"It was so savage. We were savages...

We had all become hardened. We were out there, human beings,

the most highly developed life form on the earth,

fighting each other like wild animals."

- E. B. Sledge

media:

"I'll Be Seeing You"

by Frank Sinatra

Undisclosed location, Normandy; June 6, 1944

Clint was falling.

There was a faint whistling sound buzzing in his ears, but the shells were silent as they rocketed to his left and right. Spiraling trails of smoke and brilliant tracer fire painted the sky in every color imaginable, the most magnificent light show he had ever seen. From everywhere in the sky there was a paratrooper, what seemed like thousands of chutes drifting down toward the French countryside. Planes zoomed silently over his head, leaving behind trails of popping parachutes.

It was beautiful in a heart-stopping way. Clint's chest throbbed with suspense and exhilaration as he drifted, fingers clenched around the ropes of his parachute. In the distance and rapidly drawing nearer was a citadel and a massive fire, and he swung his body to the side in an attempt to move away from both. A breath of wind ruffled his chute and brought him away from the town – he breathed a sigh of relief at that, Steve had been carrying all of their tools and he didn't want to enter a fight without a weapon – but when he looked down he noticed the ground was rapidly approaching.

Everything jolted into focus at that moment, the exploding shells splitting like thunderclaps, the slow chug-chug of machine guns and small-arms fire, the whispers of the wind. Desperation flooded Clint's mind as he approached the marshy ground. What had Steve said about landing? Did he fall over and bend his knees, or did he bend his knees and then fall? Squeezing his eyes shut, Clint braced himself for impact as he reached the ground.

Immediately he was plunged into muddy water, his parachute draping over his head as his whole body was submerged. Clint kicked away from the ground, tangling his legs in the ropes of his parachute and reserve chute. He dragged himself up with his arms, sucking in a deep and spluttering breath through the silk parachute that covered the water. Immediately he was dragged back under, the weight of his supplies and the water pulling him back. His boots sunk into the loose mud, sticking tight when he tried to yank them free.

Panic overtook him and he shouted with all his might, bubbles flooding from his mouth as he clawed at the water around him, anything to get him free from this death trap. His legs were tied fast, his boots stuck and his body enshrouded by the parachute that had delivered him into his personal hell. Water gushed into his mouth, filling his lungs as he struggled under the water, unable to take a breath.

Clint's thrashing slowed, and he forced himself to think. Surely he was carrying something that could help him get out of here. His fingers brushed over the pockets in his new uniform, feeling the shape of K rations and Gammond grenades but nothing else. At last he reached to his boot, where the slender form of a bayonet was nested in his sock.

He nearly cried with joy as he dragged the bayonet out and forced the point through the center of the largest rope. Tugging the weapon down the length of the cord, he pulled the two sides apart. The ropes split and Clint kicked his legs free, yanking his parachute straps from his body. Lungs aching, he paddled for the surface of the water.

Clint's head broke water and he dragged in a rasping breath, chest heaving as he pulled himself onto the bank. The parachute floated like a fallen bird in the middle of the scummy water, drifting below the surface and out of sight.

"Good riddance," Clint growled, getting to his knees. He scanned the area around him, straining to hear any sound that might disguise a Kraut soldier or hostile enemy, but only the crackling of the village fire and the rustling of nature sounded back. Fishing in one of his pockets, he pulled out one of Tony's many gadgets he had prepared for the trip. As much as he despised that kid's attitude, he was pretty clever.

Clint fixed the device around his ear, flicking the switch that activated the secure signal. A burst of quiet static followed, replaced by a pleasant hum. "Anyone around?"

"Barton, is that you?" Steve's voice hissed back. The radio connection was weak to avoid detection, so Steve sounded like he was calling to Clint from the end of a hallway. "Where are you?"

"I landed in a river, I think," Clint whispered back. "Where are you? I need one of those guns."

"Tell me about a landmark near you."

Glancing up, Clint watched as the village fire sent a massive plume of smoke billowing in the air. "I can see smoke from that fire in the town we passed coming in. It's to my right, northeast. What about you?"

The line was quiet for a moment, and Steve responded grimly, "I'm in that village."

"Holy shit! Get out of there!" Tony interjected. "Steve, I'll try to find my way to you. Barton, How did you end up so far from the town?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Clint growled. "Look, I'll make my way to the town too. Stay safe, Steve."

"Roger that," Steve replied, and a faint clicking alerted Clint that he had deactivated his earpiece.

"I think he means Rogers that." Tony quipped, and Clint tugged the device from his ear to shut it off.

The river, which according to a nearby sign was the Merderet, receded into the distance as Clint hiked in the general direction of the unknown town. He figured he was probably heading back toward the beach, which meant reinforcements and more Allied soldiers, so he was all too happy to hightail it back to the shore.

Nevertheless, he couldn't shake the feeling of anticipation that followed him as he stumbled through the Norman countryside. Surrounded by trees, totally alone, it seemed that any patch of shadows could hide a German battery. Clint gripped his bayonet and steeled himself on, scanning the brush around him as he crept forward.

