Mark Thompson was missing home on the day he would die. The funny thing about it was that Mark didn't even understand why. He had joined the army to get away from the mining town of Shortrock, where he'd grown up. At the time, he thought it was an escape from the coal mines that had given his father a slow death from black lung. Yet as he helped with the siege of the French city of Metz, his home was all we could think of.

When Mark joined the army to fight the tyranny of the Nazis, he thought he'd win glory and be a hero. Of course, that wasn't what he found. He should have known better, but he was only seventeen when he enlisted. He'd lied to the recruiter to join. There had been no one left in his life to talk him out of it. After all, his mother had died in childbirth, and the black lung had taken his father when he was thirteen.

Two years later, Mark still lived. Most of the men he'd fought with hadn't been so fortunate. He'd watched comrades and friends die each day. That slowly ripped away at his soul. There had been a time when Mark was kind and hopeful. That time was gone; he'd been in the war too long. The other soldiers had nicknamed him Lucky Mark after the cigarette brand. They fought to get into his squad, hoping he'd get them home alive. They were fools who couldn't see the truth. Mark survived, but those who followed him died.

This time, Mark had promised himself things were going to be different. He was going to get his boys out of their upcoming scrap alive. His current squad consisted of only four men, excluding himself: Private Manny, Private Ray, Private Ronald, and Private Hill. There had been a time when his squad had been nine in total; he'd lost four when they'd been ambushed en route to the French city two weeks ago. Mark tried not to think about that; this time it was going to be different. He was going to get them out. No more soldiers were going to die on his watch.

Mark was pulled back to reality when a plate was shoved into his hand. On it was a single piece of toast smothered in a chunky gravy-like sauce. It was what the troops called Shit on a Shingle. Surprisingly, Mark was excited to see the gravy-covered toast. It was infinitely better than the field rations he'd been eating for the last two weeks. He knew what such a luxurious meal meant for them. Today, the orders would be given. Today, they were going to attack the city.

He found his boys sitting around a broken concrete pillar, which they were using as a table. This morning, there was no laughter from them. Each of them had the same somber look that he'd seen so often before an attack. It was a look of resigned fear. So, they must have figured it out too. The leadership was hardly subtle about these sorts of things.

When Mark joined them at the table, their spirits seemed to lift.

“Sergeant, you see this. We've got Shit on Shingle,” Private Ray pointed out.

Mark nodded. They knew what it meant, just like he did.

“Did they tell you when we are going to attack?” Private Hill asked.

“No. I've been told as much as you have. It'll be around noon, if I had to guess. They're hoping the Germans might surrender.”

“Will they?” Private Manny asked with a look of hope on his face.

Mark shook his head.

“I doubt it. It'll be a battle.” Mark answered.

They all seem disappointed by that. They were rightly afraid of engaging the Germans in the city. Warfare in a city was a very different beast than battle on a field. It was messy and far more chaotic. Your enemy could be hiding anywhere, and any building you entered could be trapped. It was a hell Mark had been into too many times.

“The Germans are too stubborn to know when they're beat. Did you guys read the Stars and Stripes paper that came this week? They wrote that Hitler himself has been making rambling speeches about a super weapon. Some kind of bomb, he says. They're down to the last desperate trick. The war is already won. All the papers say so, but the Nazis' are too dense to surrender.” Private Ray said.

Private Ray had been with Mark the longest of any of them. He fancied himself some kind of jokester, so Mark was sure this was supposed to be some kind of joke. Mark found Ray's levity sometimes helped soothe the others. But today, his talk of a German super weapon was not helping. So, Mark stepped in.

“I've heard about these super weapons before. Do you remember when Hitler claimed to have a tank twice the size of any we had?” Mark asked.

They all shook their heads.

“That's because it got stuck in a ditch and was too big to get out. The Nazis are always trying things like this, and they're always failing. There is no point worrying about it. The papers are right about one thing. The war is almost over. We'll go home soon.”

That seemed to cheer them up. They went back to their usual jovial talk. Mark was still uneasy. He had a feeling in his stomach that today was going to be a bad day.

***

Only fifteen minutes later, a messenger boy came for Mark.

“Sergeant Thompson. The commander wants a word with you. Come with me.”

