Prologue

“Hey Ozzy, I got you a bowl,” said PFC. Jerome Neff, the biggest soldier in my company. He ambled over casually with two bowls of ice cream covered in all of the toppings. The rugged scar running through his hairline and down the side of his face gave those in his way pause and an urgency to move before he got to close. The combination of his grim appearance and giant stature always sent people running, even those of a higher rank. No amount of chevrons on your arm could stop an angry giant from crushing you. I didn’t think of Neff that way though, I saw him as a close friend.

We were in a somewhat symbiotic relationship. Whatever injury has caused Neff’s massive facial scarring had left him mildly weak of mind. I on the other hand was smart as a whip, and especially street smart thanks to my upbringing, and I used that knowledge to benefit me and Neff. My practical knowledge had served me more than well in the alpha male dominated, testosterone filled environment of the U.S. Army, and when I couldn’t think my way out of a situation, Neff stepped in. Literally, that was it, he just stepped in. Everyone else knew to step back when Neff stepped in. Unless you have a deathwish or a dream to be the first man with a spine shaped like a pretzel it was best to go the other direction when Neff was angry.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Why did they give us ice cream anyway,” asked Pvt. Russo as Neff handed me mine.

“Obviously It’s full of mind altering chemicals and drugs so we don’t get airsick or scared in battle,” said Corporal Ryan.

“Oh how I do love Ryan’s conspiracy theories,” I said jokingly which elicited a few laughs from my friends around me. Cpl. Ryan had once told me that he had his attic lined in tin foil to prevent extraterrestrials from monitoring his ‘research.’

I was sitting on a pile of standard gear for a paratrooper, my gear, on a tarmac in England with my best buds, my weapon slung over one of my shoulders. We were waiting to do something impossible, insane even. The year was 1944, My name is Raymond Osburn, and I am a 16-year-old who illegally enlisted into the U.S. Army using a fake ID. Now I’m about to board a perfectly good airplane just to jump out of it into Nazi occupied France, and I couldn’t be happier.