Eight Rounds, Part Two

[barefoot_bard]

Title: Eight Rounds
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental. No profit is being made from this story.
Summary: An American paratrooper tries to survive the first night of the invasion of France. Normandy, June 1944.
Author's Note: Without a doubt, there are errors, historical or otherwise, in this piece. I apologise for them now.

The moon was on the wane when silence finally fell over the farm. The Frenchman now slumped wearily on the narrow bed in the corner had fired the last shot, his old rifle clutched in both hands. I leaned heavily against the wall opposite him, my own rifle left by the window sill. Had either of us cared to look, we would have been able to take a count of the dark lumps of unmoving shadows strewn across the yard and the surrounding field. That first uncoordinated pair of attacks had quickly snowballed into a concerted two-pronged advance, reinforced after about an hour by a half-track loaded with soldiers. We had fought off each attack with varying degrees of difficulty. Now that they knew we were here and that we were in a fixed position, waiting us out seemed to have become their object. Had it not been for the unerring aim of Kasprzak and his rifle grenades, we would probably have run out of ammo long before friendly reinforcements could have reached us.

As it was... I stirred myself enough to flap a hand against my belt pouches. Most were empty. The floor around my boots was strewn with empty clips and shell casings. I had burned through almost all of my ammo over the course of the last few hours. Good thing we'd finally driven off Jerry. I breathed out a long sigh and let my knees buckle, only barely controlling my slide down the wall to the floor. Christ I was tired. My helmet felt as light as a block of concrete when I reached up to drag it off my head and it clunked dully against the casing-littered floor when I let it drop. Somebody else could keep a lookout for any fresh appearance from the enemy. I was way too beat to do it. The sustaining river of adrenaline had left me and I felt virtually boneless with fatigue. To reload my rifle required more energy than I thought I had in that moment. So I rested my head back against the wall, breathed out a long slow sigh, and tried to will my eyes to remain open.

"You must not sleep, Antoine," Gérard admonished. I had only learned his name and he mine about two hours ago, during a brief lull in the fighting. We had talked a little during the course of the night but actual introductions had not come until the battle was nearly over. That seemed to be a pattern with me, I noted absently.

"I'm not," I told him, my eyes still closed.

He rasped a short chuckle and the bed springs creaked as his weight shifted. "Sleep is the soldier's truest enemy."

"Aside from the guy shooting at you?"

"Aside from him. He is easier to fight." There was the clack of a bolt being drawn back, accompanied the scrape of metal on metal as he went about reloading the rifle. I should do the same. I knew that. At the same time, I could not muster the energy to move. Anyway, it never took me long to slap a fresh clip into my rifle and get back into the fight. I'd gotten pretty damn good at that these past few hours. It was something that could wait, I decided blearily.

From downstairs, Sergeant McManus' voice rose like the brassy peal of a church bell. "Ammo check! Ammo check! Dump out your pouches and sound off!"

With a groan, I opened my eyes, blinked once or twice to lessen the weight of my eyelids, then fumbled with the snaps of my belt pouches. Only two still had clips in them. I had gone through eight clips since hitting the ground. Or nine. Maybe it was nine. Not that it really mattered. It was only important that I was dangerously low on ammo. I did at least still have three grenades, which were lined up on the low bureau by the door. Safely out of immediate range of the window but still within easy reach if they were needed. If they did end up being needed... well. My fingers brushed against the hilt of my sheathed bayonet. I didn't want to think about how bad things had to be if I was reduced to relying on those ten inches of sharp blued steel.

"Reynolds! Two clips!" I called out, once the chain of shouted responses from downstairs ended. Everyone down there was in similarly bad shape. One guy, Haines, had gone through all of his Thompson's ammo and was down to his pistol. McManus, having led off the ammo check, had only a couple of magazines left for his own M1911. It did not paint a very encouraging picture of our chances. Neither did the report from Farnham, the lead .30 cal gunner, when he tramped into the hallway to shout down the stairs, "Farnham! Half a belt on the thirty! I got a full bandolier of M1 rounds and Kasp has four clips left."

