We Were Soldiers

128. Overlord

On the deck of a huge troop transport ship whose name was completely unknown to Steve, he and his fellow Commandos, along with Freddie Lopresti, tried to catch a few hours of shut-eye. Conditions were not great, but they could be worse. Every troop transport was loaded with as many men, tanks, jeeps and supplies as it could possibly carry, and the phrase, sardines in a can did not even begin to cut it.

The other men aboard the ship had taken great heart from having Captain America, plus two of the Commandos, amongst their number. If they'd had fears before, they didn't speak them now. How could they possibly lose, with America's Shield on their side? In quiet whispers they talked about being the first to step foot on the beach. The first to shoot a Nazi. The first to capture one of the enemy heavy machine guns. He genuinely couldn't tell whether the bravado was for the benefit of Steve, or for themselves.

Dugan and Jones were uncharacteristically silent, their faces pensive in the light of the full moon. Steve didn't have to ask why. They'd seen action with the SSR even before becoming Commandos… a lot of it. Most of these men were untried and untested, recently shipped in from the States and kept in reserve especially for this assault. They were bright-eyed and eager for combat. They were the man Steve had been twelve months ago. So full of righteous, patriotic pride. Willing to do their part, no matter the cost.

This was, he realised, what Bucky had meant when he'd talked about people losing themselves in the war. It was that momentary realisation that this was all real. It wasn't a game played by kids pretending their cardboard box forts were defending the Alamo… it was people dying. Maybe a lot of people. Storm the beach. That was their order. To storm the beach, advance far enough to overrun enemy defences, and establish a foothold. But to storm the beach, they would have to run head-on against enemy machine guns. Tanks. Artillery fire. Mines. It was a gauntlet many would not survive. The brass, he realised, were counting on numbers to win this. They needed to throw so many soldiers at Normandy that losing a few hundred, or a few thousand, would be just a drop in the ocean. There were no great tactics to be revealed at the last minute. No stealth, no covert action, no curtain to lift. Just wave upon wave of soldiers thrown against an entrenched force to overwhelm them.

He looked at the faces of those around him. They all seemed so young; most of them were probably fresh outta college, their whole lives ahead of them. I can't save them all, he realised. But I'll save as many as I can.

Thunder suddenly shook the air, a deep, pervasive sound that grew louder and louder with each passing second. The men looked around in confusion; it was a clear night, not a cloud in the sky.

"Look over there," said Jones. He pointed to the shore behind them, at the mass of glowing lights approaching. They shone like the stars in the night sky, too numerous for Steve to count, and then poured overhead as they set off across the channel. Planes. Hundreds of them. And this was just the first wave; there would be countless more throughout the day.

"It's begun," Steve said. And all around him men cheered, punching the air with their fists, saluting the planes as they continued their inexorable flight towards the continent. Freddie had his camera out, filming the overhead procession. The first of the allied forces had been committed; there was no going back now. Today, the world would change forever.

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Bucky stood watching as plane after plane took off from the runway. It was an impressive sight, how they managed to fly so close together in their groups without hitting each other, always maintaining a constant distance from wing to wing.

"That's the first wave," said Stone, standing ready with the Commandos and the half-dozen other British paratroopers joining them on the plane. "The transports will drop dummy soldiers to mislead the Krauts and draw Hitler's attention away from Normandy. The next wave to go will be the bombers; they'll continue hitting Nazi facilities and land infrastructure across the north of the country. Important roads and bridges, mostly, to prevent them sending backup where it's needed. In two hours' time, the fleet will set out across the channel, and the first of our troops will start landing at their beaches with the dawn. When the fleet sets sail, we'll set off too and I'll drop you behind the German lines."

"Won't it still be dark?" asked Monty.

Stone nodded. "That's the whole point. Hit them with the first wave at night, while their commanders are sleeping. Hit them hard and fast as early as possible to maximise the length of time our troops can fight for before nightfall. The brass have been waiting a long time for the right conditions; full moon to give our bombers enough light to see by, and weather fair enough to allow both a channel crossing and troops to be dropped from the sky." He glanced at his watch. "I expect we'll probably take off around 4am, but it would be best if you were all ready to go at three, in case the schedule has to be brought forward for any reason."

