When The Bough Breaks (Open)

[2LT. Adrian Cruz]

Location: Ardennes Forest, Luxembourg
Date: November 24th, 1944
Time: 1000 Hours
Weather: Fresh snow, below freezing

As the snow crunched under his boots, Adrian thought about home. He had seen snow in Jersey more than a few times, but it wasn't anything like the Ardennes. He had never been in below freezing temperatures before he had come to Luxembourg. The Ranger listened as his men walked around him. He looked to the Corporal that was on point and sighed. His platoon had taken so many casualties on the way back from the Command Post that they had to retreat into a random direction. Adrian's hands gripped his M1 tightly, even under his thick, wool gloves they were still cold. The cold was getting to him, it was getting to all of them. Even back at his company's line he saw people starving and cold. No one had enough food or ammo as far as the Ardennes line went.

Adrian signaled for a stop and knelt in the snow. He reached inside of his trench coat and grabbed his map and compass. The Lieutenant's shivering hands made both articles shake a bit, but it wasn't any use. He couldn't find any markers around him. All he knew was that he was pretty far off from where he should have been. As frustrating as it was, Adrian kept a straight face as he put his compass and map away. He stood up and turned around to the handful of men around him. His scruffy face strained as he searched for clever words, but in the end he decided to give it to them straight.

"Alright Rangers, we're lost. But regardless we have to keep moving. Hell I don't care if you hear your grandma yelling for you to stop, you keep fucking moving, that clear?" explained Adrian.

He got an all around nod and motioned for everyone to stand up. Adrian walked to his Platoon Sergeant. Technical Sergeant Brett Hansen shifted his bright blue eyes toward his CO.

"Brett, we gotta keep these guys going, I can't afford to have any of them get lost. Plus we don't know how far Jerry is in our damn lines. I overheard Captain Edwards sayin' we got Krauts dressing up like friendlies, so we can't trust anyone. We gotta assume everyone is an enemy unless you know them by name," whispered the frustrated Ranger.

"Alright sir, I'll try. I'm only really worried about Jackson back there. Kramer was his buddy, and when he got hit back there, I had to practically pull the damn kid off the body, I'll stick close to him," replied Tech Sergeant Hansen.

Adrian patted the man on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. He liked Brett, the man had been with the platoon since Omaha, and now he was the Platoon Sergeant. Guys like him made Adrian proud to be a Ranger. He had never seen Brett's confidence waver, even when they lost all those guys on Hill 108. As what was left of Adrian's platoon crunched through the snow, he saw the Corporal on point halt and give a stop signal. Adrian moved up quickly and flicked the safety switch on his rifle to fire. The Corporal turned around and made a motion toward the outline of what looked like three men standing near a snow-covered bush.

Adrian squinted and he could barely make out the shapes of their white-covered helmets. Stahlhelms! They were definitely Krauts, and they didn't seem to notice the group of Rangers. Adrian motioned for a few men to go left and he took the rest right. The Second Lieutenant knew that more often than not, where there were some Krauts, there were always more. As he moved up with his men as silently as he could, he shouldered his rifle and aimed down the sights. He motioned for the two best shots that were with him to do the same. Adrian aimed the tip of his front sight on the middle of the chest of the nearest Jerry. He put his trigger finger on to the trigger of his rifle, feeling the cold metal as he squeezed. BANG! The Kraut fell, his white uniform turning crimson. Before the others had the chance to react, they fell in unison, one had blood shooting from his neck.

From the left, Adrian heard the unmistakable sound of an MG42. He heard a man screaming, and he ordered his men to move up. Adrian crouched behind them and watched as the corporal who had been on point earlier blew up and the man next to him fell. Adrian caught the heat from the explosion and almost welcomed it. The explosion had been a booby trap, it was too small for a landmine. He had seen them before, the Krauts tied the cords on their stick grenades around branched and kept them tensed to the slightest jarring would blow it up. The men who had been hit laid dead, the one who tripped it had his guts laying next to him. The seven other men with him seemed hesitant to move up, so Adrian took point.

As they moved on, Adrian could see the muzzle flash of the MG42 in the distance, he heard an explosion and the muzzle flash stopped. As the Rangers moved on, they all stopped and got low as Krauts began running for what looked like a line of foxholes. Bullets started whizzing past all of them and a few colliding with the ground. Adrian held his rifle tightly and aimed down the sights. He began firing away at the Germans.

"Suppressing fire!" yelled Adrian.

The men around him fired their guns, the BAR man was with him luckily and began firing his LMG in the direction of the defending enemies.

"Gibson, get that grenade fixed to your rifle!" ordered Adrian, looking back to see the PFC unloading the chamber in his rifle and putting in the clip special rounds.

The grenadier finally fixed the grenade on to his rifle and fired it. The self-propelled grenade went shooting past like a miniature rocket. It collided with a foxhole and Adrian saw pieces of Kraut flying into the air. The PFC loaded another grenade and fired it, missing the foxhole he aimed at, but Adrian could tell by the screams that at least someone had caught shrapnel. Adrian looked to the left and could make out the guys on the left side in a similar situation. He needed to get them moving and he needed to get them moving now. He fixed his sights on a German that had stood up to throw a grenade and fired two shots into the man's chest. He dropped like a sack of oranges, the guy with him in the foxhole sprayed with an MP40. A guy next to him caught two 9mm's to shoulder and neck, his head dropped and blood pooled under him.