All that McManus offered in reply was a grunt. I turned over one of the eight-round clips in my hands and considered. I had just sixteen rounds left. That wouldn't last long at all in a serious firefight. Five minutes, tops. When the Germans came again, since I was convinced they would, we couldn't hope to hold them off for long. We were paratroopers but it was beginning to seem that even we were not infalliable. The thought chilled me. I shoved one clip back into its pouch and stretched across to grab my rifle, into which the second clip was loaded. Slapping the bolt home and hearing the reassuring clack of a round being chambered only helped ease my disquiet a little. I didn't want to die here, in this bullet-riddled farmhouse somewhere in Normandy. Hell. I didn't want to die at all, if I could help it, but I certainly didn't want to cop it here. With a grimace, I used my rifle as a prop to lever myself to my feet. Spent brass crunched beneath my boots as I crossed carefully toward the window, taking care to stay out of immediate view of anyone who might be on the ground below.

"They will come again," said Gérard from the bed. "They always have."

"Yeah, well. Good luck to 'em when they do." I tried to sound more confident than I felt, but he obviously saw straight through me because he laughed.

"You Americans have such spirit. I admire that about your people. Even when you have your backs to the wall, you stay so determined." Gérard sounded faintly nostalgic. I knew roughly why, I thought. Grand-dad had sounded very similar when he talked of his childhood in Valence. Then I thought of my father. He had served in the war, I knew, though when he could be persuaded to talk about it, he was always vague and the warmth of happy reflection was completely absent from his tobacco-coarsened voice. It confused me a little, therefore, to hear a note of that very feeling in Gérard's words. I peered out the window for another couple seconds until I was satisfied the ground below was deserted. For now. Then I turned toward the old Frenchman, leaning my rifle carefully against the window sill, where I could grab it easily in a hurry.

"We tend to run long on pluck, yeah," I remarked, just a little smugly.

Gérard chuckled. "And short on modesty. That is typical too."

"I guess you've known Americans pretty well."

"I have." He hesitated, glanced down at his rifle. Then he shrugged. "France has been the battlefield of the world for many years. It is almost the way of things. If it was not, I should not have met so many of your countrymen and seen them do great and brave things in the Argonne. I have waited a long time to see Americans again and now you are here. If God still loves France, you will free us once more."

I felt a shiver go down my back. "You were in the war?"

His white-topped head bobbed once. "Yes. It is why I do not care for Germans. I am happy now to fight them openly."

And he meant it too, because there was no mistaking the steely eagerness in his voice. What must it have been like to see a foreign army sweep across his country not only once but twice, and this second time be able to do nothing to resist it? I shuddered at the thought. Nobody had ever managed to do it to the United States. Nor would it, I was certain. To live under the rule of a hostile occupation must have been the nearest thing to Hell on earth that I could picture. Were I in Gérard's place, I probably would feel the same. For sure I'd have done something about that occupation long before now as well. He hated the Germans, that much I knew. Yet to go on living under their rule without fighting back confused me. Certainly that was the only natural thing to do. It seemed that way to me anyway.

"Your French is very good," he went on, moving smoothly to a new subject as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "You sound nearly like a native Frenchman."

A slight flush warmed my face. "My grandfather was from Valence. He moved to Kansas when he was in his twenties. I grew up on his farm there."

"A farm?" This made Gérard smile, probably the first genuine smile he had offered in the few hours I'd known him. "Any man who farms is a man worth knowing." Even in the dark, I sensed him looking me over. "You have the look of one who has done his share of farm work. It must be in your blood. Will you go back to it after all of this is over?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Farming is important work but I've never been very good at it."

"Patience! Patience is the key for a good farmer." Gérard wagged a finger at me. "But my sons would have liked you. They were strong workers but they did not have patience. This was not the life that best suited them. Yet they would have stayed simply for me had it not been for the Germans."

How the story of their service to their country ended, I already knew. Poor bastards. That he had likened me to them was a little unnerving since I did know they'd both died in combat. So I forced a shrug and asked, "What will you do after the war is over?"

He was silent for a moment, apparently considering this. "I will go to find my sons and bring them home."

There was definitely nothing to say to that so I didn't say anything. Instead I peered cautiously out the window and again saw nothing that indicated the presence of enemy. Everything outside was as still as death. In the distance, the rattle of AA fire and now the throaty booms of naval guns went on. I gazed upward and saw a flicker of bright orange light that stretched itself out into a long arcing comet of fire bound for the dark horizon. Another plane had been hit. Was it more paratroopers or a glider? It was too far away to be sure but it hardly mattered. It was still a friendly aircraft going down in flames. I turned away from the window. Gérard was watching me and seemed about to speak, but the tramp of boots on the old floorboards in the hall stopped him.

"Grab your gear and form up downstairs," Sergeant McManus said from the doorway. "We're movin' out."

"We're leaving?"

For a second, McManus looked annoyed. "In English, Trooper!"

