Lane's supervision, rapidly attached the dual ends of the torpedo. It was a relatively new implement, meant for clearing obstacles on land, and Carter was absolutely ecstatic to put it to its use. The fuse was lit and with a mighty shove they jammed it underneath the coils of barbed wire. Meanwhile, Streicher took meticulous aim.

"Fire in the hole!" Carter bellowed and covered his head. The resounding blast was a good, solid sound, completely masking Streicher's shot. He smiled in grim satisfaction when the soldier manning the gun was jerked backward. The firestorm ceased.

"Come on men! Get in there!" The charge began with Carter and Jones at the helm. Lane took a second to marvel at the utter fearlessness on their young faces. There was no trepidation, only the most morose determination coupled with the spark of vengeance. Guns raised, they skirted the last stretch of sand with an expert precision. Carter, nimble as a wildcat, twisted to return fire at a German on the cliffs. The man crumpled and the invaders carried on.

"Jones, on you left!" At his aide's brisk words the general shied away from a buried mine. He jerked his head once in thanks, but if Carter saw it he gave no indication. His attention was fully on the fortress squatting in the face of the cliff. Without hesitation he threw himself at the rock face and began to weedle through the crevices. The others did the same, a swarm of olive-green, gun-toting, angry Americans intent on dolling out a little payback for the hell they'd been through, flooded the low cliffs.

Carter, up front, unpinned a grenade and tossed it into the opening where gunfire burst forth. There were screams to evacuate before the muffled blast cut them off. One gunner down. One less man to mow down the reinforcements. Carter was entirely without remorse. A few German lives in exchange for hundreds of Americans? The question was practically rhetorical.

1030 Hours

Up-top was little better than down below in that the Americans faced guns wherever they turned. Carter and Jones' forces managed to link up with part of the 16th from Fox Red and together they blazed a trail into occupied land, worried at all times that they might be outflanked. Fortunately, the steady stream of reinforcements coming up the rise as well as the knowledge that Omaha had not been in vain assuaged most of their fears of such an outcome. The cause for most trepidation, however, lay with the possibility of a concentrated German counterattack. If the panzer forces arrived it wouldn't take much to push them back into the channel, for their progress, though quick, was easily uprooted. Nonetheless, the few officers who survived were proactive about establishing the defensive lines. Jones especially was eager to push forward and it was only by his subordinates admonishing that he did so with accompaniment. A German strongpoint lay not but a mile or two inland, and the young general wanted it.

With the general at the helm, they stole forward hastily, shooting their way through German territory. A few times they paused to take prisoners, but more often than not, firefights would end with German casualties and American victory. Carter was especially unsympathetic in those crucial hours; he hit his marks with an accuracy to rival Streicher's and Lane soon lost count of his kills.

"Captain, take you men left. We'll go right and surround 'em" Jones ordered, peering over the rise to observe the German fortress. The officer from Fox Red nodded and made off with his half while Jones, Lane, and Carter split off with theirs.

AS could be expected the German defense, while already nominal, was thicker the closer they got. Krauts waited in the trees and bushes, behind rocks and in copses, with grenades and guns and all manner of explosives. Carter ground his teeth as a bullet grazed his helmet, another lodged in his canteen, however, it was the sound of one of Hitler's Zippers that put the fear of God in him.

"Damn," He peaked around a tree, "They got an MG – 42 over there."

"Shit." Jones intoned, understanding what it meant. The gun was safely stationed in a sandbag crew one hundred and fifty yards right of the main objective. If they took their forces any further it would shred the right flank.

"What are we going to do about it?" Lane removed his spent cartridge and put in a new one while Jones appraised the terrain with a discerning eye. The way he saw it, the best way to do it would be on their own.

"We'll take ten. When we get up there I want Carter left and Lane right. I'll go up the center. Streicher see if you can't pick a couple of 'em off."

"Yes sir." Replied the sergeant.

"You really want to go all in?" Carter inquired, never once taking his cold eyes off their target. He meant the officers.

"Better us than them." Jones said. The major glanced at him meaningfully, nodding as if he knew something the rest of them didn't, and reaffixed his gaze.

