A Fight for Survival

A Soldier's Honor

June 13th, 1944 - Carentan, French 

A fragile pink haze crept over the horizon, pushing back the darkness of the French countryside. It was June 13th, a week after the D-Day landings, and the air buzzed with a tension that had nothing to do with the approaching dawn. Leo Boyle, his movements betraying a nervous energy, tossed out clips of M-1 ammo as if they were sweets, his eyes darting towards the treeline.

"We don't know what they've got," Welsh's voice, sharp and clear, cut through the pre-dawn quiet. He was briefing First Platoon, his face grim but resolute. "We may be attacking a weaker force, possibly more paratroopers—" "And you know how they can be!" Hoobler chimed in, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. "Fire and maneuver," Welsh continued, his gaze sweeping over the men's faces. "That's the name of the game. Dog and Fox companies will be on our left flank, moving with us. Any questions?" The men, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and anticipation, remained silent. Perconte, ever the pragmatist, glanced at the array of watches on his wrist. "It's 9:30 in the evening in Chicago," he remarked, his voice a strange counterpoint to the gravity of the situation. "Must be nice."

Dick, his expression unreadable, checked his own watch. The second hand ticked past the twelve, marking 0530 hours. The attack was a go. Before he could give the order, a deafening roar ripped through the morning calm. An 88mm shell exploded against a nearby tree, showering the area with shrapnel. 

"Find a suitable sniping position, Molly. Take Shifty with you," Dick barked, his voice barely audible above the din. "I want you picking them off." Molly, her movements honed by years of training, nodded curtly and melted into the chaos. Once she finds Shifty they begin to look for some hiding spots. They spotted a tall oak, its branches offering a clear view of the battlefield. "Well, I guess we're doing this again," she muttered to herself, her voice barely a whisper against the rising storm. "Shifty, hold my rifle." Once she gets a good foot holding she grabs her rifle from Shifty, he then lays on the ground and begins to pick off Krauts one by one together. She could still hear Dick as he commanded the rest of the company, "Fire! Return fire!" She spots a German officer and mutters the small prayer, "God give me the strength so I can give you  the glory." She aims and pops him in the chest. 

The men of Easy Company, jolted into action, returned fire, their M-1s spitting anger and defiance. Blithe, caught in the open, scrambled for cover, his heart pounding against his ribs. He hugged the earth, his rifle clutched tightly, as if it could shield him from the storm of lead and steel. Gordon, ever the rock, set up his machine gun behind a low stone wall, the rhythmic chatter of its report a small island of defiance in the deafening symphony of battle. On a nearby hilltop, Strayer, Alexis, Nixon, their faces grim, directed the counter-attack. "Give the order! Commence fire!" Strayer yelled, his voice barely audible above the roar of the battle. Nixon, his face a mask of concentration, relayed the order to the four 81mm mortar teams positioned strategically on the hillside. "Let 'em have it!" The mortars roared in response, sending a rain of explosives towards the German lines. 

Easy Company fought back with everything they had, the air thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the constant ping of spent M-1 clips hitting the ground. Blithe, still pinned down, felt a growing sense of helplessness wash over him. He pounded his fist against the butt of his rifle, his frustration mounting with each passing moment.

Then, through the smoke and haze, he saw them. Tiger tanks, their menacing silhouettes silhouetted against the rising sun, lumbered over the crest of the hill, their guns spitting fire. Dick, a whirlwind of energy, moved among his men, his voice hoarse but determined. "Keep your heads down...raise up, fire...don't slack off...keep firing...KEEP FIRING!!" Tree bursts rained shrapnel down on the American lines, tearing through flesh and foliage with equal ease. Blithe, paralyzed by fear, felt a hand on his shoulder. "You're gonna be okay, Blithe," a calm voice said. It was Speirs, though Blithe couldn't see him through the smoke and chaos. "Just stand up, and fire your weapon."

As if in a trance, Blithe obeyed. He stood, the world a blur of noise and movement, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil of the rifle jolted him back to the present, and he reloaded, firing again and again, losing himself in the rhythm of the battle. Dick appeared beside him, his face a mask of grim determination. "KEEP FIRING!! DON'T SLACK OFF!! KEEP FIRING!!" Blithe didn't hesitate. He fired until his arms ached, his finger numb on the trigger. Around him, men were falling, their cries lost in the cacophony. Gordon, blown off his feet by a mortar round, picked himself up and kept firing. Strayer, his face streaked with grime and sweat, rallied his men, pushing them forward against the relentless enemy onslaught.

From her vantage point, Molly picked off targets with deadly precision, her rifle a comforting weight against her shoulder. She saw Welsh and McGrath struggling to maneuver a bazooka into position, their faces grim as they tried to take out one of the advancing tanks. She saw Nixon, his face pale but determined, relaying orders amidst the chaos. And she saw Blithe, his initial fear replaced by a steely resolve, firing round after round into the enemy lines.

Just when it seemed like the tide of battle would never turn, a new sound cut through the air. The distinctive rumble of Sherman tanks, their guns blazing, announced the arrival of reinforcements. "LET'S GO, MEN!!" Dick roared, his voice filled with renewed hope. "KEEP FIRING!! KEEP FIRING!! POUR IT ON!!" The men of Easy Company, their spirits reignited, poured fire into the retreating German lines. The Shermans, their cannons thundering, tore through the hedgerows, scattering the enemy and paving the way for fresh troops from the 29th Division.

As the smoke cleared and the echoes of battle faded, Molly climbed down from her perch. She had heard about Blithe's transformation on the battlefield, and she wanted to see for herself. She found him standing near the edge of the treeline, his gaze fixed on a point in the distance. He seemed transfixed, his entire body taut with a strange mixture of fear and exhilaration. Without a word, he turned and started walking towards the German lines.

Molly, her brow furrowed in concern, followed close behind. She saw him stop by a disabled Tiger tank, its hulking form a testament to the ferocity of the fight. He scanned the surrounding area, his eyes searching for something. Then, as if guided by an invisible hand, he moved towards a thicket of trees.

Molly watched as Blithe cautiously made his way through the undergrowth, his rifle held at the ready. She saw him stiffen, his gaze fixed on something on the ground. A small pool of blood, glistening darkly in the dappled sunlight. He followed the trail of blood, his movements slow and deliberate, until he came to a clearing. There, lying amidst the trees, was the body of a German paratrooper. He was young, his face frozen in a mask of pain and surprise. A sprig of edelweiss, a symbol of courage and resilience, was pinned to his jacket. Blithe stood over the fallen soldier, his expression unreadable. He reached down and gently removed the edelweiss, tucking it into his own pocket. Then, without a backward glance, he turned and walked away, leaving Molly alone with the dead and the dying. The battle was over, but the war, she knew, was far from won.