A Fight for Survival

German 88s

June 7th, 1944 - Sainte-Mere-Eglise 

The rhythmic thunder of the German battery echoed through the French countryside, an unwelcome beacon guiding Molly towards her objective. Each booming report fueled her determination, a grim soundtrack to her silent advance. She moved with a grace honed by years of training, her rifle an extension of her will. Gone was the carefree girl from Colorado and Iowa; in her place stood a soldier, forged in the crucible of war. The manor house loomed before her, a silent sentinel overlooking the killing fields. Peering through the hedgerow, Molly's heart sank. Four guns, their muzzles spitting fire towards Utah Beach, lay nestled within a network of trenches. These weren't the 88s they had expected; these were 105s, capable of far greater devastation.

Molly moved with her squad, consisting of David and Drew with their machine gun in tow, in the  phantom in the pre-dawn light. Adrenaline thrummed in her veins, a potent antidote to the bone-deep fatigue. She watched Dick's silhouette disappear after the first gun, her mind already calculating angles and distances. Weakness wouldn't keep him alive. Hers, or anyone else's.

A cluster of trees, gnarled and wind-battered, offered a promise of concealment. Lipton and Ranney appeared at her flank, their faces drawn but resolute. A silent nod was all it took. They understood. David offered a leg up, his grip strong and reassuring. "Thanks," she breathed, taking her rifle, before the two rush off to join Dick and his assault. Each branch scraped against her uniform, a metronome marking time until the inevitable. The world tilted as she found her perch. Below, the enemy guns swarmed with German soldiers, their movements a well-oiled machine of death. Sixteen bullets. Sixteen chances to disrupt that machine. It had to be enough. Taking a breath, she settled behind the scope, her world reduced to the crosshairs. The German manning the MG-42 on the lead gun, his face a mask of concentration, became her world. One shot. One life. The morning's mercy felt a lifetime ago. This was different. This was survival. The rifle bucked against her shoulder, the sound of the shot echoing through the pre-dawn stillness. The German crumpled, his reign of terror silenced. "Shit!" The silencer. Forgotten in the rush. No time for regrets now. 

Panic rippled through the German lines, their fire becoming wild, desperate. Molly, Lipton and Ranney worked with cold precision, each shot a full stop to another life. She moved like a phantom, her body a finely tuned instrument of war. Below, the main assault began. Dick's voice, amplified and distorted, boomed across the battlefield, urging their men forward. Molly became their shield, her rifle spitting fire, each shot a lifeline against the storm of German steel. The air thickened with the acrid bite of cordite and the metallic tang of blood. This was her world now. And she would survive it.

She had to get closer. Molly pushed through the orchard, the air thick with the sweet scent of apples, a stark contrast to the bitter tang of gunpowder that lingered on her tongue. The sounds of war grew louder with each step, a cacophony of chaos that threatened to overwhelm her senses. Emerging from the cover of the trees, she sprinted towards the ditch, her boots pounding against the hard-packed earth. A sudden explosion, agonizingly close, sent her sprawling to the ground, dirt and debris raining down on her like a macabre confetti. 

"Popeye?" she called out, her voice hoarse, spotting the young soldier crawling towards her, his face contorted in pain, his uniform stained a sickening crimson. "They shot me in my ass, Lieutenant!" he yelled back, his voice a mixture of pain and disbelief. "I'm sorry lieutenant," he called to Molly, "I goofed, I goofed! I'm sorry!" Molly caught a glimpse of the bloody mess that was Popeye's wounded buttock, her stomach clenching in sympathy. "Yeah, they sure did," she grimaced, forcing a smile to her lips. "Get to cover, soldier. I'll cover you!" Taking up a protective position in front of the wounded man, Molly laid down a furious barrage of covering fire, her rifle spitting anger and defiance. Each bullet was a prayer, a talisman against the storm of lead flying through the air. Once Popeye was safely behind the lines, dragged to safety by two medics, Molly continued her advance. She crawled through the dirt and debris, her body a shadow, a phantom moving inexorably towards the German position, her every thought focused on the battle ahead.