"We'll get chuted up now," Monty agreed. "That way, as soon as we get the word, we can board. Our equipment has already been stowed in the hold."

The rest of the men didn't have to be told twice. Like Monty, they were veterans with countless jumps under their belts. Most had seen action in Africa, and many had helped to liberate Sicily. They knew what they were doing, and they went about their work with cool efficiency.

"I can't wait to get started," Morita said, handing parachutes out to the others. Bucky took his and slipped it on, his fingers working almost automatically now to tighten the straps and fasten the toggles in place. Who would'a thought that he could ever become so used to jumpin' outta planes? "What about you, Jacques? Just think, in a few days or a few weeks, your country will be free."

"Oui." Jacques gestured to Stone's transport plane, which was currently being fuelled for the journey. "For once, I cannot wait to get inside that tin can death trap."

"Do you think you'll stay at home? Once France is free, I mean?"

"Ehh… Not right now. I promise to 'elp Steve, oui? I stay with the team until we beat Schmidt. Then, we will see."

As they fell into a discussion about which of them was gonna be the one to put a bullet into Schmidt's abnormally red head, Monty stepped up and started checking over all of Bucky's handiwork with his chute. An old habit; no matter how confident the team got with the equipment, he always made sure to double-check everything was correct. It was the type of mothering Bucky didn't mind. Nobody wanted to die from an incorrectly fitted parachute. It just wasn't a pleasant way to go.

"You're unusually quiet, Sergeant," said Monty. "Feeling nervous?"

"A little," he lied. In truth, it had been a long time since he'd gotten nervous about going into combat. There was a sort of elegant simplicity to fighting. To moving forward, shooting at enemies, covering your team's six or scouting the way ahead. In combat, he could just focus on staying alive, and everything else was unimportant. It was the rest of the time, the periods between the fighting, that were difficult. The living with what you'd done, or hadn't done. The regretting the men who hadn't made it back. The constant internal game of what if, of knowing that things might have gone differently if not for some seemingly minor decision that had snowballed out of control. But all he said was, "Haven't had chance to practice with the SSR-03 yet."

"Given your success with the previous two models, I've no doubt you'll come to grips with this one in no time," Monty assured him. "There, all done. Good work on the chute. Let's get you checked out, Jacques. We wouldn't want the rapidly approaching ground of your homeland to be the last thing you see, would we? Oh, very sorry. Could somebody please fetch his bucket?"

Bucky turned his attention back to the departing planes as Morita began frantically searching for a bucket. This really was the beginning of the end. If Hitler could be toppled, Schmidt's financial and material support would end. Without the Nazis hiding him, he and Zola would be that much easier to find. And when Bucky found them… Well, he'd have to make sure they could never hurt anybody ever again. He owed that much to the men who would never go home.

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As the troop transport left the safety of its British harbour, it was accompanied by a loud cheer from the men on deck. This was it. Steve heard the order given to the ship's navigator. Max out the engines. Full speed ahead. By now the Germans had to know that somethin' was going down, but the brass wanted to take them by surprise as much as possible. He'd heard two of the sailors talking about the German RADAR. Apparently, some of the bomber planes had been dropping foil into the sea, which would show up on the RADAR and confuse the Krauts about how many vessels were approaching and what directions they were taking. It was the kinda thing Mr Stark might've thought up. Maybe he was even the one who'd suggested it.

"Captain America?" A member of the crew had approached while Steve was occupied with watching the horizon for his first glimpse of France. "The ship's Captain has invited you and your teammates up to the command deck, where you can get a better view of the coastline."

He looked around at the too-innocent faces of the men no older than Bucky's little brother Charlie, and Phillips' words echoed through his head. You're not just out there to fight, Captain, you're out there to boost troop morale.

"Please give your Captain my thanks for his offer," he said. "But I like the view from here just fine. I intend to have a place on the first boat that makes shore, so I'll be waiting right here until we have our orders to begin the assault."

