Wings Of Honor: Heart of Ice

Chapter 23: Third Night

I was back in Nijmegen, trying to take that damned bridge me and my scruffy squad were never destined to take. I've been down this street too many times before, I knew it like the backside of my hand,. I already knew what was going to happen. I moved my browning up into the only position that I knew guaranteed their safety. I have played through this scenario so many times before, so I knew exactly where to place my men. No one was going to die here today.
Right on the dot, the Nazi Gunner opened fire. I ducked behind my impervious cover, fear all but gone in the face of knowledge. I knew he couldn't hit me, but the cracks and suppression he laid down still held me. I saw my fellow squad mates cowering, I knew their faces, and I knew exactly what to say.
"Keep it together! Come on! Airborne!" I felt the wave of discipline and motivation surge through them.
They all cried out, "Airborne!" as they charged the enemy position, and silenced that gun.
But this time, instead of silence, another wave of tracers emerged from an unseen alleyway. I ducked down to avoid shrapnel and ricochets. My eyes wide, because I could visualize what it looked like.
My squad... all dead. Lying in the open, their chests ripped open.
Not even clenching my teeth and digging into my own hand could stop the tears. The threat became secondary. I wept.
I drowned in a sea of sadness and bloodied bodies.
I wept.
In between my sobbing, a man emerged and walked up to me, dressed in a grey uniform. I was too engulfed in sorrow to offer any resistance.
"You led them here." He began. "You think, you can try and change the past, make the future better, or whatever jazz hell you want to do. But they're dead Marvin. They're dead."
They were my squad. The first squad that I have gotten through a paradrop mission, without taking casualties.
Sergeant Christopher "Barney" Barnes:
Corporal "Santa" Santiago.
Corporal Diggings.
Tech Corporal Lucas.
PFC Andrew Bucholtz.
PFC Jeremy Bucholtz.
Tech Corporal Williams Dawson.
PFC Green.
PFC Smith.
I took them through two other drops, alive. I dropped with them. But now...
"They're dead. And it's all your fault."
I screamed, turning to strike at Goldman. Only to disappear into nothingness.

I awoke with a start. The guilt and fear and heartache was still clear and present, along with the frigid cold. My vision was a total whiteout, and it felt like a weighted blanket had rested on me.
I brushed away the snow, quickly so it wouldn't dampen my already freezing body. Clearing out my grave once more of snow.
I produced my chocolate and fish rations, eating them silently while I sat in partial defilade. But as I ate with a blank and far stare, I noticed a few things glinting. It wasn't normal reflections, something metallic was just submerged in the snow.
Curious, I went to go investigate. The reflections disappeared, so I converged on it's last known position.
I found something... a grip, a pistol grip! Dropping to my knees, I slid the fluffy powder away, giving way to the imprinted words filled with ice that spelled out Spirit Of America.
I gasped out, chuckling. Shaking my head in disbelief.
"Thank you Grandpa."
What were the chances? What. Were. The. Chances?
One in a million. No, two million.
Impossibly so.
And yet, there it was. Campana's pistol. One of the few things I had to bring back. One of the few things that still symbolized what I was fighting for.
I racked the slide, seeing there was still one in the chamber. Sliding out the magazine, a full mag of seven. I nodded, topped it off, sliding it back in. Making sure the gun was on safe, before I holstered it.
I began to turn around and head back to camp.
"Wait." A voice called out.
I hesitated.
"Hello?" I called back.
"Aren't'ya for-getting something?"
I turned 'round in confusion, only to see the wind pick up and blow away just enough snow to reveal a muzzle and the blade of a front sight. I ran for it, digging up a barrel, a scope, and a wooden stock.
It was my Springfield. It didn't matter the scope was shattered, it was my weapon. The one other weapon I wanted outside of my MKB.
What little fears I had left vanished. I was a rifleman again. I could fight. I had a firearm, and a good one at that. I might not be able to fight this war on my own, but I had so much more options available to me now.
I brought everything back to camp, taking inventory.
I still had little food. Rations were nice, but I still wasn't meeting the minimum 18,000 calories per day. I was only extending my survival, and I didn't know how long it would be before I was rescued.
I nipped my growing concern in the bud, picking up my rifle and a fresh clip of 30-06 M1 AP rounds.
I was going hunting.