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PART II: SOLDAT


      Jackson looked up at the sky, dark clouds swirled against the light gray, and the blue was nowhere to be seen. He silently groaned.

      The rain would slow their progress back to the Rouen. He didn't want to be out there at night. The enemy liked coming out at night, especially the bird-like ones, they could see you if it was pitch black. Or hell, could they smell you?

      He rechecked his Thompson's magazine, it was nervous gesture. Pointless, he had checked it four times already. Looking up, he saw trees sparsely dotting the plains they were on, the grass was up to there knees, the quiet buzzing of insects and chirping of birds filled his ears.

      It was so hard to tell that they were in a war.

      So peaceful.

      He shook the thoughts out of his head, they didn't help any. It just screwed up everything, dwell on the present, not the "What If…" His aunt told him back when he was back in the states, back in their Chicago home.

      Andrew glanced to his right, looking at the light skinned man next to him. He had brown hair, same brown eyes, light freckles dotting his face. The patch on the kid's shoulder showed something he saw a few times, a Chinese looking design, a half blue, and half gray taijitu. That was some man called it back in the states, but the one in the states was black and white, which a dot of the opposite color in each one.

      It was the symbol of the twenty-ninth infantry division. This boy was at Omaha? Bullshit he was… He didn't seem like a kid who would've survived that, but hell, most of the men who were surviving weren't smart, sharpshooters or even tough. They were lucky.

      He stopped, for a brief moment letting the front of the patrol formation get a few steps more before he continued. Jackson had stopped so he was stepping exactly with the kid. "Where ya from, John?"

      "Me, Sergeant?" He pointed at himself, dead center at his chest.

      "No the John right next to you." He scowled, and shook his head.

      "I'm from Eden, New York."

      "Eden, New York?" The Sergeant smiled at the boy. "From Chicago myself. Never been to New York City."

      "Neither have I." John replied reaching up from his M1 Carbine and rubbing the back of his head. "Never left my town."

      "So this is your first time out of the states?"

      "Yes, Sergeant."

      Jackson shook his head, took things like this to get people out in the world. Damn shame.

      "How was Chicago?" John said, his hand coming from the back of his head to the underside of his gun.

      "What can I say? It was home." He looked at the kid, the Corporal wouldn't understand, he was white. And being a black man from the city, and this kid was from the small town he definitely wouldn't understand. An invisible shrug, he didn't want to talk about it anyway. In a segregated military, even a war that brought the world together, he could never fully trust this man next to him. What hate did he harbor?

      He let his mind think it over-

      Lewis raised a fist being the point man; they obeyed the signal and stopped. He then dropped to a knee, and they all did the same. John was slow, he was the last one to get there, his combat instincts lacking.

      On his hands and knees he crawled forward, reaching Lewis in seconds. Whispering he spoke. "What?"

      "Heard something. I think they were pulsates."

      Jackson cast him a glare. "English soldier, don't pull that want-to-be Ivy League crap now."

      "Sir, that sounds when you hear those vehicles-that whine- their tanks. They're close by."

      "Shit." Ahead was a low ridge, it loomed above them on a gentle slope. On the top of the hill was tree line, the same tree line that passed through to get to the road about a mile back. "Squad," They were all quiet, they could still hear him, "drop you gear, we have company."

      As if on cue the massive tank pushed the tree aside, it was purple, its massive turret looming on its flat base. They encountered it once before. It took out three Sherman's before it was destroyed. It was a beast of a machine.

      May God help them.

      But they weren't given one helping of tank, but two. If it wasn't for the long grass they would've been spotted.

      "Down!" He whispered harshly. They dropped to their bellies and he turned back around, moving back into the squad. He moved toward the squad's radioman, Malone.

      Quickly the spectacled man withdrew map from his jacket's pocket and reached back, grabbed the receiver from his radio and handed it to Jackson. "Position."

      "Right on it." Malone replied quickly. They needed air support, it was relatively new now. Brass a few days after the first attacks decided that supporting ground units with fighters was good idea instead of only making them useful during mass attacks. Smart. He thanked the General who was looking out for the little guy.

      "How close are they Lewis?" He looked over his shoulder.

      "Two hundred meters, and closing." He checked his watch, estimated the times for the fighters to get there, they didn't have enough time. They needed a distraction. He looked at two members of his squad, Corporal McKenzie and Private Parker, "You two, you're getting into the war. Take your bazooka and hit 'em in the rear." He then turned to one man, "Poles, you're going with 'em. Supply a base of covering fire until they get in position."

      The pair moved off in one direction, crawling quickly and Poles moved in the opposite direction to get the distraction going.

