Safe in front of a Cannon [Open]

[nico]

Country: Small town in France.
Time: 2234
Weather: Cold. Pockets of clouds and a light southeasterly breeze


The cold night air bit into the back of Nico’s neck as he trudged along, his hands where shoved deep into his pockets as he walked and his head was down. He had just been cast out of yet another pub on account of his heritage, his thick German accent always drew attention, never mind that he was dressed in the uniform of a US private. Everywhere he went he was not welcome, even his commanding officers looked at him with distrust and never spoke of tactical matters around him, as if he was a spy and would go running back to Hitler with the information. He looked up into the stars as he walked, as if hoping that an end to his troubles would fall from the sky. He tripped and stumbled on a gutter, almost crashing into a parked Jeep. He missed the jeep and fell onto the hard road, instead of getting back up he just lay there for a moment, rolling onto his back and looking back up at the stars. It was useless hoping that a solution to his problems was just going to fall down right in front of him. He slowly climbed back to his feet. Dusting himself off as best he could and resumed walking back towards the barracks.

A block away from the Barracks he heard drunken shouting and laughing coming up behind him.
“Here little German… come out and play!” A few of the soldiers from the bar had followed him. Nico had no wish for a fight, he was trying to behave and not draw unwanted attention to himself. He quickly looked around and spotted an open door to a large warehouse. He sprinted to the door and slipped inside, ducking down behind a stack of oil barrels and waiting for the drunken men to pass. Only when the streets had fallen silent did he dare move and look around. A few lights where hanging from the roof rafters, casting wicked shadows over the monstrous forms of metal giants. Sitting like a sleeping bear before him was the hulking form of an M4 Sherman Tank. In the poor light he could almost believe that it was breathing deeply in its slumber. He shook his head and walked around a bit, counting three Sherman’s two M3 Halftracks and a Convoy Truck missing its front wheels. A wide assortment of tools and equipment was stacked against the walls and a strong smell of oil and grease hung in the air. He continued wandering around, looking at the tools, picking up strange objects and machine parts and trying to figure out what they where for.

He walked back to the first Sherman, running his fingertips over the cold armour that covered it. He had run from such machines before, remembering the fear they had installed when they had crashed though the low brick walls and smashed wooden fences apart as they advanced. He jumped up and sat on the front of the tank, leaning back against the sloped armour that deflected the rounds fired at it. He looked up at the 76mm cannon above his head and tried to imagine what it would be like to be ripped apart by it. He smiled at the thoughts.
“Well, at least now these guns won’t be aimed at me.” He said with smile and slid back to the ground.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John closed the door to the pub and stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. He turned up the collar and exhaled, watching as his breath expanded in front of him. He’d lived in New York all his life, and was used to frigid winters, but European winters were just terrible. He couldn’t understand how the locals could bear it. He sure couldn’t. His boots crunched in the snow as he made the short walk from the building to his jeep. He climbed into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition, praying that it wasn’t too cold for it to start up. His prayers were answered, and the engine rumbled to life. A few short minutes later he drove carefully down the snow-lined road on the way back to base.

As he drove, he took stock of his war up to this point. He’d jumped into Normandy with the 101st Airborne Division. He’d participated briefly in Operation Market-Garden. Now he was serving with the 3rd Infantry Division. John had recently been transferred–by his choice–to the division after his CO tried to force him into a desk job because of his status as a West Pointer. Lucky for him, his father had friends higher up on the chain of command, and had secured John’s transfer to the only available division–the 3ID. He didn’t mind too much–it was better than the guilt he’d feel as a regimental staff officer. While he sat in his heated office, his men would be dying in the cold. He couldn’t do that–he just couldn’t. It wasn’t right. Though he wasn’t with his men anymore, he still felt that he could make a contribution to the war effort.