Damn it. "We're leaving?" I repeated, my face hot at my slip-up.

"We're leavin'. No point staying here to get pinned down and overrun. Jerry will come again. No question about that. When he does, he'll capture every one of us unless we're not here when he does decide to try his luck again. So get your shit and get downstairs."

The idea of leaving the farmhouse made me uneasy, not the least because it meant going out into the unknown with this sergeant who, I well knew, had a tendency toward unacceptable brutality. Our going also meant Gérard would be on his own when Jerry did come back. I liked the old Frenchman, I realised, and the idea of abandoning him made my stomach turn over.

"It's an order, if you hadn't noticed, Trooper. You got five minutes." McManus scowled and disappeared from the doorway, going to the room down the hall to tell Farnham and Kasp to pack up. I leaned against the wall, eyeing my pack where it sat near the bed with cold disinterest. In the past few hours, I had gotten settled here, or at least as far as you could when using a bedroom as a foxhole. Fighting to keep the Germans clear of this house had begun to mean something. It was our shelter against the howl of a tornado. A place worth defending. Especially for me. It was stupid and childish of me to compare this house with my Grand-dad's but I couldn't help it. I had been just old enough to remember the months of discord when Grand-dad's neighbours moved his fences thirty yards back, to give them free access to the pond Grand-dad used to irrigate his upper field. My brothers and I had done our share of splitting knuckles on the jaws of old Mister Harley's grandsons over it. They did the same to us. It was all about protecting our patch of ground. The situation now wasn't all that different, really. Now, as then, I was prepared to defend this place as my own and to hell with the reality that it wasn't mine at all.

"I ain't goin'," I said to Gérard.

He shook his head. "It is the job of a soldier to do as he is ordered," was his reply. "You will go with the sergeant and his men."

"But it's not - "

"You'll go," he repeated, rising from the bed. He swung my pack up from the floor and held it out to me. "If you go, the Germans will follow you. And in turn I will follow them."

There could be no mistaking what he meant by that. My disgust was more instinctive than genuine, but I still felt uneasy about it. I did not hold with murder, or with shooting men in the back, or anything like that. Even my own ambush on that bunch of Germans in the sunken lane had been a face-to-face fight. I hesitated for a long moment before taking the pack from him and slinging my arms through the straps.

"You do know we won't be coming back."

Gérard nodded. "I don't expect you would. There is more war to fight beyond this tiny piece of land. God still loves France, I am sure, and He will help you free my country. Then I will go and find my sons." He smiled. What the darkness hid of the gesture was made up for in the joy that had come into his voice. "You have already pushed the Germans away from this farm. I had almost stopped believing it could be possible but it is done and now, it can only go on."

It was impossible not to take heart from his optimism. "We'll do our best," I told him. "Even if these guys don't come back, I will."

"Let's go, let's go!" McManus shouted from downstairs. The five minutes were up. Gérard thrust his hand out at me and I grabbed it, enduring his firm handshake without flinching. Despite his deep hatred for the Germans and his willingness to do whatever it took to kill them, I liked the old Frenchman. Now that we were going our separate ways, I felt like we were abandoning him.

"I'll leave those with you," I said abruptly, pointing at the grenades on the bureau by the door. "They'll do you more good than they will for me."

There was nothing more I could think of to say. So I shoved my helmet back onto my head, picked up my rifle, and went out into the hall. Farnham and Kasp were already tramping downstairs, with Farnham carrying his .30 cal over one shoulder. McManus, I guessed, was waiting impatiently for the three of us to get down there. Given a choice, I'd have stayed behind but Gérard was right. A soldier did what he was told and I was more than just a soldier. I was a paratrooper. Which meant I really had no choice.

"Godspeed, Antoine," said Gérard from the doorway.

I glanced back and touched two fingers to the rim of my helmet in salute. "Good luck, Gérard."

With parting words thus spoken, I hurried down the stairs before I could change my mind. Downstairs, the others were ready, taking one last quick look out unblocked windows to be sure the coast was clear. Sergeant McManus frowned at me but said nothing. Instead, he nodded at Kinsley, who was the first one out the front door. Two of McManus' boys went next, followed by Walters, Farnham, Kasp, then McManus himself. I hefted my rifle and ducked quickly out the door behind the sergeant, looking quickly around as I crossed the threshold. All that I could immediately see were the bodies of the Germans we'd killed. None of them were any threat to us. Obviously. That didn't mean there weren't other, living, Germans lurking in the darkness waiting for us to come out into the open to be shot at. Nothing happened. Kinsley led us toward the towering shelter of a hedgerow across the back yard and there we halted while he crept forward to investigate the ground on the opposite side of the hedgerow. He was back within a minute, gesturing at us to follow. There was no sign at all of Jerry as we moved across the field beyond the hedgerow, spreading instinctively out into tactical column and keeping our fingers near our triggers. After the hard fighting we'd done so far that night, it was hardly surprising that we were all uneasy.