"Will do." Carter took a second to check his side-arms and, apparently finding no defections, replaced them in their holsters with the practiced ease of a seasoned marksman. Lane recognized that habit of his, and though he knew not its significance, he understood what it meant: Carter would take no prisoners.

With their contingent in tow they split off from the main force, over the rugged earth and weathered rocks. They made good progress too, until Jones called for action some fifty yards away from the objective. It was then that things started to go to hell.

Carter's heart stopped as a shrill projectile whistled through the air with a sonic scream. For a single, terrifying moment, the air was completely still. Oh no.

"Look out!" Came Lane's shout, and Carter, forgetting all else, threw himself at Jones the instant before the shell exploded, smack in the middle of their small outfit.

Smoke. Dirt. Blood in the mouth. Shaking fingers and ringing ears. Carter lay face down in a ditch tangled up with Jones. His head buzzed with a sooty fog. His ears rang. Someone shouting. Who? He couldn't tell. It was dark, eyes caked in dirt. Breathing hard. He moved trembling, fuzzy hands along the ground to pick himself up. Failed. Tried. Failed again.

A ringing pain stung in his belly, burning face in the mud, but he was alive. Alive because of a runoff ditch. But where was Jones? Where was America? He reached out, hands a blur in his garbled eyesight, to touch the body next to him.

"Jones." He croaked, "Jones!" Someone put their hands on him from behind. Carter reacted in an instant, pistol out and aimed at the intruder, bloody teeth bared. There was nothing to lose here.

"Carter! Relax, it's me!" The intruder said, hands up in surrender, "It me, Jim Lane!" Carter deflated, sagging back on his heels. Lane had his bloody arm clasped to his chest, broken perhaps, either way, useless. His cheek was almost entirely blown off.

"Jim, you scared the bejesus out of me." Carter raised an eyebrow at Lane's thunderstruck expression, "What?"

"Carter, you're bleeding." The major reached down to touch an oozing wound in his middle. It was deep and painful, but he would live.

"Doesn't matter. I'll be fine. Here help me with him, we still got to get to that gun." Carter tugged Jones up by the straps and sat him against the side of the ditch, he was breathing, but unconscious, "Lane, are you deaf? Help me out here!"

"Carter, they're dead. All the men are dead, we can't get up there with just the two of us!" Carter shook his head, refusing to believe it.

"No, we can. We can do it." He shakily wiped a trail of blood from his mouth and peaked over the edge. A shot came in response, narrowly missing Carter's head, "Heavens to Murgatroyd." He breathed, pulling back. It was more than just the matter of the machine gun now.

"There's a lot of 'em up there Jim." Carter said gravely, his voice just shy of a whisper. Indeed they could hear German voices fast approaching, swarming over the rocks and ditches like a deadly plague.

"Shit." Jim breathed, peering over as Carter had done, "What are we going to do? They'll shoot us as soon as we go up there. We're sitting ducks." Carter swallowed and leaned his back, eyes closed. Jim joined him for a brief moment of respite. They weren't going to be able to get at the gun crew, but perhaps they could bypass the area and outflank it later. As if there was another option… After a second or two, the major inhaled two deep breaths and turned to him, calm expression defying the seriousness of the situation.

"Lane," He said, totally focused on reloading his pistols, "I need you to do something for me."

"Yes sir, anything."

"Look, they cannot have Jones. They must not," He moved forward, in front of Lane, "Now you listen to me, I'm going to draw off-" Lane's eyes widened and he gripped his superior's arm.

"Carter no-" The major shrugged him off, freezing him with a single glare.

"Lane, this is not up for debate. I'm the only one of us who can do this. Now when I draw them off you've got to take Jones and get out of here. Head for that rise, find the rest of the platoon, but get him to safety. That is the top priority." Superior and subordinate surveyed each other, willing someone to break, but neither would.

"Carter, that's suicide. I can't let you go in there, you're far more valuable than Jones." Carter's eyes flared with blue lightning. He seized Lane by the collar and jerked him forward with surprising strength. Lane swallowed. There was no changing Carter's mind when he was like this, but God help him, he didn't want to lose his friend.

"Don't you say that! Don't you even think it! Jones is worth more to the right people than you could ever comprehend. Now you get him to safety, are we clear?"

