A Saint in the shadows

June 16th, 1944: Normandy.

The burning half-track produced an antagonizing smoke that bothered Private Jackson, unlike the smoke he enjoyed out of cigarets or cigars. No, this smoke was from scrap metal on fire, doused with fuel. The thick, soot black kind which stung Liam's eyes partially. He narrowed his eyes in an effort to cease the sting, while trudging through the meadow grass towards the destroyed Nazi vehicle.

The Private caught site of the German corpses around the half-track, sprawled out lifelessly around the soft meadow bed. All bleeding massively from the gunshot wounds received in the improvised ambush conducted by the U.S. Army Rangers. Liam Jackson and his squad were originally cutting through the meadow to achieve their main objective 8 klicks east from their current location, until they encountered the German reinforcements along the outskirts of the meadow. Without any other choice, they engaged them with AT weapons, and small arms fire for whoever tried to escape the flaming death trap. Not all of then we're killed, though. It pained Jackson to look down upon the suffering Germans. It took a toll on him, so he tipped his M1 Helmet down to hide his affection from his friends. He knew that they had to be killed for the sake of his life, his company's life, or soldiers he didn't even know. Doing what they did, made the Private believe it prevented a fraction of boys on their side being killed in this god forsaken war. Prevented just a little bit of misery, a little bit of folded American flags being sent to devastated mothers. It's what he had to believe as a sniper, hell it was the truth after all.

When the Squad of Rangers reached Liam and the Germans, two Privates decided to get greedy, searching the dead bodies for 'intelligence', however, actually looting the dead of valuables and belongings. One critically wounded German officer didn't look to good. He had his right side of his face burnt to crisp, the hair on his head burnt off, and his uniform mixed with black holes and marks from the flames. When he saw his men being stripped of personal things, he practically begged for them to stop, with the little strength he had left. "Nie-nien!" He said, in a weak, raspy voice, reaching out to grab the uniform of the American. Sergeant Perconnie saw that as a threat, and he quickly put a stop to it, by shooting the man dead with a burst of his Thompson. Jackson's jaw dropped at the scene, widening his eyes in disbelief. Everyone looked at the Sergeant for a second, before carrying on with their business. Some even laughed about it, and even though Jackson wanted to protest- he didn't. He knew that everyone handled the war in their own ways. Honestly, Liam Jackson wanted to cry right then and there, but he couldn't. He held it in with all he had.

'I need a cigaret' he thought.

'Wait, Dammit. I gave them all to Joseph .' Private Jackson sniffled and began to walk to the opposite side of the half-track, so he could be alone. The only other thing that calmed the sniper down, was praying to god. The Heavenly Father, who has been granting him strength his entire life, especially in times like this where he felt the farthest from God. His hands began to tremble while setting his Springfield1903A4 against the soft meadow grass bed. Reaching his hand into his uniform, the Private fished around for his Rosary. Jackson's fingers trailed across his notebook, and his M1911. Unfortunately, no Rosary. It had fallen out of his uniform.