Chapter One: Craving Coffee and Burped Bullets

Edward's POV

My eyes observe the swiveling wisps of smoke as they choke the chilled air that travels straight to your bones, icing them over, forcing muscles stiff. I shrug the thin woolen jacket closer to my chest, cradling the coveted 7.65 caliber Wather pistol I lifted off a Nazi General four months ago with frozen fingers. I release another steady breath, emptying my lungs of the sweet homemade tobacco. Living and breathing for that burning sensation. I take another hit and capture it within me, holding it there as long as I can before I allow it to escape through my nostrils like a dragon. Eventually, the cigarette coughs its last, so I toss it in the freshly-laid snow and stomp on it with a steel-toed boot for good measure. I sigh, running fingers through my jungle of hair, just being.

“Edward.”

The voice suddenly comes from my right, and I twist my head around in its direction, squinting fiercely. Ah, Jazz. Always interrupting my shifts early, no matter how much he presses against it. Perks of being the half-brother, I assume. I squint even more in the darkness, my eyes barely visible, now, and notice Jasper’s silhouette slumped against a bare tree a few yards away from my usual spot. His eyes are bright and shadows dance across his angled features and many gleaming gold war medals in the light of my fire. There’s a small, quivering boy behind him, peering at me over Jazz’s shoulder. He doesn’t look fifteen. He’s gauntly, mouse-haired, and probably shouldn’t belong in the same squad as mine. So they’re signing children now?

“Yah, Major?” I give Major Jasper Whitlock a half-hearted salute, and poke the receding embers of the fire with a wooden stick. The fire burps up a series of sparks before rekindling. I cough into my sleeve and wipe my nose, glancing at him expectantly.

“Riley here’ll take your place, now.” He waves Riley forward and the boy bounds toward me obediently, holding his second-hand rifle the wrong way.

Sighing again, I roll my eyes, huffing up from the stone-cold earth, brushing off dirt and flakes of snow. I point towards the thick forest ahead. “More logs, there…” I chuckle and wave to my seat, which is a solid patch of ice from me sitting on it for who knows how long. How comfortable. “All yours, son.”

Riley goes beet red from chin to hairline. Even his ears –which perk out in a strange way- are tipped red. I can see them under his helmet. “Why do you have your cap on, doughboy?” I inquire, nodding to his head. Riley blushes furiously.

“Safety, –sir!”

I nod, glad he’s serious about being here, but frankly, I only wear the damn dome of metal in battle, much to Jasper’s dismay. I shrug it off and throw Jasper a quizzing look, raising an eyebrow. He shakes his head slightly in return, and beacons me over. I roll my eyes at him theatrically and introduce him to my well-worn middle finger as Riley sits down, shifting his gear and organizing it to perfection, mesmerized by the flames.

“What the hell d’you want?” I ask. Jazz knows I loathe being called over by him like some lapdog. Jasper ignores me and leads the way out of the burrow, hands in his pockets. His big black leather boots crunch against the ice and I begin to wonder if he’ll say anything at all. Then, when he’s ahead and we’re standing about ten feet apart, he speaks, as if we never eradicated our conversation, “Nothing, man, can’t I treat to my brother every once in a while?”

“Half-brother.”

“Right.” Jasper secures his dome to his skull tighter then necessary. I don’t blame him. At this rate, my toes will pop off into the snow, buried, never to be seen again. Jazz magically pulls a flask from his coat pocket. I can feel my lips spread, and I’m sure I look as much as the next complete idiot, grinning from ear to ear like we just won the war. So my half-brother pulled me from tedious guard duty for a drink? He’s just scored some points with me. Jasper tosses the container and I catch it with one hand, having to bend in half since he chucked it without warning. It’s hot.

“What the-”

“Coffee.” Smirks Jasper. I snarl at him and toss it back, not bothering to take a swig. Surely, he’s got it creamed and sugared so it’s virtually unrecognizable. Now that I’ve got insane cravings, I reach deep into a pocket hidden in my sleeve, and present my cigs.

