Guts and Glory

I

June 6, 1944.
It had been three years since the United States entered World War Two, and today, D-Day, was the start of the end for the Germans.
Soldiers boarded armored ships, shaking in fear, knowing this would most likely be a massacre.
Among them stood a woman with dark, brown, calculating eyes and matching hair hidden underneath a green helmet. Armina Soules.
She didn't shake like the rest, for she did not fear death. At least she would be dying for her country, even if she didn't make it up the beach. Besides, it wasn't like anyone was back at home waiting for her return.
She looked around at the men, finding that Zussman and Daniels stood close by, both with a noticeable fear in their eyes.
Turner, their lieutenant, watched the beach of Normandy closely. Pierson, the sergeant, stood close by him, a stoic expression on his face.
Turner was caring and looked after the platoon, like a father would his kids. On the other hand, Pierson was commonly described as a 'hard-ass', in which Soules would have to agree with.
As they were nearing Normandy Beach, the flak guns went hot. Water raged angrily around the boats as soldiers were tossed around inside.
Armina's face remained stony as she felt the boat hit the already blood soaked sand.
This time, fear seeped into her heart, squeezing it with an antagonizing pain.
"Soules, we'll be okay. Just push up the beach, and keep your head down." She hadn't noticed she'd been shaking until Daniels grabbed her shoulder. She nodded solemnly, biting her lip nervously.
Pierson had to admit, he didn't think she would make it off the boat, much less up the beach.
He had always been a strong believer that fighting wars was a man's job, and along comes a woman to prove him wrong.
And he didn't like being wrong.
The wall dropped, allowing the safety of the boat to go up in flames. As if she'd rehearsed this millions of times, in which she had in her mind, she pulled herself over the side of the boat hastily.
The cold water bit her skin. Despite it being summer, it was only in the low 50s. It was cold, but she was used to it. New England winters were no joke.
She almost thought about letting herself drown so she wouldn't have to see the horrors that lie on the beach, but she knew that she had to fight.
She wasn't raised to be a wuss.
She dragged herself out of the crimson dyed water, not stopping for a minute to catch her breath. There was no way she was going to die on this beach. Determination was her guardian angel.
She wasn't a devoted Christian, but she prayed to God she would leave this beach alive.
She was okay with dying any where but on this beach. She wanted to die in battle, not running up a damn beach.
The shore looked like hell. Corpses were everywhere, and the otherwise white sand was stained with blood.
Just advance up the beach.
Her jaw set and her eyes narrowed with determination. She was going to make it up this beach no matter what.

With every step she took, adrenaline and determination fused together in her veins, crawling through them with an intensity like no other. It was eye-opening, and for the first time she joined the platoon, she could see. She could see that she could make it.

She barely dove to the side before flak fire buried itself into the sand where she once stood. Her feet worked by themselves. They pushed against the ground harshly, propelling her forward.

