Private Jackson had long since made himself comfortable in the olive-green Jeep the Sarge had managed to get for them. He sat on top of the back seat, his boots on the cushions. Medic Wade was beside him, actually sitting on the seat. He was smoking a cigarette, waiting for Captain Miller and Sergeant Horvath to arrive with a new translator in tow.

There was room for a third Ranger in the back seat, but this spot was reserved for the newbie, and Reiben didn't think the guy deserved such a high honor. The B.A.R. trooper was crammed on a little carriage-like extension the Sarge had attached to the back of the vehicle. He sat at the front, his knees pulled close to his chest; Mellish and Caparzo were beside him, their rifles and knees digging into him from all directions. Reiben kept hitting Jackson on the back of the head with the barrel of the B.A.R., and he snapped at him for it, though the rifleman swore he didn't mean to do it.

As he squabbled in the back with Caparzo again, Wade said,

"I still have my letter…"

Jackson frowned.

"What's that?"

Wade looked up at him, smirking.

"The letter from Eisenhower? Yeah…I still have it." Wade propped his boots up on the passenger's seat, turning away. He blew out a round of smoke, still saying, "I thought maybe it would be something good to keep, y'know? Like, if I ever started to lose my head, and say I didn't want to do this anymore, then I could just look at what my commander expected of us…and know that I have to do this."

They were silent for a moment. Jackson stared into space, thinking about what the medic had said. Here was a guy, younger than Jackson, who had just explained why he was fighting. The question of what a soldier was fighting for was one they thought of asking each other, but never really did. Wade must have felt the need to tell him.

"...That's why I kept it," Jackson finally said.

Wade nodded, that smile on his face. He understood.

They didn't say much to each other after that, but Reiben forced them into conversation as usual. He grabbed Jackson's shoulder saying,

"Hey, Huck Finn, is this mission Foobar, or what?"

"For once, I'll agree with you, Yankee."

Reiben leaned back, obviously satisfied with this reply. He hadn't put his helmet on, and Jackson could still see traces of dirt smeared across his face. A small bandage was visible on the back of his neck as he turned to look for the Captain.

"What the hell is taking so long?"

"He's probably stalling on purpose," Mellish spoke up, "You know how he is."

"Either that, or he's trying to come up with a better way to introduce the shitbird to us," the B.A.R. trooper returned, twisting in his seat.

"How you talk, Reiben," Jackson said.

"No, I'm serious. This guy'll just be bad news; wait 'n' see."

He kept hitting Caparzo in the knees as he said this, and every time he turned, the B.A.R. would crack Jackson on his neck.

"Cut it out, will ya?!"

Reiben finally gave up looking, slouching where he sat.

Captain Miller came into view a few moments later, stopping to speak to the new translator. The Sarge had stopped as well, his hands on his hips. He seemed very impatient and petulant that afternoon, but that was the way he usually was before a mission.

The squad had all leaned forward to catch a good look at the guy.

"Cripes," said Caparzo, "He's a Corporal."

They grumbled swears under their breath and continued watching.

The Corporal was tall and lanky; he wore an immaculate uniform that still had creases in it. There was no dirt to be seen on it. The twin stripes on his arms showed a bright yellow and black. His helmet looked much too big for him, outlining his pale face. He was wearing the chinstrap.

"Oh, man…Look at him! Jeezus….I'll never forgive Miller for this," said Mellish.

"I think the Cap'n's gone battle whacky this time, for sure," Jackson spoke up.

Wade shook his head, as if in disbelief.

Miller, Sergeant Horvath and the new Corporal began walking toward the Jeep.

Reiben appeared to notice something.

"Told you he was a shitbird; He's in the 29th Infantry Division!"

They all looked at the symbol on the Corporal's shoulder, a blue yin-yan shape. Reiben was right.

"Sumbitch," Jackson swore, "I see it, too…"

He felt annoyed, now. He almost always trusted the Captain's judgment, as well as the Sarge's, but they could have at least picked out a guy from the Rangers.

