June 6th, 1944

Sainte-Honorine-des-Pertes – 1200 Hours

The situation was far worse than Germany initially imagined. By midday, reports of invasions up and down the coast continued to flood his field headquarters while his reserve forces were spread ever thinner in response. The Allies had thrown everything they had at the coast: their guns, their navy, their air force - even Germany was beginning to lose hope. In an uncharacteristic display of emotion Germany threw down his crush cap and raked both hands through his sleek yellow hair. What else was to be done? He may as well have been the only officer out here given the lack decisive authority from high command. If only they'd toughened up on the Resistance sooner they may still have had a means of communication, now the only way to get a message from one place to another was to send a runner and, more often than not, by the time the runner actually arrived the information was already outdated. There was no way they could push the Allies back in their current state; he needed the panzer reserves!

Germany's last hope for the defense of France lay with Rommel. A few days ago he'd made for Berlin with the hope that his reputation would be good for one last favor; the Fuhrer couldn't possibly refuse them now, not when they so desperately needed reinforcements.

Pursing his lips, Germany took a look at his pocket watch. One o'clock. He made no further move to sate his grim anxiety. The others must not see how disgruntled he was; they were already anxious enough. With the 21st – their single panzer division - deployed on both sides of the River Orne in order to tackle the British paratroops, the forces remaining were non-mobile and unable to respond quickly. The situation was looking bleaker by the second, especially since the commanders Germany had managed to contact firmly believed that this was merely the precursor to the main invasion in the Pas-de-Calais. How the Allies could have the strength for a ploy on such a large scale baffled him. They couldn't possibly have the man power, let alone the munitions to do so! But alas, no one regarded his warnings, and so the larger 12th panzer division remained at Lisieux, idle and useless.

A sudden racket from outside jolted the country from his despairing thoughts. Somebody, a group actually, was shouting. At first Germany paid them no mind. Until the first shot went off. Immediately, he feared the very worse. Had the Americans come? Was the field headquarters under attack? Oh God help them if they were.

"General Beilschmidt! You must come at once!" A distressed sergeant addressed him just as he finished loading his standard issue Walther p38. Germany wasted not a moment and followed him outside.

"What is going on?" He asked to which the sergeant responded with near incoherency.

"We thought he was secure but he moved so fast and there was nothing we could do-"

"Slow down, had who secure?"

"The prisoner, the American! He's got Friedmann!"

Outside there was no invasion force to be found, nor bloody usurpation commencing, only a rapidly growing ring of men near the road. What lay at the center Germany had a pretty good hunch. His frown deepened as he made his way through. The throng parted upon seeing the presence of their highest commanding officer, but the din did not cease and Germany soon found that his initial fear of an American attack was not so far off track.

"Back off! Back off or I shoot!" The American, voice hard, clear, and no-nonsense, brandished a Luger pistol in one arm. In the other he held, frightened out of his wits, the youngest and smallest in their company. Friedmann, his name was, and he looked ready to wet himself. Germany took action immediately.

"Yankee!" He shouted, for he did not know the man's name, "Let the boy go! You are only making it worse for yourself!" Everyone seemed taken aback by his fluent English but none more so than the American. The man's eyes snapped in his direction, quicker than lightning, and a look of utter appellation momentarily overtook his cold hostility. His face paled as he took in Germany's urgent expression and tense posture.

"Not gonna happen. Not until I go free!"

"You know I cannot make that promise. The boy has nothing to do with you. Let him go, and we can discuss things civilly." Germany took a step forward, hands up as a gesture of peace.

With the closer proximity it was easier to gauge the man, an officer actually. But even from a distance it was clear how awful he looked. The face under his helmet was sweaty and covered in all manner of grime, a deep cut split his bottom lip and dripped blood down his chin, lending him a feral countenance. He was slender, almost as small as Friedmann, but by no means weak. Rather, he used his size to his advantage, hiding almost completely behind the eighteen year old. Germany almost had to commend him; only men with nothing to lose had the guts to pull a desperate move like this, and only the most slippery of those succeeded.

