A Farewell to Arms ( Robert Anderson )

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

October 2nd, 1944
1100 hours
Shooting Range, 3ID base

Battle-worn Corcoran paratrooper boots crushed the leaf-covered grass beneath them, making a crunching noise every time they hit the ground. Bloused over the boots were new M1938 OD trousers, part of the clean infantryman’s uniform John had just been issued. The uniform seemed to contrast with his polished but shopworn shoes. He was dressed in a new M1943 field jacket, with his 3ID unit insignia sewn onto his left arm, and the insignia of his previous unit, the 101st, stitched onto his upper right arm. His warm, wool jeep cap rested comfortablyon the crown of his head, tilted backwards slightly so that some of his dark brown hair fell over his forehead. Over his shoulder he carried his M1 Garand.

He was supposed to meet Corporal Anderson for target practice. John had just met the man that day in the mess hall at breakfast. At first, it seemed they had gotten off on the wrong foot, but after a while John began to respect the man as a soldier. He’d invited John the join him out on the range, and after receiving his new uniform, the officer agreed to meet him there. So far, he and his friend by the name of Seth Howard were the only men in the division he knew. Earlier in the year before the invasion he’d met a man named Joshua Kennedy in London who was with the 3ID, but he didn’t know if he was still in the unit–or if he was even alive.

Things were different back then, he concluded. He supposed, he grown a lot in this past year. Under any other circumstances, he’d be back in the States starting his career in the peacetime Army. But fate just didn’t work out that way, and he found himself here. The tide had turned in the Allies’ favor. With the invasion of mainland Europe underway, it was thought that the Germans would surrender any day now. Or at least that was public opinion. John wanted to believe the reports, he really did. But he knew, deep down, that a lot more blood had to be shed before this thing was over. And he had to be ready for whatever came his way.

After a few long minutes of walking, John finally reached the shooting range. He took the Garand off of his shoulder and aimed his rifle at the nearest target. Staring intently down the iron sights, he pulled the trigger and squeezed off 3 shots. The first two hit the head of the stuffed dummy, and the last bullet pierced it square in the chest.

The officer slowly lowered his rifle. Out of all all the weapons he’d used, he had to say the Garand remained his favorite. The tommy gun jammed too much, the .45 pistol was only good for short range, and a BAR was too heavy to be lugging around everywhere ( though the rapid fire punched holes in enemy lines, and it was excellent for suppressive fire ). The Garand was fairly accurate, and had a nice, long range. John preferred to pick off his enemies from a distance. A rifle was perfect for that–a semi-automatic rifle was even better.

He was a fairly skilled marksman, having been into hunting from a young age. He remembered taking weekend drives in his father’s old Model T to the Finger Lakes, where he and his brother would hunt deer. John never forgot the day he bagged his first kill. He was ten, and was stalking a young buck with his brother, George, and his father. They finally caught up to their prey, and George took the first shot. It was a miss, and John raised his .22 rifle and shot the deer right in the heart. His brother had been amazed, and his father was proud–but he seemed distant. His veteran father had never carried a weapon on their hunts, now that he considered it. He recalled George questioning him about it once, and he’d merely smiled and said he was just a bad shot.

But that wasn’t true. On one excursion, George had hit a deer in the leg. The animal tried desperately to get away as best it could, though it was now crippled. George had done nothing, and John had figured it’d just be a matter of time before the deer died. However, the boys’ father grabbed George’s rifle and ended the animal’s life, putting it out of its misery. He was nothing close to a bad shot. Out of the three, it was evident that their father was the best marksman.

John could only conclude, now that he himself was a veteran, that his father’s experiences had taken away his desire to hunt. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hunt again either, if he ever came home. No...if I survive this mess, I’m going to live out the rest of my life in peace. he concluded.

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

Robert had his shotgun up and was loading shells into it when he heard leaves rustling. He casually looked over as he chewed on a weed and spoke to Seth. "Looks like he took up on the offer." He mumbled just so Seth could hear. Seth looked over his shoulder as he was pulling the chamber back in his M1 Garand. "Yep." He said nonchallantly. Robert cradled his shotgun as if it were his child. It was the thing that had saved his life multiple times. The weapon brought back memories of his old squad. He could still see their faces in his mind....and he could hear their screams even now. Seth jabbed at him. "Hey, you ok? You don't look so hot." Robert managed a smile. "Ain't what yer momma said last night." He said in a childish tone while poking fun at Seth. "Ha ha, good one, Corporal Stupidity." Seth retaliated. Robert held his hand out innocently. Seth just smirked at the gesture. "One o' these days, Bob. One o' these days." He then smiled and shook his head.