      John looked at the Sergeant. "What about me?"

      "Not more two feet away from my side. And that's an order."


      The enemy vehicles moved down the hill, routine patrol. They were in a basic formation, one in front the other in the rear. Infantry not on the flanks, they didn't need any. They didn't see the small shapes move further up the hill, set up position at the tree line getting a fix on their rear.


      Sweat appeared on McKenzie's brow, he swiped it off with his forearm. He knelt down on one knee, his emerald eyes glistening at the rear of the enemy tank formation.

      "Load it, Parker." He said quickly.

      Parker was the one of the younger men in the squad, only a month older than Lewis, his hands fumbled with the round.

      Continuing to steady the long metallic tube on his shoulder, McKenzie whispered harshly. "Hurry it up man. I don't want to get Poles killed."

      "Ye- Yeah…" Parker replied. He put the charge into the tube and pulled the safety pin. "You're ready."

      "Good." Glancing back again. Now they would wait for the signal.


      Poles stood up, sharply, he was just fifty yards from his team's position when he raised his M1 Garand to his hand, the sharp recoil punching into his shoulders. He heard a slight ping, and he went down to his waist, grabbed a clip, brought it up and jammed it into the rifle.

      His eyes gazed down the down the sights. He let lose another stream of eight rounds.

      The vehicles turned to face him, massive, a dark indigo. Menacing, Poles flinched with invisible pain. Why was he always the distraction?


      The two beasts turned, and in the distance, the small shape of Poles standing tall firing without a care. McKenzie took aim, exhaled and found everything strangely calm as he pulled the trigger.

      A muffled ignition and the M6A1 charge moved quickly towards its target.

      The rear tank.

      The explosion echoed through the plains, Parker found himself coughing from the smoke. And McKenzie watched in amazement as the tank simply turned to face them. Did I even hit it? He thought in amazement.

      "Parker reload. Now." His voice automated.

      The tank fully faced them; he saw its massive weapon turned begin to glow. "Now, Parker!"


      Jackson stood up sharply; he expected one of the vehicles out of commission and the other to follow shortly. His eyes widened sharply, he was just able to see the rear tank let off a blue blob toward the tree line.

      Parker and McKenzie. Shit.

      "Boys let them have it!" He stood sharply, his Thompson firing in short controlled bursts. The rest of the squad followed with him, they all stood, only fifty yards away from the pair of vehicles, and began unleashing a wall of lead.

      Neither vehicle was facing them, but the one that was facing towards Poles began to turn, but cautiously. "Give me an arc! Spread out!" Jackson yelled he saw John; he was standing- firing as well. Inaccurately but at least he was doing something.

      The remaining nine men of the squad moved out, plenty of space between them. Each firing their M1 rifles focused at the one tank that faced them. He saw it charging its main turret.

      "Head's up!" Someone shouted, their voice echoed as the vehicle fired, the bluish blob gave a gentle arc as it went upward.

      The men scrambled away from its landing zone. Greene rolled out of the way, but one man, Private Abrams wasn't fast enough. Tripping on something, he hit the dirt hard not before the explosion rocked the ground mere inches away from him and he flew –tossed like a bloody rag doll and hitting the ground twenty feet away from Jackson.

      Everything seemed to go quiet for a split moment but was broken by Jackson's voice.

      "Damn it, keep firing!"


      McKenzie moved fast, moving into the forest with bazooka still in hand and Parker followed suit running hard. Bits of wood, dirt and rock flew above them originating from where the round hit.

      Skidding to a halt, McKenzie saw Parker behind him, who slowed and finally stopped putting his hands on his knees –gasping for air.

      "C'mon." McKenzie ordered, "We got to take those things out."

      "No way, man. We're screwed if go back there."

      McKenzie looked at the kid. "You want us leave them there to die?"

      "Look," Parker was on the verge of tears. "I'm not going back." He began to whimper.

      "Give me the ammo, I'll go back." McKenzie said, he lowered the bazooka and waited for the man to give answer.

      Parker threw off his pack, and pressed his back against the tree. Fear all too present in his brown eyes.

      McKenzie reached down and grabbed the gear, and began hauling back towards the forest line and back to his allies. Parker, looked at him, and when the Corporal was well out of sight, he ran in the other direction.


      Poles didn't know what to do, the tank was ignoring him, turned toward the bigger threat- his squad.

      That gave him time to think, the rear tank continued to lob beads of blue into the forests. Those things had to have a weakness; they had no wheels, floating a few meters off the ground. Their armor was thick, when Parker and McKenzie fired he could see a small whole in the rear, but it didn't even seem to slow the thing down.