He hadn’t gotten a chance to prove himself to his new comrades in battle, but he was looking forward to it. It wasn’t that he liked fighting–he loathed it. War was hell, a hell no man should have to endure. The lasting effects of combat were already beginning to take their toll on him. The reason why he wanted to get back into the action again was because he wanted to earn his men’s trust and respect. Without it, he was just a replacement to them. Just a replacement. A replacement like the ones lost in Holland. Some of those boys weren’t even out of their teens. And they’d died, just like any other man. He’d seen some of the veterans of D-Day die as well. Each time a man died, it was like losing a brother.

John sighed and focused his attention on driving the jeep. How many more men would have to die before this war was over? Market-Garden was supposed to end the war by Christmas, and yet there were still men fighting and dying on the front lines. He was lucky that his unit was in reserve, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that they’d be called into battle soon. He didn’t know when, but he could just feel it. And he’d get put to the test, once again.

None of the veterans wanted to go back into combat. They felt that somehow, just maybe, they could survive this war to the end. John shared their optimism, but he still wanted a chance to show his men they he was capable of leading them. He hadn’t gotten that chance, as the unit hadn’t seen combat since he arrived.

John slowed the jeep to a stop on the side of the road, out of the way of incoming traffic, and turned off the engine, straining his ears. He’d heard something. He didn’t know if it was combat reflexes or his imagination, but he thought he’d heard noises. He got out of the jeep, tucking the keys in his pocket, and started walking down the sidewalk. He stopped in front of a nearby warehouse that held Army vehicles and equipment. The door was curiously open, so he stepped inside.

It was dark, but John had gotten so used to the darkness that he didn’t have too difficult of a time seeing. He had to adjust his vision, or else he’d get shot. He’d had to fight at night in the Normandy hedgerows, and it was then that he realized that night vision was crucial to survival. He’d organized several nighttime field maneuvers with his platoon after the campaign, to get them used to fighting in the dark.

John walked past each crate, surreptitiously peering behind it to see if anyone was there. He approached the vehicles at the far end of the warehouse, and it was then that he spotted a G.I.–he wasn’t sure of his rank just yet–sitting on the front of a Sherman. The man looked as if he were talking to himself. John approached the rear end of the tank, which was facing him, and looked up at the soldier.

“Good evening, Private. Enjoying the view?” His voice wasn’t harsh or unkind, but curious. The barracks had been relatively empty, most of the men were out at the bars. What was he doing here?

[nico]

(OOC: Sorry for the short post.)

Nico had been about to leave when a voice broke the silence. He almost jumped out of his skin as he spun about, clicking his heels together and was about to salute as he would to a German officer, he catches himself before completing the salute and switches to the American one. A shiver runs down his spine as he scans the mans uniform and realises he’s standing before a Lieutenant. He blinks rapidly a few times expecting to be shouted at or accused of tampering with the Sherman behind him. He focuses when no shouting starts and tries to remember what the Lieutenant said… something about the view. He swallows the lump in his throat and steadies his breathing.
“Yes Lieutenant, the sight of this Sherman is a terrifying one indeed.” His German accent thick and he was frozen in place, he was wondering if this officer would treat him with the same ‘hospitality’ as the other American soldiers.

“Sir, please be forgiving in my presence here. I am simply exploring, but if you order my return to the barracks I will obey without question.” Nico wondered what the punishment would be if he was in a restricted area. He didn’t know much about the American way of disciplining troops and making them learn their place, but he hoped it wasn’t as harsh as the German way. Not once did he break eye contact with the Lieutenant nor move a muscle from his saluting stance.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John smiled amusedly as the private hesitated before saluting him, as if he had forgotten how to salute. He remembered when he was a cadet at West Point--it had taken him forever to get used to military etiquette and protocol. This had led to many long hours of walking the area as a punishment for demerits.

The Lieutenant returned the salute and nodded at the private's comment, gazing up at the Sherman. Thank God for these. There was many a time he would have been a goner if his unit hadn't been rescued by a nearby armored unit. "Indeed it is, Private. A welcome one, though. A statement of American military might."

He'd picked up on the other man's German accent. It hadn't really fazed him--he'd heard as many accents back home as there are stars in the sky. Immigrants had flocked to the Americas, often arriving--and staying--in New York City. It had always been like that. John's father was the son of an Irish potato farmer who'd come to America near the end of the last century. When Hitler came into power, and eventually started blitzkrieging Europe, there was a massive influx of immigrants.

