"This war is like an actress getting old.

It is less and less photogenic and more and more dangerous."

- Robert Capa

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"Goodbye Dear, I'll Be Back in a Year"

by Horace Heidt

St. Lo; July 24, 1944

The full length of a bangalore torpedo stretched from its fuse near Steve up to the edge of the next hedgerow, an incredible amount of explosives packed into such a small space. Ducked at the waist, a pair of engineers scurried from their positions near the hedgerows and hurried to the side of the Sherman where Steve was perched. The tank's hatch hung open, and the tank commander leaned over the lip to hear Steve's whispered orders.

"Call it, Captain," Clint grinned at him from the ground, and Steve nodded.

"When the hedge blows, drive in quick and send two white phosphorous rounds to the corners. If we have any resistance from the machine-gun pits, light her up. Infantry will follow."

"You got it, Cap," The commander dropped down into the hatch, and Steve swung down from his position on top of the tank. Rumbling and creaking against the slicks of mud staining the ground, the Sherman pulled back and prepared for the blast.

Taking a knee beside the tank, Steve raised an open fist and looked over his shoulder at the engineers. Their gaunt faces stared back at him, expressions blank save a spark of excitement in their eyes as they readied the charges. The eyes of twenty infantrymen were on Steve's hand as he brought it swinging down, signaling the explosives.

Steve and his squad had taken a dozen hedgerows just like this one, but the explosion of the torpedoes still startled him. Shredded foliage went soaring into the sky, dirt forming a geyser of brown that burst above Steve's head and scattered him with damp soil. Not wasting a second, the Sherman roared forward with the sound of a charging animal, its treads plunging through the remnants of the eight-foot-tall hedge. Two sharp cracks sounded as the white phosphorous shells were fired, and twin thuds rattled the ground like a punch to the chest. Instinctively Steve turned up his collar, daring a glance between the shredded edges of the hedges as the white phosphorous engulfed the German defenses.

Flakes of white danced down from the sky, a snowfall in the middle of summer descending on the German embankment, and screams started to rise from the distance as the phosphorous began to burrow itself into any exposed skin. Steve and Clint had been the victims of a white phosphorous attack weeks ago, but the memory was as fresh and painful as ever. He had great sympathy for the Germans crying out from the end of the next row, their flesh burning and clothes sizzling under the relentless heat of the chemicals.

Luckily the white phosphorous was as effective as it was painful. In the weeks of planning hedgerow strategy, Steve had learned two shells was enough to knock out the majority of the German defense.

One of the machine gun nests that had escaped the shells fired against the Sherman, bullets glancing off of the tank's armor and scattering left and right. Steve dropped to his stomach, and the infantrymen followed suit. A spray of fire burst from the Sherman, slicing through the hedge and its base where the Germans were dug in. There was no return fire.

Pulling himself to his knees, Steve snatched his rifle from his side and stood, ordering the men into groups behind him. Resting the stock of the M1 in the crook of his elbow, he edged his way to the hedgerow and ducked, swinging around the corner of the shredded bushes in a crouch. Clint gripped his rifle without apprehension and followed standing, while the rest of their small squad followed guarding their sides. A similar process followed on the other side of the gap.

A helmet was raised from a slit trench at the end of the hedgerow, and Steve raised his closed fist. The soldiers shouldered their rifles, raised but not firing as a boy in a bloodied uniform crawled out of his hiding place, face white from fear and pitted with the telltale red scars from white phosphorous. Tears streamed down his wounded cheeks as he crawled forward, babbling, "Kamerad!"

"Merch, take him back to HQ," Steve called over his shoulder, and a stocky soldier trudged forward to drag the German boy to his feet. The boy was bawling now, from relief or fear Steve couldn't say, but he gave him the most reassuring smile he could muster as the German stumbled past.

They approached the trench in two flanks from both sides, but Steve knew as soon as he looked over the edge there would be nothing to worry about. The agony-crazed Germans who hadn't fled had been killed in the shell blast and the Sherman's machine-gun fire. Their bodies lay prone and twisted in the trench, their last breaths still lingering on their lips.

"Take five, men. We'll settle here and prepare for the next round. Set a defensive perimeter, I want guards on all four corners and three in the trench," Steve pointed out selected soldiers for guard duty and they hurried to their tasks, dragging the German bodies aside so they could install their own defenses. As he turned away to discuss ammunition with the tank commander, Steve caught a snatch of conversation between the infantrymen.

"Should I take their boots? You know their boots are so much better than ours."

"That's kinda morbid. Give him a little respect, huh?"

"You won't be sayin' that when winter comes along."

"No boots for me. Thou shalt not steal, you know? If I die in this mess I don't want any more strikes against me."

Sparks scattered beneath Steve's fingers, cloaked in thick fabric with his face guarded by a sheet of metal and tempered glass. The final toothed edge of the Sherman tank's armament was welded in place, serrated in sharp points angled directly perpendicular to the tank's muddy treads. A private crouched beside Steve with a flashlight between his teeth, ankle-deep in the marshy mud as he rapped a knuckle against the sharp protruding points.

