"Form up!" ordered Horvath.

They all gathered around him, awaiting further direction. Jackson crouched beside Reiben, Mellish flanking him and Wade behind him. The Captain had yet to return.

"Where's Beasley?" Horvath demanded, and they all groaned.

"Hell if I know," Mellish said, visibly irritated.

Even Jackson was rolling his eyes. Beasley was the kid who got on everyone's nerves, in spite of the fact that they know he meant well.

He was the translator, fully fluent in both French and German. He had proven useful after they had taken prisoners, and helped some of the bewildered French civilians find safe places to live after the Americans had arrived.

But other than that, they only tolerated him on rare occasions. He was always too cheerful, and had not gained Reiben or Mellish's respect, due to his kind treatment of the German prisoners. Jackson didn't think too much of that fact, realizing that Wade had helped a few of the teenage Nazis. At any rate, Beasley did annoy him, and he shared the squad's attitude toward him.

"Beasley!" the Sarge bellowed after spying him, "Get your scrawny ass over here!"

Rail-thin Beasley approached them, looking flushed. His bright red hair contrasted the muted colors of his uniform, and one could see it curling at his temples from under his helmet. Even though they had known him since Basic, the M1 rifle looked out of place in his hands. He tripped over a line of barbed wire in his haste to reach them.

"Take a knee. Where the hell have you been?" Horvath commanded, that all-too- familiar frown on his face.

"Probably out with his Nazi buddies," Reiben muttered to Mellish, who nodded. Both of them stifled laughs.

The Sarge rounded on them.

"What is so funny over here?"
Mellish shook his head, and Horvath turned back to Beasley, who was fumbling for words.

"Uh, they needed more help down at the P.O.W. sector, sir," he stammered.

"I told you so," Reiben whispered.

Jackson pursed his lips as the Sarge snapped at them again. They fell into respectful silence. Sergeant Horvath appeared to be satisfied with Beasley's excuse, but he still didn't look happy about it.

"So what's going on, Sarge?" Reiben quizzed him.

"Alright," Horvath sighed, "I'm not going to sugar-coat anything, so let's get it over with. HQ has verified that there are 88 flak cannons a few miles out from the beachhead," the squad flinched, obviously not thrilled with what they knew was coming. The sergeant continued. "It's our job to go and take 'em out. This isn't going to be easy, as you all might have guessed, but I'll guarantee you it won't be as bad as taking this goddamn beach."

They seemed to agree with him on that. Captain Miller came into view not long after, looking serious as he always did. He surveyed the young men before him, that familiar feeling of responsibility weighing down his shoulders. Beasley was the only one looking remotely horrified with the orders given. Miller gave him a small smile, and that seemed to reassure him.

"Sir, are we doing this by ourselves, or are we actually getting any back up?" asked Caparzo.

"We will be joined by a few squads from Charlie Company and a squad of Rangers from Baker. Hopefully, a few Shermans will be there for moral support," Miller answered him.

They laughed at that, pleased with the prospect of having a couple tanks watching their back.

"Have we all been briefed accordingly?"

They nodded as one. Miller looked from each youthful face to the other, detecting an underlying fear of the mission at hand. But they wouldn't balk at the orders; that was what they were here to do. Miller was proud of every one of them.

"You have a half-hour to eat something, gear up- whatever it is you have to do. No more time than that. You're dismissed."

With that, they had all gone their separate ways. The Captain and the Sergeant watched them as they talked amongst each other and laughed and griped.

"Penny for your thoughts, sir?" Horvath asked him.

"I don't know, Mike," he sighed, "But if this thing goes sour, I'm not sure I can keep doing this."

Horvath wasn't sure if Miller was being serious or not. He'd been with him since North Africa and still didn't know how the guy worked.

"I have faith in these guys. They've had one hell of a crash course, and I think they'll be ready for whatever else the Krauts throw at us," he said.

"…I hope you're right, Mike; I really do…"

Horvath wasn't sure why the Captain was having doubts about these men. Maybe it was the landing. That had screwed everyone up. Even the most hard-boiled guys had fallen apart. It was enough to make everyone want to give up.

Miller instructed Horvath to keep an eye on the squad. The Sergeant sighed.

"Yes sir."

