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Fallen Angels
By
Apollo Thrace

Prologue

Soldiers rush out into the ruined courtyard like droves of tattered dominos ready to fall. German MG 42 tracers seem to burst out before the muzzles even flash from the machine gun nests, and like clockwork, the conscripts begin to fall one by one. Shrieks of pain and anguish are muted only by the deafening roar of artillery strikes and air support, along with the intermittent sounds of pistol fire from superior officers shooting deserters. Walls seem to shatter like panes of glass as M5A1 Stuart tanks fired at enemy troops. Medics rushing to the fallen soldiers, trying to tend the bloody wounds as gunfire roared over their heads. Fire lighting up the night sky as distant AA guns fired at the Allied planes.

One soldier lies in the middle of the battlefield, breathing deeply. His M1 Garand rifle still gripped in his hand, finger still on the trigger. His helmet lays a few feet away from his head, shrapnel and small bits of gravel inside. A medic kneels over him, his uniform torn and bloody. His name tag reads “Tansley.”

“SOLDIER! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!”, Tansley yells over the explosions and gunfire.

The soldier pops his eyes open and takes another deep breath, then violently coughs up the mucus lining his throat. He spits and stares at the medic with amazement, his eyes glassed over as if he was crying.

“QUIT STARING AND GET YOUR a** UP! WE GOT A WAR TO FIGHT!”, Tansley yelled again, holding out his hand to the lone soldier.

The soldier takes the Tansley’s hand and pulls himself up, readying his rifle. They both run to near cover behind a fallen tree in the courtyard. Rounds ping off the tree and splinters fly everywhere. Tansley and the soldier duck down, breathing heavily.

“Wha-what’s happened?”, the soldier asked, checking himself for any bullet wounds.

Tansley leans in close to the soldier and grabs his uniform, wipes off the dust and reads the name tag.

“Well SGT. Dalby, it seems that you were right beside a grenade when it went off. The blast must’ve knocked you out.”, Tansley said. “You are lucky you didn’t lose an arm.”

Like the battle was put on mute, Dalby and Tansley heard one of the most dreaded words to come out of a panzer grenadier’s mouth.

“GRANATE!”, a panzer grenadier yelled as he tossed a stielhandgranate to their position.

The “stick grenade”, as most Allied troops called them, landed right in the middle of the two tired soldiers. Tansley fearfully scurried away , kicking the stick grenade right beside Dalby’s foot. Tansley stood and ran for cover behind an Allied tank, but quickly gets shot down by a German sniper sitting on a far rooftop. He falls to the ground as if he was in slow motion, everything unreal.

Dalby stares at the stick grenade and kicks it away, only to be caught in the blast of it. Dalby gets thrown away from the precious cover of the tree and lands in a small shrub, the sticks poking and prodding his wounds. He cries out like a baby would cry out to his mother. As his vision blurs and everything rolls into one, he asks the one fatal question that befalls every fallen soldier.

“Why…?”

thank you 3nodding

Nice I like it

It's fascinating how the description surrounds you like you're there.. well done you must continue I'd like to read more of your works. mrgreen

I've read it a while ago, but never commented. That's one way to stir up the emotions. Good writing.

Thanks everyone sweatdrop I'm glad i got some positive feedback

Very good 3nodding

awesome