"Yes sir." Lane said with a forced and bitter resignation.

"Good." Carter scooped up his rifle from the muddy ground with a care that one might exhibit for a small child and checked the cartridge. Full. He closed it with finality.

"Carter, wait," The major looked down at him, slightly aggravated. Lane extended his good hand, "Don't miss." Carter huffed a sort of laugh. He never missed.

"I'll remember that for the next life." With a cheeky grin he cocked his rifle, stood, fired, and charged. Over the edge of the ditch and away from Lane and Jones in what was most likely his final battle.

"And may it treat you well, Major." Lane said and steeled himself to face his own fate as Carter faced his. He would not waste the time that Major Carter bought with his life, even if it were for an audacious, inexperienced, young general, "Jones." He said as he hoisted the man over his good shoulder, "You better be worth it."

Carter knew what he was doing, knew it better than perhaps he knew himself. He might die, he very well could, but some things were worth it. He had very little fear of death, in fact, one might say he welcomed it.

With the grace of a hunting cat, Carter stood, drawing German eyes to his position instead of Lane's, and killed two of them with a brutal precision before they even knew what was happening. In another moment he was gone. A green blur amongst greener trees.

Come on you sons of bitches. This way! He spared a glance over his shoulder to see if they were giving chase. They were. Gunfire cracked and started, closer and louder now that they were aimed exclusively at Carter. He dodged and weaved, returning fire when he could, whatever kept them on his trail and off Lane's. There were eight behind him, possibly more, but Carter held no delusions about surviving. Lane was right: this was a one way trip. He'd just have to hold out.

Finally, as the land dipped and rose in swathes of verdant green, he found himself facing an insurmountable foe. A ridge rose up and over him, unclimbable in the amount of time he had and jagged with white rock. Carter halted in order to scout. Behind him was the battle and from the right a German platoon closed in, their helmeted heads weaving between the trees that Carter himself had skirted not moments ago. This was it. The only option was to stand and fight.

Carter licked his lips and squatted behind a boulder. Shots ricocheted off the instant the Kraut's came in range, but Carter tuned them out. He took aim, fired, and reloaded. A succession so familiar and easy that he didn't even need to think about it. Nearly every bullet hit its mark, serving only to warn the advancing Germans as to Carter's skill and accuracy. He was peppered with fire from nearly every conceivable direction. They were closing in, surrounding him. His survival instinct told him to flee, but rationality reminded him that there was nowhere to go. He was stuck. He kept firing anyway.

A blast from the north, Carter's unprotected flank, sparked and dug into his side. He cried out, pivoted, and shot the man. In the turmoil an opening presented itself and Carter took it, flashing out, low to the ground, and into the bushes, just before the Germans cut him off. Indeed it was a miracle he'd survived this long, with a bleeding wound in his stomach and multiple other things which practical, frosty-eyed Major Carter had not time to catalogue. He was in awe of his own prowess, either that or Germany's deficiencies. For a moment he even thought he might make it back to the main event unscathed.

It was the work of a moment to raze that small hope to the ground.

Carter skidded to an abrupt halt when five Karabiner rifles were cocked and pointed at him. Their owners materialized out of the foliage, disguised insofar to Carter's distracted, boasting eye. He felt his ragged breathing and pounding heart expedite beyond mortal limits when the path from whence he'd just came was blocked by another slew of German soldiers, all of whom had their weapons drawn and aimed.

"Drop it." One of them growled in heavily accented English. Probably the only words of English he knew. Carter swallowed and slowly, painfully, lowered his carbine. He had never parted with that weapon, nor with the pistols at his side, or the knife in his belt. It was akin to blasphemy.

"Mein Gott." Another of them said. Carter, with his hands in the air, noticed at last the shocking ache in his side. A bloodstain the size of Texas was soaking its way through his clothing, angry and merciless. Jesus H. Carter glanced at it and back towards the Germans. One had his eyes on the weapons at Carter's feet, daring him to make a move towards them. He stayed still as his precious rifle was taken into enemy hands and he was forced to his knees. Swiftly they frisked him for anything more. Lane, you better be safe.