William Russell crouched in his muddy foxhole on a rainy day in a miserable country.  He and the rest of his squad were in the middle of the road that forked two ways, forming a perpendicular angle. Corporal Russell and the rest of the squad were waiting for an attack, coming from either the left or right flank. Russell had volunteered to go with his sergeant and eight other men to hold the road from an inevitable attack. According to his commanding officer, the squad was stationed about five miles north of Insigny, on a key thoroughfare that would give other soldiers who landed at Omaha a clear path to the city.

Russell sat disinterested in his foxhole. In the distance, he could hear Montaro sharpening his bayonet with a rock. It was pissing Russell off. There he was, just trying to zone out, and the “manly” Montaro was there, purposely trying to make everyone on edge. From his right, technician fourth class Leland, the squad medic, growled “Montaro, you sharpen that damn bayonet one more time and I’m gunna take it and castrate you.” Russell closed his eyes, with a smile. Leland might have been short (no more than 5’3”) but he had authority. Russell started to slip into sleep. His mind was going off into different places though. He was no longer concentrating or even thinking about the other men on the street. His mind looked back two-and-a-half days before he was stationed in the mud-spattered hellhole. He was on the first wave for landing at Charlie sector. Russell shook his head. So many men died on that 200-yard strip of sand just to take a few pillboxes and 88s. It made no sense to him. Nothing went right on that day. That battle was supposed to be a cakewalk. It was all the bubbleheads’ and birds’ faults. The Navy shelled the beach with no effect and the Air Force didn’t bomb the right area. This caused Russell and the rest of the men to be left wide open on the beach, defilade being all the way on the other side of the beach. Russell remembered things from that battle that he wished he could only forget. He remembered that cramped Higgins. He remembered hearing the whistle and the door going down. He remembered the blood. The carnage. The charge to get out of the boat. The blur of the bullets. He remembered being stuck behind the Hedgehogs for six hours, just trying to get on the other side of the beach. Now, he wished he could forget. He wished that he could just be made a sergeant and go back home. That’s why he was here in France in this stupid war; to become a sergeant like his father. When he was two, his father came back from the war grinning and smiling at his son. When he was four, his father started telling his son about the war. How he managed to rise from a meager private to a staff sergeant. He told his son about how he led his men through the war. Then, in 1941, the war against the Axis came to America via the Pacific. They started calling it World War Two. It was Russell’s chance. He left his town, went to basic, and became part of the fighting 29th, 116^th infantry regiment. Russell was put in Able Company with most of his friends from basic. By then, the U.S. had declared war on both Japan and Germany. He went to Europe for two years and during the spring of 1944, was told that he would land in France. Russell was thrilled. He wanted nothing more than to “get some”. Now, he just wanted to be back in his town.

As Russell was trapped in thought, Private Lance Rekford slid next to the corporal. Russell jumped when he saw Lance slip into his foxhole. “Well, Will. Where are they?” Russell knew he was talking about the Germans who were supposed to attack. “Dunno. Maybe they aren’t coming.” “Doubtful. Remember what the major said? ‘The bastards know we’re commin for em, so they’ll try to strike first. Ya’ll are gunna stop em in their Nazi tracks’.” Will snickered. That was a pretty good imitation of the major. “C’mon Lance, I don’t know. What time is it?” Lance checked his watch. “It’s almost midnight. We’ve been here for five hours and I’m soaked. I just wanna get outta here.” Russell smiled. Lance wasn’t like him. Lance had no desire to fight. When they were at basic, everyone said their story. Lance was from Brooklyn and just wanted to go back to his neighborhood, maybe help his father with his butcher shop. “Best pastrami sandwich you’ve ever tasted.” Everyone in the bunker laughed. “I swear. If any of us are lucky enough to survive this war, I’ll buy all of you guys one. Anyways, those bastards just came to my house one day and said I was part of the ‘United States army’.”

Lance shifted in the foxhole. “I’m startin’ to think that Sarge is cracked.” Russell knew what he meant. Before D-Day, Sarge was a happy-go-lucky guy. Now, he was tense and seemed paranoid. While he was thinking, Lance stood up. Russell looked at him horrified. “Hey Sarge. Sarge!” Russell nearly tackled the private. Instead, he kicked him in the Achilles’ tendon. “What the hell are you doing, Lance!” he said in a harsh whisper as the private rubbed his ankle. “Screw you man! I’m gunna ask the Sarge where they are.” A voice came from the darkness. “Lance, you pull that crap again and I’ll kill you myself. Now what do you want?” “Where are they, Sarge?” Russell held his breath, thinking that it would kill time as his Sergeant thought. After about half a minute, Sarge replied, “Damnit, I don’t know Lance. I know this sucks, but just get back into your foxhole and be patient.”

About ten minutes after Lance left grumbling to his own foxhole, Russell started worrying. Which way would the Germans come? Russell looked as far as he could to his right. Would they come that way? The road to the right was fairly smooth and could be traversed easily. That could mean that if the Germans were lazy, they would come to the right. Russell’s stare moved to the left. That part of the road was raggedy and bumpy. It was unlikely that they would take that road if they used APC’s or armor. Still, if they didn’t have armor with them, it wouldn’t matter. It would be hard to walk, sure, but if the Germans thought that the Americans expected them going right, they would go left. Russell decided they would come left. But then Russell looked straight ahead. The Germans would never just rush at them, and that’s what the front road would force them to do. Of course, they could split up, having everyone attack each flank. But this expected German convoy was not supposed to have many people, maybe only twenty. Even though they would be outnumbered by about 2:1, Russell and the squad could still win a battle where every German was split up. Russell decided that they would go left, again. But then he thought that Maybe the Germans expected the Americans to think they would go down the path that seemed tougher. If the Americans thought that, then the Germans would come from the right. Russell started to panic.

Erwin snuck through the wet grass. He was impressed. If he tried to flank these Americans any other day, he and the rest of the squad would have died. But tonight, it was rainy, dark, and the American’s were about to be relieved. Had it been day and dry, they would have all been shot. But it wasn’t day, and it was raining. You can’t be unlucky all the times. Erwin and the Germans had hooked around the left flank while some American was in talking from another’s foxhole, keeping their distance from the American squad. Never too careful. Although it took more time than just doing a predictable frontal assault, they managed to pull the greatest flank they could. When they were ready, Erwin commanded his troops around. “You, there. Move. Everyone, two waves. First wave, grenades. Second wave, fire on the bastards. Don’t stop until you cant hear any of the Americans.” The Germans lined up in two lines, one line aiming their rifles and weapons at the unsuspecting Americans and the other preparing to throw grenades blindly into the American position.

Sounds were coming behind Russell. Now, thoroughly spooked and betrayed by his own thoughts, pointed his M1 garand at the darkness. What was there? What could it be? Before he could find out, a thump came into his foxhole along with another thump right outside his foxhole. He could only guess what it is. “Grenade!”

Russell was caught in the crossfire. The shrapnel from the numerous grenades lodged themselves in his leg, chest, and eyes. As he blindly fell, he was shot twice in the head. He and his entire squad died at 2:26 A.M., June ninth, 1944. His squad was found a day later when the German squad they were supposed to stop attacked an American convoy on the way to take the town of Insigny. When the news came to Russell’s home, his mom cried for ages. His dad didn’t know; he had died when Russell was only seven.