No sign of the enemy was encountered for nearly two miles. I was beginning to feel like we'd see daylight before running into Jerry again, until a rifle shot cracked across the night and, with a low curse, Farnham went down. The rest of us hit the ground immediately, training our rifles outward and searching the darkness for any sign of where the shot had come from. The only man who moved was Doc, crawling low and fast toward where Farnham lay writhing in the grass. Other than that brief glance to see what was happening, I kept my gaze on my front, trying to spot anything like looked like a German. There was nothing. Which meant we'd wandered into a sniper's view. God. A sniper with a good eye could pick us off one by one as he pleased, especially in the dark. He had to know it as well. The first movement from any of us would be answered by a bullet. That was proven when Corbet, the man who'd been shot in the leg, tried to crawl up to help Doc with Farnham. A second shot rang out and Corbet dropped with a gasp. Hardly a second later, a machine gun opened up, spitting tracer dangerously close to our heads.

"Keep down!" Sergeant McManus snapped.

From Kasp, just ahead of me and to the left, came the predictable, "Jesus Christ!"

I ground my left elbow into the dirt, lifting my rifle up a little so I had a better position. My movement was small enough, I thought, but Jerry spotted it anyway. The sound of the shot seemed to lag behind the bullet itself. The round had hit me before I heard the crack of the sniper's rifle or, for the merest instant, glimpsed the muzzle flash from the corner of my eye. Less than a heartbeat later, all I knew was pain. My left arm felt as though I'd stuck it straight into a bonfire. Worse was the white-hot agony in my side, which flung my memory back years, to the time my brothers had turned a branding iron on me as a joke. Back then, I had screamed and cried. Now, I just swore and curled up into a ball as much as I dared, my right hand squeezing hard over the freely-bleeding hole in my left arm. Sweet Christ I had just been shot. Shot badly, it felt. There was dampness spreading into my shirt, quickly seeping through into my jacket. Blood. I knew the feeling of that well enough. Blood and that searing, gut-tearing pain. The only thing lacking was the smell of burning flesh, like I'd smelled when I'd been branded. But it hurt, it hurt, God save me it hurt.

"Keep down!" McManus cried. "Even you, Doc! Nobody move!"

"But - !"

"Shut up!"

The medic subsided, but I was hardly aware of his having resisted. Trying to stop the bleeding from my arm all that I was concerned with. It had taken a minute or two for my rational, well-trained mind to regain itself. My blood-slick fingers couldn't quite grip the canvas flap of my first-aid pouch, until I roughly wiped them on my jacket, taking care to keep my movements as small as possible. I got the Carlisle bandage out but getting the package open meant lifting my head up a little so I could bite down on one corner and thus tear open the waxed cardboard covering, which drew a fourth shot from the unseen sniper, who obviously was not a fan of letting the machine gunner do the work of keeping our heads down. I heard the bullet zing by above my helmet, close enough that I could swear I felt the breeze as it passed. A very near miss. I got the bandage out, biting it again to open the foil seal around it. What a stupid process to get at a bandage. The Sulfanilamide powder envelope dropped from the tattered remains of the foil wrapping and for the moment I ignored it, being busy wrapping the Carlisle around my arm as best I could with only one hand. Tying the trailing ends of the bandage off required me to again use my teeth, and I was all too mindful to keep from moving too obviously. Once this was finally done... I let myself sag against the ground, feeling strangely very tired. Nobody else was moving, understandably afraid of drawing the sniper's attention his way, and I closed my eyes. What I should have done was put the bandage onto the wound in my side. But it was too late now.

I thought I heard the roar of an engine in the middle distance but couldn't attach any significance to it. The crackle of return fire from the others around me was much more important in my view. Distantly, I heard McManus' voice rap out a sharp, "Rifle grenade! There!"