As the Lieutenant made his way closer Robert called out to him. "Looks like we're the only ones here. How's 'bout ya'll take a few shots at the long stuff an' I'll show you how a man's weapon shoots." Robert said as he brandished the Winchester Trench-gun. Seth nodded and thought that it made sense. He motioned for Lieutenant McCreary to follow him to the longer range. Robert picked an old cup off the ground and yelled, "Weapon free!" He then tossed the cup high into the sky and pulled the trigger, BANG! CLANK! BANG! CLANK!. He had shot twice and pumped and each shot hit the can, dead on. Seth had been watching and shook his head. "Show-off." Howard muttered to McCreary. "So, Lieutenant, what should I know about you?" He said straightforwardly as he sat onto a stool and checked his M1 to see if it had a bullet chambered.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John nodded at Anderson’s suggestion and followed Howard to the long range. He was about to raise his rifle and fire at the farthest target when he heard Anderson’s yell. He turned and watched as the corporal threw a cup into the air and pumped it with bullets. John smiled, amused at Howard’s comment, and lifted the rifle and stared intently down the iron sights again. As he peered at the dummy, he envisioned the monotonous gray uniform of a German soldier, and fired–right between the shoulder. He shifted his aim at another target and shot twice–both bullets hit the torso. He distributed his remaining three shots at three more targets–the first round hit the first target in the head, the second embedded itself in the dummy’s stomach, and the third struck the target in the chest. He heard a ping sound and knew that he had emptied his clip. The clip was ejected, and he sat down on a stool and reloaded.

Howard sat next to him and asked him a question. John shrugged and replied jokingly, “I consider myself first and foremost a Yankees fan, so if you mention the Red Sox I might have to deck you.” He paused in thought and added, “I played football in high school and college, and I like baseball too. I’m from New York–though you probably guessed that from the accent–Queens to be specific. Not Brooklyn, not the Bronx–Queens.” It annoyed him when people thought he was from Brooklyn–some of the officers even nicknamed him just that ‘Brooklyn.’ “What about you? Where are you and Anderson from?” he asked curiously. They knew more about him than he knew about them. I suppose they have a right to get to know their officers... he realized silently. Their lives are in our hands.

John put in a new clip and stood, readying the rifle once more. As he aimed, he couldn’t help but remember the first time he’d killed someone with this rifle. It was June of that year, during Overlord. He and the rest of the paratroopers had been dropped into France before the sea invasion commenced, to secure the area around the beaches. The 101st’s objective was to take Carentan. Unfortunately, their drops had been too low, and too unorganized because of all the flak. John had found himself wandering the hedgerows of Normandy alone, with no company save for his Thompson submachine gun. He’d spotted a soldier in the distance, and wasn’t able to identify his uniform. He’d used his cricket–a toy that the paratroopers used that night to distinguish friend from foe. Instead of a friendly ‘Hello’, he’d been greeted with a burst of MP40 rounds. He’d taken cover in order to avoid getting hit, lined up the Kraut in his sight, and returned the favor. His shots didn’t miss.

When he saw the man lying there, at first he’d been proud. From the moment he began training up until jumping out of that C-47, he’d doubted himself. He hadn’t known if he’d be able to kill a man. But he had–and as he stared down at that cold, motionless face, he realized that that man had a family, friends, and a home. His life had come to end because of him. It was then that he was overcome with guilt, and he began to feel a wave of nausea. But a little voice in the back of his head had reassured him that he’d done what he had to do in order to survive. And he’d keep on doing it in order to survive. After all, the only winners in war were those who survived.

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

Robert let the can fall and started to put a few shells into his beloved shotgun as he walked towards the fallen can. He was still within earshot and was somewhat eavesdropping on the conversation. He heard the Lieutenant get pissy over his accent and Robert smirked. I know something that pisses off an officer. He thought to himself as he bent over and picked up the can. He tossed it up once, then caught it in the same hand. He examined it and admired his work. The can was almost completely obliterated. It was contorted and was staying together by a little piece.

