Walloon Region, Belgium 1944

The squad of Army Rangers solemnly trudged through the Ardennes forest, tugging their worn boots free from the frost covered underbrush that clawed at them with every step. Corporal Tyson Rios plowed through the snow at the end of the pack. He situated the strap of the M2 carbine hitched over his shoulder, and blinked his sleep deprived eyes that stung from the frigid December wind blowing through the towering trees.

It had been three weeks since the members of the 5th Ranger Battalion had entered enemy territory, and morale was running low for the weathered group. They had already witnessed numerous firefights, and had lost four men to Nazi bullets, a significant number for a group so small in a war so big. Rios sighed, dug into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out his leather wallet. Opening the billfold, he smiled at the black and white photograph of a dark-skinned woman beaming inside. He flipped over the picture and examined the note scribed in cursive he had read a hundred times over.

Love you always and forever.

-Sam

"Alright, lover-boy," a voice called from the front. "Enough with the photo. Don't wanna take a round to the back because you were too busy ogling at your lady."

"Ah, can it, Harper," another man replied. "You're just jealous you don't got yourself a lady back home."

"Yeah, right, Coons. I got all the ladies I need right here," Harper chuckled as he patted the pin-up magazine stuffed in his back pocket. Rios rolled his eyes and tucked the photograph and wallet back into his trouser pocket, then lifted the tattered wool scarf up over his nose.

"Will you all pipe down?" an older man at the front of the squad snapped. "Whole daddy-blamed German army'll hear ya."

"Sorry, Top," another answered. "Old chrome-dome here's just-"

A shot was fired and the man fell to the ground, the wound in his head forming a crimson puddle in the snow around him.

"Shit!" Harper screamed. Rios jumped over top of the other and they fell to the ground. He peered up from the snow to see their sergeant barking orders telling the others to take cover, but his cries were barely heard over the roaring gunfire. The older man slid behind a tree, and took the rifle slung over his shoulder into his hands. When the woods became silent and the shots ceased, he spun around from behind the tree and took aim, only to take a shot to the chest. The man cried out, then fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

"Top!" Coons yelled from behind the cover of a shallow embankment. The frightened man unholstered the M1911 pistol from his hip and crawled on all fours to the top of the mound. Rios quietly rolled off of Harper, and the two crept to Coons side behind the embankment.

"I-I don't see 'em," Harper stuttered frantically. "I don't see 'em."

"Quiet," Rios hushed him, unslinging the rifle from his shoulder. He looked to Coons, but the man shook his head and shrugged. Out of nowhere, another shot fired, and the man's back exploded. He shouted, then went limp and slid down the mound. Rios cursed under his breath and spun around onto his back, darting his eyes across the landscape for the assailants. Harper sobbed quietly by his side, loading a clip into his pistol with shaking hands. A slight movement caught Rios eye, and he looked to his right to see a small, round object roll across the snow and slow to a stop at their feet.

"Shit, grenade!" Rios shouted, tugging the other man to his feet. The two bolted only a few feet before the explosive detonated, and the men were thrown to the ground. Rios groaned and through lidded eyes looked to Harper, whose corpse looked back at him with a blank, bloody countenance. The world around him soon grew cloudy, and within seconds everything went black.

Rios fluttered his eyes open, and moaned in pain. His whole body ached and a ruthless throbbing pulsed in his head. He found himself unable to move, and looked down in confusion at the thick ropes that bound his body in a sitting position to the rough bark of a tree. He looked back up to see six German soldiers sitting casually around a weak bonfire, rummaging through the deceased squad's belongings. One of the soldiers noticed that Rios had awoken, and tapped an adjacent man's shoulder to alert him. The larger of the group stood, and made his way toward the captured American, a smug grin spreading across his lips. He jeeringly shook the pin-up magazine Harper had carried with him and chuckled something in German, then the others laughed at the remark. The larger tossed the magazine to one of his comrades, then turned back to Rios and landed a hard punch to his cheek.

"Bastards," Rios growled. The man touched his index finger and thumb together, making an "okay" symbol, and again the others laughed hysterically. He sauntered back to his place by the fire a few feet away, and the men returned to their small talk.