Adrian finally decided it was do or die, he needed to lead his men in a dead run for one of those foxholes or they were never going to live through this. He knew the only thing separating even himself from full exposure was a mound of snow and a fallen tree branch. He looked around him to see his remaining men narrow-eyed and fighting back fear. Adrian spoke up.

"Either we're dead here or we're dead in Jerry's foxholes! I don't know about you, but I wanna die in a foxhole!" yelled Adrian as he picked his rifle up and started sprinting.

The German spraying with an MP40 was so astounded to see five Americans sprinting and yelling that he turned around and hastily climbed out of his foxhole. Adrian hip fired the rest of his rounds, ending with a PING!. The last round hit the German in the ankle and he fell screaming and bleeding into the snow. The BAR man to his right finished the guy off with three rounds as they hit the foxhole. Five men in a foxhole had never been so cramped as they clung to the dirt, more Germans running forward. Somehow Adrian could tell that if the Rangers didn't some how get a miracle, they would be dead and no one would ever find their frozen corpses.

Adrian dug for his rosary and clasped it tightly. With a gulp, he looked at the rest of the men on his side, then to the pinned down guys on the left. There wasn't much he could do at the moment but pray and reload his M1. For the first time during the war, he felt the lump of crying and the feeling of mental breaking start fighting to break through. He swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes, if he was going to die it would be with a stern look on his face.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

He felt like a mannequin. He was covered in basically all the clothing the Army had been kind enough to give him, and he was still cold. M-1943 jacket, M-1943 trousers, Army-issue trench coat, Red Cross knit sweater, two wool shirts, a jeep cap, a steel helmet, a scarf, three pairs of socks, and paratrooper boots were just some of the articles of clothing he was wearing. It must have been pretty damn cold, since John had grown up in New York, and he was used to this kind of weather. But this was just crazy. He and his platoon were doing some reconnaissance in the Ardennes Forest in Luxembourg. The place was crawling with Krauts, and they wanted his platoon to scout out the area to see if they could find a good place to stage an offensive. Third platoon, Baker Company, and the rest of the 3ID were moving through Luxembourg in an attempt to chase out the Germans and take the fight to Berlin. Of course, it wasn’t just the 3rd Infantry, but other several divisions were involved as well–with all that manpower, it was expected that the war would be over by Christmas.

I’ll believe that when I see it. John thought cynically as they kept moving along. He wanted this mess to be over, he really did, but he knew that it wouldn’t be easy. The Jerries weren’t ready to give up yet–he’d seen that. They’d encountered fierce resistance back in the Volges Mountains, and had lost a lot of men–mostly replacements. He was used to men under his command dying, but every time one did he felt personally responsible. He couldn’t dwell on any of that, but it was always in the back of his mind. He remembered each and every one of the men KIA. They all had jobs, homes, and bright futures. But that’s what war did: it took a country’s best and brightest, and ended their lives before they’d even begun to live. Some of those men didn’t even look old enough to shave–most of them were in their late teens. A lot of them enlisted right out of high school, some put college on hold to do their bit.

And yet, no matter how many men died, John knew that somehow, freedom would prevail. It sounded hokey, he admitted, but he had to believe that. It was the only thing that kept him sane, that kept him going. He believed wholeheartedly that those men and boys had died heroes, and that their sacrifices had all been worth it. He knew that America’s citizen soldiers would defeat the Fascist pigs of Germany. He just knew it.

“Hold here.” John knelt down and raised his hand, indicating the column to stop. He’d heard voices–speaking in German. The Lieutenant was fluent in the language, having taken the time to learn it since he was a young child. His skills had improved in high school and college, and they had come in pretty handy lately. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, as the Germans were still pretty far away–but close enough to shoot at them. He couldn’t see them–but he knew they were there.

His platoon sergeant, Harry Banks, crawled over to him. “What is it, sir?” he whispered.

“I don’t know...I heard Germans coming from the north–at least three or four voices...I’m not sure how far away they are but they’re close. Move out, but keep your heads low and your rifles ready.” John answered quietly before inching through the snow.

Ten minutes later, they had reached a snow-capped hill overlooking a field. John left the men in the care of Banks and crawled up to the top of the hill. He reached for his binoculars and surveyed the area. He nearly jumped when he heard saw an MG42, but fortunately he was out of their line of sight. Unfortunately, the G.I.s running across the field for cover weren’t. Five of them jumped into a foxhole–the rest of them were pinned down. He could hear German Mausers firing and reloading, and he knew that they might try to flank the Americans, as they were sitting ducks. There were Krauts running across the field and firing on the pinned down G.I.s. They didn’t stand a chance against those kind of numbers. John replaced the binoculars and slid to the bottom of the hill. Macon, get your MG squads set up on that hill. Don’t fire until I give the signal. Jennings, you’re with me. 1st squad and 2nd squad, fix bayonets–we’re flanking that MG42. The rest of you are with Banks. Banks, I want you to draw their fire away from our boys on the other side of the field. Fire on the Krauts charging down the middle, and we’ll mop up the rest.”

