"Push forward! Don't let a single Yank slip away!"The German assault came hard and fast. Their infantry were practically sprinting after Joanner and Harper, keeping right on their heels. The two of them were sweating bullets, struggling to hold the line as they fell back. It was clear who held the momentum now—the Germans. And when you're the one retreating, it's your back that catches the bullets.
"Goddamn it! We can't keep getting pushed back like this!" I barked, frustration boiling over. "Turn around and hit them! Break their damn momentum!"
Truth is, pulling off a counterattack during a hot retreat—with shells falling and bullets flying—is no easy feat. It's not just about giving an order. You need leaders who follow without question, grunts who've drilled the motions into their bones, and a whole platoon with guts of steel. Historically, those kinds of desperate counterattacks only work because they're unexpected—throwing the enemy off just enough to buy some breathing room. I just didn't know if my guys—who usually fought more like old men than Marines—had it in them to go all-in under fire.
Because if this turned into a full-blown rout, then every plan, every setup I had in motion, would go straight to hell.
"Men! Stop the retreat! Turn around—fight back! Anyone who keeps running will be shot on the spot!"
Did U.S. Army regs actually allow for shooting deserters? I didn't know. Carter's memories didn't say. But if they did—I'd have done it without blinking.
The fleeing GIs hesitated, my last shouted sentence hitting harder than a mortar round. Maybe it was the tone. Maybe it was the threat. But some of them slowed, turned, and started firing again. That alone was enough to stall the Germans. Their commanding officer, clearly no fool, ordered his troops to ease off as soon as we fired back.
They'd gotten cautious.
On our right flank, Joanner spotted a German fire team advancing under cover. Led by a German NCO, they were leapfrogging through debris, trying to flank us. Joanner reacted fast—he and a few men opened up with a Browning light machine gun, spraying their cover and pinning them in place.
Ratatatat. The Browning barked as bullets tore into broken walls and splintered fences. The Krauts ducked, heads down—but they weren't giving up that easy. Rifles poked out from behind rubble, returning fire.
"Grenade! German grenade!" someone shouted."Shit—I'm screwed—"
BOOM.The blast threw a soldier's body skyward. Eihandgranate 39s had a kill radius of almost ten meters—no one survives when one lands at your feet.
This wasn't one-sided. Both armies were replaying the same scene, over and over again. Gunfire, screaming, explosions, curses, and dying moans bled together into one savage war symphony. Calm, calculated fighting gave way to blood rage. And eventually, everyone just became machines. Shoot where your officer points. Ignore the buddy who just died next to you. Pull the trigger again.
We were locked in. Neither side could gain ground, not yet.
At the village entrance, Lieutenant Winters—wearing a dead German's uniform for our deception plan—fired his captured G42 into the air, his frustration boiling over. Faking gunfire was no easy task. Too close and they'd see the ruse. Too far and it was pointless. Thankfully, the earlier battle left us with plenty of captured weapons and ammo. But it wouldn't take long before someone noticed things didn't smell right at the village gate.
"Joanner, Harper! Their push is stalled for now. Keep leapfrogging back—head toward the temporary HQ. Get ready to counterattack again on my signal." I scanned what little was left of my squad, all bloodied, sweating, but still shooting. My voice dropped as I muttered, "Tell the boys to hold just a little longer. Goddamn Donovan's about to shove a bayonet up the Krauts' ass from behind. When that hits—we'll crush these bastards."
I used to dream about shouting, "For freedom! For glory! Charge!" in battle. But after what I saw on Omaha Beach, I learned something: no real commander says shit like that. The ones who do? They're either movie extras or have shell shock. When war reaches a certain level of hell, slogans mean nothing. Patriotism, sacrifice—none of that registers anymore. All a soldier has is his rifle, his rage, and the ghost of a friend to avenge. Everything else dies with the first body he steps over.
And honestly, you want to motivate real men? Don't give them speeches. Give them hope. A sliver of advantage. A whisper that the enemy is about to take it from behind. That's what made my grunts perk up. We weren't done yet.
Joanner's team was almost back in position. The men faking resistance had rejoined the real squad. But now I started to worry. Sending Donovan on that flanking mission was feeling like a mistake.
"Goddamn it, Donovan, where the hell are you?!"
Even if his move caught the Krauts off guard, even if we pulled off a beautiful pincer strike, it wouldn't matter if the Germans just dug in again and refused to come out. I was on the brink of losing this.
Donovan's detachment was inching through rough terrain, aiming for a surprise attack on the grain yard ridge. But this time the Germans were ready. Half a platoon defended the rear approach, and they'd set up a G42 inside a building.
That gun was a nightmare.
Nicknamed "Hitler's buzzsaw" by American grunts, the G42 wasn't just a machine gun—it was a damn reaper. Fired fine in Russian blizzards, French hedgerows, African deserts, or Berlin rubble. To the Allies, it sounded like Satan's zipper. Fast enough that the human ear couldn't track individual rounds—just a ripping sound, like tearing canvas or bone.
In the Battle of Kasserine Pass back in '43, the G42 was the reason 2,400 American soldiers threw down their weapons and surrendered.
Donovan had been through hell before. He wasn't green. He'd joined up after college, spoke passable German, and had bled with the best of us. But even he froze when he saw that MG nest.
"Job," he muttered, turning to the man I'd sent with him. "Got any way to take out that gun?"
Job shook his head. "Not with that many eyes watching."
Donovan cursed, punching the dirt. "There's gotta be something…"
Job hesitated, then spoke. "We could sneak a few men in. Put 'em in German uniforms. Pretend to be wounded pulling back from the front line. Slip in through the main road… get close, and then—boom."
Donovan's jaw clenched. "They won't make it back alive, will they?"
Job didn't answer.
That silence said enough.
The firefight near our old command post was still raging. Time was running out.
"I'll do it," Donovan said quietly.
"You can't! You're leading this op!" Job hissed, grabbing him.
Donovan pulled free, voice firm. "I'm the only one here who speaks enough Kraut to pull this off. And let's not pretend anyone else is lining up to volunteer."
He was right.
In war, it's not patriotism or orders that carry them forward—it's something smaller, quieter. The simple, profound willingness to lay down their lives for others.