The sergeant peeked over the sand dune as another explosion rocked the beach. He ducked back down, his face grim.
"Alright, listen up," he barked, turning to the huddled soldiers. "We wait for the next wave to hit the shore. Hate to say it, but we need those boys to draw the Germans' fire." He pointed toward the base of the bunkers ahead. "When they do, we run for that trench. If we make it, we'll be under their line of sight."
No one cheered. No one even spoke. The men just exchanged glances and nodded silently. Some clutched their rifles tighter. Others stared at the sand, their faces blank with exhaustion.
The sergeant didn't push them. He knew better. Just being alive on this godforsaken beach was asking enough.
Edison stayed quiet. He wasn't a leader—just some guy thrown into hell with borrowed memories and no real experience. The body he was in knew how to handle a rifle, but he had never been in a fight like this.
Then the black soldier spoke up, setting his bazooka down with a thud.
"Come on," he said, his voice rough but steady. "Europe ain't gonna save itself. Somebody's gotta make it through."
A few heads lifted. Someone let out a dry chuckle.
The sergeant gave a sharp nod. "Damn right."
In the distance, the roar of landing craft engines grew louder. The next wave was coming.
Edison checked his rifle again. His hands now steady.
A hardened resolve settled over the men. One soldier spat into the sand and growled, "Let's kill those Nazi sons of bitches."
A chorus of grim agreements followed.
The sergeant didn't waste time. He crouched at the edge of the dune, scanning the path ahead.
Then—a piercing whistle cut through the chaos.
The new wave had landed.
"GO!" the sergeant roared, bursting from cover.
Edison charged after him, legs pumping through the churned-up sand. The black soldier was right behind him, his heavy machine gun braced against his hip.
Bullets still flew, but fewer now—the German gunners were distracted by the fresh troops hitting the beach.
They reached the trench in seconds.
The scene inside was chaos. German soldiers scrambled like ants, hauling ammo crates toward the bunkers. They hadn't expected an assault to reach them.
The sergeant leapt into the trench first, his Thompson roaring to life. Brass casings flew as he gun down three men before they could react.
Edison dropped in after him, rifle raised. A young German soldier fumbled with his Kar98k—Edison didn't hesitate. He fired twice. The man crumpled.
To his right, the black soldier unleashed hell with his machine gun, stitching bullets through a group of Germans trying to set up an MG34. They fell like wheat before a scythe.
For a brief, brutal minute, the trench belonged to them.
The trench fell silent—for now. German bodies littered the ground, their weapons scattered in the dirt. The sergeant wasted no time. He grabbed Edison, the black soldier, and a wiry man lugging a flamethrower.
"We're taking that bunker," he barked, pointing up the slope to the concrete fortification. "Clear it, and we open a path for our boys to move in."
The remaining soldiers nodded, spreading out to hold the trench line.
The small assault team moved fast but carefully now. No more reckless charges—this was close-quarters hell. The bunker's machine gun couldn't angle low enough to hit them, but the Germans inside had to know they were coming. Gunfire from the trench below would've been warning enough.
Edison kept his rifle trained upward, finger resting on the trigger. Every shadow, every movement made his muscles tense.
Soon, they reached the rear of the bunker, crouching behind stacks of ammunition crates.
Through the smoke, Edison saw German soldiers scrambling—some hauling ammo inside, others hurling grenades down toward the trench.
Without thinking, Edison took aim.
Crack! Crack!
Two shots. The grenade-thrower jerked backward and collapsed.
Another German spun toward them, raising his rifle—
Brrrrt!
The black soldier's machine gun cut him down mid-turn.
The sergeant motioned toward the bunker's rear entrance—a narrow, dark doorway. "Flamethrower up front," he ordered. "Burn 'em out."
The soldier with the flamethrower adjusted his grip, his face pale but determined. The sergeant counted down with his fingers.
Three. Two. One.
They rushed the door.
The flamethrower fired with a loud whoosh, blasting flames down the tight hallway. Fire raced along the walls, eating everything in its path.
Screams filled the bunker—painful, awful screams.
A few German soldiers ran into the hall, their clothes on fire, skin burning black. Edison shot them fast, his bullets joining the black soldier's machine gun fire.
The burning men fell, their screams stopping suddenly.
The smell hit Edison hard—burning hair, cooked meat, something sweet but rotten. His stomach turned, but he forced himself not to puke.
They were trying to kill us. They'd have done the same.
It didn't make him feel better.