"Typical," he muttered as he slid down a short embankment, "They send you off with a dinner knife to go fight the Krauts. This is why I joined the Navy!"

A rustling distracted him from his thoughts and he turned to the right, arm already swinging for the strike. A hand caught his arm and wrenched him to the ground, and Clint spat out a mouthful of dirt as his assailant planted his knee in his back and pulled his arm around.

"Flash!"

"What the hell?" Clint hollered. "Flash, your ass! Get off me!"

There was a brief pause and the soldier eased his grip, allowing Clint to roll over. Two bright eyes stared back at him, the rest of his attacker's face concealed by dark face paint. He was young, with jump wings fixed on his uniform and an American flag sewn onto his sleeve.

"You didn't give me the code word!" The soldier exclaimed as if Clint had done him a personal wrong.

Nursing his twisted arm, Clint got to his feet and spat. "What code word?"

"I say flash, you say thunder. Your CO didn't give you the notice?" The soldier brushed off his knees and offered a hand to Clint. They stood and sized each other up, thrilled in the general we've both made it this far sense.

"The name's Haley. You're with the 82nd?" He pointed at Clint's uniform.

"Um, yes," It would be easier to stick with his lie than explain his predicament, "Clint Barton." They shook hands, and the soldier looked down at Clint's bayonet.

"You don't have a gun either? I'll bet your CO didn't give you a cricket, too. You got a death wish?"

Clint didn't even want to ask what a cricket was at this point. "You've got that right. Look, where is everyone?"

"I've got no idea. I'm with the 101st. This isn't even our drop zone!" The kid shook his head, confusion etched across his young face. "You're the first guy I've seen yet."

"Same here. Look, I'm meeting up with some people in that town I saw flying in. You know how to get there?"

The soldier reached into his front pocket, pulling out a map. The fabric was made of silk, fitting loosely over his hands as he spread it across the ground. "You mean Saine-Marie-Eglise? There's a road just west of here that crosses it. I'll take you there, I've got nothing better to do. Haven't found a single person yet from Dog Company."

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Clint said absently. It was the sort of thing he might say at home in the States, so ingrained in his brain he couldn't help it. Here he was in Normandy, thanking an eighteen-year-old paratrooper for directions to an invaded town. Times change, I guess.

They traipsed through the woods for a quiet minute before the trees leveled out into furrowed farmland. Big-eyed Norman cows watched the two soldiers as they passed, chewing their cud with an innocent placidity. Gunfire sputtered ahead, the booming distant sounds of the large guns in more forward positions toward the beach. 

Clint held his bayonet at the ready, not that it would do much damage if they stumbled across any Krauts. Haley's rifle was slung across his back, but his eyes scanned the darkness around them with a practiced air. His fist leaped into the air, fingers clenched in a fist, and he lowered to the ground until he knelt crouching in the damp grass. Clint followed suit, watching as the boy swung his M1 around into his hands and flicked the safety off, loading the rifle with a sharp click-click!

As quickly as he had leaped into action, Haley relaxed and stood. His rifle hung loose by his side as he offered Clint a hand up, smiling as nothing had happened.

"These hedgerows are nasty. Built-in forts for the Jerries. Can't blame a guy for being too cautious, can I?"

He was right about the hedges – Clint had never seen one so massive in his entire life. The shrub had group upwards of eight feet, arching over the top to meet the opposite hedge astride the lane. The foliage was so dense Clint couldn't force his arm through, and Haley had to use his entrenching tool to dig them a route underneath. The dirt caked on Clint's dripping clothes, only making him filthier than he was before. The two emerged on the road to the town, elevated above the floodplain of the Merderet headed back toward the beaches.

They hadn't walked two steps when a burst of small-arms fire sent Haley scrambling for cover. Clint dove off of the road and rolled down into the ditch, forcing his body into the dirt as bullets whizzed over his head. To his right, Haley poked his head up from his position and returned fire. A smattering of shots followed, and Clint risked a glance up to see dark figures retreating back the way they had come. One enemy soldier, most likely crazed by the stress of the battle, sprinted directly towards Clint.

A shot from the M1 sent the Kraut spinning, but he kept going with Teutonic resolve. Stumbling down the short embankment toward the hedgerow, he slipped and fell beside Clint. They stared at each other for a moment, one with chest heaving a blood blooming across his uniform, the other silent as he forced his bayonet into the Kraut's heart. His wheezing breaths were silenced, and Clint felt something warm and wet trickle over his hand. Haley's gun chattered in response, seeming distant to Clint's ears as he sent the remaining Germans running.

Emerging from the protection of the road, the paratrooper looked down at Clint and the fallen German. "Is he dead?"

"Think so."

"Let's get a move on, then. I want to get to the city before daybreak."

Clint paused for a moment, wiping his bayonet down on the grass. He turned back to the soldier and closed his eyes, then jumped to his feet and hurried after Haley on the road to Saint-Marie-Eglise. Above, the sky was brightening with the new dawn.

Clint welcomed it. Whatever good old Adolph could throw his way, he would meet with open arms. He was ready.

((Hope you all had a happy belated Thanksgiving! We've hit D-Day!))