Mark stood and followed the messenger to a large officer's tent. Inside, he found lieutenant General Patton waiting for him. Mark hadn't seen him in person before and had only received orders on paper. That made him wonder just what they wanted from his squad. It had to be something important if the Lieutenant General was meeting him personally.

“Sergeant Mark Thompson, I presume,” Patton said.

He extended his hand for a handshake. Mark took it.

“I am, sir.”

“Good. Please take a seat,” he gestured to a wooden chair that was positioned in front of his desk.

The Lieutenant General continued to speak as Mark made his way to the chair and took a seat, “You've been in Europe for almost two years now. By all accounts, You're an exemplary soldier and hard-working individual. You have an impressive track record as a leader in the field.”

Mark would've argued with that point if he'd been given the chance. He was terrified of what was going to come next. He'd heard this kind of talk before. They were going to be given a very dangerous task if the leadership felt the need to butter him up.

“Your current squad holds only five total members. We are going to assign you a task tailored for such a small group. The information I'm about to give you must remain between the two of us. Tomorrow, we are planning to launch a full-scale invasion of the city. Recently, the German forces have retreated behind the northeastern bridge. This has left us with a prime opportunity to seize the bridge and engage the German forces. So come tomorrow, our army will engage the Germans and take the bridge.”

“I don't understand, sir. What is it you want us to do?” Mark asked.

“I want your squad to sweep the buildings along the road to the bridge. We watched the Germans retreat, but there are some fears of an ambush or trap left behind. If there are any stragglers or traps, it will be your duty to weed them out. Do you understand, son?”

Mark did. This mission wasn't as bad as it could've been. If any contingent of soldiers were left behind, they would have to be small in number. He found it very unlikely that there'd be any stragglers left behind. Mark suspected that most of their day would be spent checking for traps left by the retreating Germans. That was something Mark knew.

“I understand. When do you want us to enter the city?”

“As soon as possible. I want as many of the houses searched before tomorrow as possible. Stick to shadows and alleys. Try not to be seen, and don't approach too close to the bridge. If you do, I am certain you will be shot.”

Mark nodded in understanding. Then he was whisked out of the tent and back to his men. He was relieved by the conversation. The orders could've been much worse.

***

By late afternoon, Mark and his men had searched twenty or so houses. They'd found nothing but a few dead French civilians left behind. They were in the middle of what must have once been a shopping district. Empty or bombed-out buildings flanked them. There was a certain unsettling feeling to the empty cities left behind by war. His men, however, seemed relieved by the relative calm of the mission.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"The first thing I'm going to do when I get back is eat the biggest steak I can get my hands on.” Private Ronald declared.

This was a common game in the army. Men often spent their time fantasizing about what they'd do back home.

“Steak is tasty, but for me, it's going to have to be my mother's homemade pecan pie,” Private Manny replied.

"Well, I think I'm going to marry my girl.” Private Hill said.

“Funny. I was thinking of doing the same thing. The problem is I have to find a girl first.” Private Ray said.

The other men all laughed. Mark did not. He was too focused on the road in front of them to listen to the banter. The journey had been quiet. Not a sign of the Germans so far. They hadn't seen so much as a tripwire or mine. The others had been commenting that it was Mark's good luck. Mark knew better. He knew to be suspicious.

The group came upon what had once been a grand hotel. It stood five stories tall and was made from gorgeously carved stone. Now it stood abandoned and neglected. That was a shame in Mark's estimation.

“Only a few more. Don't drop your guard. Any of these buildings could be trapped,” Mark said as he carefully entered the hotel.

The inside was dusty and a complete mess. It was clear that the Germans had used this as some sort of hangout. Chairs and tables were overturned. Fine glasses and plates had been shattered against the walls. There were even German phrases painted on the walls.

He could still see boot prints in the dust. The Germans had been here and left. By the looks of it, it was not too long ago.

“Eyes up, boys. We're going to search this one room by room.”

His men nodded. Mark gestured up the stairs. Private Hill and Private Ray move to fill in his flanks. Ray pointed a rifle left, and Hill pointed his right. Mark held his eyes straight. They cleared the first floor with ease and found no Germans. Next the group made their way up to the second floor. They cleared it with similar ease. Mark noticed a bathroom with a closed door they had not searched yet.