A short rustle of clothing preceded the click of a rifle grenade being fitting into place, then came the dull whump of it being fired. A few seconds later came the sharp explosion of the grenade as it hopefully struck its target. But it was Kasprzak, I thought absently. He hadn't missed so far tonight. He couldn't have missed just now. All the same, I couldn't bring myself to care. The scorching heat in my side was beginnning to subside, though the pervading feeling of damp remained, and in place of the pain, I could only feel a spreading sense of numbness. Numbness and cold. It was hardly a cool night but I was starting to shiver. Goddamn sniper. What had made him go for me? Why couldn't he have shot McManus? The thought made me instantly ashamed. I hated the sergeant but it was not fair to wish him dead. Dead. The word sounded strange suddenly. Cold. Stark. Permanent. I knew it was permanent, of course, but I'd never been dying before now. If I was honest with myself, this wasn't how I'd always imagined it would feel. Or how it would happen. Not that I was really sure how I'd always imagined it, really, now that I was trying to think about it through the thickening fog that was descending around my brain.

Something slapped hard against my shoulder and I felt myself roll awkwardly onto my pack. Another bullet? That Goddamn sniper. There was no pain this time though. Probably just as well. I couldn't even muster the willpower to be indignant at the insult. What sense was there in shooting a dying man, except to be spiteful? Then I felt a short, sharp jab against my thigh and I willed my eyes open. What the hell? Even through the fog and bleariness, I knew the jab meant somebody had just given me morphine. What a waste. I was in no pain, not anymore, and there were other wounded guys who needed morphine more. "Wha - "

"Shut up, pal," said Walters from somewhere above me. I couldn't see him properly but I knew his voice well enough. "Doc just gave you some morphine. Good to see you awake again. This ain't anywhere to take a nap, y'know!"

What? I had been asleep? That made no sense. I blinked, glad that it was dark and that I was lying down, because my head felt hopelessly unbalanced.  What was going on? I knew I'd been shot, I knew we had been pinned down, I knew somebody had gotten the machine gunner at least... but I didn't know what the hell was happening now. The medic was tugging at the tail of my shirt, pulling it clear of my pants. His hands, when he pressed them against my ribs, were cold and I yelped more from surprise at his icy fingers than from any sense of pain. Gone, in that touch, was all of the numbness that had fallen over me.

"Jesus Christ!"

Doc grunted, his frigid hand lifting away. "No damage done there. You lucky bastard."

It took a moment for the comment to sink in. No damage done. But that wasn't possible. I'd been shot through my arm and the bullet had gone into my side. I knew that. Just as surely as I was lying here on the ground in France. So what did he mean, 'no damage done'? I tried to roll myself up onto my knees so I could reach the wound that had to be in my side, but Walters and his blackened face loomed close above me.

"Nope. 'Fraid not. You gotta lay here a bit more, till the shock passes." He held something up but it took me a couple seconds to focus on the object. It was shiny and kind of oblong, and...

"My canteen!"

Walters grinned. His teeth were startlingly white against his painted face. "Yeah! S'like Doc said. You're a lucky bastard. The bullet went through your canteen and whacked itself flat against the hook on your webbing. I got it here if you want it! Make a great souvenir."

I just stared dazedly at him, trying to make sense of what he was telling me. So I wasn't dying or even badly wounded. I was just in shock? The knowledge that I'd be all right was a huge relief but at the same time, I felt vaguely embarrassed for believing that I'd been mortally hit. Nobody else knew that except for me and it was still just a little foolish. At least, I told myself, nobody except me knew that. So I let myself lie there while Doc stripped off the Carlisle I'd gotten so awkwardly into place and used a pair of bandage scissors to cut a long slit in the sleeves of my jacket and shirt. The Sulfanilamide he sprinkled into the wound stung a little, then he was pressing a fresh Carlisle against the hole. Or what I thought was the hole. I felt my head beginning to clear as the morphine started to take effect. The medic was giving a running commentary of sorts to Sergeant McManus as he worked and I concentrated on listening to him, hoping it would help burn away the fog that was still thick enough around my brain that it was difficult to think.

"Farnham's good to go. He got hit in his pack. Worst he's got is a bruise on his hip. Reynolds has a wound to his left arm - the round skimmed across the back of the arm - and a couple small lacerations on his ribcage but he's fine to march. Corbet is dead but you saw that for yourself."

Corbet. I tried to picture his face but failed. We hadn't been acquainted. Still. He'd been a paratrooper and, from what I remembered of the first minutes of the sniper's attack, he'd tried to move up to help Doc with Farnham. That took guts especially since Corbet himself had been wounded earlier in the night.

"If he can march, get him up. We gotta keep movin'."