That earned a round of cheers from the enlisted men. They reached over to pat him on the back, the shoulder, and even on the head. He felt like the world's most oversized good luck charm… but right now, that was what they needed him to be. And maybe that was the meaning of sacrifice, too. Being what you needed to be, even if it wasn't what you wanted to be.

"Ugh," said Freddie. His face was a shade greener than it had been before the transport started moving. "This is definitely not like flying." His camera had been wrapped in plastic, to keep it dry during the crossing, and he held onto the side of the ship with both hands, as if afraid he might fall overboard if he let go.

"You'll be okay," Steve said. "Don't look out at the sea, it'll make it worse. Keep your eyes on the deck." Freddie nodded. He really shouldn't have been on the boat in the first place. The front line was no place for a civilian. "Listen, when we hit the shore, I want you to stay behind Dugan and Jones."

"What? But Steve, I'm supposed to video your heroic storming of the beach! I can't do that if I'm cowerin' behind someone."

"I plan to move faster than your camera can keep up," he said. If he went first, he might draw fire away from the rest of the men on the boat. And he might be able to fight his way up to a defensible position. Bring them all up to safety. "I mean it. You'll stay behind Dugan and Jones, or I'll tie you up before we leave and send you back across the channel, and to hell with the court-martial."

"That's strong language from you, Cap," said Dugan. "Don't worry. Jonesy and I will keep an eye on Freddie. You clear us a path, and we'll watch your six. Same goes for the rest of you," he said, raising his voice so all the soldiers standing around them could hear them. "Once you hit that beach, you keep moving and don't stop unless you're in full cover, and even then, don't get comfy. A moving target is a lot harder to hit than a stationary one, and you can bet your bottom dollar the Krauts will have a load of heavily artillery waiting for us. So you shoot on the run, don't stop to aim, and keep your heads as low as they'll go.

"And if your buddy falls, you keep going. Maybe he's injured. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he's fine. The Krauts won't be wasting bullets on men who're down, and if you stop to try and help, you'll make a target out of both of you. The best thing you can do for the men who fall is to keep going and capture the German defences so that we can make the beach safe enough for the medics to come up it."

Their young faces were suddenly serious. Maybe Dugan's words had hit a little close to home. Nobody liked to think of himself as the guy who would leave a fallen soldier behind, and normally Steve would be right there with them. But this mission was different. Too much was at stake. If they couldn't breach the German defences and make the beaches safe, there was no chance of bringing in support personnel. The death toll would grow. The best way to save lives would be to end the assault as quickly as possible. Tending the wounded would have to come later.

"Hey, Cap," said Dugan in a conspiratorial whisper, "why don't you do the rounds? Y'know, introduce yourself, shake a few hands, throw out a few words of encouragement? Might give these kids something to hang on to, when the fighting starts."

"Yeah. Good idea," he said. It was one of those ideas that he never would'a thought of for himself. After all, who on Earth would wanna shake hands with Steve Rogers? Bucky was right; he had to start thinking of all the positive things he could do as Captain America. Start embracing it more. Learn how to live both lives. He didn't consider himself a hero, but these soldiers… they wanted something to believe in. And today, here and now, that could be him.

So he did the rounds. Shook hands. Asked about families back home. Said a few encouraging words. At the back of the deck were a company of black soldiers, so he took Jones along and made sure to shake every hand there. The troops had to see that they were in this together, that real soon, they would be depending on each other. Skin was just skin, and colour didn't matter.

He left Jones to field some questions about what it was like being the only coloured Commando, and made his way back to the front of the ship, shaking hands as he went. Soon, he found himself in one of the regiments outta New York, shaking the hand of a gangly, brown-haired youth who couldn't have been even a year over conscription age.

"Captain America sir," the kid said, shaking his hand with gusto, "it's an honour to see you again."

"Oh?" He peered at the kid's face. Didn't look familiar, and wasn't brawny enough to be the type of guy who might'a used him as a punching bag in an alley back home. "Have we met somewhere before?"

"Yessir! I was there that day… you know… THAT day? Back home? I was at the dock, moochin' for a bit of carry-work, when you saved that little kid from that Nazi and wrestled with a U-boat!"

