"The men of the U.S. Army in Northwest Europe

shook themselves and made this a defining moment

in their own lives and in the history of the Army.

They didn't like retreating, they didn't like getting kicked around,

and as individuals, squads and companies as well as SHAEF,

they decided they were going to make the enemy pay."

- Stephen Ambrose

media:

"Praise The Lord and Pass the Ammunition!"

by Frank Loesser

Elsenborn, Belgium; December 17, 1944

Retreat reeked with the stench of defeat.

Ever since Clint had landed in Europe, his battles had been those of constant motion. The energy and freedom afforded to he and Steve was addictive, and he had been swept up in the continual battles, never staying in one place too long, hopping from line to line. It was exhaustive and destructive and bloody yet tantalizingly exhilarating.

Retreating was a sudden reversal of this excitement, and crashing down from the high of endless adrenaline was torturous. Clint didn't have the heart to look the men next to him in the eye, and they kept their own gaze on their boots. Slushy, dark snow seeped through the holes in his shoes and froze his feet. Small patches of flame burned on the side of the road, officers' maps set alight, and fear resounded in the mind of every soldier as they charged to the west, away from the onslaught of German artillery and infantry.

Rows upon rows of dirty, disheveled soldiers crowded the clogged and muddy lanes, further contributing the massive traffic jam leading away from the lines. Tanks and deuce-and-a-half trucks stalled, mired in the thick snowy mud, and reinforcements tangled with the fleeing men. Above all panic ruled, the fear of one's life never as far away as the occasional snaps and booms of far-off German shell fire.

"This isn't right," Steve muttered beside him. His case with his shield was clasped on one fist and his gun in the other, eyes blazing as he looked out on the road.

Clint shook his head, taking a kick at an empty ration tin. "There's nothing we can do. You want to go take the buzz bombs on yourself?"

"I've had it with retreating. Do you have any ammunition?"

Turning to the side, Clint pointed to the massive supply dumps on either side of the road. "Take your pick, Cap. Besides, these men would give us anything they have. All the better of an excuse not to fight." There was a small spark in his chest, a small reminder of the flame of battle, and he felt the heat of the action begin to bloom again.

Steve's eyes shone with – what was it? Excitement? Rage? Righteous anger? In moments he had haggled a mortar set from a crew of boys, had a box of M1 ammo under his arm and a machine gun brace at his feet. "What are you waiting for, Barton? Come on!"

The village was more of a cluster of hovels around the junction of two Belgian roads, completely abandoned save a few stiff-necked locals and a band of American soldiers who were already laying defenses when Steve and Clint arrived. It seemed too small of a town to occupy such a critical junction, its main street flanking a wide, cobbled road facing shuttered street windows. A few of the citizens had the gall to re-hang their Nazi flags.

Clint had spent the last hour setting angles for the pre-sighted artillery attack. The few mortar sets he had been able to wrangle from retreating soldiers were centered on the entrance and exits to the main street. They would require two men to fire, so Clint had enlisted the help of one of the American rebels, a wiry kid named Laurey, to bomb the Krauts to hell. The men had Steve's fire in their eyes, the energy of doing wrong for something right.

They overturned pavement stones and wired in bombs, concealed machine-gun nests in windows, and turned the street into a battle zone in hours. And still the German artillery thundered nearer, like a shadow hanging over the band of soldiers.

"What do we do if they have tanks?" Laurey's companion Richardson murmured, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his uniform as he stared down at the road from the church citadel.

With a simpering smile, Laurey nudged his boot against one of the missiles in his compilation of shells leaning against the church's bells. "This here is a Panzerfaust. Stole it from one of the Jerries. Flip out your sight, take aim, and fire away, baby!"

Richardson shuddered slightly, dragging his gaze away from the road. "Let's pray they don't."

A steady thrum resounded over the occasional crack of a shell, and Clint's shoulders stiffened. Drawing up his rifle, he set the barrel between the ornamental mortar of the citadel and rested his cheek against the cold metal. He could have fired the gun blind – it had been his faithful companion since D-Plus-One, and he more willed the bullets to appear than fired them – but he remained focused on the small sight crossed at the center of the road.

His eyes darted to the side, and he saw Steve in his position farther back on the road with his head out the window. Shaking his head slightly, he pulled himself back into position. The message was clear: wait.