"I just gave him morphine. He's gonna be loopy for at least half an hour." Doc tied a knot in the bandage ends, then sat back on his heels. "And before you say it, leavin' him here ain't right."

McManus sneered. That was obvious even to me in my present half-aware state. "I'll leave him if I want to leave him. He's been nothin' but a liability since he joined up with us. I won't wait any fuckin' half-hour for his sorry ass, Doc. Ain't happenin'." The sergeant turned away to add, "Get Corbet's gear off him. No sense leaving it for Jerry to pick over later. Then fall into tactical column. We're movin' out."

I stared up at McManus' shadow as it moved away, understanding his words and their awful meaning. It seemed like my rational mind had returned just as suddenly as the prick of the morphine syrette had jabbed into my leg. The bastard was going to leave me here. If I hadn't had any reason to hate him before, I sure as hell did now! Doc's hand shot out to stop me from starting to get up but I shoved him out of the way with my good arm. This was insane. Not happening. "Like fuck you're leaving me here, Sarge."

"Oh no?" McManus spun around to stalk back toward me. "You can't be relied on. I need men with me who can do what they're told to do, when they're told to do it. I don't need stupid little shits like you who run off to sulk when they don't like what they're told to do. So you're stayin' right the fuck here. I don't give a damn if Jerry finds you before the Eighty-second does. Now! The rest of you. Let's get moving."

The guys who'd jumped with McManus followed him without a word. Doc hesitated for a very long moment before gathering up his aid bag to set off after them. I stood rock-still, not trusting myself to try following them. There'd be a fight if I did and with only one arm, I knew I wouldn't come out of it a winner. So I stayed put and glared uselessly at the dark outlines of the departing soldiers. So much, I thought acidly, for being paratroopers. That was when I realised there weren't as many guys heading off across the field as there'd been when we had left Gérard's farm. Four men were missing. I looked around and saw that Walters and his buddies had stayed back. It didn't seem like Sergeant McManus had even noticed they were missing. Not that I cared much if he had. It was a damned relief to know somebody gave a shit.

"Jesus Christ," muttered Kasp as he watched the other troopers disappear from sight around a hedgerow.

Walters slapped me on my good shoulder then handed me my rifle. "Guess that means you're stuck with us, pal. We'll do better without him anyway. C'mon. Let's get to cover. No sense stayin' out here in the open to get shot! I figure we'll stay low until dawn and see what's what once the sun's up. Be easier to figure out where the fuck we're even at when it's light. Anyway, I think I know where we gotta be. Just not where we are now."

"You do?"

"Sure!" He grinned, waiting util he was sure I could walk steadily before heading off. "I coulda told the sarge but he was too full of his own bullshit to listen. You okay with that thirty, Farnham?"

"Yep."

"Okay. Keep up, though! You weren't shot through your legs so no excuses for being slow."

I managed a grin and tried to figure out a way to comfortably carry my rifle. We didn't go far, fortunately. Back the way we'd come and then sharply away at a right angle, to take cover in yet another irrigation ditch that was partially grown over. My arm wasn't sure if it wanted to hurt or be tingly and numb. I wished it could make up its mind as I hunkered down in the bottom of the ditch. Wait here until dawn. Tactically, it was probably not the best idea but with two of us wounded, it was more wise than trying to find our way across country in the dark. To keep my mind somewhat occupied with harmless thoughts, I poked at the new bruises on my side, where the webbing clip had been flattened against me. It hurt. Obviously. But it had stopped the bullet from going any further and I was glad for that. I tucked my shirt back in as best I could before trying to straight out my jacket. It was tough work with only one hand.

A few feet away, I heard Kasp breathe out an awestruck, "Jesus Christ."

His tone was strange enough, even given what little I knew of him, that I looked over. He and the others were staring back in the direction we'd originally come from, at the bright flickering glow of fire that turned the night sky from nearly black to angry orange. Shit. Shit. I was on my feet before I knew what I was doing. Gérard. That was the first thing that leapt into my mind and I was away at a run, my rifle in my right hand and no thought at all spared for the sheer stupidity of what I was doing.

"Reynolds!"