"Keep your distance Kraut." He growled slowly and efficaciously, tightening his grip around Friedmann's head. The boy grasped at the arm holding him but the American ignored it, keeping his stormy eyes on Germany. In turn, Germany's face darkened. He was not one for bargaining.

"Hear me, American. If you kill him, we will not hesitate to kill you. If you let him go and cooperate with me you can keep your head," Germany surveyed him a moment with an equally cold expression, "Those are your options, you may take it or leave it. But know that I will not lose any sleep over a dead enemy."

Gradually he saw a change in the American's beaten and bloodied face, following the callous ultimatum. His eyes lost their wily sheen and became coldly rational once more, his bared teeth disappeared. Hold on a moment. Didn't he have a wound there? Germany narrowed his eyes in order to see better, but found that they had not betrayed him. There was not a cut to be found anywhere on the man, in fact, his color seemed better already. He decided that it must be the light.

The American took one last hawkish look at his odds and, with a gruff hiss, shoved Friedmann into Germany's arms. The Luger was shortly to follow. He straightened to his full height, proud head high, and raised his arms above his head. Germany shrugged the trembling Friedmann off him, holding the American's blue eyes steady all the while. A challenge. Even after the men subdued him, he did not break eye contact. It was a gesture of arrogance and disdain, and Germany, feeling his own ego stirring in his breast, approached the now detained offier, lip curled scornfully.

"What are you called, American?" He used the barrel of his pistol to tip up the man's head, much as he would if he were appraising a horse. He was a major, if Germany's knowledge of American insignia was accurate, and he glared at him with such unmitigated hatred it was shocking. However, Germany did not back down, nor did he rescind his question. When the man did not answer Germany seized the dog tag around his neck, manners be damned.

"Major Randall Carter," He read aloud, "Quite the rank for someone your age." Germany elected to ignore the typhoon of fury in the Major's eyes in favor of the elation budding in his own chest. An officer of his rank would have all kinds of information! It was just a matter of obtaining it.

"You want my income tax return too while you're at it?" Germany raised a slim brow. The man shrugged furtively in an attempt to loosen the grip of the hands on his person. Did he know him from somewhere? He stepped closerto get a better look. Major Carter twisted his head away, revealing a deep abrasion that, in a matter of seconds, knitted itself back together before disappearing completely.

"What in the name of God?" In his shock he seized the Major's face forcefully, turning it from side to side in an effort to verify if what he thought he saw was real. If anyone questioned his odd behavior he paid them no mind; the appearance of the Ghost of Christmas Past could not have been a more hair-raising sight.

There were very few people who could do that, and all of them were countries.

"Keep your damn hands off me!" Major Carter, slender and fierce, wrenched himself away, his once cool expression now one of explosive fury. Germany took a step back in order to collect his scattered thoughts. Who was this man? And why could he do that? He was no country Germany knew of - unless America was somehow replaced - but that was absurd, not to mention impossible.

"Take this man to Strasbourg immediately," Germany said, his voice barely exceeding a murmur, "And do not let him escape or you will have me to answer to. What are you waiting for? On the double time! " The soldiers scrambled to comply and soon the cold, critical Major Carter was propelled away, struggling and cursing, to one of the lorries where he would be taken to the POW camp nearest Germany's personal headquarters.

Normandy Beach – 1700 Hours

"Ow! Goddammit Selridge, watch the needle would you?" Lane dug his nails into the pad of one finger to keep from causing bodily harm on the offending medic. Exhaustion and pain had culminated in the foulest of moods and he found himself with little patience to spare for tom foolery.

"Hold still Lieutenant, I'm almost through."

"You said that five minutes ago." He grumbled, wincing as another suture went through the flesh of his shooting arm.

The sooner he could be out of here the better. Omaha be damned, the field hospital was about the worst place on any battle field. There was no pride, no glory to be had, only the malodorous stench of gangrene and the sounds of dying men. Even Lane, who prided himself on his strong stomach, was finding it hard not to lose his lunch. For hours he'd been confined here, either awaiting his turn to be looked at or checking on Jones in the space next to him, whatever it took for him not to dwell on the loss of Major Carter.

