1943

Hunter gasped as his eyes snapped open, squinting up at the blue sky. His ears still rang.

Ash drifted down like snow.

The distant thunder of war rolled on.

His hands shot to his abdomen.

No holes. Good. But… how? The Tiger had me point-blank.

He rolled onto his stomach and lifted his head.

Two Tiger tanks burned in the distance—one of them half-melted.

“What the…?”

He turned, looking back. Three Shermans still burned, thick black smoke rolling off of them.

Okay. Remember that.

He grabbed his M1 and started crawling toward the Shermans.

“Jones? Baker? Rodriguez? Anyone?” His voice came out low, raw.

Nothing.

“Shit.”

He pushed through the smoke, slid into a foxhole, and drew in a shaky breath, rubbing his eyes.

Then it hit him.

Where is everyone?

Where are the bodies?

We were the last four.

He swallowed.

I was out in the open. Jones was hit. No way Baker and Rodriguez moved everyone.

Okay. The unit came through. Picked them up. Missed me.

Yeah, that tracks.

He stared through the haze at the melted Tiger.

Then explain that.

He leaned back, closing his eyes.

Think, damn it. Think.

He snapped upright, shouldered his M1, and held his breath, listening.

There.

A woman’s voice. Faint. Distant.

What the fuck is she saying?

He strained to hear—

“Du… du… Mose… du musst—”

Fuck the Germans.

He scrambled out of the foxhole and ran.

Ran and ran, never looking back, until he burst onto a road.

Fuck. Wrong way.

This is not good.

Shit.

He turned, scanning down the road. Nothing. The other way, nothing.

A branch cracked to his left.

He spun, rifle up.

“Show yourself!”

“Du musst dich bewegen.”

Same voice, clear now. Closer.

“Fuck.”

He turned and ran until his lungs burned and his legs went numb.

He dropped to his knees, sucking in air, then rocked back.

A war-scarred village stood before him.

Yeah, definitely the wrong way.

He forced himself up, steadying his breath, and moved toward it, rifle raised.

“Bonjour? Anyone? Hello?”

Nothing.

He eased down a narrow cobblestone street, passing buildings gutted by fire or reduced to rubble, toward the village center.

Water still flowed from the fountain.

He rushed to it, scooping water into his mouth.

Relief washed over him. He let out a breath and sank down beside it, shoulders loosening.

Okay, now what?

He scanned the village.

Movement in a doorway.

He shot to his feet, rifle up.

“Zeig dick! Mon…tre-too!”

“Bonjour…” The voice was small, frightened. “Americin?”

“Yes, yes. American.”

A small boy stepped out. Filthy. Shy.

“English?”

The boy nodded. “Li… little.”

“Where is everyone?”

The boy turned and pointed to a large barn at the edge of the village. “Germans take.”

Hunter followed his gaze. “Why?”

“To burn them.”

Hunter’s jaw tightened.

“Why haven’t they yet?”

The boy swallowed. “Waiting for SS… They want to watch.”

“Do you know when the SS is supposed to get here?”

“Morning.”

Hunter glanced at the setting sun, then took inventory.

Four clips. One knife.

“Shit.”

“How many are guarding them?”

The boy held up four fingers, eyes fixed on the barn.

Hunter knelt. “I need you to go hide, okay?”

The boy nodded.

“Good,” he stood. “Well… here goes nothing.”

The boy watched as Hunter made his way toward the barn.

“Tu as bien fait,” a woman said.

She stepped up behind him and placed a lollipop in his hand.

They stood there, watching Hunter as he crouched behind a stone wall and disappeared.

The woman smiled. She unwrapped a second lollipop, slipped it into her mouth, then turned and walked away.

Hunter crawled to within a few yards of the barn, taking cover behind another low stone wall.

He drew a steadying breath, slipped off his ammo belt and dog tags, and set them aside.

Then he pulled his knife… and waited.

Voices drifted from inside the barn. German.

The creak of a door opening, his muscles tensed.

Footsteps came his way.

His pulse quickened, his grip tightened

The footsteps stop at the wall.

Zip, then the sound of water hitting the wall.

Zip, the steps started heading back.

Hunter slipped over the wall behind the German.

In one move he drove his knife into the base of the German’s skull, not letting the body hit the ground and drug him back over the wall

Fuck you’re heavy.

“Schmidt… Schmidt.”

Fuck!

Muttering in German, then the rattle of rifles, bolts cycling.

Hunter pulled his M1 close, inhaled, and popped up.

Two shots. Two men down.

A flash.

He spun. Pain tore through his shoulder.

Didn’t matter.

A bolt cycled close. Kar98k.

He raised the M1 one-handed and fired.

The recoil knocked him flat.

Did I get him?

A wet wheeze came from the other side of the wall.

Got him.

Pain shot through him as he stood. He reached over and touched his left ‌shoulder. A huge gash was carved into his deltoid.

“This is not good.”

Holding his shoulder, he made his way to the barn, and the locked main door.

“Of course.”

He looked around and found a pipe and wedged into the lock with his good arm and popped it off.

Inside huddled men, women, and children,

“I’m American, you are safe come, you’re safe

They looked at each other with confusion

“American?”

“Yes, come, come, you’re saved now. Um vane…vane.”

Well, at least until sunrise, I’ll get there when I get there.

They stood and slowly made their way to him. The men shook his hand, the women and children gave him hugs.

One woman stopped and looked at his shoulder. “Come with me; we need to tend to that.”

“You speak English?”

“Yes, now come, oh and by the way, it’s vien not vane, but nice try.”