“I played football in high school and college..." Those words were enough to catch Robert's attention very quickly. He loved football. His build was that of a linebacker, being 6'3 and 200 and some odd pounds. He could still remember what the coaches said about him. "Jeez son! Don't kill your own teammates! This is only practice!" They would always say this while catching their breath in between laughs. If there was one thing he loved to do, was hit, and hard.

"Somebody mention football over thar?" Robert said as he strolled over to the two men's position. He tossed the can at Howard and it broke as soon as it hit his chest. "Hey! You coulda poked my eye out!" He said in a mock whiney voice. Robert smirked. "Wouldn't be the first time you got yer eye poked by a guy." Howard just gave him a stare that said, One of these days... Robert tossed his hands up. "Hey man, don't get mad at me just 'cause I tell the truth. Anyways, Lieutenant, I played five years of football myself. Alabama High. Man, we were good. Linebacker. What 'bout you? What position did you play? Benchwaremer I'm guessin'." Robert said with a joking tone as he sat on one of the chairs. Robert the man shoot a few rounds and he watched them hit the target every time. Not bad, not bad.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

After firing off another eight rounds, all hitting their marks, John lowered the smoking weapon and sighed. Why did he even join the Army in the first place? Why didn’t he stay home and not get involved? Probably because I knew I’d get drafted anyway, he thought sarcastically. He knew that it wasn’t true. He was patriotic just like everybody else, but technically he’d given his services to Uncle Sam since fall of 1938, when he entered West Point Military Academy. He’d figured it’d make a wonderful career, and his family had supported him, thinking that he’d become a grand peacetime officer. Now they all expected him to come home a grand war hero.
He’d be lucky if he came home at all.

John looked over at Anderson as he approached him and Howard. The lieutenant nodded. “That’s right.” He listened to Anderson and Howard’s playful banter for a few minutes in silence. They must be pretty close, must have been through a lot together. His best friend, Frank, had been sent to the Pacific before John even fired his Garand at the enemy. There he had to deal with jungle rot, ancient Springfields, and a suicidal enemy, while John was comfortably training at Fort Benning, back in the States. Frank had married John’s ex-girlfriend, and as fast as she’d become a wife, she became a widow.

The corporal then went on to explain that he’d played five years of football as a linebacker at his Alabama high school. John scoffed when the man asked if he’d been a benchwarmer. “The hell I was. I was Flushing High’s wide receiver for freshman and sophomore years, and quarterback for the last two years.” he replied proudly. Taking a seat on a stool next to Anderson, he laughed. “Just the sight of us scared the pants off of all the other schools. We always sent the Trojans running back to George Washington High with their tails between their legs. I was the quarterback at West Point, too. The Navy hated me.” he added with a chuckle and a smile.

John was quiet for a few seconds, reminiscing about those glorious days before the war and the killing–before innocence was lost. He had practically lived his life for football–and for travel. In 1938, his father had finally granted his wish and let him go to France with some friends–and George, to watch over him, being the responsible older brother he was. He wished things were like that again. He knew that those days were gone, and he’d never ever be the same. Neither will anyone else. “Division should have a football team.” he suddenly stated. “It’d be good for the men. Besides, a lot of them already played football before the war. It’d be good for morale.” It would help them take their minds off of the war a little. They all needed that.

The 501st had a regimental football team, which John had coached. It’d been quite different from playing as quarterback or wide receiver, but it had been an enriching learning experience. The men had learned to trust him, and he’d gotten to know each and every one of them. That’s what he needed to do with his new outfit, and by sharing a common interest, it would be a lot easier. “What do you boys think?”

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

“The hell I was. I was Flushing High’s wide receiver for freshman and sophomore years, and quarterback for the last two years.” was the start of a cocky reply from the Lieutenant. Robert took it more of a joke though. A lot of the guys in the military liked to reminisce about the 'good old days' back when they didn't have to worry if their legs were gonna be on the other side of the road while the rest of them was still next to their buddys. The Lieutenant went on as he took a seat next to Robert. “Just the sight of us scared the pants off of all the other schools. We always sent the Trojans running back to George Washington High with their tails between their legs. I was the quarterback at West Point, too. The Navy hated me.” Robert gave a little chuckle as he remembered one of his old friends who was a wide reciever. His name was Jackson. They grew up together, he had a sister that Robert had the pleasure of meeting while on tour. But with the joy of seeing her, came the sorrow of terrible news. Jackson had been dead for some time. About the same time that Robert was in the Pacific carving up Nips. He tried to remember Jackson how he was, but it was always hard for him.

