Turner's men were still locked in a brutal firefight with the Germans.
"Take cover! Artillery incoming!" the German lieutenant shouted as soon as he heard the telltale whistle of incoming shells, diving behind the nearest embankment.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Mortar shells, launched at a cunning arc, slammed into the German defenses. A G42 heavy machine gunner was blown clear out of his position, His body was flung skyward by the blast, landing with a sickening thud.
"Go! Move up now!" Brandt yelled, seizing the opportunity as the German gunfire died down. "Advance while their MGs are silent!"
"Quick! Get that machine gun back online! Don't let the Americans break through!"
But Brandt's team hadn't gotten far when the German MGs came alive again—ripping through the air with lethal bursts.
"Down!" Brandt hit the dirt hard, punching the ground in frustration. Blood welled up between his knuckles, but he didn't notice.
"Target that German MG nest!" Turner barked from the rear, seeing Brandt's team pinned. "Mortars, suppress their front lines—now!"
Turner was counting on the clouds of dust kicked up by the heavy barrage to blind the Germans—giving Brandt the cover he needed to push forward.
"Damn Americans! Sir, we can't see a damn thing through the smoke!" a frantic German machine gunner shouted, voice raw.
"Cover fire! Vogel, get to the right flank and give me a visual!" the German lieutenant called to his sniper, hoping he could pinpoint the Americans' advance.
Using snipers for battlefield recon was risky but effective. Hidden in elevated, concealed positions, they used their scopes to spot troop movement, strength, and direction, relaying that information with hand signals that commanders could read almost like a language—deadly efficient in combat.
And it worked. Vogel's eyes kept guiding German fire toward Brandt's squad no matter how they shifted positions.
"Bastards must've planted a forward observer nearby," Turner muttered, raising his binoculars to scan the terrain.
Mortar blasts still rained down, shrouding the field in choking dust. Craters pockmarked the landscape, broken bodies lay in grotesque stillness, but neither side relented. Bullets and shells tore the air relentlessly—death waiting in every step, every misstep.
"There," Turner muttered. "That hill... something's not right."
He focused his binoculars on a low rise just to the right of Brandt's route. It wasn't tall—barely a hump in the terrain—but it stood out. Two hundred meters out, surrounded by a shallow dip, with no cover, but oddly conspicuous. It was within range of the German guns but not part of their main line.
"A perfect perch for a forward spotter," Turner realized. "Mortars, adjust fire—hit that hill, now!"
Whump. Whump. The shells arced out.
Crouched behind the hill, sniper Vogel realized too late. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He shut his eyes.
The observer was dead. Turner had just blinded the Germans.
The lieutenant saw it happen and knew immediately—they'd lost their eyes. Reinforcements hadn't arrived yet, and now another American unit was barreling down on his flank. It was my unit, alongside Captain Turner's. We were finally linking up for a full-scale assault.
Ever since hearing about Winters' death, I'd led what was left of my men with one purpose—wipe out the bastards who ambushed us. We hit them hard, then pushed toward Turner's position. Now, with both our units coordinating, we crushed the remaining Germans. The troops hiding in tunnels that ambushed us were annihilated—none survived. And now, finally, Turner and I stood face to face.
"You son of a bitch!" I grabbed Turner by the collar, shouting in his face. "Why the hell didn't you push through faster? If you'd gotten here when you were supposed to, Winters would still be alive! My men wouldn't be torn to shreds!"
Turner's orderly hesitated, ready to intervene—but Brooks held him back, quietly shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, Captain Carter," Turner said, voice low, like a boy caught with blood on his hands.
I froze. The anger didn't go away, but something in me cracked. I let go of his collar and stepped back.
"No... I shouldn't blame you," I said, voice hollow. "This is war. Goddamn war."
I turned to Brooks and the battered remains of my squad. "Let's go. We've got a war to finish. We'll make those bastards pay for Winters."
"Captain—your wound," Brooks pointed to the gash in my side, still leaking blood.