Oh. That day. The day Steve had become more than Steve. The day Dr Erskine had made the ultimate sacrifice. The day Captain America was born.

"Right," he said. "Well, it wasn't really a U-boat. Just a very small submarine. And the kid kinda saved himself, to be honest— You can let go of my hand now if you like, soldier."

"Sorry, sir!" He quickly gave up the hand-shake and instead offered the most formal salute Steve had ever received in his life.

"What's your name, soldier? Where are you from?"

"Private Parker, sir. Private Benjamin Parker. Born and raised in Queens. They only shipped us out here two weeks ago, I was hoping to see a bit more of England before we headed off to the fight." The kid's eyes widened. "Not that I'm worried about going to fight, sir! I can't wait to start showing those Krauts what's what."

"Put a sock in it, Parker," one of the Corporals from his unit yelled. "Captain America doesn't need his ear talked off before the big fight."

"Actually, I have a favour to ask you, Private," Steve said, as the kid's face went bright red. "I can make it an order, if necessary."

"I'd be happy to do you a favour OR an order, sir! Anything at all, just lemme know what it is you need!"

"Y'see that kid with the camera over there?" he said, tilting his chin in the direction of a very green-faced Freddie Lopresti. "He's our war correspondent, but he hasn't really seen heavy fighting before. Sergeant Dugan and Corporal Jones are gonna try to keep an eye on him, but I'm worried they might get a little carried away in the heat of battle. They do that, sometimes. Y'think you could keep a close watch over Freddie for me? It's real important that he and his camera get back to England when all this is done."

Another salute. "Understood, Captain America, sir. You can count on me!"

"Great, thanks." He gave the kid a friendly pat on his shoulder, then regretted it when Parker almost fell over the side of the ship. "Make sure you're on our landing boat, okay?"

Steve made his way back to Dugan as Private Parker assured him he would definitely be on the boat, wouldn't miss it for the world, couldn't wait to get started.

"Did you just stick me an' Jones with baby-sittin' duty?" Dugan asked around the smoking pipe he'd finally sparked up.

"Of course not. You're gonna watch over Freddie. Hey Freddie, I want you to watch over the Parker kid who'll be shadowing you, okay?"

Freddie merely gave him two thumbs up, then resumed his attempts to not vomit all over the deck. The soldiers nearest to him had wisely edged out of splatter-range.

"Won't work," Dugan said, lowering his voice for Steve's ears only.

"What won't?"

"Nothin', forget I said anything. Just doin' some ruminating about how alike you and Barnes are."

"Huh?"

"Doesn't matter. Long time ago." He blew a smoke ring out into the night sky. "So. Cherbourg. I bet you a full week's pay that we have it captured in two weeks. Care to make a counter?"

"No, I actually like that bet." Besides, two weeks without seeing Peggy was plenty long enough. At least she'd be safe. And knowing she was back home, breaking Nazi codes… well, it helped him breathe a little easier. He really did have the best team in the world.

"Attention!" someone called from the upper deck. In the growing dawn light, Steve could just make out a Colonel's stripes on his shoulder. The soldiers quickly formed up into rows and stood at attention. Dugan hid his pipe behind his back. "In approximately half an hour, we'll be within sight of our designated drop point, Omaha beach. Therefore, all personnel are to start loading onto landing craft immediately. It will take fifteen minutes for each craft to make a round trip to the shore, so it's imperative that each and every man is ready to board as soon as the boats return. Good luck out there, men. May God watch over us all."

"Guess I better go find Jonesy," said Dugan, shouldering his pack onto his back. "It's time to go to work."

Steve merely nodded. Time to show the world that Captain America was more than just a symbol.

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The silence in the belly of the plane was broken only by the persistent drone of the engine and the occasional heaving of Jacques Dernier's stomach. The guy hadn't thrown up yet, which in itself was a miracle, but he also hadn't eaten anything since being told about the mission. There was nothing inside him to throw up.