"Yeah, I bet you was a real good player. Too bad you didn't go pro, eh?" Robert made a mocking smile as he turned to Seth. "You didn't play ball, did ya princess?" Robert taunted him the same way his football coach would whenever someone got injured. Seth set his rifle on the table. "No, precious, I didn't. I played the American past time. Baseball." Howard gave Robert the look that said sooner-or-later buddy Robert put his hands on the top of his head and grunted.

The conversation seemed to die, when McCreary revived it. “Division should have a football team." Robert sat forward. The motion said for McCreary to keep talking. “It’d be good for the men. Besides, a lot of them already played football before the war. It’d be good for morale.” Robert looked at Seth and shrugged. “What do you boys think?” The Lieutenant inquired. robert was about to speak when Seth beat him to the punch. "Hell, I'd be down for that. Just make sure I don't hurt my beautiful face. I still gotta look good for the French ladies." Robert scoffed at what Seth said. "Yeah, I'd be up for it Lieutenant. Just make sure we get to play the 4th. I hear they got a bunch o' chicks in thar."

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John shrugged nonchalantly. “I didn’t want to make a career out of it. I had other things to do with my life...other plans.” And what plans he had had! He yearned to explore Europe, Asia, and South America. He’d see the Panama Canal, the Great Wall, the Coliseum, the Amazon–just to name a few. And when he returned home he would write a nice, long book about it. Yeah, right. He’d seen a lot of Europe on his tour of duty so far, though this wasn’t the way that he’d pictured it. The only thing he could have afforded was a trip to France, which he’d taken back in ‘38. The easiest solution was to join the Army, and not as a dogface mind you, but a bonafide officer. His parents had been proud of him when he visited home after his graduation from West Point, dressed up in his uniform. But his mother had cried–she knew what was coming. The year was 1942, and the war was already underway. Without a doubt, she had considered the possibility that her son might be sent off to die in the Pacific or in Europe. He’d been chosen to deploy to the latter.

He was thankful that he was in the ETO. They had the Red Cross and an occasional USO show to bolster moral and remind them that the folks back home appreciated what they were doing. All the Marines had were disease, monsoons, and jungle rot. His best friend had joined the Marines and had met his end at Guadalcanal. They’d known each other since they were kids, so his death had crushed John. It also taught him that anyone could die in war. He may like to think that it couldn’t be him, that it’d always be ‘the other guy’, but deep down he knew it was far from the truth.

John’s attention returned to the conversation when Seth mentioned baseball. “Baseball? I used to play a lot in college. They used to call me Irish DiMaggio.” he stated with a chuckle. If anyone in his class had been a bigger fan of the Yankee Clipper, it was Tony Romano. The kid was from the Bronx and his father and mother had come all the way from Sicily to settle in the United States. They lived in a stuffy tenement, and it was expected that Romano would be a factory worker like his old man, but he wanted to be a soldier–and not just any soldier, an officer. He’d written to the congressman and had gotten an appointment ( ‘Because of my grades, of course–beat that, Jack’ ). He and John were no doubt the best players on the team. Romano was center field and John had played shortstop. When the United States entered the war, Romano’s family had been ostracized and called ‘spies’ because of their Italian heritage. Nevertheless, Romano was determined to serve his country and after graduation he followed in DiMaggio’s footsteps and joined the Army Air Corps. John had never heard from him since.

He listened intently to the two men’s opinions on his idea. He laughed a little at their comments and then answered, “Well, I guess it’s settled then. I’ll see if the CO–” His words were cut off by the roaring of airplane engines. His blue eyes lifted to the skies in confusion. Those aren’t P-40s.. “Enemy aircraft, get down!” He yelled, tumbling to the ground and lying prone as the Stukas soared overhead. He could feel the dirt kicking up around him as the range was strafed, and miraculously he wasn’t hit. After a few minutes he got up and looked at the other two soldiers. “They might come around for another pass. My guess is they’re headed for the fuel dump. We have to get back to HQ and see if we can get some weapons and ammo.” My first day here and there's a Luftwaffe attack. This should be interesting...

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

Robert took off his cap and ran his hand over his scalp. He then placed it back on snugly. “I didn’t want to make a career out of it. I had other things to do with my life...other plans.” Said McCreary. Robert sneered and Howard responded. "Yeah, didn't we all." Robert butted in. "I had plans, soon as I heard 'bout Pearl Harbor my plan was to kill Tojo with my own frickin' hands. Looks like my plans went FUBAR as soon as I got thrown in this dump they call the Western Front. Bunch o' crap if'n ya ask me." Robert had never gotten over the fact that he was the last surviving member of his old squad and was never able to take revenge for them.