I raise my eyebrows, “Care for a smoke, Whitlock?”

As I knew he would, he declines. He believes smoking’s immoral, whatever that means. Coming from the guy who can’t stomach black coffee, I think I’ll make my own choice.

“You know it’s horrible for you, right, Edward? You’re lungs? They go black.” says Jasper, crossing arms over his chest, macho. He always says this. I don’t need to be lectured like a child. I’m almost a grown man, I tend to myself.

“Yah, as black as your coffee.” I leer at him, and he huffs and swallows a big gulp from his flask, closing his eyes. He breathes out, and it almost seems like his smoking, because it recedes in large white puffs in the cold air.

“I’m freezing my ass off, Jazz.” I retrieve thick woolen mittens from one of my bigger coat pockets and sheath them. I look like a pansy, but I’m warm, somewhat. “Can’t we call it a night?”

“No,” Jasper shakes his head, taking up his leadership role as Major. “It’s too cold and we can’t light too many fires –the enemy’s nearly glued to us. You sleep, you freeze.”

I scowl and glare at the sky, trying to intimidate it to stop snowing. I rub my hands together persistently and ask for Jazz’s flask, groaning inwardly. He laughs and pitches it to me, which I catch reflexively, and take a big, hearty swig. Ugh. “This is disgusting.” My face contorts in protest of this pitiful excuse for a man’s drink. The entire bottle must be cream. At least it’s hot.

“So’s smoking.” Retorts Jasper, and I hand him his flask, shaking my head slightly in protest, feigning disapproval. “Shut up.” Jasper smiles and punches me in the arm. I wince, ‘cause that shit smarts, and massage my arm.

Now that my bones are warmer, I’m able to move. I shake out my arms and flex my elbows, wincing as the crack and ache. Guard duty doesn’t seem so bad now. Riley stole my fire.

“Wanna go hang out with Riley?” I ask, toning my words with temptation. “Warm, cozy fire...”

“’Can’t. You’re coming with me, which is one of the reasons I let you slip off guard duty.” He waves me over like a dog. Again. “New battle tactics to discuss in the Tent.”

I sigh and jog next to Jasper. The Tent is one of the meeting places at our current site. It’s meant for superiors, emergencies, and essential meetings. It better be all three to miss out on the warmth. The Tent is basically a huge, two-hundred foot square tent –and our only one- that get’s its own truck to haul it. Very important, very vital, to the General, who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing in real combat. The only reason they let me in is because they think I’m some kind of good luck charm, or prodigy. I hardly ever say anything when I’m there, but when I do, they perk their ears up and listen. One of the reasons I even go is to see the look on their faces when I decipher an unsolvable pickle. The only thing between me and climbing up rank after rank is ‘cause I never follow orders. Do my own thing. The only thing between me and going home is my brain.

I’m not saying I’m a prodigy –because, really, I’m not. Straightforward thinking-it-through dexterity fed that myth its fodder. Jasper is the one who’s the true phenomenon. Nineteen and Major, he’s the youngest ever to receive that rank. I’m just a foot soldier, and nothing more. I don’t want to be anything more. I enjoy being on the line, adrenaline pumping, 7.65 in hand, shooting Nazis in their long gray coats and cold judgments that have murdered countless lives and helpless Jews, with no pressure to care for other men’s lives...

Jasper peels back the Tent flap, and we enter the warm room, goldenly light from half a dozen oil lamps spotted throughout. I blink until my eyes adjust, and nod to the men seated around a large table holding a vast map of Normandy. The General is jabbing at certain blotches of red on the map, indicating the enemy force. “They’re positioned here-” He taps. “Here-” Taps again. “-and here.” A third time, then circles the area with his horse whip. “They have trees surrounding them, except for a path leading up the hill…” He swivels his whip. I stroll to the end of the Tent, pushing the attention off me. I slump to the ground but quickly get up when I notice the lamp’s warmth hasn’t reached it yet. That- and Jasper gave me a look that had the aptitude to slice me in half.