Rios sighed. He checked his bonds once more, but escape was impossible. They had stripped him of his knife and weapons, as well as his boots. He looked around the encampment and saw his fellow Rangers lying side by side in an orderly row. They, too, were missing items of clothing. Harper lay closest to him, and Rios shook his head in grief as the man's dead eyes stared back at him.

Hours passed and the sun began to set on the forest. The Nazi soldiers gathered close to the smoldering flames, and poked at the burning embers, coaxing the fire to grow. Rios watched from a distance, shivering violently in the cold. He tried to distract himself by thinking of home, of his warm apartment in Brooklyn, of Samantha's shoulders tucked under his arm as they watched Casablanca at the local cinema. He held tightly to these memories, for they were the only things keeping him alive.

He was shaken from his thoughts when the soldiers let out frightened screams, and scrambled hurriedly in all directions. Then, an explosion erupted, knocking them off their feet. The soldiers snatched up their weapons and spun around the encampment, looking desperately for their attacker. A shot was fired, and a cloud of misty blood burst from one of the Nazi's skulls, and he fell to the snow. Seconds later, another gunshot erupted from the dense forest, and another man fell.

The larger of the soldiers screamed furiously at the invisible enemy. Another shot to an adjacent man was his only answer. A snapping of twigs alerted them, and the larger barked at the last two soldiers that remained of his squad, motioning them toward the noise. The two swallowed thickly, then reluctantly stepped into the wood. Soon after, a gunshot and a cut-off scream echoed through the trees.

The last man looked frantically around the area, and called out to the attacker in furious German. He then turned to Rios and began shouting at him, but the threats were cut short when the man gasped, then crumpled face-down into the snow, a tomahawk jutting from his back.

Rios sat in stunned silence at the corpse laying at his feet. The trees and ferns at the edge of the encampment began to rustle, and a figure appeared from the wood. He was dressed head-to-tow in thick, tattered wool clothes, and donned a grey fur ushanka over his head. A scarf was pulled up over his nose, making his hazel eyes the only visible feature on his face. The stranger hitched his sniper rifle up over his shoulder and approached the dead Nazi at Rios' feet, where he tugged the hatchet loose from the corpse's back.

"Holy shit, would you get a load a that?" he said astonished. "I got him! That never happens."

The man hooked the weapon to his belt, then dismissed Rios and began digging through the dead soldiers' belongings. He plopped down by one and pulled off one of their boots. After placing it against the bottom of his own foot, he cursed and moved on to the next soldier. After two more tries, he found a pair that fit him and replaced his own riddled, torn boots with the new pair.

"You gonna untie me?" Rios grumbled through chattering teeth. The stranger plucked the pin-up magazine from one of the German's pockets and chuckled, before stuffing it inside his own trench coat.

"Don't know," he answered. "You a friendly?"

"I'm Corporal Tyson Rios of the 5th Ranger Battalion."

"Ranger? No shit. Me too," the man replied. "Oh, what do we have here?"

He picked up Rios' worn billfold from the snow and dusted it off, then opened it.

"Hey, sugar," he flirted, admiring the photograph inside. "You rationed?"

"That's mine," Rios growled. "Now untie me. I'm an American."

"Don't look it," the man argued.

"Are you some kind of idiot."

The stranger chuckled. "Yeah, you're American. Hold on, Tiny. Don't get your panties in wad."

He unsheathed a blade from his belt and knelt before Rios, then began slicing through the thick rope. When Rios was freed from his bonds, the other man tugged the boots off of the large soldier he had killed with the hatchet, and tossed the shoes to Rios.

"Looks like these'll fit ya," he said.

Rios scoffed. "They're mine. The bastard took 'em from me."

"Hey, take what you can get," the other replied. "Especially in a shit place like this. Here, you need it more than me."

The stranger pulled the ushanka from his head, revealing thick dark hair and bangs, and placed it over Rios' bald scalp.

"Thanks," Rios said. "You said you were Army?"

"Yeah, tubby," the man answered. He tugged the scarf off of his nose and down around his neck, divulging his young face daubed with light stubble. He offered Rios his hand and hauled him to his feet.

"Private First Class Elliot Salem. Boy, you are a big one."