But Clint was tired of waiting. He could feel the itch of battle beneath his palms, his fingers flexing against his rifle and drumming an impatient beat. The thrum had turned into a roar, the oncoming tide of Krauts mingling with the rush of blood in his ears, and he strained to make out the oncoming line.

A breath of anticipation rose among the soldiers as the first German boot rounded the bend to the tiny town. The Krauts marched in a line five men abreast, each with their rifles leaning against their shoulders and their other arm hanging loose at their sides. The infantrymen strode toward the fringe buildings, a few kicking aside remaining debris with an almost child-like vindictiveness. A few even wore smiles, those of an army on the offensive. They were dressed in proper cold-weather gear, followed by the might of their army, green in combat and full of confidence.

They stomped into the town, footsteps echoing over the cobblestones. Steve's rudimentary wiring of the mines had been timed to go off at his signal, and the first wave of soldiers proceeded toward the center of the town unharmed. Eyes skimmed over the citadel, searching the buildings for any signs of remaining defense. One man tugged at a hanging American flag with a grin on his face, eyebrows raised ironically at the man beside him. They exchanged a laugh, and Clint scowled, swinging his rifle around to their position.

Wait. Steve's warning resounded in his head above the clatter of boots. A flash of motion caught Clint's eye and he turned to see a young girl only waist-high dart out to the soldiers. One stopped and knelt to speak to her, and she pointed up at the citadel.

Up at Clint.

His barrel framed the girl's curly ringlets, his finger stretching for the trigger, instinct. He had just grazed the metal with his finger when Richardson tore his grip away, spinning him back toward the inside of the roof. "What the hell are you doing?"

"She's giving us away!"

A barking command in German followed, and the mortar before Clint's face exploded in a powder of white from Kraut fire. Blinded, Clint turned away and swore profusely, but beside him Richardson and Laurey opened fire on the growing mass of soldiers below. All hell broke loose as the mines tore free from their positions under the cobblestones, scattering soldiers away in massive craters. Smoke choked the air, screams and steam twisting toward the sky. The Germans kept marching.

When his vision cleared, Clint began firing as well, a solid mass of artillery raining down on the Germans so thick he could have walked on it. Bullets scattered like hail, no alley or shop window providing protection from the merciless onslaught. A pounding on his shoulder alerted him that Richardson was trying to get his attention in the din, and he followed the soldier's pointing finger to the figures of the most recent arrivals. Outfitted in long black jackets indicative of high-ranking SS men, Clint knew they had to be the infantrymen's' officers. Their expressions were perfectly calm as they approached the carnage from the bend in the road, and a knot of worry settled in Clint's stomach. The defenders could sense it too, and the firing stopped as the officers came forward, the click of boots shifting to something much more sinister.

"Oh, shit..." Laurey muttered, swinging around to snatch his heavier artillery. Clint had fought in the hedgerows long enough to know what that sound was.

The pop of small-arms fire sounded from below and he looked down to see Steve sprinting across the street into the citadel. The Krauts were settling into defensive positions, taking shelter under overturned carts and behind buildings. The river of soldiers was slowing to a trickle, but Clint knew the Americans were outmanned and outgunned.

Bursting through the door, Steve crouched beside the soldiers. "All our mines are exploded or busted. This is all we have left."

Defiance sparked in Clint's gut, and he turned back to the street. No wonder the officers were so relaxed approaching the town – they had a Tiger on their side! "What can we do, Cap?"

Steve's brows furrowed. Clint watched as he surveyed the street below him. It was piled high with the bodies of the enemy, slicking the cobblestones with a vivid scarlet. "We have to beat that Tiger or there's no way we get out of this alive. I want you all to make chaos for the Germans. Take them out as best you can. Make them scared, make them think we have greater numbers. Can you do that?"

"Don't have to tell me twice!" Laurey growled, hoisting his rifle against his shoulder. Clint followed his lead and swung his rifle through the slats of the citadel's balcony. The report of rifles thundered against the shattered silence, and his vision narrowed to exposed helmets and limbs and anything he could spot. He burst lightbulbs and store windows, filling the air with the clamor of destruction and death, and the Germans hunkered down as their tank skittered around the corner, limbs digging deep in the mud and stone as it propelled itself forward.