Walters' half-suppressed shout was a waste of breath. There was no stopping me. I had no idea why I was running headlong toward the farm, or what I'd do if I ran into any Germans between here and there, or even what I'd do when I reached the farmhouse, but I raced toward it anyway. I do know that it was absolutely crazy and I was absolutely stupid for this, but crazy and stupid defined everything that had happened since I had leapt out of the plane so many hours ago. Gérard. The only good reason for me flying headlong toward a place the enemy clearly were at was the thought that I could help him somehow. The fire that had to be consuming his house was simply the beacon guiding me along. It certainly wasn't the sign that there was no helping the old Frenchman at all. That was a thought I refused to entertain, even as I flung myself over a dip in the ground, stumbled, and fell. I was up again in a heartbeat, carrying my rifle in both hands now, ready to bring it up to fire the second I spotted a threat. As I got closer to the farmhouse, the very familiar smells of burning wood and plaster became stronger. So did the smoke. And the voices. The German voices. Those bastards.

Inside five minutes, I was close enough to hear five distinct voices. I scrabbled to draw and fix my bayonet on the run. I still had no idea what I was going to do when I reached the farmhouse but having my bayonet out and ready seemed smart. The glow from the fire allowed me to see three silhouettes by the old truck in the yard as I came charging around the barn, and I started screaming every filthy word I knew in French as I opened fire from the hip, not even bothering to aim my first five shots. The Germans scattered and I slammed to a sudden halt, throwing my rifle into my shoulder to fire the last three rounds in the clip, which ejected itself from the Garand with a ting. I ran forward again, bayonet leveled, and managed to catch one of the Germans as he tried to pop off a shot at me. I stuck him twice, kicked his arms until he dropped his rifle, then leaped at his nearest buddy. This guy was ready for me and managed to get off two shots before my bayonet found a home in his stomach. I cursed him in French when he tried to swing his rifle butt at my face, and I drove my head, the rim of my helmet foremost, squarely into his face. That took care of him.

Something heavy and solid ploughed into me from behind, knocking me forward over the Jerry whose nose I'd just shattered. I managed to keep my balance long enough to start to twist around so I wouldn't land on my stomach, but there was nothing I could do stop the German soldier from sticking his own bayonet down into the thickest part of my right thigh. Fuck! I howled and tried to roll away from him, but managed only to offer him the better target of my chest and stomach. He lunged downward with his bayonet, which I countered, sloppily, with my own. I spat up at him, causing him to flinch, and I used the momentary pause to get up onto one knee. Just enough to flick my bayonet in his direction to drive him back. Get up. Get on my feet. I had to get up or I was a goner. My leg was an agony of fire, quite like the blazing inferno of Gérard's farmhouse, and it buckled beneath me when I tried to put my weight on it. Shit. Shit. Bad. So very not good. I was down again and Jerry was moving in quick. I kicked at the ground, propelling me a foot or two away from him. Time. I needed time. Just a few seconds. I had my last clip in hand as I kicked and rolled away from my determined assailant, but loading your rifle when you're flopping around like a fish out of water ain't easy.

The scraping clack of a round feeding into the chamber was the sweetest music I had ever heard. I rolled onto my back, pulled my rifle as far back into my chest as I could, and fired twice. The first bullet hit true and the second glanced off the top of Jerry's shoulder as he tried to throw himself out of the line of fire. Too late, buddy! I scrambled up to my feet somehow and jabbed immediately down at him with my bayonet, stopping his attempt to draw the pistol from his belt. God damn. I staggered a few steps toward the old truck and sagged against it. Good Lord I felt as though I'd been run over by a combine harvester. But what was I doing standing here, damn it, I had to find Gérard. I made it barely two steps away from the truck before my leg buckled again, dumping me to the dirt. Get up! There were still at least two Germans somewhere nearby, but why they hadn't jumped in on me yet, I had no idea. I was certainly a prime target, even as I lurched awkwardly to my feet once more, using my rifle as a prop. But the reason for no further attack coming was revealed when Walters and his buddies appeared through the heavy clouds of smoke, their rifles at the ready.

"Fuck," I said in relief.

"You're a Goddamn fool," Walters told me. "The fuck were you thinking?"

My gaze was on the burning farmhouse. All three floors were alight, with hungry tongues of flame curling upward through each window. There was no hope for anyone to still be alive if they were inside. There was no sign of Gérard anywhere outside though. At least not anywhere I could see, but the smoke was too thick to see much more than a few feet in any direction. I breathed a good lungful of smoke and coughed, then called out, "Gérard!" as I hobbled awkwardly forward. I could feel the muscles in my thigh protesting the movement, just as surely as I felt the blood running hot down the back of my leg, but I couldn't keep still. Not when I felt on the point of doing something right for the first time tonight. None of the Screaming Eagles tried to stop me from limping around, though after a moment Walters shoved his shoulder under my right armpit, neatly taking my rifle out of my grip in the same motion. The support was unexpected and damn welcome. Even I had to admit that.