Miller came to a stop a few feet away from the Jeep, as if sensing the imminent rage boiling amongst his squad. The Sarge stepped around to the front seat and slid behind the wheel, waiting. He scrubbed the windshield clear of mud as the Captain spoke.

"Gentlemen, this is Corporal Upham. He'll be accompanying us on our way to Neuville. He speaks French, and his German has a touch of Bavarian- isn't that right?"

The Corporal named Upham flinched as Miller put a hand on his shoulder.

"Uh, right. I mean, y-yessir."

The squad stirred uncomfortably. Miller could tell that they were not happy with this guy. They had to have known, however, that he wouldn't have chose this kid to begin with, but Upham was the only option.

Upham could tell right away that the men he looked at nervously did not like him. They were all grungy and held their weapons much differently than he did. Those who wore their helmets all wore them with the helmet strap dangling. Two of them were chewing noisily on gum. They looked somewhat comfortable crammed in the back of the vehicle, and he didn't understand how they could be. The private with the dark hair and cigar was eyeing him as if he were a mosquito he'd like to swat. He avoided his eyes and looked toward another man, this time with gentler features and fair hair. He stared right back at him, and Upham fidgeted where he stood, feeling most uncomfortable. The Captain turned to speak to him once again, and he was relieved at the broken silence.

"Corporal, you'll be sitting up front with me and Sergeant Horvath…"

Jackson watched as Miller began speaking to the little 'soldier' again, shaking his head. He cast a look at Reiben. Their expressions both said the same thing, This guy is fresh meat.

"Are you sure we aren't taking a tank or something, uh, sir?" the Corporal stammered.

Miller stared at him, then realized he was being serious.

"Get in the Jeep, son," he ordered.

"Yes, sir!" Upham said, saluting him.

The Captain's men rolled their eyes and snickered. Upham looked back at them questioningly. Miller gave him a little shove, and he clambered into the passenger's seat. The Captain climbed in next to him, shutting the door with a clang. He took out his map, which was wrinkled in several places and torn in one spot. He leaned over to Sergeant Horvath and began talking.

Upham took this time to become acquainted with the squad. He could sense that they were already a close-knit group, but, maybe if he was nice, they would be too.

"Um…Hello…I'm Tim Upham."
His outstretched hand went ignored. He drew it back, clearing his throat. He noticed that a couple of the soldiers weren't wearing their helmets; he took his off, putting it behind him on the seat. When he glanced back at them, they were staring as if they thought of pushing him out of the Jeep. The private with the cigar appeared thoughtful now, instead of menacing. The Medic was the first to speak to him.

"I'm Irwin Wade," he said, as if he regretted it.

Upham smiled. Thank God someone was talking; it wasn't a bad start.

"Nice to meet you, Wade," Upham looked at the others, but they didn't respond. The medic had fallen back into silence, but gave him a small nod. "So…you guys are all Rangers, huh?"

Again, they stared. Upham felt as if they were looking right through him.

Jackson couldn't believe this guy. Surely, they didn't let guys like this in the Army. He looked over at Reiben, noticing that he was thinking up something. They weren't bothered by the fact that Wade had spoken to him; he had to, he was the medic. Jackson watched as Mellish buried his face in his hands, heaving a deep sigh. Caparzo leaned forward after the Corporal asked them if they were Rangers, and spat into his helmet. Jackson laughed; Upham hadn't noticed it.

"Nice shot, Carpy," he said.

"So, where are you from?" Upham asked the blond private. This soldier interested him because he seemed different from the others; he didn't carry an M1 Garand or any other rifle like that.

"He's from Kentucky, Corporal Upchuck, can't you tell?" broke in the cigar-smoking private. He had a Brooklyn accent.

The Southern private scowled at Brooklyn and cuffed him on the arm.

"I'm from Tennessee, you happy idiot!" he said.

"Alright, calm down…someone's cranky this morning…"

Brooklyn was smirking to himself. Upham was happy now that he knew something about one of the other soldiers.

"Tennessee? I've been there once; it was nice. There was a lot of mist, though, that's all I remember…What's your name?"