John was impartial towards foreigners. Who was he to judge them? After all, didn’t everyone have an ‘immigrant’ in their family somewhere? In any case, he believed strongly in the American dream, and that it should be accessible to all who put in the time and effort to achieve it.

It was then that the officer noticed that the man was still saluting. “At ease, Private. As far as I’m concerned, you haven’t broken any rules. Though I do wonder what you’re doing hiding in a garage...” The guy had looked frightened when John had walked in, almost as if he’d been running from someone. He vaguely wondered if it had something to do with his country of origin. He knew about how people were treating immigrants from the countries the United States was currently at war at–particularly the Japs. He’d seen some of the soldiers, even in his own division, mistreat German American troops.

[nico]

Nico lowered his hand back to his side and relaxed his posture slightly, even though he was on edge around most American soldiers he did not harbour any grudge or hatred against them, unlike his old German commanders who always seemed to be angry and looking for any excuse to punish their subordinates, most American officers where kinder and more soft spoken to their troops. The Americans commanded respect, while Nico’s former officers commanded fear.
“Sir, I was forced into this garage sir, in order to evade a group of drunken soldiers who I encountered at a kneipe. Uh-sorry sir… at a pub. I believe their intentions where violent so I took refuge in here.” He cursed his slip of the tongue when trying to say pub, but overall his English was very formal, he had been planning on defecting to the British and so he had learned their stereotypical way of speaking.

The opportunity to join the Americans arose first however and he leapt on it as his sabotaging of the German war machine had been noticed. Nico had been responsible for disabling over eight Tiger Tanks and killing almost thirty German soldiers, three of those had been his old commanding officers. He was almost caught escaping from the scene of his last murder by a patrol and only escaped by throwing himself off a bridge. He barely survived the fall and a few days later managed to make contact with the Allies via a stolen American radio. It had only been a few weeks since he had joined and he had yet to fight against his countrymen. He believed once he fought with the Americans they would start to look upon him under a different light.

At least this American wasn’t trying to hit him or curse at him. He was about to ask why the Lieutenant was in the garage himself but stopped before it slipped out, it wasn’t right for a low rank soldier to question an officer. Nico would speak when spoken too, that was the way he had been taught and it had served him well so far. He knew his place

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John listened to the private’s explanation intently before nodding slowly. If he had been there and seen the troops, he would have reprimanded them, but as he had not been present, he could do nothing about it. A GI and a bottle of whiskey was one of the most dangerous combinations there were. Alcohol could cloud the mind so that a man had no idea what he was doing, but when one was under stress from combat, a soldier could just keep drinking and drinking...and that could cause violence. John occasionally went to pubs and bars, like this particular night, but he wasn’t a heavy drinker. He didn’t treat alcohol as a stress-reliever. Instead, he found writing therapeutic. He’d pen letters home about his experiences–often detailing graphically the things he had done and the horrors he’d seen. He never sent them though. He didn’t know what he’d tell his family when or if he returned home.

“I see...” John answered pensively. He still had the feeling that there was more to this incident than meets the eye, but he dismissed it. No one had gotten hurt, thankfully, and he’d escort the private back to base if he still felt that he was in danger. He noted that the young German had excellent English; though his accent was thick, John had no trouble understanding his words. “I was just driving back to base and I heard noises coming from in here, so I decided to come in and check it out.” he explained with a nod, suspecting that the private might be suspicious about why he was here as well. Though he didn’t answer to him and didn’t have to explain anything, he saw no harm in clearing it up.

“What is your name, Private?” he asked kindly. He didn’t recognize him as being with his outfit, then again he’d just arrived there and it wasn’t as if he could meet the whole division. Besides, he wasn’t able to identify the unit patch on the man’s shoulder, so he assumed he was with another division. There were at least three or four divisions billeting in the camp outside of town, so he could have belonged to one of those. John strode over to the Sherman and climbed on top of it, sitting down near the area the private had occupied previously, and pulled out a cigarette from his pack of Lucky Strikes. It was one of the perks of being an officer–you were issued the best cigarettes the country could make. He’d smoked the enlisted men’s cigarettes before and found them revolting. He held out the pack to the young private. “Cigarette?” he offered.