Banks nodded obediently and motioned for 3rd and 4th squads to follow him. The sergeant fired his tommy gun on the squad of Krauts that were attempting to assault the right flank of the Americans dug in at the other end of the field. He had taken them by surprise, and some of the Krauts had turned around and returned fire, leaving them open for the G.I.s to attack. However, the MG42 was still pelting them with bullets. He used a hand signal to order the MG squads to provide covering fire. “Follow me!” he muttered, and sprinted through the snow-covered grass. He threw a grenade at the bottom of the ridge that the machine gun was mounted on, and one of the Krauts screamed, his bloody hands clawing at his eyes, ruined by the shrapnel. This had alerted the rest of the squad that was scattered around the base of the hill, but it was too late for them. John ran his bayonet through one whose back was facing him, and kicked the dead body away as he withdrew his rifle. He parried a blow from another Kraut, and threw him to the ground. He jumped on top of the man and drove the bayonet into his chest. John waved his hand forward, indicating for his half of the platoon to keep moving as he led the charge up the ridge. He shot at a German to his left, and the round hit him in the chest. The Kraut spun around as he fell and lay still. He pumped three rounds into another Kraut’s torso. Directly in front of him was the machine gun squad, still unaware of the advancing soldiers. Probably couldn’t even hear us over that gun. He cleanly shot the gunner in the back of the head. His spotter turned around and fumbled at his belt for his pistol. A Private beside John shot the Kraut in the chest. The man slumped to the ground, the snow around him turning a bright hue of red. “Nice shot, Williams.” John complimented. "Looks like you just got yourself a Luger." he added, prying the sidearm from the dead Kraut's hand and giving it to Private Williams. The young man grinned brightly, and one of his buddies patted him on the back. “Johnson, Barnes, get on that gun. 2nd squad, provide covering fire–the rest of you are coming with me.”

[2LT. Adrian Cruz]

As the Krauts advanced on the foxhole, Adrian emptied a clip of his M1 in their direction, the shots had been so fast that the recoil set off his accuracy, only hitting one in the shoulder. The BAR man scored a nice couple of shots down range and into the stomach of a Kraut. Adrian took a clip from his bandoleer and shoved it in the receiver of his rifle. He slid the op rod forward and took aim again. He could see in the distance that the advancing Krauts were falling over. He kissed the cross on his rosary and smiled. Thank you God! In the distance he could see friendlies giving the Jerries a run for their money. Looking to his left he saw his Tech Sergeant Hansen and the rest of the platoon being saved. The MG42 was knocked out and Hansen moved the boys up. Adrian practically ran toward the men that had just come to the Rangers' rescue.

As he got closer, the Lieutenant noticed they had been saved by paratroopers. He looked at them with a smile that could light up a room, the Screaming Eagle patch never looked so good.

"Well I'll be damned, the One-O-First saving the Rangers!" shouted Adrian.

He approached the Second Lieutenant that was obviously in command and felt like hugging him, but restrained himself. He could see the fourteen or so men still left from his platoon smiling wide. Tech Sergeant Hansen was happier than any man had ever been, Adrian could tell the two of them were thinking along the same lines.

"So what outfit you boys from? We're from Charlie Company, 2nd Rangers. We've been running into Jerry all the way from Battalion CP. Hell we can't even find our lines, all these damn trees look the same." Adrian took a cigarette pack out of his trench coat pocket and took one out, he handed it towards the paratroopers as he lit his with a match. The pack was a little smashed, but the cigarettes were still good to smoke.

"Name's Adrian Cruz," The Ranger was never good at snazzy introductions.

For some reason, even though it was bitterly cold, the Ranger felt warm as if he were sitting in front of the fire place back in New Jersey. The Ranger wiped dirt and snow from his scruffy face, feeling the prickliness of his unshaven face, if his father saw the poor condition he was in, he would be scolded. Adrian looked around the snowy woods, hoping that there weren't more Krauts on the way. After all, he knew that the Jerry lines had been spread as thin as the rest of them. He also hoped there weren't any tanks near, because by the looks of the Kraut uniforms, they were S.S. Panzergrenadiers.

Adrian didn't have any bazooka teams with him, and wasn't sure if the paratroopers did either. He really disliked not being prepared, after all earlier in the morning his CO had sent his platoon to find Battalion CP, now they were lost in the woods, still hopefully in Luxembourg. He hadn't known that there were any paratroopers this far in the Ardennes. He had heard the Lt. Colonel commanding the battalion talk about how bad the 101st and 82nd had been battered in Belgium and wasn't sure how understaffed these guys were either. Adrian reached in his pocket and grabbed for the remainder of his K ration he had munched on hours ago and ate a piece of the chocolate bar. It was surprisingly crunchy from the cold, something he disliked a bit. Adrian looked around at his men and saw just how many he had lost. Earlier in the morning he had come out with a platoon of twenty-six, now he was down to fourteen. Had he really lost so much in the few hours he had been out? It started to sink in just how badly they had taken losses and it made the Lieutenant sick to his stomach.