      He reached onto his bandolier and held a fragmentation grenade. Only heavy weapon he had, and he only had one.

      A smile crept onto his face, remembering the one opening that the vehicle had, right at the base of the turret.

      Poles clipped the grenade back to his bandolier and ran diagonal to the vehicle, wanting to get the side of it. The turret didn't turn, or so it seemed so he wasn't worried about that. All he needed was a clear shot.

      The vehicle angled toward him.

      He pulled the pin.

      It angled so he could just see the opening.

      Poles threw.

      The green sphere flew the air-

      -and bounced right off the metal and tumbled down the front of the vehicle. Exploding harmlessly under it.

      "Son of a…"

      The tank turned to face him; Poles raised his rifle in a hopeless challenge. Like an ant trying to fight the almighty. He let off a few rounds and saw the vehicle charge its primary weapon. He squeezed shut his eyes.

      He was at point blank, he tried to dodge he wouldn't be nothing but a smear on the ground none the less. He let off a few pointless rounds.

      The ground rocked underneath him, he flew backward. Wind rushed out of him as he hit the ground. His back ached, and darkness slowly descended on him, watching the blue sky fade away.


      Jackson saw the explosion; the tank crumpled like a tin can and looked at the tree line. Nor Parker or McKenzie was there. His eyes cast a glance over his shoulder, and saw a silhouette on a distant hill.

      A tank. Didn't look like a Sherman… Maybe a Cromwell?

      Half the squad turned to look. "Keep firing!" Jackson ordered.

      All turned their attention to the last purple vehicle. There was low echo and the enemy vehicle reeled back from the hit. Its front exposed, showing the driver inside. A hideous creature, four lips that jutted out from the side of its face, red armor that shone in the sun, its eyes seemed focused on killing them- full of rage.

      The tank on the hill fired again.

      One moment the driver was there and the next he wasn't. It was gone in a blaze of glory; all that remained was a smoking hulk.

      Jackson gave a beaming smile and turned to look back up the hill.

      A dozen men were coming down; their features couldn't really be seen. He walked forward to greet them. The lead one was a few yards ahead of the others. He was a light skinned man, blue eyes and a mop of blond hair, a sad grin that distinct from Jackson's.

      He seemed to speed up when he saw his fellow American and reached the Sergeant in a matter of seconds. He held out a hand and Jackson took it, gripping hard. "Glad you guys could show up." He glanced at the rank, a fellow Sergeant.

      The man's smile faded, and he released Jackson's iron grip. "Well I wouldn't be too sure of that. Any wounded?"

      "Not sure… After that little hassle, I'm sure of it." He pushed the thoughts of his men being blown to bits to the back of his skull. Were Parker and McKenzie still alive? What about Poles? Three men in a day… He felt his heart race, all because of his moronic tactics. He gave an invisible shake of his head; no one could've done it better.

      He turned to his men who had already begun treating the wounded. Mostly bruises, only Abrams accepted the horrible fate that awaited them all.

      The man nodded, Andrew saw the patch. A distinctive big red one, which dominated the pentagon shape of the patch. "Well," The man gave a glance back up the hill. "I'm going to have to ask you to drop your guns."

      "What?" The words seemed strange. Hell, they were strange.

      "Well, I'm asking you to lay down your weapons."

      Jackson gave an awkward smile. "You're joking right?"

      The man didn't return the smile. His face was creased in a frown. He turned, pointing up the hill. "You see that? That's a Tiger Two tank; it has an enough boom to knock you and your friends here. Now unless you want to be the receiving end of this fire power tell your men to lay down your weapons and come quietly."

      "You're a Nazi."

      "To each his own…" The man murmured. "I'm in the same boat as you. Even though the Nazis don't take to your kind as well as mine."

      "Well that's not an incentive for me to lay down my arms now is it?"

      "No, but that tanks is." The man said. "Live to fight another day."

      Jackson weighed the choice, he started another gun fight, they would be in a boat load of trouble, machine gun fire would whittle them down and that tank would show no mercy. But if he surrendered… They would being facing death as well but maybe they would have a chance…

      He looked at his squad behind him, young men, some just in their teens looking right back at him. They were in the beginnings of their lives.

      Narrowing his eyes into slits he felt his submachine gun fall from his grasp and hit the ground. The man nodded. "Good choice. Tell your men to do the same." He nodded at the group who stood just feet away.

      Looking over his shoulder he shouted. "Boys! Lay down your weapons."