John lit his own and took another look around the warehouse. Jeeps, tanks, boxes of weapons, and other tools of war were scattered about the place. Thank you, Rosie the Riveter.. he thought to himself, remembering the poster his sister, Anne, had sent him. She was working in a factory, like many of the women back home, producing war materials to help with the effort. She also had a fiancé in the Marine Corps. He sounded like a nice enough guy, but John would have liked to meet him in person, but that was impossible. He hated this war–it interrupted his life. His hatred amused him, since he’d been so eager to get into the war a few years ago. On the other hand, Anne wouldn’t have met her new beau if it wasn’t for the war. What’d she say, she met him at a USO dance? In any case, he was happy for his sister, and for her sake, hoped that her Marine survived the war. He'd heard about how bad it was in the Pacific, with all the disease and jungle rot. He was thankful that he didn't have to deal with the extreme heat and the rain. He was lucky that he could enjoy times like this, sitting in a lit building away from combat and smoking a Lucky Strike.

[nico]

Nico was beginning to relax more around this officer; he had a good vibe from him. He wondered what would have happened if it had of been the drunken soldiers who had walked in instead of the Lieutenant. If that had been the case Nico would probably be on the ground trying to shield himself from a rain of kicks. In the few weeks Nico had been a part of the US army he had been beaten twice by soldiers who had it in their mind that he was a spy for the Germans, it didn’t matter that Nico had helped them, Nico had killed both German soldiers and American ones in his time of military service. Now he was fighting the Germans, but the Americans where still fighting him. The military commanders where still trying to figure out what to do with him and where to place him, he had been stationed at this town until a place could be found for him.

Nico was just a lost soul making his way though the war. His mother had been beaten to death by his father, and his father stabbed to death by Nico. Hard as he tried to make friends with the American soldiers most just ignored him to the point that Nico stopped trying. He was use to solitude and embraced it like a safety blanket, but this Lieutenant seemed to be different to the others.
“My Name is Private Nico Lenion, sir. Still awaiting placement in a Division” Nico half smiled wondering if this Officer would know his name from reports. He doubted it but a few officers had been informed of Nico and his actions against the Germans. His half smile broke into a grin as the Officer held out an offered cigarette, Nico accepted with a nod “Thank you, sir.” Smelling the tobacco before lighting it with a wooden match from his pocket, this was a good cigarette.

Nico found himself wondering if he had ever fought against this Lieutenant in any of the combat he had seen. He didn’t like killing the Americans, but in a war the main rule is kill or be killed. He looked up at the Sherman that the Officer had climbed onto and could picture the tank that had almost crushed him, rolling over the wall he had been taking cover behind, if it wasn’t for a small mortar crater and a large amount of blind luck Nico would have been nothing more but a red smear on the tracks. Curiosity got the best of him and Nico voiced the question.
“Sir. If I may ask, where have you fought?” He doubted that he had fought against this man, and it wouldn’t really make any difference if he had, he just… wanted to know.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

“Well, Private Lenion, I’m glad to meet you. I’m Lieutenant Jack McCreary, 3rd Infantry Division.” John answered, extending a hand for Lenion to shake. He returned the young private’s smile with equal friendliness before taking another puff from his cigarette. Lenion.. The name sounded a little familiar, but he couldn’t place where he had heard it. Maybe at HQ? He couldn’t remember, but instead dismissed it.

He loved the Shermans. Once in a while a generous tank driver would pick him up and take him where he needed to go. Other times, they’d come to his rescue–like at Carentan–when his unit was being overwhelmed by Krauts. They weren’t as heavily armored as those damned Panzers, no, but they were a hell of a lot of help in a fight. He was sure that if it weren’t for these giants, he’d be dead.