Reiben had cracked open a 'K' ration and was questioningly inspecting the food that was compacted into the small container. Jackson watched on, shoveling a wad of spam into his mouth. He had neglected to use the little spoon that had come with it, fully convinced of its uselessness. He, Reiben and Beasley had all decided to eat something before leaving.

"This isn't food," Reiben declared, dropping the ration into his lap, discouraged, "I don't know if I can eat this without believing I'm going to end up with a horrible sickness."

"Quit your griping. At least we get food, with cigarettes and toilet paper to boot," Jackson told him, scraping up what was left of the spam with his fingers.

"You didn't wash your hands, Jackson!" Reiben said to him with mock surprise.

"Well, you didn't wash out your mouth accordingly," the sharpshooter cracked.

That seemed to shut him up for the time being, but he still went on about the state of his ration. He sat on his helmet, the rifle propped up against the hill beside him.

"I mean, look at this! It's disgraceful. Does this look like a damn biscuit to you?"

The rifleman held up a morsel of light-colored food as he spoke. Jackson shrugged. He was halfway done with his ration by now. Reiben sighed, shaking his head in pity.

"You don't know what real food tastes like, do you?"

"Not true. I just know when to stop bitching and use my time wisely," Jackson returned, mixing what was left of the spam with some eggs.

Beasley laughed at that. Reiben scowled at him. The three of them continued eating, watching the beach as they did so. Caparzo was off gathering extra ammunition as he had been told; Mellish was talking with a fellow Ranger, still looking for information in regards to the companies on the cliffs. Wade was restocking his supplies, treating those he could, talking to them gently as he healed their wounds. Sergeant Horvath reappeared, looking around for his helmet. Jackson pointed to it, and he took it from the sand, plopping it back on his head. Reiben presented his ration to Horvath and asked kindly,

"Would you like a serving of botulism, sir?"

Jackson broke into laughter. Even the Sarge smiled at that. Reiben was grinning himself, pleased with his work.

"Eat your food, Private Reiben. That is an order," Sarge told him awkwardly.

Reiben saluted, continuing to pick at his ration, disheartened.

"Whatever you say, Sarge…but I'd really like to see you eating this crap…"

Captain Miller arrived on time- thirty minutes later. Unfortunately, only Jackson, Beasley and Wade were ready to leave. He had to shout for Caparzo and Mellish to join them. Both had been walking around, trying to scrounge a pack of cigarettes or gum from the other soldiers.

"Where's Reiben?" Miller asked, fearing the answer.

"I believe he's taking a piss, sir," replied Caparzo.

The Captain sighed, searching the faces of the soldiers nearest to him, looking for Reiben's unmistakable mug. He finally spotted him, standing a few feet away by one of the trenches, looking preoccupied.

"Private Reiben!"

The kid wheeled around, startled, recognizing the irritation in that voice. He scurried over to them soon after, heaving the B.A.R. over his shoulder and dropping his helmet over his head.

"Sorry, sir," he panted, "It was a last-minute kinda thing."

Miller peered at the trooper disapprovingly, but decided to let it go. He sighed again, checking his watch.

"Alright. Right now, it's about…0400 hours. We'll be making good time if we get started," Miller pulled out a map and held it in his hands, tracing a line with his fingers. The map looked brand new, with crisp folds. "The 88s should be a mile out from here or closer. The Germans are bringing some of them in from the fields to use against us on the beaches. If we don't get them all, then we can kiss this place good-bye."

His men looked amongst themselves, feeling that hesitation and adrenaline began each mission.

"This shouldn't be a walk in the park, but it's nothing we can't handle. We're Rangers, remember that. That's why we got this mission."

They didn't need telling twice. They knew what was expected of them. Miller was just going through the motions. He looked from each man to the other, nodding.

"Sergeant Horvath and I will take point. Wade-Beasley, you two are in the middle. Jackson, left flank; Reiben right flank; Mellish-Caparzo- take the rear. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" they said in unison.

"Alright, then. Let's lock and load."

He trudged through the sand, his men following close behind in the positions they had been assigned. Beasley looked nervous. The Captain's squad finally met up with a couple more from Charlie Company and the promised group from Baker. Together, they all left the safe haven of the beachhead, delving further into France; further into the danger.