"Anyone hit?" asked Adrian to his men. The medics had stayed onb the company lines to deal with the far worse losses over there, all he really had was morphine and a few bandages.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John and the rest of the squad took the left flank, firing on the Krauts that were advancing on the foxholes. The remainder of the German outfit was caught in the crossfire between Banks and John. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” he ordered his men once the last Kraut had fallen. The previously pinned-down G.I.s were whooping and shouting at the arrival of John and his men. He smiled slightly and approached the officer in charge, slinging his Garand over his shoulder. The man was a Second Lieutenant, like himself, and he had a Ranger patch on his left shoulder. John chuckled a bit at his comment–he did still wear his Screaming Eagles patch to identify himself as once being part of the unit, but he and his men were with the 3rd Infantry Division. “No, Lieutenant, you were just rescued by the Rock of the Marne.” he replied with a smile. Two years ago he would have looked down on infantry troops, but his men had fought like a force to be reckoned with, and he was damn proud of them.

“Baker Company, 3rd Infantry.” John answered when the man said he was with the 2nd Rangers. He’d heard that they had it pretty rough on Omaha. Jumping into France was bad, but not as bad as those beaches. “Thanks.” He raised the cigarette to his lips and lit it, taking a long drag on it and exhaling. The Ranger introduced himself as Adrian Cruz. “Jack McCreary. Nice to meet you, Adrian.” he replied, extending his hand for the man to shake.

John kicked over a body near his feet. S.S Panzergrenadiers... he realized with a mental jolt. He’d dealt with those guys in France and Holland. He’d taken a lot of losses because of them, and he wasn’t too keen on facing them again, but he had a feeling that he might have to sooner or later. And when I do, there will be hell to pay, he thought grimly. They needed to get moving–all of them–before the Krauts found out they were here.

He remembered vividly the last time he'd engaged German tanks. It was back in Holland--he and his troops had been cut off from the rest of the company. They were in as bad of a situation as Cruz had been just a few minutes earlier. There was an MG42 pinning them down in a house, with a Panzer firing on them from outside. The bazooka man bravely held off the Panzer while the rest of the group escaped. John tried to go back for the man, but the floor he'd been on was ruined by the tank, and the man had been killed. He never forgot what the soldier had done for him and the rest of the platoon.

John shook his head when Cruz asked if anyone had gotten hit. “Not anyone we can save.” he looked over at Banks’ group. Banks nodded, adding, “Two of our guys were killed by a potato masher.” The Sergeant walked over to John and handed him their dogtags. Nelson and Dawson... They were two more casualties in a war that seemed to have no end. John surveyed the Rangers silently. There were bodies scattered all over the field, and there were only fourteen or so of the Rangers left. Together we’d still have a lot of manpower, but we don’t have a bazooka team if any of those Panzers roll over our way.

He looked at the S.S. soldier lying at his feet once again and a daring idea was planted in his head. “We have to move out before the cavalry gets here.” he suggested, kneeling down and unbuttoning the man’s shirt. “We don’t have any anti-tank weapons, but I have an idea. Do any of your boys speak German?” John asked, looking up at Adrian as he took off his own trench coat and picked up the German tunic. “I think maybe we can trick them, but we have to be cautious about it. I’m not sure exactly where they are, but HQ said that there’s a bivouac of twenty or so Krauts not too far west from here.” he explained, pointing in that direction. “I’m thinking we can infiltrate their position, and pick up some Panzerfausts if they have some. The only things we have are satchel charges and land mines–we’re no match for a tank.”

A few minutes later John had put on the German uniform. From what he could gather, it was a Hauptsturmführer’s uniform. He took off his helmet and jeep cap and settled the gray Totenkopf hat on his head. After straightening the black Panzer wrap tunic, he picked up the deceased’s MP40 and stood up straight. He resented this uniform and everything it stood for, but he’d do what he must for the sake of he troops. He turned to Banks and the rest of his platoon. "Alright boys, put on those Kraut uniforms. We're bringing in some prisoners." He then looked at Adrian. "If we can get them to think we're German Panzergrenadiers, who have captured a few American G.I.s, we can get into the camp and catch them when they're vulnerable. We can also pick up ammo and supplies. Are you in?"

[2LT. Adrian Cruz]

Adrian listened to the other Lieutenant explain that he wasn't airborne. He could have sworn from far away they looked just like paratroopers. The Ranger watched as he put on the Kraut uniform and asked if he had someone who spoke German. The Second Lieutenant turned to Tech Sergeant Hansen. The Platoon Sergeant was smoking a rather crushed-looking cigarette.

"Mannheim still alive?" asked Adrian.

The young, blond Sergeant Mannheim piped up before the Tech Sergeant had time to turn around and look.

"I'm still around, sir," laughed Mannheim.

"Good, grab yourself a Kraut uniform and one of their burp guns. Follow Lieutenant McCreary and keep from speaking English. We can't follow you guys, so check the MP's mag and fill up the pouches," ordered Adrian.

The Sergeant quickly dressed himself in the nearest Krau uniform with the least amount of blood on it. He dressed so fast, Adrian barely had time to notice that the nineteen year old Ranger had his tunic buttoned up. He grabbed a white-covered helmet and looked at the patches on his collar and shoulders. The uniform was from an Unterscharfuhrer. He looked at Mannheim and smiled.

"Well you sure look like a Kraut," said Adrian with a chuckle.

Mannheim grabbed one of the MP40's on the ground and checked the magazine. It was completely full. He checked the mag pouches and picked up a spare, shoving it in the back of his belt. The Luger on the young man's waist felt odd to him, but he didn't bother making a snide remark.