His thoughts were interrupted by Lenion’s voice. He was asking him where he’d seen action. “I was attached to the 101st Airborne, 501st Regiment since summer of ‘42. My first combat jump was Normandy, and we stayed on the front lines until early July. I jumped into Holland for Operation Market-Garden, and then I got transferred here.” he replied with a shrug. That was only part of the truth. The Airborne officer had refused to take a battalion staff job, which could possibly lead to a promotion, in favor of transferring to an infantry division. His father had friends higher up on the chain of command, and had indirectly arranged his transfer to the 3rd Infantry Division. Some would ask why a battle-hardened paratrooper would want to go back into combat when he had the chance of leaving the front lines. John’s simple answer was this: he wasn’t going to sit out of the fight while his boys continued to die. He had almost felt guilty, like if he didn’t stay in the war, it was his fault that the men from his former platoon were getting KIA.

He’d felt this guilt every time a man got killed. Why wasn’t it me? Why wasn’t it me with my guts spilled out all over the ground with that look of shock and terror forever frozen on my face? That’s why, he couldn’t take a ticket out of the war. He couldn’t. He was in this thing for the duration, or at least until he died. Besides, he had no responsibilities or obligations for anyone other than himself ( and the men who would be under his command ). He didn’t have a wife or child. He was the youngest kid in his family. His brother was 4-F, so he was the only one serving. John was glad that his older brother hadn’t been drafted–he didn’t want him to go through the things he’d gone through, or to have seen what he had seen. In this respect, he felt ‘older’ in a sense than his brother.

[nico]

Nico kept his face smiling as he shook the Lieutenants hand, he was a little nervous about the less then formal way the conversation was going. But he guessed if you always let rank get in the way you would never make friends.
“A pleasure to meet you Lieutenant McCreary.” Nico took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke float above his head like the smoke from the breach of a 98k as it ejects a spent shell casing.

Holland? Nico had no idea what Operation Market-Garden was, but Nico had fought in Holland. He wondered if he had ever been in the sights of the Lieutenant or one of his men, or if one of his men had been in Nico’s sights.
“I too fought in Holland.” Is all he said as he looked up at the mighty Sherman.

He could remember the tank that crushed the wall he had been hiding behind. He had watched it roll over the top of him from the safety of a mortar crater, and then laying perfectly still as allied soldiers scurried past him following the tank. He had waited for three minutes before moving, following the soldiers and drawing his bayonet. He had on desire to kill the Americans; every shot he had fired had been wide. But if he had to cut them to make it back to the German lines then he would. He clipped the bayonet to the barrel of his 98k, an American soldier with a radio on his back was crouching down beside a wall and blind firing around a corner, Nico came up behind the solider and flipped his rifle around, slamming the stock into the base of the soldier’s neck. He stepped over the unconscious body and peeked around the corner, he counted two German soldiers hiding behind a burning jeep.

He took off his helmet and waved it around the corner, before stepping out, they held their fire at the sight of his uniform and ran up to him, one took cover behind the wall and had a quick look around the wall. The second German was about to speak but could only gasp as Nico’s bayonet sunk into his chest. As the German fell his companion turned around and looked at Nico in confusion. Nico already had his rifle aimed at him. With the flash of light and a crack of sound the German fell, Nico smiled and roughly removed the Americans Radio. He heard a groan of pain and turned around, the German he had stabbed was moving, Nico walked over and stood on the mans chest, raising his rifle high above his head and drove the bayonet into the Germans neck. A shout rang out and he looked up, running towards him was a squad of German solider, without thinking Nico dashed around the corner and sprinted along the wall.

Nico blinked the memory away. “Sir. You where born in America, yes? Is it as beautiful as the stories I have overheard?” He wanted to change the topic of war, they where fighting it, he didn’t want to make a friend talking about it.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

“Oh yes, it’s very beautiful.” John replied affirmatively, his voice growing distant as he thought about his home in Queens. It had been two years since he had seen home. He wondered if he’d ever see home again. “France isn’t too shabby of a place either.” he added quickly. It wasn’t. The country was splendid and picturesque, just as he’d dreamed it would be in his youth. For years, he’d wanted to visit France—and Europe in general. He was finally getting his grand tour. He’d much rather see the place during peacetime, but beggars could not be choosers.