I jog over to his side and pretend to be enthralled by the General’s words. I’m focused on the unnatural bushiness of his gray mustache when there’s a loud…

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!

The sound of bullets flying from a machine gun with supernatural speed takes us all by surprise. We all instinctively duck our heads, hands over our heads like we were trained. Then we burst into action. We file neatly out of the Tent and look around frantically. My eyes are searchlights for the source.

Daylight is finally impending upon us, bathing our site in a sweet pink and unearthly glow against the snow. It would be a beautiful portrait, accept that it’s suffused red with fallen limbs of trees, and of men. After the shock, officials are shouting at once, confusing the others.

“Man your stations!”

“Hold your ground!”

“Cover fire!”

“Retreat! RETREAT!” Jasper’s voice carries farther than his superiors, and the doughboys come running, arms flailing, if they have any at all. Jasper’s the rational one. There’s nothing we can do about this. The General chose the worst option to set up camp: on the bottom of the Nazi’s hill, they’re only clearance outside, which they’ve traveled up, past the guard on our left… -Riley! He’s stationed on our left side.

Before I’m even thinking it though, my feet are bounding up that hill, and I’m pulling off my woolen gray mittens and into the fire, 7.65 pistol in hand. I carry out a first-rate cover fire, hitting one Nazi manning a machine gun straight in the neck. The blood spurts, and he lands in the red snow, coating it with more shiny maroon. I jump over his body and veer left, letting some remaining soldiers behind me distract the Nazis. Screams are everywhere, limbs, blood, intestines. Men who were once so brave are now in an uproar for their mothers and a safe, warm bed.

“Riley! Riley! Where are you?” I shout, trying to make it travel above the pandemonium using a special tone and pitch. “Riley!”

Hearing the bullets fall down as pounding raindrops, I burst with new speed into the burrow from last night, probing for the mousey boy of fifteen. If my only option is to run, I’m running for him. The coals in the fire are still hot, only freshly covered with ash. He’s left in a hurry; that I can tell. Riley’s pack is at a halt positioned next to the fire, supplies scattered in all directions. By the looks of it, he’s only taken a gun, helmet, and the clothes on his back. A blanket is missing too. Riley doesn’t give the impression to desert, but if he does, he’s dead in a week.

“Riley!”

There’s no boy here. I’m about to turn around and double back when I trip over something soft, and snowy. What the hell? I kneel to the ground, scouring the earth with my hands to locate what caused my fall, uplifting dirt, debris, and even a lone Nazi shoe. I chuck that behind me. My hands then collide with a warm, fuzzy blanket, covered in fresh snow. I grab hold of it hastily and fling it backwards.

“Ah!” Riley masks his face with his hands, trembling with fright. His gun is discarded on his right side, lying limp in the snow. I pick it up and nudge him with it.

“That is no place to keep your gun!” I yell, prodding Riley in the arm. He yelps and uncovers his hands, peering at me with one eye. He seems to relax a little when he realizes it’s me, not the Nazi killer from his nightmares out to torture him. I dig the gun into him again. “Here me, soldier? Were you asleep?! You never sleep on guard! They slipped right passed you- could’ve killed you! You hear me? Now- take hold your gun.”

Riley seizes his rifle from my hand and I extend an arm to him. He takes it gratefully, and now we’re flying -through the trees, rubble, and snow. Our boots create a sickening squelching sound against the snow. It’s only pink here. Riley starts wobbling when we get closer to our destination. The snow is red. I don’t pause to even look at him, but I hear him huff and double over, spewing what remains in his gullet over fallen men. Rookie.

“Get over here!” I shout, signaling him with an arm for fear that he can’t hear over the drone of machine guns. Riley grabs hold of his bearings and wobbles over to me. “Get down!” I order, pushing him into the salt-and-rust-mixed-with-pine smell of the snow. He blanches and bile pours out of his mouth onto a leg, with nothing attached to it. I throw myself down beside him, and peer through a bush I landed next to.