"Alright sir, I'll follow on your orders," said Mannheim, "by the way, how is my accent?"

Mannheim cleared his throat and spoke up.

"Wie wär's wir holen die Panzerfausten?" asked Mannheim with a slightly Bavarian accent.

Adrian smiled, the kid's accent was right on the money. He could almost imagine him screaming insults and firing on them all. He just hoped that Mannheim could keep his act up long enough for them to go get those Fausts and move out. Adrian finished his cigarette and stomped it out in the snow. He turned to his men and motioned towards the foxholes.

"Two men to a hole, I don't want anyone peeking up too far unless they really have to. If those Jerry tanks show up, we can't afford to be spotted before the Lieutenant and Mannheim get back, is that clear?" ordered the Ranger.

He got a bunch of nods and they moved out. Adrian stuck with a PFC with a carbine. The two headed off to a whole towards the middle and crouched in it. There was evidence that it had been one of holes that had a grenade shot in it. There was a blood Kraut missing an arm laying in it. His face as cold and motionless as the Stahlhelm that sat on his head. They hauled the body out of it and laid back against the dirt. Adrian reached in to his trench coat and felt for his canteen. He got it out and took a gulp of the cold water, he offered it to the PFC, who took it gladly.

Adrian brushed a bit of snow off of his rifle and dug a bit of dirt out of one of the knobs on its rear sight. The Ranger closed his eyes for a moment, his exhaustion catching up to him. He didn't bother sleeping, not wanting to get killed with his eyes closed. He held his rifle tightly and glanced over at the PFC. The young man seemed to be day dreaming, staring up at the cold, gray sky. He watched the man's chocolate brown eyes gazing aimlessly above, it reminded Adrian of the way some of his men had looked after they got off of Omaha.

Mannheim looked to Lieutenant McCreary, with a smug grin he opened his mouth to speak.

"Sir, would you like me to take point?" asked the Sergeant.

He gripped his MP40 tightly, it felt odd in his hands. The gun was nothing like his Thompson, it was too tubular and the handle was curved. He also didn't like the fact that it was so light, it reminded him of some kind of toy. But he did know that if something went wrong he could easily pump out powerful, accurate shots with it. He had seen enough of his men get hit with the 9mm's from the burp gun to know just how good it was.

---

Translation:
"Wie wär's wir holen die Panzerfausten?" - How about we go get those Panzerfausts?

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

As Cruz positioned his men in the foxholes, John addressed his platoon. “Now remember, those of you in Kraut uniforms–I don’t want to hear even a syllable of English. If you don’t have good German, don’t say anything. I don’t want any of you blowing our cover until the time’s right. As for the prisoners: wait for my command, then get your weapons and open fire. Understood?” He heard a chorus of “Yes sir!” and nodded. “Alright, now let’s move out.” The man from Cruz’s platoon who was dressed in a German Unterscharfurer’s uniform joined him and asked if he wanted him to take point. John inclined his head affirmatively. “Go ahead–Mannheim, wasn’t it?”

The kid didn’t look a day over twenty. Many of the men in his own platoon were that younger, even younger. They’re not young enough to live...by God, they’re young enough to die. He’d come to realize this time and time again during this lousy war. He hoped that this plan would take off without a hitch. Too many men had died today, and he wasn’t in the mood to lose any more. The idea wasn’t completely unprecedented. After all, he’d read reports about the Krauts dressing up in American uniforms and ambushing G.I.s. It certainly wasn’t something he was completely used to, though. He preferred a fair fight to all this sneaking around.

John and the troops moved through the forest quickly and quietly, not desiring to attract any more attention than they had to. Though they were dressed in German tunics, he didn’t want to have to start a ruckus that could alert the bivouac. He also wasn’t too keen on getting his men killed by friendly fire. From what he could gather, the Allies had not yet reached this part of the forest yet, so they were deep within enemy territory. This reassured him, ironically enough.

His stolen jackboots didn’t make too much noise. The German uniforms, oddly enough, were actually quite warm. He suspected that it had something to do with how unprepared his outfit was. They hadn’t received their issued winter clothing yet. He knew that technically it wasn’t winter yet, but still–it was freezing. If there was anything to look forward to, it was a trip back to base and a hot meal. He didn’t show any signs of his complaint. He was lucky to be alive, and that was always something to be thankful for.

The stillness was broken by German voices. “Hold here, Mannheim.” John raised the burp gun and crept to the front of the column. About thirty meters or so ahead was the bivouac. Two sentries stood at the entrance. He walked back to the platoon and held up the MP40, indicating that the enemy was in sight. “Just follow my lead.” he instructed his men and signaled for them to move forward.

When he reached the entrance to the encampment, the sentry on the right, whose insignia was that of a Rottenführer raised his Mauser and barked, “Halt! Identifizieren.”

“Mein Name ist der Hauptsturmführer Ludwig von Trapp. Meine Männer und ich waren seperated von unserer Gesellschaft und wurden von diesen amerikanischer Schaum überfallen. Wir töteten die meisten von ihnen, und diese sind unsere Gefangenen.” John replied smoothly in a clear Austrian accent. He didn’t feel any fear, and his clear blue eyes did not betray any. Still, he didn’t know whether or not they’d take the bait.