To say Lane was devastated would have been an understatement. He was beside himself with grief, and the only thing keeping him together was the knowledge that Carter would be highly disappointed with him if he didn't. Even so, it in no way assuaged the pain of losing a good friend.

What would they do without him? What would Jones do without him? The young general was as good a friend to Carter as Lane was, regardless of how they dealt with each other; t he blow was going to be apoplectic.

But what was worse than all that, yes, worse even Carter's untimely demise, was the fact that Lane, of all people, was alive and well. Bum arm or not, he should have been the one to go out there. But he wasn't. His strong, courageous commander was.

"God, how can I go on?" Lane turned his face upwards, eyes shut in prayer and residual guilt. There was nothing to be done now; Carter had made a choice, and now it was time for Lane to make his. He had to keep going, if not for himself then for Carter. To flag now would be to disrespect his memory.

"Hey Lieutenant? You may want to come over here." Selridge's surly voice sounded to the right of him, "He's coming to." Lane, swallowing, moved to join Selridge over Jones' prone form. He'd suffered head trauma from the explosion, but everything else was relatively minor in comparison. Lane reckoned that Carter had shielded him from a good deal of it. He was a very lucky man.

"General? Can you hear me?" He said cautiously and for a moment there was nothing, but then Jones shifted and slowly, in the manner of a man coming out of a stupor, opened his eyes.

"Lane? Is that you?" Jones asked, voice scratchy. Selridge made to help him sit up but soon found that he was not needed. Jones pushed himself up just fine.

"Yeah, I'm here." Lane could feel the General's next question before it was asked and grimaced prematurely.

"Where's Carter?" He had to look away, but fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he was saved from having to answer as another officer came blustering into their midst.

"Amer- I mean General Jones, what are you doing lying about? We have business to attend to." The man strode imperiously to Jones' side, a bushy eyebrow cocked in a haughty manner as if he stood above everyone else. He was young, as Jones was, and English. Lane felt an instant aversion to him. The lieutenant straightened to his full height, which was a good six inches taller than the Englishman, and squared his shoulders; if Jones didn't want him here then Lane would be all too happy to escort the presumptuous Tommy out, however Jones seemed to have the situation under control.

"Arthur, don't you have some food to burn or something? I'm occupied, if you hadn't bothered to notice." The manner in which they communicated was completely bereft of any kind of professionalism, or even the respect one would typically use to address an officer of a different nationality. Instead, they sounded as if they'd known each other for years. Lane realized that this must be Arthur Kirkland, Jones' counterpart from England. Carter always spoke highly of him.

"Why no, actually," The Englishman sneered, though his scorn seemed good-natured, brotherly even, "I came to see why you and your aide were absent from the situation conference. I trust you had a very good reason."

"As a matter of fact I did." With that Jones pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the medic's protests, "Which reminds me, Lane where did you say Carter went?" The Lieutenant felt thoroughly caught off guard by Jones' quick-fire speech, and thoroughly intimidated when both generals turned their eyes on him.

"Sir, I'm sorry to have to tell you this but… Major Carter is most likely dead." Jones' jubilant expression wilted like a cut flower. In that moment he looked nothing more than what he was: a boy in man's clothing. The Englishman's face was equally grim, though in a much more controlled manner.

"Oh, Alfred, I'm so sorry." Kirkland murmured, grief in his eyes as well.

"No. That can't be right. Carter can't be… How did this happen?" Jones stumbled back, fractured and rapidly shaking his head. Lane could only purse his lips.

"You were unconscious after the shell exploded. There were Krauts everywhere. We were pinned down," Lane paused to collect himself, "Major Carter went to draw them off while I got you out of there."

"Have they found a body?"

"They have only just started counting the casualties, sir."

"Well that's got to mean something! Carter can't be dead! I refuse to believe it!" At this point, Kirkland decided to step in.