“I’ve lived in New York all my life. I was born and raised there. I only left home for college.” He was glad to leave home, but he was also scared in a way. He remembered the day quite clearly. It was September of 1938. His mother had made the family an extravagant meal. He wasn’t going to just any college, he was going to the United States Military Academy. He wanted to be an officer. He wanted to be in on the fight in Europe right when it started. He wanted to be like his father.

His father was a Sergeant in the Great War. In many ways, he was John’s hero and role model. He’d earned a few medals during the war, which were displayed on a plaque on the wall. One day when John was a kid, his father stared at the medals on the wall and started weeping. He didn’t know why now—but now he knew. He was remembering the things he’d done and seen.

He’d warned John that war was nothing like in the movies. It wasn’t about medals, honor, or glory—it was about killing to survive. And so that’s what he’d done—he’d killed to survive. He couldn’t think about it, otherwise it’d diminish his ability to function as a soldier, and then he knew he would die. But that was enough of that. If he thought too much about it then he’d crack and reach his breaking point.

Instead, he thought about what he’d do after the war. He’d never really considered this, since he wasn’t sure if he’d make it or not. He supposed after he was finished with the Army, he’d write about his experiences. He already wrote about them in a journal. Once he organized them, it might help him to move on and live his life. He’d always wanted to write a book anyway. Then, maybe he’d go to medical school. He’d spent so much time taking lives, maybe after the war he could save them.

“So, where are you from?” he asked Lenion curiously. He’d identified his accent as German, but he wondered where he’d lived before the war.

[nico]

Nico listened to Lieutenant McCreary’s words carefully; in his mind he could see wide-open fields of green and rows of carefully manicured trees. When McCreary started talking of New York Nico’s imaginings turned to a wondrous city of glass and stone, clean streets and shiny new automobiles. It was a fairytale land in the stories his mother use to tell him before she was killed. Where a man can do anything he desires and make a life for himself of such grandeur that even the upper class men and women of Germany would seem like nothing more then middle class citizens. Nico knew they where nothing more then stories, but all stories had a base in facts… right?

Nico crashed back down to earth from his daydreams at Lieutenant McCreary’s question. He cleared his throat before speaking.
“I was born in Berlin. I joined the Heer… um… The German Army, when I was 19. I took part in the invasion of Poland but I defected in Holland, I stole a radio from an American and made contact with an officer, I joined with the American retreat.” He looked back up at the Sherman. “I was a spanner in the gears of Hitler’s War Machine.” Nico wondered if he’d used the right metaphor, he didn’t want to give up too much of his past too quickly, he wasn’t looking for pity.

Nico finished his cigarette and reached his hand into his pocket, pulling out a stick of standard issue chocolate. He opened the pack and broke it in half, offering one half to Lieutenant McCreary before taking a small bite out of his own half. It was good, not as good as some of the chocolate he had gotten back in Germany but it helped to keep his nerves calm.
“Do you have a girlfriend or wife? Children?” Nico was having a little trouble with the conversation, he was unsure of what to speak about so he asked questions that he thought he should and that were appropriate. The other questions he had where about the war and killing. They seemed like personal questions to Nico and he didn’t want to ask them too quickly.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John listened carefully to Nico’s statement before nodding. Apparently he’d been a German soldier before he deserted and joined the US Army. This had surprised John, since he had always thought that all German soldiers were cruel, vile, Nazis. But Nico was just like him. He was doing his job and John was doing his. He did have a sort of respect for Nico for being brave enough to leave the Wehrmacht and fighting for the Americans.

If he really thought about it, he would never be able to leave his country. He loved it to death, the people, the culture—the freedoms he enjoyed. And he would lay down his life to protect those things. In a way, the Germans were fighting for what they believed in. And though it was different than what he cherished, they loved their country as well.