      There were glances around, and one finally shouted, Private Lewis. "Sorry, Sergeant but you can go and f-"

      "Lewis, unless you want an anti-tank round blowing your sorry ass to bits, throw your weapon on the ground in front of you and start praying." The voice was sharp, and everything got quiet. Lewis didn't give a reply. "Form up on me." Jackson ordered.

      The man from the Big Red One nodded. He looked at them all. "Just put your hands on your head and follow me. Don't say a damn word, and keep your eyes on the ground. These krauts are a bit… tipsy."


      Lewis listened and didn't know what he was hearing, his hand reached up, were placed behind his skull and he walked forward along with the rest of them. They were surrendering, damn- he would rather go down fighting than surrendering to those Huns.

      What other choice did he have? He couldn't take them on anyway, with his weapon now behind him, and no side arm he was on his defenseless. Looking around, he could see his squad was in the same disposition.

      Damn, weren't they having a bad day…


      Oberleutnant Achim Sankt walked down the narrow hallway, he was escorted by three men, on their arms was an arm band showing the swastika, black, tattooed on a white background. They were not officers; he knew that, the Reich's "Protection Squadron" soldiers wore a brown shirts and black tie instead of the all dark uniform of their officers.

      He didn't dare look into their eyes; he did when they were taking the elevator up to his Fuhrer's Eagle's Nest. That was what the diplomats called it; he had seen some Italian officials marvel at its majesty as they looked over the landscape of Austria.

      Sankt was led into a rather large room and he saw the storm troopers disperse.

      The room was dotted with circular tables, and chairs surrounding them. To his right was a large fireplace, and on the wall directly in front of him dotted large paned windows. Standing in front of the windows a man shorter than himself, his back turned.

      Sankt stood rigid and didn't move, "Mein Fuhrer!"

      The man turned, he looked at the young man with his pale blue eyes. His hair was slicked to the side; a mustache was tucked beneath his nose. His uniform was crisp and clean. His Fuhrer nodded.

      The appearance was much different from Sankt, his uniform was a bit sloppy. Eyes a dark brown, but hair a shade of blond. He stood a full head taller than his leader.

      Sankt lowered his stance and slowly but silently exhaled.

      "Proceed." The man said in a dry tone.

      "Message from the frontlines," Nervously reaching into his pocket he withdrew a piece of paper. "It is from Fuhrer's Generalfeldmarschall Rommel. The allies are retreating from the French coast with full haste. The Soviets are also holding back their assaults on the eastern front, fearing this new enemy."

      The Fuhrer nodded to this information stiffly.

      Approving.

      Time for the bad news.

      "Mein Fuhrer but…" He inhaled sharply. "This enemy is concentrating their assaults on us. Hamburg has been burned to a cinder."

      The Fuhrer's eye brows rose.

      "Their armies have launched a great assault on the city of Munchen… Or forces that have been pulled from the eastern regions are having a hard time coping with this threat. Most haven't slept in days to rush back to your nation. Rommel is asking that he pull from Normandy, and remove all divisions from Italy."

      Turning, Sankt watched his leader look outside at the landscape, his back to him. "Rommel may proceed to pull the division from Italy. The Normandy divisions must stay- the allies may attempt another invasion."

      "If I may just offer my input."

      "No. I did not ask for it." The man glanced over his shoulder. "Tell Rommel to hold Normandy, no matter what the costs. Let this new enemy fear the wraith of the Reich and Germany. Let our armies march over their dead. Am I clear?"

      "Yes, my Fuhrer."

      "Good. You may leave."

      Sankt turned but instead of walking out the three storm troopers hustled him out quickly. Guiding him towards the elevator, Rommel wasn't going to like this… Not at all.


      The Desert Fox was notable for many things, a feared soldier, inspiring leader but his superior must've saw him as a joke. Ever since Rundstedt's to a strike from Himmel-Männer or as the allies liked to call them, the "Sky Men" he was now in command of the remaining armies in the Western Front but he did have some power involved with the other regions.

      He looked at the telegram in his hand, before rubbing the sweat of his brow. To hold Normandy was something dire. It would weaken the remaining forces. This new enemy had technology that couldn't even comprehend.

      The Fox crushed it in his grip, eyes narrowed; he looked around the small command tent that was twenty-three miles east of Paris. He stared at his staff. "Send message to all Divisions. They are to pull out of Normandy, avoid Paris and make a front running from Somme to Aisne. Today." He growled.

      Most of them had read the telegram and they hesitated, but with the quick bark of: "Now!"

      They moved fast, getting to work, sending the orders- after all, who would dare defy one of Germany's greatest commanders?

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