She guided him to a small clinic on the village square, windows blown out, outer walls scorched black, and eased him into a chair.

“How does an American get this far behind German lines?” She asked, digging through cabinets.

“We’re behind German lines?”

“Yes. About three kilometers.”

“Fuck… didn’t know we made it that far.”

She pulled up a stool beside him, setting a tray of supplies within reach.

“We’re out of anesthetic. This is going to hurt.”

He nodded.

He grimaced as she began cleaning the wound.

“Where is the rest of your unit?”

“Don’t…” he grunted, “…know. I was knocked out. When I woke up… everyone was gone.”

She kept working. “How did you get here?”

“I heard…” He flinched. “…the Germans. Ran. Ended up here.”

“I see.”

He looked at her. “You need to get everyone out. The SS is coming at dawn.”

“Yes. We know. They told us.” She continued stitching. “Hopefully our elders are getting everyone organized.”

Snip.

“All done.” She glanced at him. “And you, American—what do you plan on doing?”

Hunter stared at the floor. “Don’t know yet.”

“You can come with us.”

He took a slow breath. “No. Can’t.”

“Why?”

“When they show up and find four of their own dead, they’ll level this place… then hunt you down.”

He dragged a hand across his face.

“I’m going to stay behind. Draw them to me.”

“Fuck my life.”

“How?”

Hunter looked up.

“I’m going to shoot at them.”

She drew a shaky breath and stood, wiping at her eyes.

She stepped in, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed his forehead.

Then she turned and walked away.

At the doorway, she paused.

A glance back.

A small nod.

Then she was gone.

He sat there, swaying in the chair.

“Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad… doesn’t look like I’m coming home.”

He closed his eyes and took a slow breath.

“Well… they’re not going to wait for me.”

He pushed himself up and made his way back to the barn, pausing to watch the villagers as they slipped away.

Pretty sure I’ll get a plaque or something. Shit… didn’t tell anyone my name.

He shrugged.

Oh well.

At the barn, he picked up his M1, checked his ammo, then searched the dead German.

Ooh… P38. Nice.

He stepped into a small side room and stopped.

“Yes.”

Propped against the wall: an MG42.

Four ammo cans.

Two spare barrels.

“At least this makes it a little fun.”

He grabbed what he could and hauled it to a low stone wall opposite the villagers’ escape route.

Back and forth.

Trip after trip.

Then he set to work, knocking loose stones, bracing the gun, feeding the belt, and charging the action.

Now I wait.

The rumble of heavy armor broke the silence as the first rays of dawn kissed the sky.

Ten… fifteen minutes. Tops.

He pulled the letter from his breast pocket and wedged it between two stones.

Hopefully I get blown up. Bleeding out would suck.

His breath hitched as the first tank rolled into view, coming straight for him.

“That’s it… keep coming.”

It stopped.

“Fuck. What are you doing?”

A soldier ran up, pointing toward the villagers.

“Fuck!”

The tank turned, grinding toward them. Infantry followed close behind.

“Showtime.”

He inhaled.

Remember, short bursts.

He squeezed.

Several infantry dropped. The rest scattered, returning fire.

Squeeze. Release.

Squeeze. Release.

The turret began to turn toward him, he didn’t let up.

Squeeze. Release. Repeat.

The first shell slammed into the ground just feet away, dirt and rock blasting over him.

He didn’t stop.

He saw the flash of the second shot.

This is it. Goodbye, world.

A white-hot streak tore in from behind him—

It struck the shell mid-air.

The explosion ripped it apart before it could reach him.

Another streak followed.

punching straight through the tank.

The metal sagged, warped…

melted.

Hunter blinked.

What the fuck?

Squeeze. Release. Repeat.

He didn’t stop.

Then, he did.

He grabbed a spare barrel, cracked open the MG42.

“Shit… how am I going to, fuck it.”

He let it drop, snatched up his M1, and shouldered it.

The stitches in his shoulder tore.

“Fuck it.”

He fired. Reloaded. Charged.

Stop. Reload.

Then he pushed forward.

Ping. Empty.

He drew the P38 and moved into the village, firing at anything that moved.

Something arced toward him.

He glanced down.

Potato masher.

Fuck.

He ran, leapt for a low wall…

The explosion caught him mid-air, slamming him into stone.

Sound vanished.

His vision folded in on itself.

black.

Hunter winced at being slapped in the face

“Hey! Wake up!”

Another slap.

“Hey!”

He squinted, taking a breath

“What the…”

A woman sat in front of him, her nose almost touching his.

“Hi.”

He shoved her back. “whoa! Who the fuck are you?”

She rocked onto her heels, crossed her legs, and smiled.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” she chirped.

“Like a lovesick teenager.”

She frowned. “I’m not a teenager.”

“Huh?”

She leaned forward, elbows in the dirt, chin in her hands. “Can I ask you something?”

“Wait, why’d you skip the ‘lovesick’ part?” He scooted back, pressing against the wall. “Who the fuck are you? Why is your hair purple? What the fuck are you wearing? Is that paint?”

“Answer my question first. Then I’ll answer yours… maybe.”

Some of the playfulness drained from her voice.

“Why did you charge that tank?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Please… I have to know.” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Why did you charge that tank?”

“They were killing my friends.”

She leaned back, hands lifting slightly as she glanced around. “And these villagers.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice.”

She leaned in again.

“You can choose to… or not to.”

“You always choose to.”

Her eyes locked onto his.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know; to me it’s never a choice.”

She sat up straight and smiled, nodded, and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Alex.”