The other sentry, a Sturmann, asked, “Welche Ausrüstung Sie mit, Herr sind?”

John stared at the stormtrooper, who stared back blankly. He’s suspicious. “Zuerst, die dritte SS Abteilung Totenkopf.” the American answered, not breaking eye contact with the younger German.

The other man paused for a while, and finally answered, “Mein Bruder war in dieser Gesellschaft, bevor er getötet wurde. Ich bin froh, dass Sie jene Bastardhölle gaben.” His ankles snapped together as he gave the salute. Raising his right arm, he emphatically shouted, “Heil Hitler!”

The young man looked up at him expectantly. He could feel his men’s eyes on his back. Then, answered with words he prayed he’d never have to say again. “Heil Hitler.”

The Rottenführer faced John and said, “Sie sollten zu Sturmbannführer Sturmgeist, Herrn berichten. Er sollte zu zur Sorge dieser ... Dinge fähig sein.”

“Danke.” John replied with a gracious nod. The Rottenführer saluted and the other man returned the salute. He walked past the men, and his troops followed him obediently. Never again, he assured himself firmly. That had to be the most degrading thing he had ever done, and after today he would never be seen doing it again. He had to, in order to keep their cover from being blown, but he’d never ever willingly do that again. He couldn’t understand how the Germans could possibly lower themselves to this state, and honor such a crazy lunatic. But, they did. And that’s why they were dying at the Americans’ hands–because they were so dedicated to their cause. It was perhaps the most bizarre and terrible cause there was, but it was their reason to fight.

And the young stormtrooper obviously believed deeply in his cause. That could just as easily have been me, he realized. Anyone on the other side of his rifle could have been him. But he couldn’t pay those sort of thoughts any mind. Germans may have been the rottenest humans there were, but they were humans–and he never forgot that. He remembered each and every man he’d killed. They were all either his age or younger–men that in another time and place could have been his best friends. They could have had the same interests, likes, and dislikes, but they had a job to do. And so did he.

As they entered the camp, John could see about five or six small tents lined up across from each other on the left and right. It wasn’t a very big camp, each of the tents could only fit about two or three men. But still, he had to be on his guard. He stopped a Rottenführer heading in the opposite direction. “Entschuldigen Sie mich, Rottenfurher, aber wissen Sie, wo die Müllkippe der Waffen ist? Meine Männer und ich brauchen eine Munition.”

“An Eastend des Lagers, Herrn. Sie können nicht es verpassen - obwohl wir so viel - gerade einige Panzerabwehrwaffen nicht haben. Verdammte Amerikaner.”

“Danke.”

___________________
Translations

Halt! Identifizieren.–Halt! Identify yourself.

Mein Name ist der Hauptsturmführer Ludwig von Trapp. Meine
Männer und ich waren seperated von unserer Gesellschaft und wurden von diesen amerikanischer Schaum überfallen. Wir töteten die meisten von ihnen, und diese sind unsere Gefangenen.–My name is Captain Ludwig von Trapp. My men and I were seperated from our company and were ambushed by these American scum. We killed most of them, and these are our prisoners.

Welche Ausrüstung Sie mit, Herr sind?–What company are you with, sir?

Zuerst, die dritte SS Abteilung Totenkopf.–First, third SS Division Totenkopf.

Mein Bruder war in dieser Gesellschaft, bevor er getötet wurde. Ich bin froh, dass Sie jene Bastardhölle gaben.–My brother was in that company before he was killed. I'm glad you gave those bastards hell.

Sie sollten zu Sturmbannführer Sturmgeist, Herrn berichten. Er sollte zur Sorge dieser ... Dinge fähig sein.–You should report to Major Sturmgeist, sir. He should be able to care of these...things.

Danke.–Thank you.

Entschuldigen Sie mich, Rottenfurher, aber wissen Sie, wo die Müllkippe der Waffen ist? Meine Männer und ich brauchen eine Munition.–Excuse me, Rottenfurher, but do you know where the weapons' dump is? My men and I need some ammunition.

An Eastend des Lagers, Herrn. Sie können nicht es verpassen - obwohl wir so viel - gerade einige Panzerabwehrwaffen nicht haben. Verdammte Amerikaner.–Over at the east end of the camp, sir. You can't miss it--although we don't have that much--just a few anti-tank weapons. Damned Americans.

[2LT. Adrian Cruz]

The cold snow seemed to be leaking in all over Adrian's uniform. He wished he was back in France and not in shitty Luxembourg. Before this, he had only heard of the small country in Geography Class; a stupid elective he had taken in college. The Ranger looked over to the BAR man to his right, the kid was chewing on the end of a rather large cigar, something he had really only seen old men and gangsters do. The Lieutenant checked the bandoleer on his waist and noticed he only had four clips left. In a frustrated motion, Adrian pounded his fist on the ground. If the Krauts came back in force, he wouldn't have enough ammo to withstand a full-on assault.

He looked over to the BAR man, his bandoleer looked a bit empty too.

"Private, how much ammo you got?" asked Adrian. The pug-nosed young man turned around with a grim smile on his face.

"Three and a half clips sir, my ammo man got hit behind us over near where we first came up," replied the PFC.