Riley and I are situated just below the Nazis enveloping the upside of the hill, blowing the brains out of my squad with their guns. I’m boiling with rage, my 7.65 shakes in my hand with fury. I’m about to release the trigger when Riley places a trembling hand on my forearm.

“What?” I spit at him, watching him flinch. Riley points to a weak spot I never detected in the Nazi defenses. My lips curve up a little at Riley’s cleverness. He doesn’t even have to explain. Instead of going back to camp –which is the stupidest but the only thing I’d thought to do- we can go around and breach through their defenses, and take out the Nazis manning the guns from behind. I nod my head to him, and hold up three fingers, letting them drop and whispering, “Three… Two… One… GO!”

We’re flying in the trees again, Riley slightly behind. I keep waiting for Nazis to spring out of the underbrush and kill us, but none come. They’ve left their backside clear entirely, not expecting anyone to be able to go around if we were all scattered chickens for their picking below. I grab a hold of Riley’s shirt, bringing him to a halt. There are a few Nazis ahead of us, standing and watching the show a hundred yards away from the guns, just enjoying their “victory”. Not for long. We take to the ground once more, ejecting snow north, south, east, and west. We’re behind a sturdy-looking log so I deem this to be the best place to start.

“You take the one on the right, I got the middle and left.” I whisper to him, pointing to my gun and then the Nazis in case he doesn’t understand. He nods deliberately and I slowly raise my gun, glancing at Riley to see if he’s ready. Riley, quivering and nervous about taking his first life, raises his gun and points to the Nazi on the left. I can only beg that he won’t miss his target.

“Three…Two… One… Zero.” I say and pull the trigger, hitting the middle Nazi square in the back, making him spill his piping hot cup of Joe. I wonder if it’s sugared. Riley’s barely misses his target, managing to graze the left Nazi’s skull, which he now grasps and is screaming at the top of his lungs. Dammit, this isn’t what I wanted. It needed to be quiet so we didn’t alert the others. Now, ten more Nazis flee to the scene and are shooting wildly at us, missing my foot by a hairs breadth.

“Shit, Riley!” I scream, and I’m about to shoot the injured Nazi when I decide to let him suffer. Riley’s crying and mumbling apologies I can’t hear.

“Just shoot, okay?!” I yell, and he understands. He’s firing like madman, shooting anything and everything that moves. He manages to get two, and graze another. I’m firing with perfect precision, ending lives. I need to save my bullets. The nine Nazis are dead and bleeding except for the last one Riley grazed. I scamper from the earth and walk slowly in its direction, swaying my gun side to side, scanning the tree line, searching for more Nazis. It’s just a precaution, though, because I only have one shot left, and it’s for the baby killer in the gray coat.

The Nazi is fumbling, limping away from us, begging in German with its hands protecting its face.

“Nein! Nein nein nein nein nein nein nein!”

It’s saying ‘no’. Over and over like a record player. I’m standing right above him now, Riley in tow. Rising my gun, I ask for its final words in German. He shakes his head, clearly in shock and unable to speak. I sigh, and caress my finger over the trigger, feeling its cold justice. One twitch, and his brains are mine on the icy earth.

Riley gulps dryly and I stare at him in shock, staggered I’d be able to hear it-

I freeze. The sounds of the machine guns have grown steadily to complete stillness, smoking a hundred yards away. A hush falls from the heavens, setting the place in eerie silence. Even the birds have stopped singing their battle cry love song… Riley’s eyes go wide, mouth agape. He’s about to speak, so I silence him with a hand, gazing up at the sky, looking for birds. I have an edgy feeling, deep in the pit of my stomach. Something’s very wrong.

Abruptly, five enormous blimps the size of football fields breaks through the trees and into the skyline, extinguishing the sun with their unearthly mass. They are silver and polished to a vivid sparkle, and headed straight for us. I can tell by the model that it’s undeniably Nazi make. The crest emboldened on the side tells me every time I see it that I hate the enemy. Hate the Germans for all that they’re worth. That crest proves to me that you can never trust your family. Because right there, in golden letters over the red, black, and white Nazi insignia, reads:

Cullen.








End of Chapter One.