Everything melted away around her. All she could hear was the rushing blood in her ears. She could only feel the cool air around her. The runner's high came faster than she expected, rushing throughout her body like a shock wave.
Another wave of MG fire came over her, so she ducked behind a hedgehog that barely provided cover. As soon as the barrage ended, she jumped back up and began sprinting her way towards the sea wall.
Soules was dead set on reaching that wall, with only two words in her mind.
Primo Victoria. To first victory.
She's be damned to Hell if they didn't win, and she would never surrender. She would never comply. It's surrender or die fighting, and she'd prefer the latter, just like the Lost Battalion.
She looked up to that battalion of the bravest soldiers she knew of, praising them on their defiance and heroicism. Trapped in the Argonne, 550 infantrymen, surrounded by Germans on all sides, subjected to accidental friendly fire; 107 of them were dead, 63 missing, 190 wounded, and 190 suffering fatigue and grieving. Yet, they fought to the death.
She tried not to get too wrapped up in her thoughts, as she was still under live fire.
Soules was close to the seawall, and she could see Daniels and Zussman rushing towards it too, Daniels with a bangalore in his grip. Kopelson and James must have gotten killed.
Armina's back hits the seawall harshly, shielding her from Nazi fire.
Through the gates of hell, as we make our way to heaven through the Nazi lines.
Daniels set the bangalore off, "Fire in the hole!"
"Come on!" yelled Zussman.
"Weapons ready! Attack!" Our lieutenant ordered, and one by one, we rushed through the holes farther into Normandy.
Soules raised her M1 Garand and shot a Kraut in the chest, cursing him for all that he's done.
Each one she shot, she cursed. They had done treacherous deeds, and they deserved this.
"Into the trench! Hurry!" Zussman yelled over the gun fire, barely heard.
Wehrmacht littered the ground and trenches, shot down by Allied forces.
She dove into the trenches, whipping out her 1911 and shooting two Krauts in the head as she went down. Armina pulled herself behind ammunition crates marked with Prussian Crosses and German printing.
The brunette once again pulled out her Garand, and though it wasn't her favorite, she was damn good with it. She'd be damned if she didn't put her training to use.
Peaking from around the corner, a Nazi came into her view, so she aimed down her sights and put one right through the dome. The soldier fell backwards, staring into the heavens with unblinking eyes. Perhaps he was one of the ones that were forced into being a Nazi in fear of death. Even if he wasn't, he more than likely wasn't told about the Final Solution. A solution to kill every Jew. The sickest, most disgusting plan Hitler could of come up with.
With the trenches cleared, they were left with one problem. MGs were still live. Barely any cover lay above ground, and they needed to act fast.
"We can't advance with those MGs firing on our position!" Sergeant Pierson yelled in Turner's direction, pressed against the trench walls. The Privates all fell in behind them, crouching and breathing heavily.
"Hold tight. Fire support incoming," Turner looked unfazed by the bloody warfare, but that's what could be expected of a veteran. "Marking the target area!"
Soules braced herself for a sudden loud noise, and almost immediately, explosions racked the ground, its epicenter being the MG nests.
"That's it! Let 'em have it!" Aiello, a Brooklyn raised man, yelled, a victorious tone under his tongue.
"MGs are dead!" Stiles pointed out, and Armina turned to him.
"No shit, Stiles." She quipped, smiling. He shrugged with a dorky smile.
"Ain't nuthin' left!" Daniels called out in his Texan accent, which Soules admired. All she had was a Northern accent from Boston.
"Get to the top!"
"Daniels, Zussman, Soules, up here!"
They climbed the trench walls, regrouping with the squad topside, Turner ushering them over.
Shots still rang out in the air, but not nearly as often as they were when the MG nests were live. Terrified and dying screams still dug their way into the first platoon's ears, giving every last one of the Privates shivers. That could be them.
"Help me please! Please!" A soldier just a few yards to their left called out.
"Lieutenant, let me. I can regroup with you in the first bunker." Soules spoke, cringing as the soldier called out again. She couldn't let another soldier suffer.
"Go," He sighed, "You better meet us in that bunker." He gave her a pointed look, and her face set into one of determination.
"Yes sir." She silently thanked Turner's compassion as a human being, but did not miss Pierson's disapproving look.
She wasted no time, dodging bullets on her way over to the fallen soldier, who met eyes with her. She landed next to him, dragging him behind cover. The sandbags didn't provide much room for the two soldiers, but Armina made quick work of giving the fallen one morphine.
"You're gonna be okay, promise," she comforted softly as she dug out a medical bag she stuffed in her pack long before she'd gotten off the boat. "you're gonna get back to your mama, just you wait." She didn't know if she was lying to him, and she hoped she wasn't.
The soldier - Roberts, as dubbed by his dogtag - was bleeding heavily from his stomach where a bullet had pierced his stomach cleanly. Checking for an exit hole, she put pressure on the wound. She found no exit, much to her distaste. She had to get him to a CCP, dead or alive.
She plastered him up and best she could with her limited knowledge, then grabbed him by the straps on his shoulders.
"I'm gonna get you to a CCP, ya' hear me? You just gotta stay with me. Don't fuckin' fall asleep, you keep your eyes open wide!" Soules dragged him off towards the CCP - which she hoped was set up already - yelling at the man to stay awake. She was armed with only her 1911, having left her Garand in exchange for the dying man. His pistol had fallen away many paces ago, left forgotten in bloody sand next to dead men of both sides. Some laid without heads, some without limbs - they were nowhere to be seen at that moment - and mismatched body parts followed in trails, blood mixing in rivers and trickling down into the Earth, leaving their mark in memory of the fallen. She wondered if the blood would ever be washed away and forgotten in the ocean like a shell left on the beach, or would it stay, reminding everyone of a victorious and revolutionary moment, keeping the ghosts of these men trapped in the grains of sand forevermore? She wondered if she would be among these men, wandering the beaches after her death, searching for the peace she yearned for. And again she wondered if she would even die in these foreign lands.

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