"She'll cut through the hedgerows for damn sure, huh?"

"I hope so," Steve replied, grasping the pointed edge from its dull underside and shaking it from side to side. The metal didn't budge.

"Hey, Rogers! What's this?" Clint called from behind him, and Steve turned to see the sailor holding up the sheets of discarded metal he had been tinkering with in his off-time. In the middle of a frantic war zone, he was surprised by how much time it took to settle down, establish a strong position, continue communication lines and supply chains, and file paperwork. Since he and Clint were in a sort of military limbo, they were largely left to themselves, tagging onto whatever units they pleased. The soldiers were always glad for the help.

Steve flushed, slightly embarrassed at his half-assembled, fantastical project. "Oh, that's just something I was working on. I saw a Nazi machine like this in Italy and thought I might take a stab at it."

"Take a stab at it?" Clint let out a low whistle. "I thought Stark was the mechanic, wherever that poor bastard is. I didn't know you did this kind of work as well."

"It's really nothing –" Steve protested, but Clint held out a hand. Pulling on the curved end of the metal sheets, he snapped the metal bars into place and the full steel wing unfurled, glinting in the dim starlight.

"A flying suit? Imagine that," Clint nodded approvingly, eyeing Steve's slipshod creation with approval. "This is really wild, Rogers. You think it'll work?"

Steve shrugged, slapping his palm against the side of the Sherman. "Can't get anything to power it out here, not when there are tanks to fix. It's just a project, anyways." He pulled a muddy burlap cover over the metal parts and assorted tools, shielding them from the threat of rain and any prying eyes. The clouds hung low over the arching tops of the hedgerows, blocking out the moon in brooding heaps. The night air reeked of cordite and the oncoming storm.

Steve had just set his tools down when a cry of alarm sounded from down the hedgerow, setting his blood afire as he crouched by the treads of the Sherman. The hiss and clank of machinery sounded faintly in the distance, a piercing beam of light swiveling across the pitch-black passage of the hedgerow, and a shout echoed, "Tiger!"

Rolling to the side, Steve crawled on his hands and knees to the side of the tank and wedged himself into the roots of the hedgerow, forcing the branches and thick roots aside as he burrowed into a hiding place. Along the hedge other soldiers did the same, seeking shelter wherever they could find it. Looking over his shoulder, Steve saw Clint pressed close to the ground behind him, his mouth drawn in a grim line and eyes narrowed as his searched the darkness for the oncoming German tank.

Tigers were monstrosities, as rare as they were dangerous. Armed with a massive .88 cannon and the fanatical manpower of the Panzerkorps and Waffen SS, the tanks seemed more animal than machine. Twin treads lay beneath six extendable appendages like insect arms, which allowed the tanks to clamber over hedgerows and reach incredible speeds in the narrow Norman countryside. The lashing arms of the tank tore through the middle of the hedgerow as it propelled itself toward Steve's position.

The roar of machinery rumbled forward until it was all Steve could hear, the ground shuddering like an earthquake as the Tiger approached. Its legs stabbed into the ground, sharpened points burying themselves in the slick soil, straining the powerful engine that kept the massive machine running. The plunging legs had impaled more than a few soldiers, and Steve felt a knot of fear rise in his throat at the sound of the sharpened appendages slicing through the arbors.

The Tiger barreled around the corner of the hedgerow, limbs flailing and scrabbling as it skidded through a mud. The front of the tank reared upward in an impression of challenge, a beam of pure white slicing through the inky blackness like a saber. The extending .88 gun swung to and for, dipping from side to side with the Tiger's motion. Legs pitching and weaving, the tank scrabbled forward through the narrow hedgerow. Its treads crashed down as it approached the Sherman tilted to the side of the road.

Steve gritted his teeth and prayed that the American tank appeared to be out of commission. The Tiger stopped dead in front of his position, and he pressed himself deeper into the center of the hedgerow, willing himself to become invisible. The German tank swung its gun around in what seemed like slow-motion, squaring up to the Sherman. Steve risked a glance between his arms and saw the gun staring directly in front of him, and a thunderclap exploded beside him. The Sherman was torn in two in seconds, its top half crashing down onto its ruined chassis. Shrapnel scattered everywhere, flumes of fire bursting into the sky as the Tiger reeled back from its cannon blast.

Lifting itself up again, the Tiger scuttled to the side and charged back the way it had come, leaving the ruined Sherman in its wake. Shaking his head, Steve tried to jolt some hearing back into his left ear as he began to pull himself from the inside of the hedgerow. Clint and the other soldiers followed him, shocked but no worse for wear from the ordeal. Hollers of an all-clear resounded from the end of the row, dim over the crackle of the burning tank.

"Back to the drawing board, Captain," Clint shrugged, kicking his foot against a knot of twisted metal.

"Back to the drawing board," Steve sighed, hoisting his welding tools in preparation for his next project.

((An update that's not on schedule again? How predictable - anyways, hope you enjoyed the chapter!))