"Pull yourself together man! Regardless of the recovery of a body, Major Carter is no longer able to perform his duties. You must find a replacement and carry on!"

"Arthur you don't understand. Carter's my friend. I can't just replace him. Not until I know for certain." Kirkland, noticing the eyes they were attracting, lowered his voice to a deadly whisper.

"Alfred, the war will not wait for one man. You have a duty to your people that you have sworn to complete. Does that mean nothing to you?" The two men stared at each other for an interminable length of time, Jones pleading, Kirkland firm and unyielding. Lane could only stand there, an uninvited guest to a battle of wills.

"No," Jones finally said, "But I'm not replacing Carter."

"Fine. Have it your way, but do not forget that we are in this together. If you flag, the West will fall." The worry in Kirkland's voice was palpable, making both Lane and Jones avert their eyes, though Lane, for his part, knew little of the true gravity of Kirkland's words. Jones, on the other hand, felt the weight of the world come crashing down around his shoulders.

Somewhere Outside Paris - 1700 Hours

Boy, he'd done it this time. Carter, head in hands, sat disgruntled and agitated in the back of a German jeep with other POWs, viciously berating himself. Why, oh why was Germany here? The one man who had the power to ruin everything, who may have just done so in his careless observation. Oh God, what was in store for Carter now? All he'd ever done, all he'd ever tried to do, was for the good of his country and now he couldn't even do that. He could've gotten away if only he'd been more careful, if only he hadn't let his emotions get in the way. But it wasn't simply emotion was it? It was a matter of logic as well. They would've killed him either way, or at least tried to; there was nothing that could've been done to salvage the situation, and yet Carter felt it as keenly as he would a betrayal. It was a monumental failure on his part, but then again, he'd saved America hadn't he? He'd done so with the forfeiture of his own life yes, but the larger goal was still uncompromised. They would never have America as long as he was alive.

Even so, Carter could help but fear what fate had planned for him. Germany knew something was up – he was not stupid – and Carter would be damned if he thought the man wouldn't investigate him further. He'd seen what Carter could do, what potential he could bring to the table; if Carter were a weak man he could give up information that would destroy the Western Allies. Good thing he never would. No… he would rather die a thousand deaths than tell Germany what he wanted to know, and that was a promise.

As they rumbled their way through the French countryside with the nauseating odor of fuel and blood in the air, Carter couldn't help but observe the other American soldiers – POWs now - in the jeep with him. There were approximately a dozen or so, all officers – bloody and exhausted - and all at different levels of the acceptance barometer. Carter reckoned that he was somewhere between abject denial and appalling anger, denial for he'd never been out for the count in the entirety of his military career and anger at having ruined his record. All things aside though, he would miss Lane, and Jones, and his freedom, and even that contriving German sergeant and the new recruits he had to train.

"God bless America…" He tore off his helmet and raked his fingers through his filthy hair. He could not afford to think that way.

"Don't worry son, we'll get through it." The man next to him, grey haired and clearly of a different regiment, patted him stoutly on the shoulder. Carter, realizing how ridiculous he must look, straightened immediately and reaffixed his mask of cool discernment, brushing off whatever mild offense rose in him.

"It ain't me I'm worried about," That was a lie, but they didn't need to know that, "Major Carter, 16th regiment, 1st division." He extended his hand amicably. The grey haired officer gave a low whistle and took it.

"Captain Langley, 101st airborne, at your service." Carter couldn't resist a small chuckle at the idea that this man, clearly middle-aged, was a lower rank than himself.

"Good to meet you." He returned with the same brisk professionalism.

"So, army, eh?"

"That's right. Part of the invasion force, first wave." Another low whistle.

"And a major you said?" Carter jerked his head in affirmation, "You don't look a day over twenty."

"Thirty-one, actually." Langley tried not to dwell on that and changed the subject.

"You know where we're going?"

"Not a damn clue." Carter sat back, intent on looking put-together and unruffled, but no amount of self-assurance could assuage the heart of the matter. He was damn terrified.