Brooklyn spoke for the soldier once again.

"Private First Class Daniel Jackson, sharpshooter."

Upham's eyes went round. His gaze fell back to the rifle that Jackson cradled close to him like a child. It was a sniper rifle.

Jackson had daggers for Reiben, who was forcing back guffaws.

"That was uncalled for," he said.

Reiben just shrugged, grinning. Jackson felt like cracking him upside the head with the Springfield, but he knew Captain Miller wouldn't approve.

He hated Corporal Upham. He was too jittery, too nervous. He spoke too softly and was too 'innocent' to go into battle. He reminded Jackson of Beasley, and for that, he hated him.

"I think I've heard about you guys," Upham was saying, "One of you was supposed to be a hell of a shot."

The squad winced at this recognition. The Corporal treated them as if they were heroes. He didn't understand that the real heroes were the ones that died fighting.

Jackson leaned forward, aiming a spit wad behind the Corporal as he turned to look at Reiben. It landed with a light tink inside his helmet. He was a good shot. Caparzo nodded his approval.

As Upham continued to try and talk to each squad member, they became more and more annoyed with him. He wanted to know everything about them in less than five minutes. But they had their way of getting revenge…

"So, you're from Brooklyn…I can tell."

"What, the giant word on the back of my jacket wasn't a dead give away?" Reiben said.

Upham turned away; tink went a third spit wad.

He tried talking to Mellish, and only received a string of swear words. This caught the attention of Captain Miller, who gave them a long stare. Cut it out. He turned back to talk tactics with the Sarge.

Mellish spat over Upham's head and Jackson watched as a small piece of Wrigley's landed in the helmet.

Up to that point, the only one of them who had not added anything to the lovely mix inside the helmet was Wade. Jackson wondered why, although he knew the medic wasn't that kind of person. Upham, who remembered that Wade had been nice to him earlier, turned back to make conversation. The medic's eyes were tired and indifferent; he certainly looked thrilled about it.

"Have you guys gone this way before? Off the beach, I mean…"

Wade gave him a slight nod. The others appeared disappointed; he was ruining their fun. Upham leaned back in the seat, avoiding Miller's arm as he swung it out to the right to show where they would be headed.

"How bad is it?" Upham inquired in a soft voice.

"Bad enough," said Wade.

The Corporal turned slowly to face him, his brown eyes wide and shining with fear.

"What do you mean by that?"

Jackson frowned, exchanging looks with Reiben and Caparzo. What did Wade mean by that?

"I mean, it'll be bad for you, if you keep asking those questions," he finally said, blowing out a small cloud of smoke, "Maybe you should take it easy with 'em, Corporal."

Upham nodded, swallowing his embarrassment.

"…Sorry," he mumbled.

He turned to face the windshield of the Jeep, watching as the soldiers went walking by to different destinations. Jackson heard the tink of a final spit wad landing in the Corporal's helmet. He smiled.

"Alright, gentleman," Captain Miller told them, casting his voice over the din of the beach, "We're moving on out."

The group in the back straightened up, positioning themselves accordingly.

"I want all smokes out. We've come this far, girls; let's not make it easier for 'em," the Sarge said as the Jeep shuddered to life.

Reiben, Caparzo and Wade pitched their cigar and cigarettes.

Jackson held his Springfield in the crook of his arm to save it any sort of damage. He crossed himself and said a prayer. He noticed Upham watching, but didn't say anything. He sighed. Lord, grant me strength to cope with this guy. I have a feeling it won't be this Private Ryan boy that bothers me more…

Behind him, the B.A.R. cracked against the back of his neck one final time as Private Reiben plopped his helmet on, scraping a small cloud of dirt off of it.

"Alright," he said, "Let's go get this shit-kicker and come back in time for supper."

Caparzo agreed, loading a fresh clip in his M1 Garand. Jackson massaged the spot on his neck, frowning. Mellish went on chewing his gum, adjusting his helmet, gazing at the beach as if he were taking it all in for the last time.

