"The forest was a helluva eerie place to fight.

You can't get protection. You can't see. You can't get fields of fire...

Soon there is only a handful of the old men left."

- Sgt. George Morgan

media:

"Goodnight Mother"

by Dick Todd

The Hurtgen Forest; October 30, 1944

"Replacements!"

The daily cry had become routine to Steve. Turning back from his position crouched beneath the trees, he saw the short column of privates streaming into the lines of the veterans of the 28th Infantry. Low-hanging boughs forced the men to stoop at the waist, keeping them low to the ankle-deep mud and the chill of oncoming winter. The privates' eyes were as wide as saucers as they glanced around the alien new world of the Hurtgen Forest, rifles clutched in their hands and trembling. They knew they were here because boys just like them had been mowed down by the German defense, and they were all wondering if they would be next.

Swinging his leg down from a branch, Clint leaped from his forward position on the line and greeted each of the soldiers with a handshake and a strained smile. They seemed relieved at the gesture of friendliness in the face of the empty-eyed veterans. After repeating their names, Clint pointed out towards the German line.

"You're going to need to learn some things about forest fighting, boys. These men have seen a thing or two, and they'll keep you alive if you listen to them. Are you tracking?"

Drawn faced nodded, heads jerking up and down in quick, nervous motions.

"If we're shelled, hug a tree. Branches'll come down and tear you up if you hit the dirt like they taught you back in the States. These trees are your best friend and your worst enemy, got it?"

Wide eyes darted to the line, invisible yet almost tangible in its cruelty and cold horror. The veterans kept their eyes glued on the line, knees deep in the mire and bodies coiled like springs. Clint ducked until his legs balanced on his heels, and the privates followed suit.

"There are mines all around, so wait until the engineers can get up here and sweep. For the love of God, don't get separated from your division. You'll get lost taking a piss out here, these trees block out anything. I don't know what they made me forward observer for, there's nothin' to see!"

This elicited small smiles from the men, and Clint nodded approvingly. "You need anything my name's Barton, got it? And I mean anything. Stay smart, fellas." He clapped one on the shoulder as he started for the nearest senior officer, and Steve got to his feet to walk over to Clint.

"You do a good job with them, you know."

Barton released a slow breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't want to see another man die over stupid stuff. They don't learn anything worth shit in Repple Depple."

"Casualties have gone down," Steve noted, tapping a finger against his pocket where his waterlogged notebook sat. He had been taking down information about every unit he and Clint had joined up with since they had landed in Normandy. Struggling with the 28th through Hurtgen was the bloodiest fighting Steve had ever seen, and it seemed that no endless outpouring of replacements could make up for daily losses. Land gains were measured in yards, every inch of soil watered with American blood.

Worst of all was the forest itself. The trees were so densely wooded light could scarcely filter through, tinting the world in a dark green hue without a slit of sky to be seen. Tank support was impossible, and artillery couldn't be called in because visibility was lower than twenty feet. Steve felt as if he had been thrust into a new world, filled with mines and artillery and mud and an unearthly canopy of green that shielded out any advantage the Americans might have. He was filthy, exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to unleash the entirety of his wrath on the German lines.

The forest was taking its toll on the soldiers as well. Cases of trench foot and hysteria climbed as the 28th forced itself through the 'hell with trees,' as Clint had dubbed Hurtgen. There was only so much shelling and torture a man could take, and Steve had seen good soldiers snap before his eyes. Some ran away from the line, and some ran beyond it, plunging into German territory never to be seen again. He and Clint had gotten very good at judging a soldier's mental state, and they both tried their hardest to keep morale as high as possible while the trees seemed to squeeze the air out of a man's lungs.

As much as he insisted he was fine, Steve knew Clint's resilience was wearing thin. He and Barton had been on and off the front lines for upwards of four months, which would be enough to drive an ordinary man to madness. Clint was no ordinary man, but there was a limit to how much he could take, too. Steve had realized through all of this fighting it wasn't a matter of if a man snapped, but when.

The new privates and the veteran soldiers pressed forward, inch by inch, fearing every movement would bring a hail of German firepower onto their heads. It was a surprisingly quiet day for German resistance, other than a smattering of small-arms fire in the morning, and a worried anticipation was building in Steve's chest. He scoured the underbrush for mine traps, searching for the telltale barrels or rifles or the glint of sunlight on artillery outposts. A flurry of whispers reached his ears and he turned to see the new privates standing fully upright on the worn track of a forest trail long gone into disrepair.

The lone sign of civilization elated the newest soldiers, who congregated around the winding, weed-infested dirt like it was their salvation. The realization didn't set in for a long moment and Clint and Steve lunged forward at the same time, arms extended to snatch the privates back from the trail.

"Get back from there!" Steve cried, but his warning came too light as the pre-sighted artillery began to fall. Diving to the side, Steve rolled and snatched the nearest tree trunk he could as explosions pounded in his ears, shell after shell digging into the trail and scattering the privates. Screams warbled above the hiss and thunder of the shells, and the tree shook between Steve's arms as sharpened shards of tree branches scattered about the area. Clenching his teeth, Steve screwed his eyes shut and forced his face against the bark.