Behind them, the familiar motors of the Sherman tanks sounded, and they were somewhat comforted with the knowledge that they would have their support.

Miller's squad was up front, about a yard away from the second squad, led by a Lieutenant named Jones. A Corporal had originally been the head of one squad, due to the fact that all his officers had been killed. It was a disturbing fact that made them realize that death knew no rank.

Private Beasley was pale as he stepped cautiously through the fields of tall grass and poppies. Wade was beside him, though roughly three feet away; Miller had always stressed that they should not bunch up. Beasley was jumping at every noise, even the sound of Allied gunfire. Everything was loud and clear in the chilly air of the morning.

"Hey Beez," came Private Reiben's Brooklyn accent, "You doin' okay?"

Beasley nodded wordlessly, his wide eyes and ragged breathing betraying his statement.

"You've got nothing to worry about, Beez. We'll protect you; keep you safe."

Something about the way he was saying all this convinced Beasley not to believe a word he said. Reiben always sounded sarcastic.

"What are you afraid of anyway?"

The other members of the squad stared at the B.A.R. gunner, telling him it was completely obvious. The Sarge shook his head.

"I dunno, Reiben," Beasley stammered caustically, "Maybe it's the Germans I'm afraid of!"

"Ah, the Germs should be afraid of you," Reiben continued, "I mean, you've got the bangalores for Christ's sake."

Beasley was beginning to look sick. He had seemed to forget about the long pole charges he carried on his back. Aside from being the squad's translator, Beasley had become the squad's makeshift demolitions man. He had learned quickly how to set and arm a bangalore torpedo, but was in no way an expert. In all truth, Beasley didn't look like he wanted anything to do with the explosives.

Charlie Company, however, had at least two more explosives experts who had survived the landing. Private Talbot would be there to assist Miller's squad or anyone else's accordingly.

Talbot was an okay guy, but he got along better with Reiben, unfortunately for the rest of the Company. The only difference was Talbot was a native of Boston. He had dirty blond hair and a wide, toothy smile. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips. He looked no older than twenty three.

Reiben continued to try and coax Beasley into talking, but the private wouldn't have it. His mouth remained firmly shut, his lips forming a straight line.

Jackson had blotted out most of the conversation, staring at the horizon lines, looking for a glimpse of those 88s, straining his ears to hear the cough of mortars. His Springfield rifle cradled in his hands, ready to do its dirty work.

He had already decided long ago that he hated France. He didn't want to come back ever again. Too many people had died; too many good people. Some of them he didn't even know, but he had loved them all like brothers. And he hated this place. He didn't like the long grass, or the beaches, or the rocky terrain. He didn't like how the bottle green fields reminded him of home, or the way the air was damp and cool. He hated all of it….but no one would have guessed that looking at him.

Right now he was content with doing what he was used to. He continued to scan the horizon, taking in every detail he could. It was something the others weren't able to do; Jackson could tell what each line in their faces meant and how they looked before they said something. He could tell the nature of a conversation before anyone said anything. Most of the body language he'd learned from the Captain. Each member of his squad had a unique way of revealing themselves to him without a word.

They may have all looked the same in those Olive Drabs, but Jackson could tell how different they were just by looking at the back of their heads. If someone coughed, he knew who it was. This fact tended to give him a 'spooky' quality that the others teased him for, but it was necessary to become as good a sniper as Jackson was.

Right then, he could tell that Private Reiben was really nervous, under all that bravado and smart-alec attitude. He could tell from the way his muscles were tensed, and the fact that the veins in his hands showed as he clutched the rifle firmly. Jackson smirked knowingly to himself. So the private was human after all…

"Hey Beez, let's be serious. This is a routine mission; after that beach, this'll be a walk in the park," Reiben continued.

The others all sighed, marveling at the private's inability to shut up.

"Reiben-" Wade began, but surprisingly, Beasley answered.

"I might actually believe that…but we still have Rommel to worry about."

"Maybe not," Mellish piped up, "I heard that Hitler's keeping his ass up at the Pas, waiting for the 'real' invasion to begin."

"No kidding?" Jackson asked. Rommel was a soldier with countless stories surrounding him. It had been entertaining to hear the other Rangers talk about him, and the subject of Rommel had interested Jackson.