A lot of the paratroopers sat writing letters, or staring at photos they'd brought out of their pockets, and for a moment Bucky was back in the 'tween deck of the transport ship Monticello, watching Carrot bring out his picture of Samantha every night like clockwork. A horrible, burning feeling tore at his heart, like it did every time he thought about the men of the 107th who'd never make it back home. If Samantha had loved Carrot even half as much as Carrot had loved her, she was probably still crying herself to sleep at nights. It just… it wasn't fair. Carrot had deserved more than death. He'd deserved to be happy. He'd deserved to live.

He wrapped his arms around himself, pretended he was feeling the cold of high altitude. His dad had told him that when a soldier died in combat, his CO was supposed to visit the family, after. But the 107th's COs were both dead, and if Phillips had to visit the families of everyone assigned to the SSR who'd died, he'd probably be doing it right up until retirement. That meant it was down to Bucky to do it. He was the only one left. It was his responsibility. He'd been their sergeant, and he'd allowed them to die.

"Shouldn't we be hearing something by now?" Morita spoke up at last. "I mean, we've been in the air for an hour. We should be over France. Why can't we hear the guns? The artillery? Something."

"We're too high," Captain Stone called over his shoulder. "Bombers fly low to avoid radar, but I have to fly high until we reach your D-Z, because if I drop you low, your chutes won't have enough time to slow your descent. But trust me, there's one heck of a light show going on down there."

"Oh. Right."

"How long," said Jacques, taking a deep breath, "until we reach our D-Z?"

"We're about ten minutes out," said Stone.

"Alright." Monty stood and clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "Some of us have never participated in a drop of this size before." He very kindly didn't name and shame the Commandos. "We push out the heavy equipment and supply crates first and wait until their chutes auto engage before the first man leaves the plane, otherwise we risk falling cargo hitting us on the way down. Three second intervals between jumps. When you land, don't even bother trying to hide your chute, just cut yourself loose and run for cover. Trust me, by now, every Kraut in France knows troops are parachuting in. You all have your rendezvous coordinates, so don't wait around."

"Hold on!" Stone called. A split second later he banked hard right as something scraped along the side of the plane. Monty grabbed onto one of the cargo nets, while Dernier finally found something to vomit into his bucket. Before anyone had time to recover, the plane was sent spinning to the left, and a couple of small crates that hadn't been fastened down properly went flying. "They're targetting us with AA guns," said Stone. There was real panic in his voice. "Hold on tight, I'm going to try climbing out of their firing range."

The engine screamed. Jacques screamed. Bucky thought he might've screamed too. Then something went -pop- against the side of the plane, and a slug went right through to the other side. A few inches to the right and it would'a taken Monty's head with it.

"We've been hit," yelled Stone, winning this year's award for stating the blatantly obvious. "We have damage to the wing flaps and we're losing altitude. You have to jump now. In about thirty seconds we'll be too low for you to engage your chutes!"

Monty didn't hesitate. He punched the button that lowered the cargo ramp and shouted, "Push the supplies out, quickly!"

Bucky leapt to his feet along with everyone else and helped to push the large supply crates. Completely disregarding what he'd said only moments ago, Monty started ordering the paratroopers to jump even before the cargo chutes had deployed. This was bad. This was real bad. Monty was normally a stickler for procedure.

When all of the troopers were away, he told Morita to jump and pushed Jacques after him. "Your turn, Sergeant Barnes. Go now."

"What about you?" Bucky shouted back, as the cold wind streamed in around his hair and tried to pull him out of the bay door.

"I'll be right behind you." He glanced over his shoulder. "Captain Stone, you have to eject!"

"Not yet. I might still be able to put her down!"

Bucky didn't get chance to weigh in on the situation; Monty shoved him back, and the wind finally took hold of him. Cold air rushed around him, causing his eyes to stream, so that all he saw in the morning sunlight as he tumbled towards the ground was a dark green blur. Were those… trees?