The conversation quickly turned back to sports. "Baseball? I used to play a lot in college. They used to call me Irish DiMaggio.” Robert thought he heard something other than McCreary, but he waved it off as the kitchens. He saw that Seth hadn't noticed so he kept on with the conversation. “Well, I guess it’s settled then. I’ll see if the CO–” The Lieutenant was cut off by the roar of Stukas overhead. Roberts instinct was to grab his shotgun and push Howard into the nearest ditch. He did just that and jumped next to him. An explosion went off close, so close that he felt the light, wet, feel of dirt kick up on his face. He then felt something else, a searing pain on his shoulder. He grunted and nudged Howard. "Am I hit?" He asked calmly. Howard replied. "Yeah, you got shrapnel on your shoulder. Nothin' too big, though!" Robert nodded, crouched, and moved towards McCreary. The man spoke quickly. “They might come around for another pass. My guess is they’re headed for the fuel dump. We have to get back to HQ and see if we can get some weapons and ammo.” Robert shook his head. "Small arms ain't gonna do nothin' to the birds! We gotta make ourselves useful and get to the bigguns!" He yelled as explosions started going off in the distance. Howard looked at Robeert then at Lieutenant McCreary. "Whatya wanna do, sir?"

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

“Are you alright?” he asked the two corporals. He heard that Anderson had gotten shrapnel in his shoulder but nothing too bad. Just then the southerner protested against John’s suggestion, saying that small arms wouldn’t do any damage. He suggested that they go for the ‘big guns’. John shook his head, mirroring Anderson’s gesture. “No, the AA gun will be their first target—besides it’s at the other side of camp. We’ll never make it in time!” He heard an explosion, and in the distance something was engulfed in a burst of flame. I hope that’s not our fuel…“We need some fire in the sky now! We have to find a .50 cal—that’s enough to shoot down a plane! Besides, if we find a jeep we can mount the gun on top. We’d be able to keep moving.” He glanced to the west, where he could see more Stukas incoming. “Looks like he brought some of his friends with him. Come on.” he clutched his rifle and jogged down the length of the field.

He trusted that the two GIs would follow. Although he’d given it rather informally, it was still an order. He had a feeling that Howard would follow, but he didn’t know about Anderson. He knew that Anderson didn’t trust him yet, and he could understand why. He was the new guy, and a replacement. It was his first day, and he hadn’t been in combat with this outfit yet. He hadn’t proven his ability to lead. Hopefully, after today that would all change, but first they had to survive. He stopped running only when he reached the warehouses that stored the division’s vehicles and weapons. A few of them were destroyed, but at least one was still standing. He forced open the door of the nearest building and found just what he needed—a Willys jeep.

Someone had taken the liberty of arming the jeep with a 37mm gun and a Browning .50 cal. The young man grinned and jumped into the driver’s seat. Putting the vehicle in reverse, he backed out of the warehouse and turned left, speeding back towards the field to pick up the NCOs. All around him he could see soldiers running and some were firing up at the planes with their tommy guns and Garands, even though it would do them no good. He kept his foot on the gas and kept driving, even though he could hear the planes coming around for a strafing run.

I’ll never get out of here in time.. he thought worriedly. He hit the brakes, and the jeep screeched to a stop. “You, get in the jeep!” he barked, looking down at a private that was taking cover behind a building. The soldier wordlessly scrambled into the jeep and shouted a word of thanks. “Get on that .50 cal and hold them off.” he yelled.

“Yes, sir!” the kid replied, firing up at the incoming Stukas.

An explosion rocked the ground behind them. He heard the private let out a whoop and John smiled. “Good shot, kid.” He finally reached the two corporals and slammed his foot on the brakes again. “Need a ride?”

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

“No, the AA gun will be their first target—besides it’s at the other side of camp. We’ll never make it in time!” said McCreary. “We need some fire in the sky now! We have to find a .50 cal—that’s enough to shoot down a plane! Besides, if we find a jeep we can mount the gun on top. We’d be able to keep moving.” Robert thought to himself. No time to argue. Gotta follow the West-Pointers anyways. He said begrudgingly. “Looks like he brought some of his friends with him. Come on.” He hated taking orders from a frigging new guy. He jogged behind the man and next to Howard. Howard looked at Robert, obviously tlling that he was pissed. Robert noticed his eyes and looked at him, Howard's eyes immediately turned to where he was going. Robert kept jogging.