1900 Hours

An hour or two they'd been driving, though it was only when the Eifel Tower appeared on the horizon that Carter truly felt the band of uncertainty constrict in his chest. Paris. They were in Paris. The city that only a few hours ago seemed unreachable, and now he was here. The irony almost killed him.

The slatted window in the back of the lorry offered a very limited view of evening time in the French capital but the Americans were thunderstruck nonetheless. They gazed at it in awe, in pride; they were the first American soldiers in Paris! Albeit only by default. Carter looked at it only in sadness. The city had changed profoundly since his last visit and certainly not for the better. Boy oh boy, it was as if all the life had been sucked from it, like a diamond that had lost its luster, a tarnished remnant from a history that had been forgotten. Paris just seemed so grey and abysmal, utterly bereft of hope save that of the Nazi officials parked here.

Every time Carter caught a glimpse of the black-uniformed SS men marching along the sidewalks he wondered after his future, both with anxiety and animosity. What awaited them in the POW camps? Would they face beatings and torture every day? Humiliation and cruelty? Carter wouldn't stand for it.

To quote Zapata, he would rather die on his feet than live on his knees.

The lorry ground to a halt, jerking the prisoners forward. Carter had to smile. This had nothing on the LCT's.

"Now what?" He ground out just as someone wrenched open the doors, flooding light on the disheveled bunch. The German soldier jerked his head in lieu of speech, probably for lack of English, but the meaning was clear. The Americans filed out, hands on their heads, into the cold sunlight, eyes hard and squinted.

An officer approached, looking grim and unforgiving. In his hands was a sheaf of paper, field reports perhaps, or orders from the big-wigs on the front. Carter bet everything he had on the latter.

"Which of you is Randall Carter?" The Americans stilled, looking first at each other and then at their younger counterpart who straightened at once to his full height, eyes narrowed. The massive bloodstain on his right side was viewable in full now that he was no longer in the darkness, and the American officers regarded it uneasily. That was an awful lot of blood.

"I am." He said cautiously. The officer surveyed him a moment.

"Come with me. The rest of you stay here."

"Now wait just a minute!" Langley leapt to his defense in rather surprising burst of confidence. Carter had his eyebrow up, "You can't-"

"Silence." The officer hissed. Around them, the soldiers took a step forward, weapons trained. Even so, the dissenting Americans remained firm until Carter raised his hand for peace. There were already enough American casualties today, no need for more.

"Stand down," He said, "I will go." The officer signaled his men who quickly moved to separate Carter from his fellow Americans. He bristled when he was prodded unnecessarily to get going but otherwise gave no protest. The others could only watch helplessly as the youngest among them was marched off to an uncertain fate. Many of them had heard good things about the wily young commander in the past, therefore it was with a certain amount of idolatry that they regarded him now. He was rather a legend in certain circles, especially those who had served in the Italian campaign. If they were at all accurate, he was General Jones' right-hand-man and confidante, scourge of Salerno, and all-American patriot; simply an admirable personality among the ranks. It made it that much harder to watch him go, knowing that even a person like Major Carter could be brought to his knees.

"Where you taking me?" Carter asked when somebody prodded him again, further down the street. The officer didn't answer, only drew him into another, significantly smaller, vehicle and shut the door. The guards followed. In a moment they were off, heading east and away from the French capital. Away from everything Carter knew. He caught himself looking back, wondering where the others would be going and why he wasn't going with them. It had to be Germany's doing, "Hey Kraut, I'm talking to you! Where are you taking me?" He enunciated slowly, his New York dialect coming through in his anger.

The soldier sitting in the back with him clocked him with the butt of his rifle. Carter growled; however, he surmised the only reason the reprisal wasn't worse was the fact that only the officer spoke English, judging by the look he gave him from the front seat.

"Strasbourg." He finally answered. Carter raised an incredulous brow. He wasn't even leaving France? The Allies would be there in no time! For the first time since the day began Major Carter let hope bloom unreservedly in his chest. He would survive, he would rally his forces, and he would fight on. He must.