"You coulda told us what you were gonna do," the other trooper admonished. "We wouldn't have let you pick a fight all by yourself, after all."

"Sorry," I said, despite feeling anything but sorry. Farnham and Kasp were advancing slowly, roughly abreast of us, and there was no sign of Kinsley. It seemed like making a search for Gérard was simply being taken as understood. It was the thing to do. I was grateful to these guys for the help, especially since they should have gone with McManus. Divisional loyalties and stuff. Yet here they were, throwing in on a crazy side errand that was keeping all of us from doing our jobs. I was aware of that and plenty of other things, but at the forefront of my mind was Gérard. This had happened because we left him. Abandoned him. This was our fault.

"Over here!" Farnham called out, ducking aside as a piece of burning eave broke free from the roof above us and fell with a crackling crash to the ground.

With Walters' help, I hobbled toward where Farnham and Kasp were standing. Farnham, I noted with a heavy feeling of dread, held his helmet in one hand against his chest. When we got closer, squinting against the smoke and embers as they swirled around us, I realised why.

"Merde," I breathed, feeling my knees quiver and then give out. Walters had enough of a grip on me that he was able to make my downward movement a slide rather than a fall, but I still hit the ground with a jarring thump. Gérard lay on his side not far from the farmhouse's front door, his old rifle lying in the dirt just out of his reach. Firelight glinted off the handful of empty casings scattered on the ground around him. I looked over my shoulder and saw the motionless form of a dead German a few yards away. He'd gotten at least one of them, then. It only fit that he'd go down fighting. My eyes shifted back to the old Frenchman, taking in the dark stains of blood on his shirt. He had gone down fighting but he'd gone down hard. They had filled him up with holes. Any one of them would have killed him, but just to be sure, one of the bastards had put a bullet through the side of his head. The hate Gérard had expressed for the Germans must have been mutual. The absolute bastards. I felt my stomach start to bubble with the telltale warning that I was about to vomit but I fought the urge back. Now was not the time to spew my guts into the dirt. Instead, I crawled forward, gouging my knees on the hard edges of the spent brass, until I was close enough to Gérard's body that I could feel carefully around his neck for the chain or cord that just had to be there. He had been a soldier and all soldiers, I knew, wore dogtags.

I wasn't disappointed. My fingers drew a thin leather cord out from under his shirt. On it were three dogtags. Cutting the cord to remove it was out of the question so I picked as best I could at the knot until it came free. One of the tags was Gérard's. The other two, I realised as I strained to read the engraved lettering, belonged to his sons. A lump formed in my throat and I felt the warning heat of nausea again. Striving to keep my wavering state of composure hidden, I shoved the cord and the three tags into my pocket.

"Poor bastard," Walters muttered from above me.

"He didn't deserve this," I said. And he hadn't. This was McManus' fault. If he'd been happy to stay put, we wouldn't have brought death to this place. Sergeant or no, if I ever saw McManus again...

From Kasp came a sharp, "Jesus Christ!" and a sudden rush of movement. I had no idea what was happening but I also didn't care. I lurched to my feet, managing to avoid staggering into Walters too badly, and turned to look. Kasp was moving toward one of the Germans I'd fought with, his rifle levelled, but he stopped short when I called out, "Leave him!"

It was clear even in the smoke-hazy dark that this Jerry was still alive. He was trying to move. To roll onto his side. To get up. I didn't much care, really. The point was, the bastard wasn't dead. Not yet. I looked at Walters, who looked back at me, and I held my hand out to him for my rifle.

"You don't wanna do it, buddy," he told me.

"Gimme the fuckin' rifle," I told him.

The Garand's weight felt reassuring when it came into my hands. I had almost a full clip left. It was my last and by rights, I shouldn't waste a single bullet, but I was angry. Furious, actually, in a deep, cold, unrelenting way. I had never felt this way before and maybe later it would scare me, but right then I was shaking in barely-suppressed fury. And now, with my rifle in both hands, I walked just as steadily I could manage toward the wounded German. None of the others followed. It was just me and my prey. Two steps away from him, I stopped and looked down. Blood covered his face, dark and glistening in the glow from the burning farmhouse. I had hit him a good one with my helmet. He stared up at me with widened eyes and in a choked voice asked me something in German. Something I didn't understand. Not that I'd care even if I had.

"You filthy piece of shit," I told him in French. Then I lifted my rifle into my shoulder, slipped my finger around the trigger, and fired.