"Run back and go get 'em then," ordered Adrian.

The PFC went to a low run and sprinted to where the half-frozen corpse lay. He grabbed the two square-shaped pouches on the man's belt and dug through the pack on the corpse's back. He produced a third and came running back. As he did so, a bullet smacked in to his chest. The kid fell before the sound of the gun shot reached Adrian's ears. Fuck! The vulgar word coursed through Adrian's thoughts as he scrambled to collect the kid's body.

"Sniper!" screamed Adrian as he pulled his bleeding comrade in to the foxhole.

Adrian quickly unclipped the bandoleer holding the BAR's heavy ammo. He watched as the kid's face went pale, a few tears streaming down. Adrian looked away quickly and got on the BAR. He pushed his rifle away and looked around for the men around him.

"Did anyone see the shot!?" yelled Adrian.

He heard a familiar voice yell out.

"I did, sir!" yelled Corporal Harman,

"Do you have a beat on him?!"

"Yes sir, but I need him to take a shot at someone!" replied Corporal Harman.

Adrian waited for someone to volunteer. He had seen dedicated snipers a thousand times over. They had been a huge nuisance in Normandy and through out France and the Lorraine. They were the fear in the back of every commander's mind. German snipers were the best trained, the schools had been running since the Great War and the Lieutenant really wasn't keen on facing them. He knew what had to be done, one man needed to run out and either get shot or shot at. It was a simple tactic, but Adrian couldn't afford to loose another man, not when he was down to thirteen.

Sergeant Mannheim followed the 3rd ID Lieutenant to the German sentries. As they conversed, he held his MP40 tightly. When "Heil Hitler!" was spoken, Larry did the same.

"Heil Hitler!" interjected Sgt. Mannheim, raising his right hand to a forty-five degree angle.

Mannheim's parents had been Communists, the family fled in 1934 when Hitler took control of Germany, Mannheim had been only ten years old at the time and the move to America had been a frightening experience for him. As he stood near their "prisoners", he looked to them and to be in character, shoved a Corporal that was walking a bit slow.

"Schneller!" he yelled in a fake, but convincing anger.

As they neared the ammo dump, he looked the Lieutenant McCreary.

"What are we gonna do when that Major comes out and starts praising us for our capture? Stay long enough for the party or get the hell out of dodge?" whispered Mannheim, he could see the crates marked with "Panzerfaust mit 60". He was nervous enough to just run over, grab the crates and run tail-between-legs back to the other Rangers.

Folding up the stock on the MP40, Sergeant Mannheim slung the weapon on his shoulder. He would need both arms to carry a crate or two of 'fausts. He had seen the weapons a few times before and thought they were named pretty adequately. To him they looked like someone made a fist, covered it in metal and stuck it on a tube. He knew they were powerful shape charges that could tear a hole in a tank the size of a serving tray. He had seen the damage in France when the charge hit the engine block of a Sherman 76 Pounder. He had been lucky enough to miss a piece of shrapnel that could have took his head off, but the Medic behind him wasn't. He remembered hearing something drop and a few seconds later, the head of T/5 Hurley rolled by. The memory still made a bit of vomit come up in his throat.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

Once they’d reached the ammo dump, the sergeant addressed John. He shook his head. “No need to stick around longer than we have to, Mannheim. We’re getting out of here as soon as we get these Panzerfausts.” he muttered in a low tone. The sergeant slung the burp gun on his shoulder in order to free his hands so he could carry a crate. John pointed to ten other men to pick up a crate, and left the rest to guard the ‘prisoners.’ Slinging the MP40 over his own shoulder, John picked up a crate as well. “Okay, let’s move out–ahem, Heil Hitler!” He hastily dropped the crate as his boots snapped together while he saluted the Sturmbannführer.

The major had gray hair and wore an officer’s tunic like that of John’s, but it was decorated with all sorts of medals. He recognized one as the Iron Cross. The major didn’t return the salute, but instead walked past John and inspected both the men dressed in German uniforms and the men posing as prisoners. John continued to stare straight ahead as the higher-ranking officer looked him over. He refused to make eye contact with the man, so he wouldn’t give himself away.

“Wie ist Ihr Name Hauptsturmführer? Und wo nehmen Sie meine Ausrüstung und diese Amerikaner?” The older man’s sharp voice cut through the air suddenly like a razor, startling John momentarily, but not enough to lose his composure.

“Ich bin Ludwig von Trapp. Herr zeigten meine Pfadfinder ein Bataillon Shermans im Osten von hier an, und meine Männer werden an Bedarf knapp. Diese Amerikaner sind meine Gefangenen.” he answered clearly and concisely, his face expressionless. He kept his breathing even and natural, though he was uneasy at the man’s interrogation.

The major paced silently in front of John for what seemed to be eternity, before finally questioning, “Baten Sie irgendjemanden um diesen Bedarf, Hauptsturmführer von Trapp?” The man’s pale blue eyes bore down upon the young man like vultures.