Jackson took the time to stare around him at Omaha Beach, trying not to forget what it looked like. He had worked to secure this place. Many Rangers had died in the process, as well as countless others. He didn't feel like going to get this Private Ryan, at that moment. He just wanted to stay on the beach. It had become a place that he recognized; a place he and his squad members all lived, slept, ate and laughed. He never thought about the death that surrounded the place until he had nothing else to do.

But he was a Ranger, as he always remembered, and if his mission was to find some lost paratrooper, then that was what he had to do….

"Get the hell out of the way!" Sergeant Horvath bellowed to a group of privates that had clustered in front of the Jeep, "Are you blind or what?!"

The group scattered like a flock of birds as the Sarge drove the Jeep right between them.

"Don't hit anyone, Mike," Captain Miller warned him, his nose in his maps, "Just keep going straight."

The car bounced roughly over a large crater made by an 88, flinging the group into the air. They all swore, save for Upham, who flew forward and cracked his head on the dashboard. Miller, his gaze still fixed on the scribble of routes and towns, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back against the seat.

"Be careful, Corporal," he said, matter-of-factly.

Upham rubbed the spot on his head roughly, nodding.

"…Yes, sir…"

"Hey, Upchuck," came Reiben's voice, "Maybe you should wear your helmet."

Jackson cracked a grin; Mellish and Caparzo snickered.

"Yeah, maybe you should," Mellish advised him.

Upham took this advice to heart, thinking that he should probably listen to them. If they told him to wear it, then he would. He gripped the steel helmet in his hand and put it on just as he'd seen the others do. Behind them, they smothered laughs into their arms. Wade cringed.

"Aw man," Reiben giggled, forcing down a guffaw, "That's classic…"

Upham looked back at them, noticed they were all smiling, and grinned as well. Maybe they had gotten used to him already…

Jackson held out his hand again, and Reiben slapped his palm. The Sarge continued to bounce the Jeep roughly along the beach, leaning on the horn as necessary. Jackson watched as Corporal Upham held on for dear life, and laughed again. His eyes flickered from each member of the squad to the other: Mellish still chewing on a wad of gum; Caparzo trying to aim another spit wad somewhere near Upham; Wade leaned back somewhat comfortably in the seat, holding on to the door to keep from falling out; Reiben smiling that smartass grin, singing some strange song he'd picked up from God knew where….

Finally, there was Captain Miller, a man who had most likely taken the brunt of the 88 mission. His face had lost its softness; his cheeks were dotted with scraggly five o'clock shadow and dirt was ground into his uniform. The Captain's bars on his helmet had begun to fade. However, his eyes still held that kindness; he may not have gotten along well with others, but he never treated the squad with disdain or frustration. They looked at him for comfort, though they would never admit to that.

Jackson stared at the Captain as the Jeep lurched over the sand, weaving its way between lines of men and equipment. He was surprised when Miller turned around to face him. The Captain gave him the faintest of smiles and nodded. Jackson grinned.

"Hey, Cap'n," said Reiben.

"Yes, Private? What's troubling you?" Miller asked him, a hint of sarcasm to his tone.

"Why don't you tell me a little about this guy, huh? What does he do back home?"

"…Didn't tell me much about the kid," the Captain admitted, "Though I do know, he was Boy Scout-," he raised his eyebrows, "The head of his troop, with fifteen merit badges."

Miller turned back around, once again looking into his maps. The Sarge shook his head; Upham looked amazed.

"Fifteen…" he mused.

Reiben burst into guffaws.

"There's irony for ya! 'Always be prepared my ass!! HA!"

Jackson laughed right along with him. Wade's cackle rose above the sputtering of the Jeep. Mellish and Caparzo snickered; Upham just smiled.

Jackson decided that this mission may have been Fubar, but…he wouldn't have gone to do it with any other squad….

Reiben started singing again just as the Jeep left the beach behind permanently, and the cool blue of the ocean could no longer be seen. Sand turned to bottle-green grass, and weeds turned to poppies and lines of hedgerows. Whether he wanted it or not, Private Ryan would be saved.