"I'll live," I growled. I tore open my filthy undershirt and pressed it tight against the wound, then turned toward the front line. I didn't look back.
The German lieutenant, seeing his defenses crumbling and fresh American forces flanking him, stood still for a long moment. Around him, his men—most wounded, all exhausted—waited for orders.
He remembered the oath they'd sworn before the battle: no retreat, no surrender. Kill the Americans or die trying.
They hadn't killed them all. But they could still die trying.
"Soldiers of the Reich," he shouted, "our ammunition is nearly gone. But our duty is not. We swore to fight until the end—for the Fatherland. Now is the time to give your lives for Germany! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!"
"Sieg Heil!"
"Charge with me!"
Ratatatatatat!
Not long before, Donovan had arrived at the front to help reinforce our position—only to find Winters already dead.
"No. No, no, no… damn it, Winters, come on—don't do this!" Donovan dropped to his knees, cradling Winters' lifeless body in his arms. "You said… you said we'd make it home. We'd go back to Kansas. You'd show me your dad's cornfields, drink a cold beer, sit on the porch, go fishing behind your house… remember? You said your mom made the best damn apple pie in Kansas."
His voice cracked.
"You promised, man. You said we'd never touch a rifle again…"
Donovan broke down. His sobs echoed across the battlefield as he held his best friend like a dying brother.
"Sir… he's gone," a soldier whispered gently.
"Shut the hell up!" Donovan exploded, punching the man in the face. "He's not dead! Don't you say that! He's not fucking dead!"
He hit him again, hard.
The soldier, stunned and bleeding, stumbled away—then caught sight of something else.
"Sir! The Germans! They're charging!"
Donovan snapped out of it instantly. His eyes focused. He wiped the tears away and rose to his feet.
The Germans were making a full frontal assault—reckless, desperate, suicidal.
"What the hell are they doing?" he muttered.
Then he understood.
"Hold the line!" he bellowed. "The Captain's reinforcements are on their way! This is the enemy's last push—don't let them break through!"
"Get the MGs firing! Don't let up!"
From their position, the Americans could now see our unit approaching the German flank—me and Turner, charging in. The sight of our arrival lit a fire in their hearts. Morale soared.
With fresh ammo and renewed hope, the Americans returned fire with everything they had. Grenades arced into the charging Germans, cutting them down in droves. Despite being outnumbered, the Americans held their line.
A German grenade hissed and landed near Donovan.
"Shit!" He had no time. He yanked a corpse over himself just as the blast went off.
Blood and dirt sprayed everywhere—but he was unharmed.
"Fucking Nazis!" Donovan spat, wiping muck from his face. He scrambled back to his feet and resumed shouting orders.
"Hold this line! Don't give them an inch! This is their final charge—hold, damn it! Reinforcements are here!"
The Americans roared back, fighting with everything they had. The Germans kept coming, but the line held.
By the time Turner and I arrived at the front, the Germans had already decided to fall back, abandoning their vow to fight to the last man.
Neither Turner nor I had the heart to pursue. Night was falling, and we weren't about to risk a jungle chase in the dark. With Colonel Herbert's approval, we began the slow withdrawal to base.
My company—3rd Platoon—had left camp full of jokes, laughter, and false bravado. Now, on the march back, they were silent, heads down, dragging their boots like men carrying the weight of the dead.
"Joanner," I called quietly. "What's the damage?"
He looked down, eyes hollow. "Over half casualties, sir. Four sergeants KIA. Six wounded, one critical. We lost one platoon leader…"
He didn't say the name. Didn't have to.
I saw Winters' face in my mind. Quiet. Brilliant. One of the best.
Now gone.
"Fucking Nazi bastards…" I muttered. My voice was so raw it didn't even sound like my own. My fingers clenched the rifle so tightly my knuckles turned white. Rage coiled in my chest like a snake, waiting to strike.
"You sons of bitches. You're all going to hell with me."
I took a long breath, forcing the fury back down.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
Winters wouldn't die for nothing. No matter what it took—even if I had to walk through hell—I'd drag every last one of those bastards down with me.