"Grenade! Grenade!" Sergeant Bauer barked to his men. He hurled two pineapples into the shattered building—there were two earth-shaking booms, but no screams followed.
"Damn it, he's still alive! Keep your eyes open, everybody!"
"Conway, Rambo…" Bauer called his two privates over and swept his arm left then right, signaling them to cover the doorway.
Conway and Rambo exchanged a look, nodded, and slid to the left and right flanks of the exit without peeking inside. That's how seasoned veterans do it: in urban combat, once you know there are no civilians to worry about, poking your head around can get you killed.
"Sergeant, grenade!" Rambo said, taking the "pineapple" from Bauer's outstretched hand. He pulled the pin, counted two seconds under his breath, and lobbed it back inside.
The delayed blast tore through the room, sending a wave of smoke, dust, and metal fragments spraying out the doorway.
"Now—go!" Despite the smoke and debris, Conway and Rambo pressed their Thompsons to full auto and charged into the room, taking up positions on either side of the doorway.
"Clear!"
"Clear!"
Sergeant Bauer stepped inside, Thompson in hand. "Did we get that bastard?"
"No, sir—he got away!"
"That damn Kraut took one of my brothers! I'm gonna catch him!" Bauer spat, then looked up at the ceiling. A gaping hole—blasted out by a bomber's bomb—let in the pale, dust-laden daylight. In one corner stood a half-collapsed stairwell still clinging to the upper floor. Bauer glanced at it, then strode toward it.
"No one upstairs, Sergeant!" Rambo called out as he swapped magazines.
"I know," Bauer said without slowing. "This spot's perfect. If we set up a MG up there, we'll have the whole street pinned."
"Watch your six, Sarge—there could be Germans in that opposite building!" Rambo warned.
"Thanks, buddy—I owe you dinner," Bauer called over his shoulder with a grin.
"Dinner's on you? Forget it," Rambo laughed, popping a wad of gum. "You know I'm single—set me up with your sister and you'll really do me a favor."
"You son of a bitch… Fine. I'll introduce you, but you earn her respect yourself," Bauer said with a shrug.
"Don't worry, Sergeant. I'll sweep her off her feet."
"Get lucky, huh?" Bauer shot a glance at Conway, who was hustling off to round up the others. "And you—go get the rest of the squad over here, now!"
Conway raced off. Rambo drifted into the next room. Bauer shook his head and climbed the stairs.
BOOM!
A thunderous explosion ripped through the floor beneath him, hurling Bauer across the room like a rag doll. The blast charred his flesh to a crisp; his uniform was shredded, and looming rubble pinned half his body under collapsed floorboards.
"Sergeant!" Rambo staggered into the main room, disoriented by the shockwave. Conway and a handful of GIs poured in behind him. They found Bauer's soot-blackened face, half-buried under fallen timbers. He was dead.
"Sergeant…" Rambo's voice broke as he slammed the bolt shut on his rifle, unable to look.
"He saved my life—and died saving me again," Conway muttered, rage twisting his features. "Damn it, I owe him big. I'll make that bastard pay!"
"Report to the second Lieutenant : Sergeant Bauer was killed by a German booby-trap!" one of Bauer's men shouted.
"Damn it —two men down and we haven't even engaged the enemy!" Joanner snapped. "All units: maximum vigilance. Fortify your positions immediately!"
I clenched my jaw. Our assault had barely begun, and already two casualties? That'd crush morale. I paced, then stopped beside Brooks.
"At this rate, we'll collapse under these losses. We need tank support—Brooks, where are the armor units?"
"The armored column reports heavy anti-tank mines and obstacles on every approach. They can't advance until engineers clear the path," Brooks replied.
"Damn it! Fit them with mine-clearing gear and move them in!" I barked.
"Sir, logistics says the equipment won't arrive until tomorrow. They need combat engineers to clear the mines first."
"For God's sake! So we're on our own. Fine. Gibbs—your 2nd Platoon shadows Joanner's teams at a safe distance. Provide covering fire if they get pinned. And tell Joanner not to skimp on grenades. I want ten per room—we'll blast those Krauts out of every room!"
Exaggerated as it may sound, grenades trumped bullets in close-quarters fighting. In Stalingrad, urban tactics evolved into what soldiers called "grenade barrages." A single AMR infantry battalion could burn through five hundred grenades in a day of street fighting—and sometimes far more.
"Captain Carter says—ten grenades per room, sir!" the orderly reported.
"I know!" Joanner yelled over his shoulder. "Tell Rambo he's promoted to squad leader. Send him to secure the top floor—set up a machine gun up there!"
"Yes, sir!" the orderly sprinted off.
"Clyde! We're taking that building's top floor—come with us?" Rambo called back.
"I'm in. Gotta get revenge for Cook," Clyde replied, glancing at his fallen friend.
"Good—move out."
Above us, Birkman had climbed up from the city sewers to this building. Another explosion shook the ruins, and he smiled grimly. "Wonder how many Yanks that one got."
"Birkman, you back?" a German private called from the shadows. "Nicely done!"
"Stay sharp—the Americans are coming," Birkman warned, tapping the young rifleman on the shoulder.
"They won't set foot through that door with me here," the private said, steeling himself.
Since the war began, Birkman had seen too many corpses—German, Allied, civilian. He'd grown numb. Fighting for Germany? No, he told himself, fighting so those atrocities in occupied lands never happen again. "I'm just a walking corpse with a rifle," he muttered. "All I do is survive, fight, defend the Fatherland."
Memories flooded back: his wife and toddler vaporized in an Allied raid, their screams echoing alongside faces of fallen comrades. Unbidden tears welled in his eyes.
Someone began humming the German Army's "Erika." Low and mournful, it brought visions of fallen brothers, bloody battles, haunting every soldier until tears silently tracked down their faces.
War's true victims are the powerless—civilians and foot soldiers. They're not generals or politicians; they're pawns forced into a fight they never chose. Civilians lose homes and loved ones in the blink of an eye, unable to discern right from wrong. Soldiers are ordered to charge, hold, die—fighting not for glory, but for the hope of seeing the next sunrise.
History books record victories and defeats; they ignore the crushing toll borne by those who never come home. Mothers weep among ruins; children age overnight; strangers in trenches shield each other from bullets.
There are no winners in war. Nations may cheer, but every triumph is paid for in blood. The powerless bear the weight of consequences they never asked for—sacrifices that fade into cold statistics.
Those who truly understand war will never start one. They know the first to fall are never the policymakers—they're the innocent and the good.