McCreary made it to the warehouse first. Robert saw him wildly back up out of the warehouse inside of a jeep with a .50 mounted on it. He saw him open his mouth to yell, but the words were drowned out by an explosion. Robert saw another soldier jump onto the gun and start shooting. He saw them driving quickly towards himself and Seth. Robert saw a Stuka coming in from the front. He grabbed Seth's collar and pulled him towards a wall. Machinegun fire peppered the road and that side of the building. Robert kept his face emotionless and hard. He looked over to Seth. His face showed terror. Robert nodded as the jeep slid to a stop next to them. “Need a ride?” the voice said. It was none other than McCreary. Robert smirked. "Nah, we'll walk." He said sarcastically as he pulled himself up next to the kid. "How's it goin' Mac?" He said making mock conversation with the kid as Robert chambered a round.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John smirked in amusement at Anderson's comment as he revved up the engine again and drove forward. He had seen Howard's face when he stopped the jeep. The man was terrified. He'd seen the look many times before. He remembered Jimmy Mitchell, the first comrade that he saw the death of. He'd never forget the look of fear in his eyes as he lay dying in the hedgerows of Normandy. John had been pinned down by enemy fire, there was nothing he could do. His life was finally ended by a German sniper. John had been horrified and angered, and he killed the Kraut bastard with his Garand.

He'd seen other men freeze up in combat, and he knew that the best thin g to do was to keep them talking, keep them calm. Well, right now there isn't much to talk about. Another method was to have them do something useful. "Seth, I need you to take over that 27mm, alright?" he stated, keeping his eyes on the road. "Give 'em a little flak to deal with--that'll slow them down." he said, looking back briefly with a grin. He knew the dangers of flak firsthand. He'd never been more anxious to jump out of a plane than on June 5 of that year. The C-47 had almost gotten shot down from all the tracers.

He glanced at the circular rear view mirror to see more planes bearing down upon them. "Enemy fighters coming in fast." he warned as he turned the jeep down a fork in the road. The private in the back promptly opened fire on the Stukas. He saw one fall from the sky and explode in a burst of flames. "Keep it up, private. Outstanding!" He had to make sure to get the private's name when this mess was over. He'd make an excellent gunner for the .30 cal.

That's if we survive this thing. He was frightened to be sure, but it was easier to push the fear to the back of his head. That way he could do his job more efficiently. He'd seen other officers break down in battle from what some called shellshock and what others called combat fatigue. He was determined not to let that happen to him. Sure he was scared--everyone was. But he'd never, ever let that fear control him. He vowed it.

Behind them, a warehouse exploded. He could feel the heat of the fire on the back of his neck. "Dammit!" How many of these things are there? It couldn't hurt to make a run for the AA gun. Besides, they needed all the firepower they could get. "If we can lure them toward that ack-ack gun, we can finish them there." he suggested. "Anderson, when we get there, you handle the gun. We'll cover you with the jeep."

There was a bump in the road and the front of the jeep rose slightly. They landed rather violently, and John had to hang on to his cap so it wouldn't fall off. Pulling it snugly over his ears, he twisted the wheel to the right as the road curved sharply. "Hang on. This is going to be a bumpy ride!" he shouted over the machine gun fire. The planes were getting closer, and the young private was firing as rapidly as he could, but there were just too many of them. We have to get there soon or we'll all end up battlefield statistics... he thought sourly, keeping his foot on the gas and zizagging to gain speed and make the jeep a harder target. His dad had always thought he was a reckless driver, and now it was beginning to pay off. If he was careful like George, they'd all be dead.

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

"Seth, I need you to take over that 27mm, alright?" said McCreary. "Give 'em a little flak to deal with--that'll slow them down." Robert knew exactly what the Lieutenant was trying to do. He had seen it more than he had wanted to in Japan. Japan...the thought made Robert furious. The memories of his old squad...decimated. Destroyed. He felt something twist in him that he had felt many times before. It was hatred. The same hatred he had felt for his enemy of the Solomon Islands. Those islands were where he had lost his personal rules of engagement. He had damned the Japanese from then on and was sent to the Western Front because of it. How he longed to go back for more unfinished business.