Mellish, sensing he had the attention of the squad (a position he surely didn't mind), continued on with his information.

"I'm serious. I heard that the guy leading the Germs here is that kid from North Africa...I don't remember his name…"

Reiben laughed, finally able to put his two cents in.

"He's got no name," he added with fake mystery, "They just called him 'the Desert Kid,' remember?"

Miller was listening, now. He shot the Sarge a knowing grin, and they both shook their heads. Beasley gulped.

"I heard that he was nasty," he muttered.

Not amazingly, Reiben heard him.

"Oh, the guy's a badass, Beez. Took out a bunch of Desert Rats all by himself- at least that's what I heard…"

"That's not right," Caparzo spoke up, lighting a Lucky brand cigarette, "He road into the camp on his motorcycle and scared the hell out of all of 'em. Then he blew up three of their Howitzers- all by himself."

Miller couldn't help chuckling at their confusion.

"Wait…I thought he got shot off the bike in that same day, and they all thought he was dead," Jackson added, "Then the bastard got right back up and took out the Howitzers by himself."

"I think the hillbilly's right," agreed Reiben, "I think that's how it happened."

"But what about the rumor that he saved Rommel from the Tommies that came to kill him? I thought he got shot off his bike then…" Beasley said, frowning.

Reiben swore.

"Crap…I guess it's not all that clear, is it?"

"That's why he's a legend," Jackson returned.

"I heard he kept a desert coyote as his pet," Beasley said, the mystery real in his voice, "And he sics it on the enemy when they escape or they're too far away for his men to get."

Miller laughed aloud at that. Beasley seemed embarrassed.

"That's not right," Miller laughed quietly, "Where did you hear that?"

"…A guy in Able Company told me, on the battleship," Beasley replied, his cheeks almost as red as his hair.

"Able Company…it figures," Sergeant Horvath grumbled.

Jackson was interested. Miller obviously knew something about this 'Desert Kid.' If they got a chance to figure something out about their Captain, this was it.

"You know about 'the Kid,' Sir?" Jackson asked.

Miller hesitated, but only momentarily.

"…Yeah, I know about him."

The group members looked amongst each other, somewhat surprised. They continued to march through the terrain, awaiting further comments. As if sensing their eagerness to hear more, Miller commenced talking.

"Way back in North Africa, when I was a private, just like the lot of you, there had been a lot of rumors about this supposed, 'kid.' It was ridiculous, some of it, but each of the guys who had fought in battle against this soldier claimed he was most formidable." The Captain glanced over at Horvath, who sniggered. "Now, at first I thought maybe these guys had all seen bad things in battle, and that they just made this kid up so they'd have something to blame it on…"

"That is, until you met the guy and found out it was all true," Reiben interrupted, smirking.

Jackson knew the Captain was telling the truth, but he also knew that Reiben was a pretty skeptical person.

"You're right on the map, Private. This kid, this 'Desert Kid,' came into our encampment one night, and started raising hell over by the Sherman columns and the deuce-and-a-half trucks."

His men had all leaned forward, dying to hear the rest. Miller grinned; he had them all in the palm of his hand. He took another glance at the Sarge, who couldn't believe he was telling them all this.

"So, what? What was going on?" Beasley was immensely interested.

"Well… it turns out, this guy was here in retaliation, because we'd attacked them pretty bad the day before. This was after Kasserine, so we were feeling a bit resentful of the way they'd been treating us." His men laughed lightly, understanding the dark humor. "Anyway, I could hear the motorcycle off in the distance, but I thought that there were at the least, five of 'em or so."

"But it's just one guy, right?" Reiben butted in.

"…Yeah, it was just one guy. He was doing doughnuts by the columns, because he knew that we were basically blind if the sand was in the air. We were poorly equipped for that damn sand, I'll tell you what," Miller went on. The Sarge agreed with him. "I did get a glimpse of this guy- he was no younger than Jackson over there," the Captain pointed, "But he had the same ranking I do now."

"What the hell is a Captain doing all the way back by your lines?" Mellish asked.

"That's what makes it a legend," said Wade.

"All I can say is," Miller told them, "Is that he was damn talented with that set of wheels. He caked everything in so much mud and dust, we didn't realize he'd put a shitload of explosives on the tank treads. We lost six before they figured it out."