“Die Situation, war Herr dringend. Wir schlugen den Infanterie-Angriff zurück, aber mussten dann zurückweichen, als ihre Rüstung ankam, und es ist, als wir auf diesen Trupp von schmutzigen amerikanischen Schweinen stießen, die versuchen, uns zu flankieren. Ich entschied mich dafür, zur nächsten Basis zu gehen und Bedarf wieder zu füllen, so dass wir den Job beenden konnten.” John explained. The situation seemed plausible–there was no reason for the major not to believe him. There were, in fact, Shermans in the area, and there had been reports of various skirmishes with several SS units.

“Antworten Sie auf die Frage, Hauptsturmführer! BATEN Sie oder Sie um diesen Bedarf nicht?!” the man screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth and instantly drying due to the freezing air.

“Kein Herr, ich tat nicht Herrn!” John answered alertly, still keeping his eyes straight ahead. Inside, he was terrified. He knew that he could be seconds away from having his cover being blown, and all of them would end up in POW camps--or worse.

“Danke, Hauptsturmführer. Normalerweise würde Strafe sein, um aber da die Situation ebenso dringend ist, wie Sie sagen, dass Sie Ihren Zug und den Panzerfausts nehmen und dieses Bataillon allein zerstören können. Verlassen Sie die Gefangenen hier. Und in der Zukunft soll es nicht nicht mehr Gefangene geben.” the major ordered cruelly with a sadistic grin.

If John had been a German soldier, he would have considered the orders ludicrous and suicidal. He didn’t even offer any reinforcements, even though his men were camped comfortably far from the Allied position. What’s more, the man completely disregarded the Geneva convention. It didn’t take a genius to guess that the major planned on executing the fake prisoners. This has to end now.

As soon as the major turned his back to leave, John grabbed him, shoved him to the ground and went down with him, dragging him behind a pile of crates. John kept his elbow on the man’s windpipe and his hand over his mouth so he couldn’t scream. He could feel the man’s teeth biting furiously into the skin of his palm, but he stood his ground and pressed harder. The man kicked his feet in the air, and John elbowed him in the solar plexus, temporarily knocking the wind out of him. As soon as he’d done that, he withdrew his combat knife and swiftly ran the blade across the man’s throat. The man lay still.

Nonchalantly, John got up and withdrew a tarp from one of the crates, and began to set it up quickly. Stuffing the body in the tarp, he stood and picked up a crate. “Come on, let’s get out of here before they find out what’s happened.” John whispered, leading the way towards the camp’s entrance. The men followed suit.

He realized what he had just done, and he wasn't proud of it, but it had been necessary. The act had been methodic, mechanical, as he'd killed many times before. Oh well, one less German to worry about. That wasn't how he really felt about it, but he had to at least try to think of it that way.

They met no resistance as they moved through the camp, and soon the camps two lone guards were in sight. We're home free! he realized victoriously, and resisted the urge to sprint towards the entrance. But that was when he heard it.

"Halten Sie an! Halten Sie an!"
__________________
Translations

Wie ist Ihr Name Hauptsturmführer? Und wo nehmen Sie meine Ausrüstung und diese Amerikaner?–What is your name Captain? And where are you taking my equipment and these Americans?

Ich bin Ludwig von Trapp. Herr zeigten meine Pfadfinder ein Bataillon Shermans im Osten von hier an, und meine Männer werden an Bedarf knapp. Diese Amerikaner sind meine Gefangenen.– I am Ludwig von Trapp. Sir, my scouts reported a battalion of Shermans east of here and my men are running out of supplies. These Americans are my prisoners.

Baten Sie irgendjemanden um diesen Bedarf, Hauptsturmführer von Trapp?–Did you ask anyone for these supplies, Captain von Trapp?

Die Situation, war Herr dringend. Wir schlugen den Infanterie-Angriff zurück, aber mussten dann zurückweichen, als ihre Rüstung ankam, und es ist, als wir auf diesen Trupp von schmutzigen amerikanischen Schweinen stießen, die versuchen, uns zu flankieren. Ich entschied mich dafür, zur nächsten Basis zu gehen und Bedarf wieder zu füllen, so dass wir den Job beenden konnten.–The situation was urgent, sir. We were beating back the infantry assault, but then had to fall back when their armor arrived, and that's when we happened upon this squad of filthy American pigs trying to flank us. I decided to head to the nearest base and replenish supplies so that we could finish the job.

Antworten Sie auf die Frage, Hauptsturmführer! BATEN Sie oder Sie um diesen Bedarf nicht?!–Answer the question, Captain! Did you or did you not ASK for these supplies?!

Kein Herr, ich tat nicht Herrn!–No sir, I did not sir!

Danke, Hauptsturmführer. Normalerweise würde Strafe sein, um aber da die Situation ebenso dringend ist, wie Sie sagen, dass Sie Ihren Zug und den Panzerfausts nehmen und dieses Bataillon allein zerstören können. Verlassen Sie die Gefangenen hier. Und in der Zukunft soll es nicht nicht mehr Gefangene geben.–Thank you, Captain. Normally punishment would be in order, but since the situation is as urgent as you say you may take your platoon and the Panzerfausts and destroy that battalion alone. Leave the prisoners here. And in the future, there are not to be any more prisoners.

Halten Sie an! Halten Sie an!--Stop! Stop!

[Heiko Alkema]

Moderation[/b]

Bonus for the extra effort put into each post.

John McCreary[/i] - 15CP

Adrian Cruz[/i] - 15CP
[/color]

1 skill point for McCreary