Try as he might, Clint could never contain the shiver of fear that passed over him as the Tiger approached. He turned back to see Steve's eyes light up with inspiration, and Clint pushed away from the citadel's railing to hear his plan.

"The Tiger doesn't have an underwater exhaust system!" he cried, his face splitting into a beaming grin.

"What?"

"Is there a river around here? Anywhere?"

Digging through his pocket, Clint pulled out his silk map and traced the route of the road to the town with his finger. "About a mile away. Why?"

"You ever went fishing before, seaman?"

"Sure, why?"

"Ever wanted to know what it feels like to be bait?"

"Hey, you big Kraut oafs! Yeah, I'm talkin' to you! Over here, you louse-riddled, good for nothin'–"

The Germans must have been too shocked to fire as Clint strode into the middle of the road bold as brass, waving his M1 above his head and hollering at the top of his lungs. The Tiger's turret had been nosing around through a broken shop window, but it slowly turned to face Clint. The barrel seemed to swell in Clint's vision and he gulped, but put on a show of bravado as he crossed his arms.

"You want a piece of this action? That's what I thought! Come and get it!"

The Tiger shuffled forward as if it were uncertain to go after Clint or keep scoping out its prey, but the bait was too good. Lunging forward, the tank's treads skimmed over the bodies of the dead Krauts, its prong-like legs tearing across stone and flesh. A shell burst above Clint's head, forcing him to the ground. His feet scrabbled against the slick ground as he pushed himself upright and ran down the widest side street, the Tiger's limbs wheeling and heaving as it pursued him.

It didn't take long to reach the edge of town, where the closely spaced buildings spread out into overgrown farms. Cows with swollen udders bellowed from the fields, their farmers having long since abandoned them, but the whirring machinery of the Tiger's legs ground above their pitiful cries. The tank was gaining on Clint. Arms and legs pumping, Clint sprinted for all he was worth, zigzagging across the road in a desperate attempt to keep the Tiger from pinning its .88 on him. Bullets snapped at his heels and he leaped forward with a new burst of speed, diving from the main road and into the trees surrounding the village.

The Tiger must have been very determined to chase Clint down, because it swiveled and crashed down onto its treads to pursue him into the woods. The engine whined and roared behind him, razing any shrubs or small trees in its way. An artillery blast shredded a nearby tree down to its stump, and Clint raised his arms against the wooden and metal shrapnel bursting around him as he ran. His breath grew heavy and his strides were slowing as his stamina wore down, but he couldn't stop now, not with the river so close...

The ground grew marshy beneath his feet, his boots sticking to the mud and silt slipping beneath his heels. When it seemed like the tank was directly on top of him, Clint covered his head and dove to the side. The Tiger was going too fast to change its course. Tthe powerful engine bellowed as it passed Clint with the force of a steam train and the speed of a jet plane. Too slowly it extracted its insect-like legs and plunged them into the earth, but the mud simply slid past the feelers and propelled the Tiger into the water.

A gush of bubbles leaked from the machine to the surface of the tank, ripples spreading out from the dark shadow of the machine sinking beneath the scummy, frost-encrusted water. A film of dirt and vegetation obscured the tank from view, but Clint knew it would be moments before the Kraut soldiers abandoned their machine. If Steve's mechanical expertise was correct, water from the exhaust pipes would be filling the Tiger, and its engine would be overheating from a dozen different mechanical failures. Clint stood on the bank of the river, looking down on the Kraut tank with a savage pleasure simmering in his heart.

The first German head broke the surface, helmet-less and wide-eyed as he looked up at Clint. The latter shouldered his rifle in a second, aiming it at the boy's forehead, and the Kraut raised his arms above the air. Swimming in the frigid water was no easy feat, especially in waterlogged clothes, and the soldier's face was drawn with strain as he paddled.

"Kamerad!" he cried, and Clint gestured with his head to the bottom of the bank. Three other soldiers emerged, all similarly compliant as they floundered their way to the bank. By the time they had all pulled themselves panting onto the mud, Clint's small band of American rebels had reached him with their remaining weapons in tow.

A sharp clanging emanated from the sinking tank, and Clint's rifle snapped up in his hands as the hatch revealed the figure of one final deserter, arms raised in surrender and voice – in perfect English - trembling with relief.

"For God's sake, Barton, don't shoot!"

((You guessed it - we've hit the Battle of the Bulge! Thanks as always for reading!))