That was all the Captain spoke of the mysterious German soldier. This 'Kid' was beginning to gain as much respect from the Allies as Rommel did. They understood he was the enemy of course, but they respected him as a worthy opponent. He was smart in everything he did, making it nearly impossible to figure out his next move.

"I heard they can't even spy on him," Beasley said, "He sends the spies back across the channel in a boat with a note written in English."

The way he said it made Jackson laugh. Beasley looked self-conscious again.

"Now that is pure nonsense," the sharpshooter drawled.

Beasley peered over at him, and Jackson winked.

"Don't get fooled by them Able Company guys," he said.

Beasley grinned and nodded. That respect he needed wasn't that far off, now. If he could get to the sniper, he could get to the others. Captain Miller seemed to sympathize with him…
"We've really been talking loud, haven't we?" Mellish laughed.

"Ah, it's a good thing, Fish," Caparzo assured him, "I say, let the Krauts know we're coming."

"Yeah, we've really got 'em shaking in their boots," Wade muttered.

Reiben actually smiled at that.

The sky had not gotten any lighter in the time they had been traveling. Crickets were chirping as they marched. Jackson diverted his attention back to the horizon after the squad had quieted back down. He watched as the grass bent where he stepped, and could smell the smoke drifting from Caparzo's cigarette. It was then he saw it. His trained eyes caught it before everyone else's. He ran up to Beasley, grabbing the private by the collar of his uniform.

"Captain!" he shouted.

Miller, hearing the alarm in his voice, turned to look at the sky. It was then they all heard the high-pitched screech of the artillery shells.

"Screaming Meemies!" Reiben bellowed.

The soldiers scattered, sprinting through the fields as fast as they could. Jackson still had Beasley by the collar. Both were screaming. The shells finally hit the ground, sending chunks of dirt and men flying. Jackson and Beasley were forced off their feet, landing face-first in the mud.

"Beasley?!"

"I'm fine!" came a terrified voice.

Jackson rolled to his feet and pulled his comrade along with him. All around them men were shouting different orders, scattered in every direction. The air was charged as they waited uncertainly for the next attack. The smell of cordite was thick in his nostrils as the sniper searched for his squad. There was a large crater in the area they'd all been standing in.

"Jackson!" shouted a familiar voice, "Jackson?!"

"Over here, Reiben! I'm here!!"

The private ran up to him and Beasley, relief flashing in his eyes. His face was smeared with dirt and his assault jacket had been peppered with even more holes.

"This isn't over. They've gotta be at least five miles out."

"How the hell can you know that?!" Reiben snapped.

"Because I was the only one who paid attention in basic," Jackson shot back, "Where's Cap'n Miller?!"

Reiben shook his head. He actually looked vulnerable at that moment, and Jackson suddenly felt a pang of helplessness. If Reiben was going to lose it, then he didn't know what he would do. Beside them, Beasley was beginning to sob.

"We're gonna die…"

Reiben reached over and slapped him.

"Shut up!"

Beasley just stared at him. Jackson hardly reacted. The screech came again, and they knew that it would be more accurate this time. Around them the men shouted and scattered. This time it was Reiben who snatched up Beasley and hauled him along. The shell hit only a few feet behind them once again, and they stumbled. Jackson and Beasley kept their footing, and the latte running ahead. Reiben fell, crying out. Jackson skidded to a halt as Beasley ran on.

"Come on, Reiben!!" he shouted as another scream sounded above, "Come On!!"

The B.A.R. trooper snatched his comrade's hand, and the sharpshooter heaved him to his feet. Together they ran across the remaining stretch of the field to the tree line, where several men had already collected.

Panting like dogs, they fell into the shrubs as the shell exploded farther out- exactly where they had been standing.

"Where you a sprinter back home, bumpkin?" Reiben gasped, flat on his back.

Jackson managed a smile, shaking his head.

"Just born lucky is all," he answered.

Author's note: Hope you liked it! ;) Just a quick tidbit: The characters are not mine, sadly; I'm just barrowing them for a time. And, depending on how well you know the movie, you're familiar with Beasley already…we just never saw him in action… Anyway, thanks for reading and leave a review if you please. Thanks.