Robert scooched out of his gunner seat and let Howard take the gun. He sat in the passenger seat with shitgun in hand. His face was set in a half-crazed determined look. He wanted blood. "Anderson, when we get there, you handle the gun. We'll cover you with the jeep." yelled McCreary over the fire. Robert heard his name and turned his head. He said one word. "Yeah." that was it. His voice wasn't his, it was someone else's. Someone who had died years ago.

The bumps in the road became more and more as the explosions increased. Every once in a while Robert felty a spray of cold dirt touch his face. He didn't flinch, he just waited...waited for the moment he could bring the enemy down.

They weren't even twenty yards to the AA gun when Robert jumped out and sprinted to them. The jeep was still going at least twenty when he jumped off. Two explosions went off on either side of him. He felt the dirt spray in his face. This was his element. This is how he became a soldier. In a baptism by fire. As a Private, he had done many things for his squad. Some heroic, some just stupid. He kept his focus on the present now. He finally got to the gun. He slung the shotgun over his back and hoppen into one of the seats. There were two other men there. They were both working on loading it. One of them looked up at Robert, "Make 'em count, Corporal!" He yelled over the gunfire. The gun was loaded after five or six seconds and Robert began to fire. The gun popped his ear drums, but he didn't even flinch. He just kept firing. He hit one Stuka in the wing, it immediately started doing a barrel roll and made the sound of a dead engine. Robert was overtaken by something. "YEAH! GET SOME! GET SOME!" he started yelling. He hit another one directly in the cockpit. It immediately burst into flames and Robert yelled out again as he kept firing.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John nodded silently when he heard Anderson’s response. He had heard the emptiness and emotionlessness in his voice. This is what combat does to men. The officer swerved to avoid a tree that had been knocked down by the impact of a bomb. He pushed the jeep to its limits, hoping it would hold out long enough for them to get to the AA gun. “Just a little further..we’re almost there!” he yelled over the explosions and artillery. But he didn’t get a response. He saw a body fall–no, jump–out of the back of the jeep. He saw Anderson sprinting across the field for the gun. “No wait–covering fire!” he ordered the private, who opened fire on the Stukas who were in hot pursuit of them. One went down, but the others were coming in too fast–

But then they too fell from the sky as blazing chunks of metal. Anderson had reached the gun, and was firing furiously on the incoming Stukas. One of them got close enough for a strafing run. The young soldier in the back seat shot it down, but not before he himself was riddled with machine gun bullets. “Shit!” shouted John as he turned the young man over. He was dead. No, not again. He knew this wasn’t the last soldier beneath his command he’d lose. He’d known that. But why did it have to come so soon? He hadn’t been here for one day and–

“They’re coming around!” one of the soldiers loading the ack-ack gun screamed, pointing to the west. John climbed into the back seat and squeezed the trigger of the Browning .50 cal, firing continuously on the ferocious fighters. He swivelled left and right, fending them off as best he could. To his own surprise, he managed to shoot down a great many of them. Hah, between me and the corporal, we’d probably be aces if we were in the Air Corps... he thought wryly as another airplane fell from grace and collided with the ground below.

They just kept coming. In all of his experience he’d never seen this many planes attack at once. I don’t know how much longer we can hold them.. he thought as another burst of .50 cal bullets peppered the cockpit of another German plane. Just then, most of the Stukas exploded. “What the..? Cease fire! Cease fire! Friendlies!” he yelled, pointing to a group of P-50s as they soared overhead. His face broke out in a tired but gracious grin as he kissed the rosary hanging around his neck and lifted it in the air. “Thank you, Army Air Corps!” he exclaimed happily, jumping out of the jeep. As he did so, he caught sight of the dead soldier’s body hanging over the side of the jeep. His smile faded as he lifted the man’s head and stared at his face.

He wasn’t even old enough to shave. He looks no older than twenty. He frowned and raised the dogtag hanging around the infantryman’s neck. It read ‘Private Roger A. Allen.’ “Private Allen, I’m putting you in for a medal..” he whispered quietly as he took off the dogtag and tucked it into his jacket. “Come on, Howard. Looks like it’s over. Good job, Corporal.” he complimented with a smile, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go find Anderson.” He turned around and strode over to the AA gun. “Excellent shooting, Anderson!” he commented, looking up at the corporal. "It's a good thing those P-50s came when they did. Otherwise we wouldn't have much of a camp anymore.."