The sergeant moved ahead, kicking doors open and firing his Thompson in short bursts. The black soldier followed, machine gun ready. The flamethrower man stayed close, his weapon still dripping fuel.
Edison watched their backs, rifle shaking in his hands but still steady. A wounded German jumped out from a side room, bayonet pointed—
Crack!
Edison shot him in the face. The man dropped dead.
When they reached the main room, the bunker was quiet except for the sound of flames. The machine gun sat empty, half-loaded with bullets. The gunners were gone.
The sergeant spat. "Clear."
Edison leaned on the wall, tired all at once. He felt nothing now—no guilt, no fear, just tired and glad to be alive.
The sergeant wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "We hold this bunker," he said, voice rough. "Our boys will notice the guns stopped firing. Once enough get through, the whole damn beach will open up."
He pointed to the black soldier. "You—take the right passage. Shoot anything that moves."
Then to Edison: "You take the left side. Stay sharp."
The sergeant grabbed a crate of German grenades and kicked it toward the bunker entrance. "Even if they come at us, we've got enough firepower now to hold 'em off."
Edison nodded and moved to his position. The left passage gave him a clear view of the beach below.
The sand was littered with bodies, but more soldiers were pushing forward now that the bunker's machine gun had gone silent.
He crouched low, rifle resting on the concrete edge. The Germans in the other bunkers were still busy mowing down the waves of soldiers from the beach—they probably hadn't noticed the commition here yet.
Edison checked his ammo. Plenty left. He pulled a few German grenades from the crate and lined them up beside him.
Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Edison turned and saw the flamethrower soldier. "Sergeant sent me," he said, crouching beside him. "I'm with you on the left side, he's helping on the right side."
Edison nodded, shifting to make room. The bunker's left firing slit gave them a clear view of the beach—endless sand littered with bodies, the tide washing red around them.
The soldier introduced himself as Michael, and he was from Arlington, he said. Owned a diner with his brother before the draft notice came. "Best damn blueberry pancakes you'll find anywhere," he murmured, his eyes distant. "You ever been there?"
Edison shook his head.
Michael chuckled. "Well, when this is over—"
BANG!
The gunshot was deafening in the confined space. Edison turned just in time to see Michael's grin twist into shock, his hands flying to his throat as blood pulsed between his fingers. His mouth opened, but no sound came out—just a wet, choking gasp as he crumpled against the bunker wall.
Edison grabbed for his rifle—
WHACK!
White pain exploded across his face. A shadow loomed over him—a German soldier, his uniform half-burned away, the left side of his face a ruined mess of blistered flesh.
The man's pistol was still smoking, his good eye wild with pain and rage as he swung the weapon like a club.
Edison didn't think—he lunged.
They crashed to the ground. Edison tried to pin him, fingers scrambling for his sidearm.
The German drove an elbow into his gut—all the air rushed out of Edison's lungs.
Gasping, Edison fell back, his vision swimming. The German was on him in an instant, hands closing around his throat with crushing force.
"Stirb! Du verdammtes Schwein!" the man spat, his breath reeking of blood and burned meat.
Edison's vision tunneled. His fingers scraped concrete, searching for anything—
A handle!
His hand closed around the wooden handle of a hammer—left behind by some German engineer, maybe. He swung blindly.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. The German fell over and screamed, clutching at his eye.
Edison didn't hesitate. He got up and jumped on the German soldier and brought the hammer down again. And again.
The German's screams turned to gurgles, then silence.
When Edison finally stopped, his arms shook with exhaustion. The German's face was pulp. Blood dripped from the hammer's head, thick and dark.
A wet, choking sound made him turn.
Michael was still alive—barely. His chest hitched with shallow, desperate breaths, each one sending fresh bubbles of blood past his lips. His eyes locked onto Edison's, pleading.
Edison dropped his hammer and scrambled for his first-aid kit, fingers fumbling with the straps. Morphine. Bandages. Something. But when he pulled Michael's hand away from the wound, his stomach dropped.
The bullet had torn clean through his throat. A gaping hole where his Adam's apple should be. No bandage could fix that. No morphine could stop it.
"Hey—hey, look at me," Edison said, gripping Michael's shoulder. But the man's eyes were already glazing over, his breaths slowing. A final, shuddering exhale, and then—nothing.
The bunker was silent.
Edison stood up slowly and turned his head towards the beach. Beyond the firing slit, the sand was filled with broken bodies.
This wasn't war.
This was hell.