Looking up through the dense foliage, Steve could make out the flashes of the artillery shells as they burst from a small embankment mere feet from the path. The Germans had been waiting for them! Anger burned through Steve's blood and he reached down for his satchel. The boys were told it was his radio equipment, but the worn leather housed his iconic shield, smeared with mud and twigs to disguise its bring blue and red accents. Drawing his shield from his pack, Steve got to his knees and started to crawl toward the German position, head ducked as shrapnel and plant matter pinged off of his helmet.

The Germans were concealed in a lone dragon's tooth, sunk into the ground and woven into a net of foliage so thick Steve might have missed it were it not belching fire and smoke down on his men. Barbed wire was netted around the area, and Steve was positive there were mines surrounding the artillery post.

Raising his shield to shoulder height, Steve brought the front of his shield down on the ground with all his strength, bringing the metal up to protect him as the vibrations from the concussion rippled through the ground. At once the mines burst, each triggering another as they popped like firecrackers in the mud. The telltale rattle of metal against his shield told Steve the Germans had wire in S-mines, stuffed with ball bearings and shrapnel that exploded a foot above the ground and blew out knees. The Germans, obviously startled by the sudden explosions, ceased firing to observe their new threat.

Steve didn't grant them that privilege. Swinging around to the back of the dragon's tooth, he forced his shield and shoulder into the concrete door, which splintered away and crashed inward. Four terrified faces stared back at him, and Steve unslung his rifle from his back, pointing the end at each of the Germans' chests.

"Out, now!" he barked, and the soldiers clapped their hands to their helmets. Rifles clattered to the ground as they filed out of their position, leaving their enormous gun behind, its barrel still smoking. Nudging them back toward the road, Steve led the band of Germans back to American lines, where a clump of soldiers stood gathered around a prone figure.

Handing the prisoners off to a grim-faced private, Steve hurried over to the group to see Clint bending over a writhing soldier with hands soaked in blood. His fingers clenched a scarlet-sodden clod of fabric, evidently to staunch the bleeding of a wound, and he was talking to the soldier hurriedly as he dressed his wound.

"Now listen, Ace, this ain't shit, this ain't nothing half as bad as I've seen before. You'll be back to your girl in no time with this million-dollar wound, I tell you what. You had a girl back at home, right? Marlene, wasn't it? She sure was a pretty dame, Ace, you'd better let her know that when you get back. You'll tell her for me? That's right, keep looking right up at me," he turned and looked over his shoulder with panic and rage in his eyes. "I need a medic here!"

The soldier groaned and turned his head away, a trail of blood streaming down his chin. Clint smeared it away and angled the man's chin upward, keeping his eyes fixed upward. "You stay with me, Ace, you stay right here. You did a damn good job out there, and they'll take real good care of you back at HQ. Medic!"

With a shuddering breath, a tremor ran through the wounded soldier, and Steve watched as the life drained from his eyes. The tension over the band of soldiers snapped, and everyone released a sorrowful breath. Steve saw Clint sit back on his heels, pulling a bloody hand through his hair as he looked down over the fallen soldier with a bitter expression. The other soldiers stood by their fallen comrade, unsure whether to stay or go, all unwilling to look away from their friend lying frozen in death beside them.

Steve's heart wrenched at the sight of the man lying there, another life stolen in the endless green horror. Anyone could lose their way and wind up like Ace collapsed at Steve's feet. He could have found the dragon's tooth sooner, it had taken him minutes to dismantle the defenses. If he had only gotten there sooner...

"There was nothing you could do," he found himself gripping Clint's shoulder. The sailor stood with his head bowed over the fallen soldier as if in prayer.

"Neither could you. We did the best we could." Clint replied, his voice hollow. Reaching into the folds of Ace's uniform, he pulled out the man's dog tags and held them up to the light. "Catholic. He didn't even get last rites."

"He'll have a proper burial," Steve assured him. "Barton, what do you say we take him back to HQ ourselves? A day away from the front lines will do us good."

"No," Clint shook his head, gesturing to the other soldiers. "They don't get a choice, so we shouldn't either. We stay."

Pulling Clint up by his arm, Steve pulled him away from the body and walked a few steps back toward the forest. "We're taking him back, and that's an order. He needs a proper burial, and he won't get one here. I don't want to have to bury another man in this place."

Clint dropped his gaze and surveyed his boots. "You're right, Rogers. As always. I don't think he'd like to be buried here, either. It's just – how many more do we have to bury?"

A wall of trees and brush stood before Steve when he looked forward, any German defenses rendered invisible by the natural camouflage. The greenish hue of the sun glancing off of the leaves shimmered down, and a breath of wind stirred Steve's coat collar. He pulled his jacket closer around him, drawing his satchel with his shield in. "I don't know. I just don't know."

((Happy belated New Year!))