War For The World

CHAPTER THREE

On the very eve of war, man was far too busy being distracted by one another. Shells were being launched and bodies were being piled by the dozen. The attack had been in the making for several months now, and their battalion had finally been forced into playing their hand. It had begun in the morning, with a couple of scouts picking off the remaining German snipers as sunrise approached. With the blinding new sun as their defence the men leapt from their trenches and made the pass to take the base. Both sides had been at a stalemate for several months now, and with the German's making largescale attempts on fronts worldwide, the allies felt this would be their last chance to safely make such a crucial attack.
It had dragged on another day before the allied forces were able to successfully infiltrate their defences. Now, huddled up in an abandoned sniper nest, Sergeant Michaels began to take stock of the situation.
"Lars. How we looking"
The tint of glass glistened in the distance and one of the soldiers within the nest ducked down as a small bullet whizzed past the mans head. He was a short man, with curly hair that had been singed from a mortar strike a hours ago. If he had been a few inches taller as he often dreamed, the nest would've been covered red.
"No good sergeant. Snipers got us good. Pinned us down from a couple hundred yards away. If we're wanting to get to that bunker we're gonna need to get this bird off our six"
Michaels grunted and turned his attention to his weapon. Covered in blood and dirt, the MP40's barrel still smoked from recent use and the chamber rattled from wear and tear. German words were etched into the side of the weapon but Michaels paid little time towards deciphering it. His original had its barrel jammed early this morning and he'd had to pry the current one from the cold hands of a young German man buried halfway in the mud.
He unloaded and reloaded the weapon for the third time, checking the remaining rounds and making sure everything was clipped into place. Not many shells left, running out of options.
They'd been like this for ten minutes now, ten minutes that stretched out forever it seemed with no end in sight. Using the flame patrol as a distraction, the small unit had infiltrated and taken control of a sniper nest, one that had up until ten minutes ago played a pivotal role in forcing the allies backwards. They now however faced a difficult move, as the flame patrol had long since been snuffed out and as such many German men now ran through the trenches located directly below them. So far it seemed no one gave the dead bodies below the nest a second glace, however if the germen sniper on the opposing nest survived long enough to alert the soldiers below them, they'd be sitting ducks.
"We're right royally fucked" exclaimed Benson, enemy blood caking half of his face, fingers gripping white knuckled onto his M2 Carbine rifle.
A man sitting directly to the left of Benson stifled a whimper, he looked down at his cross and Sergeant Michaels thought he saw him start to mouth a prayer softly to himself.
Michaels began to do what he did best, and improvise
"How much is left in that rifle there" he said, pointing to the large scoped rifle sitting between the legs of Trace Aldridge. A young black man no older than seventeen, currently wiping the barrel clean.
"Not many shots left sir. five If I recall, though my counting may be off due to all this shit exploding around us"
As if the lord intended to make a point, the nest shook and a grenade went off close somewhere below them. Once Michaels ears stopped ringing and he tuned out the screaming grabbed the rifle and turned to Jones, who was currently cracking his knuckles and rearing to get moving.
"Jones. Take the rifle and on my command, light the bastard up"
The burly soldier didn't need to be told twice, he grabbed the rifle out of the hands of the young boy and loaded the clip into place, looking through the scope quickly to acclimate to its cross hairs.
Michaels turned to Trace and pulled a grenade out from his bandolier, Michaels' own bandolier being torn from him sometime during the morning skirmish.
Sweat dripping from Michaels' own caked face, he hastily pulled on the grenades pin, starting the timer that would end in assured destruction. With 6 pairs of eyes watching him including those of a bewildered Benson, he arched back and threw the grenade towards their problem.
The nest was obviously too far away to be damaged by such a blast, but the ensuing singular moment of panic that occurred within the opposing sniper nest was just enough time for Jones to sit up and aim down, lining up the scope right where his target would soon be.
Without fail, the sniper on the other side slowly began to peak around for another bout, losing his brain matter and half his skull in the process.
The entire nest let out a short breath of relief
"Good shit" Jones muttered, taking the opportunity to pick off 2 more men he saw in his line of sight.
There, Michaels thought to himself. One less problem to worry about, now they could finally focus on what they'd been sent to do.
A communications bunker lay ahead, a large bricked mound of a fortification that sat on the edge of the battlefield. Reinforcements had been called to aid the German line, and this was a complication that the Allies could not afford to deal with. Luckily, the bunker also operated as a sort of high ground. Situated on a small rise, it overlooked the horizon behind enemy lines and housed a mounted MG42 turret. In other words, reinforcements would not arrive.
They'd been tasked with reaching and sabotaging the communications bunker, making a massive dent in the arriving reinforcements simultaneously. Michaels liked to pretend he had no issue with mowing down rows of unsuspecting kraut, but a feeling niggled at him deep down. Thankfully blood sweat and gunpowder had a way of dulling these feelings.