Shit, he was too low! He pulled his parachute cord without thinking, and threw his arms around his head to protect his eyes as branches came crashing in around his face. He got lucky; he skimmed the tree tops, which slowed him a little, and as the last of the trees released their grip on him, a gust of wind caught his parachute with enough force to slow the last of his descent to a less lethal speed. He hit the ground without breaking any bones, and quickly moved out the way of his falling chute. He could see other chutes behind him, a breadcrumb trail of paratroopers who'd been able to deploy their chutes at a much higher altitude, and up ahead, a plume of grey smoke trailing through the sky. The plume ended on the ground between two hills that were pouring black with a hotly burning fire. Between here and there, he could see no other chutes.

Suppressing the sick feeling in his stomach, he recalled Monty's words. He needed to move. Up ahead was a structure, an old stone barn that no longer had a roof. It was meagre shelter, but it would have to do for now. He cut his chute loose, and ran towards it as fast as his still-wobbly legs could carry him. Monty… Captain Stone… please be okay.

He wasn't the only one to have made for the barn; Jacques was already there, and he raised his fully loaded rifle as Bucky rounded the corner.

"Jeez, it's me, don't fire."

"Apologies, mon ami." Jacques squinted at him. "What 'appened? Are you okay? Your face is like you had a fight with a box full of cats."

Bucky probed his face with his fingertips. Dernier was right. Those trees had not been kind to him. Still, he was alive. Barely. "Guess I was a little low for my chute," he explained. "Monty said he was going to be right behind me, but right before he pushed me out the bay door, he was trying to get Captain Stone to eject. I was spinning so fast I didn't see if either of them made it out, but I think… I think the plane crashed. There's a fire, up ahead."

"Sacré bleu." Suddenly, Jacques was on his feet again, weapon pointed at someone approaching. This time it was Morita, his own weapon at the ready. He looked a little shaken, but otherwise none the worse for his jump.

"You want the bad news?" Morita asked without preamble. "Or the worse news?"

Oh god. Bucky didn't think his nerves could take either. But he allowed himself that one moment of panic before taking a deep breath and focusing on the mission. For some reason, all of his missions went sideways. Somehow. He would just deal with it, like he always did.

"Let's have them both," he said. Assess the damage, then make the decisions.

"We lost about half our paratroopers to that AA gun during their descent," said Morita. "Tore their chutes. Maybe some survived… hard to tell. I found a couple that made it okay when I came down and sent them on to a forest about a couple of klicks south of here. I spotted the two of you coming down and figured we were best sticking together."

"And the worse news?"

"We were shot down miles from our D-Z. I'm not sure exactly where we are yet, but I know we're nowhere near our rendezvous point."

Great. Just what they needed. Miles from their drop-zone, Nazis on high alert, and no way of notifying anyone they were still alive. The Commandos could cover twenty miles in a day without any problem at all… but not when they were having to dodge Nazi patrols or fortifications or land mines. It might take days to reach their rendezvous, and every step they took would be fraught with danger.

"So… we're going after the plane, right?" Morita asked after a moment of silence.

"You're damn right we are," he agreed. "We're Commandos. We don't leave anyone behind."

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The shallow-drafted Higgins Boats had been lowered from the sides of the troop transports and loaded with as many men and tanks as they could carry. The first few waves would be for combat personnel and vehicles; later in the day, they'd ferry supplies as well, but for now, the troops would have to make do with what they could each carry.

Steve had staked his claim on the first boat in the floatilla. Nobody had wanted to argue with Captain America, even if his choice of boat companions seemed… odd. Dugan and Jones were a given, but Freddie and Private Parker got more than a few glances. Not much he could do about that, though. The brass wanted their war correspondent to document the invasion, and he was gonna be damned if he left Parker to some German machine gun.

The Higgins Boats, designed for shallow water crossings, did not have the stability of the larger troops transports. Even this close to the beach, being inside one was like riding a wild bronco. Or at least, what he imagined riding a wild bronco might be like. He'd only ever ridden a camel, and it had been a pretty tame one at that.

"I hope you boys are ready," said the British Navy sailor assigned to ferry them from the transport to the beach. He sat firm at the wheel as if he'd been taming wild sea broncos all his life.

"Ready as we'll ever be," Steve said. "Ready to give those Nazis hell!" Captain America added.

"Alright then. Let's get this show on the road."

Then he cut the cord that fastened the boat to the troop transport, and opened the engine to full throttle.