The media made them ( as well as the Japs, for that matter ) out to be subhuman monsters that were inferior to the Americans. That wasn’t true, but to a extent he had to believe some of the propaganda the newspapers put out, or else he wouldn’t be able to serve his purpose as a soldier. He couldn’t dwell on the fact he was killing another human.

John came back to reality when Nico asked his question. “Hm? No, no I don’t. I came over here fresh out of college, so I didn’t really have time for romance.” he explained with a smile. “Though I do hope to change that over here.” He was counting on his pass to Paris to meet a nice French girl. He needed something to take his mind off of the war, and a trip to Paris might be the remedy.

He didn’t know if he wanted to get married. Maybe someday, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get seriously attached to anyone during the war. Not if he was going to die. No matter how skillful he thought he was, or how much adrenaline he thought he had—death was always a possibility. He could be Audie Murphy and he’d have the same chances of survival as everyone else. He didn’t want to settle down until he was sure he could be around to support his wife and family. He supposed he did want to fall in love and get married, but not now. Not here—he didn’t want to make a widow out of his wife. Sure, the Army had life insurance, but he didn’t know if that would be enough. In any case, he needed to focus on his duty, and nothing else.

"What about you?" he asked Nico curiously. He looked fairly young, he guessed in his early twenties, but he could be married and have a family, he supposed. Don't they get married young over here anyway?

[nico]

Nico wondered what collage would have been like. Having someone teaching you all about how the world works, sitting in a classroom listening to the know-it-all ramblings of some smelly old man. Nico didn’t see the attraction in it; he had learnt everything by doing it first hand. No school, no teachers, he had even taught himself English from a stolen translator book. As for the romance side of things, Nico had no experience with women. He had been so hell bent on his own missions that women had never held any interest to him, the only women to enter his life where drunken waitresses who dragged him into back rooms for their own pleasures. He could have had children to them and not even know about them, and they would grow up like him, fatherless. Nico shook his head, getting rid of the memories that where forming in his mind.

“Uh, no. I have no woman, I only have the fight.” Nico hadn’t thought of what he might do after the war was over, when there where no more battles to fight. He guessed he would go back to the life of crime he led before joining the army. Truth be told Nico didn’t want to see the end of the war, he wanted to fight to his last breath and die with his hands around another Germans soldiers throat. The near suicidal risks he took in battle in order to kill just one German soldier where insane, he would launch himself into the line of fire to charge down his enemies, this tactic normally took both his comrades and his enemies by surprise. He had been lucky so far; he hadn’t even been hit yet.

But Nicos luck was sure to run out, and he was counting on it, as far as Nico was concerned he had no other purpose in life except to die in battle. He looked at McCreary, wondering what to ask next, he wasn’t good at long conversations but he was giving it a go.
“You like sports? Sir?” he asked, wondering how long he could keep the conversation going, he wanted to make sure that there would be no more drunken soldiers waiting for him when he returned to the camp.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

I only have the fight as well. Nothing else really mattered. John supposed that was part of the reason he had asked for his transfer. He didn’t have a desire to sit out the rest of the war behind a desk. He wanted to be there, on the front lines, like the rest of his men. It wasn’t that he liked fighting–by God, I hate war. No, it was that he wanted to see this thing through to the end. He wanted to be right there when the Germans surrendered. That’s what he’d signed up for. That’s why he’d joined the paratroops.

He’d been in both major campaigns–Overlord and Market-Garden. He’d bonded with the men under his command, and had led them in the fiercest of firefights. When he’d been ordered to a staff job with his regiment, the 501st PIR, he’d been crushed. He’d known that the Army found him too valuable as a West Point graduate that they didn’t want him serving as a platoon leader anymore. He’d felt that his place was with his men. If he died, so be it, but he’d die alongside his friends, his comrades–his brothers in arms. He’d rather do that than live the rest of his life in guilt–guilt that he’d gotten a ticket out because he had a fancy education, while everyone else was getting killed by Germans. No, he earn his way out if he was lucky enough to survive. He had promised himself, and his dead comrades, that he would earn his ticket home, and that he’d ensure that their sacrifices would not be forgotten, that America would know what they did here.

