Answer:
The exploding artillery shells blossomed all around him, turning the dark of
night into fiery orange day. The rattle of machine-gun fire sliced through the
endless booming, carving a spray of concrete chips from the stoop
dangerously close to his combat boots.
The soldier crouched in the doorway of what had once been a small
bakery. Now it was just a burnt-out shell, along with the rest of the French
town, after days of air and artillery bombardment, mortar strikes, and sniper
fire.
He was separated from his unit—if there was any unit to be separated
from anymore. His entire company had been cut to pieces by a Panzer
division as they waited in vain for their own tanks to arrive. It had been how
long—ten minutes? fifteen?—since he had last seen an American uniform.
Not an upright one, anyway. The dead from both sides lay thick in the streets.
The soldier had survived many battles in this war … but it was time to face
the fact that this one might very well be his last.
The flash came a split second before the explosion. The bakery
disintegrated around him, collapsing into dust. At the last instant, he hurled
himself out into the street, just as the heavy wooden door frame came down.
He was alive—but now he was exposed. He could feel the dozens of German
And then—hope. Rattling up the ruined street came the first of the
American Shermans, late to the battle but maybe not too late for him. The
soldier leaped onto the tank, scrambling up over the tread to a precarious