Steve had imagined a swift and heroic launch at the beach. A rapid landing, guns blazing. He'd also been in a few movies, where rapid landings and guns blazing drew in the crowds and, more importantly, the bonds. Reality was… slower. The Higgins Boat danced over what was left of the channel, but its engine seemed to lack horsepower. It probably didn't even have camel-power. Their approach was slow and steady, like the tortoise that had beaten the hare.

"Can't we go any faster?" he yelled to their ferryman.

"Sure," the guy shouted back. "But I'm not sure you want to."

"Why not?"

"Give it a minute."

Steve opened his mouth, and everything exploded. Two dozen frigates and destroyers, strategically positioned on the approach to the beach, opened up their guns and laid down suppressing fire. At the same time, a wave of bombers and fighters strafed the beach, their engines screaming overhead as pilots and gunners got as low to the ground as they dared. Sand and sea and dirt sprayed into the air in plumes that settled slowly, and the morning sun crested the horizon over a sea littered with hundreds of ships.

"Wahoo!" Dugan yelled, lifting his shotgun into the air as Allied fighters poured overhead.

Steve winced. Super-hearing. Super-vision. Super-senses in general. It was all too much. But he couldn't let it throw him. Shaking his head to clear his ringing ears, he glanced around to check out the damage. The beach was pock-marked with holes. Bombers, or perhaps land-mines triggered by the fighters? The destroyers kept up their artillery barrage, too far out to be affected by enemy tanks. Hopefully their gunners knew how to aim.

Their boat wasn't the first to hit the shore. Other boats from other troops transports had gotten here first, and Steve saw men pouring out onto the beach, wading through waist-deep water as they headed for dry land. But the Krauts weren't waiting for an invitation. Bullets rained down on the disembarking troops. Men fell even as they stepped off their boats. Bodies floated face-down in the sea, mere feet away from safety. Others were cut down as they advanced, and the sand of Normandy beach was slowly turning a deep shade of crimson.

"How close can you get us?" Steve asked the sailor.

"I dunno. Never sailed this kind of boat before. Let's find out!"

Steve could have laughed, if not for the lifeless bodies they passed on their way onto the beach. Was everything in this war experimental? The boats. Stark's weapons. The portable harbours towed over from England. Even Steve himself. It was as if Prometheus had stolen weapons from the Gods, and brought them down to Earth for mankind to play with. The SSR was so focused on HYDRA that they'd forgotten about sheer human ingenuity. And sheer human cruelty.

He felt the boat scrape the bottom of the sea shelf. "That's as far as we go," said the sailor. "Hit that winch to your right, it will lower the bow ramp. Good luck, to all of you."

Steve secured his shield on his arm and nudged the winch with his elbow. The ramp lowered, revealing a horror show of carnage. Soldiers advanced on the beach, and for every one running with his gun firing, one more was either trying to crawl his way to safety, or unmoving on the sand. Men dodged bodies as they advanced, running a gauntlet of death. The screams of the injured and dying filled the air, background noise punctuated by heavy explosions and the lighter rattle of gunfire. Just as the ramp made contact with the sea bottom, the body of a serviceman floated by, thudding dully against the plywood side of the boat.

"What was that?" Freddie asked.

"Nothing," said Steve. "Get ready to advance. And remember, stay behind Dugan and Jones."

"Right. Should I… roll the camera now, or wait until we're on the beach?"

He looked out at the carnage in front of him, a field of death the likes of which his own father had seen, back in the Great War.

"Roll it now," he said. "People deserve to know what this attack cost us. What our men are giving their lives for." They deserved to know the true cost of this war.

Author's Note: I'm playing a new game. It's called, Guess How Many Cameos TUS Can Fit Into The Next Few Chapters. Prize for closest (or exact) guess is you get to BE a cameo in a future chapter.

If you'd like to experience the Normandy beach invasion through Steve's senses, get yourself a really fancypants soundbar with an amazing sub woofer. Hook it up to your television. Turn the volume and bass to their maximum settings. Then watch the first 15 minutes of Saving Private Ryan. That's what it's like for Steve.