The only problem was that he had no idea how he could ever fully explain his own experiences to his family. He’d bluntly written out what had transpired in combat in his journal, which was basically a collection of letters to no one. He’d write a letter as if to a friend, but it was all about his combat experiences. However, the letters were never sent.

John felt that he had to share his experiences with someone, but he didn’t really know how. No one would ever comprehend what he’d seen and done unless they were there with him. Only another soldier could truly understand the horrors of war.

Nevertheless, he believed that America needed to know the truth about this war, and how much the cherished ideals of liberty and freedom really cost. They had a right to know that it wasn’t all war bonds and newsreels and ‘doing your bit.’ It was about blood, pain, suffering, death, and grit. That’s what war was. And it was nothing like the movies.

“Yeah...yeah, I do play a few sports. I was a running back and a quarterback in high school. I was also a quarterback in college.” John replied to Nico’s question. He refrained from mentioning West Point, since he knew most of the men ( at least in his outfit ) despised him for it. They thought he was fresh out of school and unfit to lead men into combat, when in fact he had done just that in Normandy and Holland. And it had torn his soul apart. John knew that he’d never be the same man he was before the war. Then he was the cocky, cheerful, charming, athletic kid from Queens who wanted to be a soldier and see the world. Now he was the broken, gloomy, almost unfeeling man who was keenly aware that each day may be his last. No, I’ll never be that guy again. Whatever ‘innocence’ he’d possessed before Normandy had been stripped away when he jumped out of that C-47 into France. His ‘coming-of-age’ per say, had been in the heat of battle.

As an officer, one had to constantly consider the role he had to play as a leader. But in those first moments of combat, John had seriously realized how big of a job this was. And he’d done it to the best of his ability. He’d still do that job, when B Company went into combat. He’d prove to himself, once again, and to his division, that he could and would lead his men efficiently.

“In football, I mean.” John added after a while, realizing that Nico might not have known what sport he was talking about. “I also like to hunt and play baseball...don’t mind fishing either.”

[nico]

Hunting, Nico loved hunting, he had spent his whole life hunting down horrible men, how raped and killed women, mostly SS soldiers, those who seemed to have lost their sense of humanity and thusly where able perform sickening deeds upon others. The thought of those deeds filled Nico with rage and hate.
“I too enjoy hunting, but I never had the patience for fishing sir.” Nico didn’t really care for football either, although he had only seen one game between some soldiers. He had no real hobbies or anything, he had been so obsessed with the killing of other men that he never really had the chance to slow down, now that he was over here he had that chance, but he was bored. He still had to watch out for some people who would harm him if they could but overall he was much safer with the Americans.

He was about to speak when a noise from outside caught his attention, someone had knocked a tool from the bench and it had clattered to the floor, there was a second of silence before a group of men broke out laughing.
“You idiot, and you’re meant to be sneaky” One of them said drunkenly, there was a response but all Nico could hear was a mumble.
“Here little German” another man called out, “Come out to play.” It was the drunken men who had chased him in here in the first place, they had searched the barracks and when they found he wasn’t in his bunk they had retraced their steps and where checking hiding places.
“Go around the other side and (hic) see if he’s round there.” Nico looked at the Lieutenant, maybe they wouldn’t try anything with a ranking officer here, but alcohol had a way of twisting people’s thoughts, removing all trace of rational thinking and making them believe they are invincible.

Nico was about to suggest that they hide when one of the men rounded the side of the tank and spotted him.
“Aye boys! I got him.” He shouted and advanced towards Nico, but he stopped short when he spotted Lieutenant McCreary, he didn’t seem to know what to do, obviously he wasn’t the leader of the group, the others turned up and surrounded them, the leader of the group, a tall dark haired and scruffy looking man took a wobbly step forward.
“Good evening boys, care to join in the fun… Lieutenant?” The had said as he squinted at the gold badge on McCreary’s uniform.
“We’re just gunna have us a little beat down, and your more then welcome to join in.” His words where slurred and he was obviously extremely drunk, as where his men. Nico shaped up to be ready to defend himself.