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

The fury of the sound made Robert's ears ring. He loved it. It brought out a primal part of him that he had embraced back in Japan. He smiled as he felt a few empty shells touch the bare skin of his forearm. His brow tensed as he yelled more and more. "YEEEHAWW!!! Tha's right you Kraut Panzies!!!" After a few more shots, he heard a break in fire. He looked over and saw the other gunner draped over the side of the jeep. Robert was pissed. "Take 'nother boy from his momma! You friggin' queers!!!" He fired more. He could feel the heat of the barrel on his face. It felt smoldering. Robert looked over again and saw only the stripes of a Lieutenant taking the place of the dead soldier. He smirked. Well look whose got a pair.

"Cease fire! Cease fire! Friendlies!" Robert stopped firing and squinted towards the sky. He saw a bunch of P-50's. “Thank you, Army Air Corps!” he heard McCreary say. Robert slouched back on the gunner seat and slapped his hand at the sky. "Go back home! We already sent 'em home to momma Hitler!" He yelled at the planes. Robert cracked his neck to one side, then the other. He tipped his old Marine Raiders cap up and looked up in the sky. When's this war gonna end? What am I gonna do once it's over? Robert shrugged it off and told himself to screw it. He closed his eyes for a good minute and relaxed.

“Excellent shooting, Anderson!” McCreary came walking up and Robert didn't move. "It's a good thing those P-50s came when they did. Otherwise we wouldn't have much of a camp anymore.." Robert looked at the Lieutenant quizzically. "You kiddin' me? 'Tween the both of us, we could'a taken the whole dang Luftwaffe by ourselves." Robert knew he butchered the name but he didn't care. He had little if no respect for any of his enemies in this war. Robert hopped off of the gun and landed easily on his boots. He looked at the Lieutenant. "Shoot....that must'a been All. He turned nineteen in two weeks." Robert felt sympathetic for the kid. He also felt sorry for the kids parents. It was just one more reason to fight harder, one more reason to kill. Robert slapped the Lieutenant's shoulder. "Cmon fellas. Let's go see what the damage is."

OOC: Sorry if it's a little short. I nee to get back into the habit.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John couldn’t help grinning at the corporal’s cockiness. While it was true the both of them had put up a fight that had given the Germans a run for their money, there was no way they could have held them off forever. He gazed up at the P-50s swooping overhead, and could hear the cheers of his fellow soldiers at their presence. He fleetingly wondered if Tony was up there with them, but dismissed the idealistic thought. For all he knew, Romano could be dead. A fighter pilot’s life expectancy wasn’t all that high. Even if he was a bomber, that still didn’t make matters any easier. He’d heard B-17s and even B-24s described as ‘flying coffins’. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but he could never see himself trapped in one of those. He preferred jumping out of a plane to being in one. He had good reason too as well. On his first combat jump one of the planes exploded right above him. He was out of its trajectory but still it had been a close call.

That day had forever changed him. He’d never look at his life the same way again. Life was short, it was unpredictable. He could have died today, but he hadn’t. A man—no, a kid, he couldn’t be more than twenty—had died today. Many more had died today—on his first day. And his superiors had been trying to get him away from combat. That’s why he’d applied for this transfer. He didn’t like the killing, the inhumanity that was a result of war—no, he hated it. He hated this damn war, he hated the damn Germans, the damned Japanese, and he hated himself for foolishly thinking that an Army career could bring him adventure. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted? the more cynical part of his mind asked.

No, it wasn’t. But he realized that every man he killed, every one of his comrades who died—all of their deaths meant something. It had to. He had to believe that with all his heart and soul that all the men under his command who’d perished on the hellish battlefields of this second ‘Great’ War were heroes. That’s what he told these kids’ parents in the letters and that’s what he believed.

“Of course, Corporal. And then we’d march straight to Berlin and take out Hitler himself.” he replied to Anderson’s comment about taking on the Luftwaffe, rolling his eyes. He watched as the corporal stepped forward and examined the dead private. His words confirmed his assumption of the soldier’s age. “He was a good soldier.” he stated after a while. He’d only met the man today but his skill and bravery had made quite an impression. Lesser men would have ignored his order and kept running. But he’d climbed into that jeep, into the unknown, to do his duty, and John respected him for that.

He took the dogtag out of his pocket and stared at the cold metal engravings for a few seconds, making a mental note, before pocketing it once more and nodding at the enlisted man beside him. “Right. Let’s go, men.”