“Private Manny, check the bathroom. We're going to be through.”

Manny moved to open the door. Just as he turned the knob and pushed the door open, gunshots filled the air. Private Manny fell backwards. Mark could see the bullet holes riddling his body. He was dead before he hit the floor.

“Germans! Get to cover!” Mark shouted.

He didn't have to. His men were already taking cover behind what furniture they could find. Mark quickly pulled his own pistol out from its holster. He leveled it just in time to fire at the German soldier, who had been hiding in the closet. Its bullet struck true, tearing through the German’s chest. He looked surprised, then crumpled to the floor. He had been so young. The boy could not have been over fifteen.

Two more Germans came down the stairs, opening fire. Mark unslung his rifle and fired a shot. He missed, so he fired again, and this time he hit his target. The first soldier's head erupted as Mark's bullet passed through it. His body fell down the stairs, pushed by its own momentum. The second soldier had not gone down yet. The German continued to fire wildly at them. Mark pulled the trigger to shoot, and his rifle jammed.

He didn't have time to work the jam out. He threw the rifle aside and began to pull his pistol out from its holster once more. He didn't have to. When he looked up again, the German had fallen. He could see blood leaking from the face-down corpse.

“Who's left!” Mark cried out.

“I am, sir.” He heard Private Hill cry, “But I need help.”

Mark didn't hesitate. He rushed to his feet and made his way to where his voice had come from. He found the private kneeling over Private Ray. Hill had his hand pressed over the boy's neck. Blood was leaking out from between his fingers. Ray desperately grabbed at Hill, who looked to be on the verge of tears.

“Ronald’s already dead over there. He took the first bullet to the head. Ray's been hit, sir. In the neck. I can't make it stop.”

Too much blood. Mark knew Ray was a dead man, but he didn't say anything. He bent and helped Hill try to stop the bleeding. It was fruitless, though. Only a few moments later, Ray was dead. Private Hill sat back and leaned against the wall of the hotel.

“He's dead… So are Manny and Ronald. They’re all dead, Christ Almighty,” Hill sobbed.

Mark suddenly felt a searing pain in his gut. He looked down and noticed the hole in his uniform for the first time. He'd been shot.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He pulled open his shirt and took a look at the wound. It was bad. A gunshot wound straight in his gut. It was bleeding quite a bit. Mark had to stop the blood. He took off his jacket and pressed it against the wound. It began to soak up the blood.

“Your shot, sir!” Private Hill cried when he saw the wound.

“I'm fine… I'm sorry, Hill.”

“What for?” The private asked.

“I let you all down. I got everyone killed. It was my fault on the road, and it was my fault here. I should have been a better leader,” Mark answered.

“What are you talking about, Sergeant? You saved us. If we'd been with any other squad leader, we all would have died in that mud, sir. You saved us.”

Mark shook his head.

“I should've been better. I should've saved you all… but it's too late now. You have to go private. I'm not going to make it. This is a gut shot. It'll kill me, so leave me. Make a run back to camp.”

“You want me to leave you? No sir. I won't do it. You said it yourself; we are just clearing the way for the army. They'll be coming anytime now,” the private answered.

“Then they'll still find me if I'm here on my own. Leave me private. That's an order from your squad commander.”

The private shook his head.

“I won't do it, sir. I'm going to get you out of here. It's going to be alright. You're lucky after all, sergeant,” Private Hill said.

Mark looked deep into the private's eyes and realized he wasn't going to back then. Mark took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Maybe the private was right. Maybe the army would come. No… He couldn't even convince himself. When their squad didn't report in, the higher-ups would assume the worst. No one would be coming for some time.

***

The two of them sat in silence for what felt like hours. The pain in Mark's gut was gone now. It had been replaced with an omnipresent cold. Mark found that troubling. It had to be the blood loss. The private must have read the look on his face.

“You're going to be fine, Sergeant. The army is coming any minute now.” He said.

Mark just nodded. There was no point in arguing with the boy. No point in tearing him down. Mark wouldn't take away his hope, even if it was misplaced.

“I miss my home. I miss the cornfields and my family. I wish I had never come here.” Private Hill said.

“It's funny. I miss my home too. I never thought I would,” Mark said.

“Where did you grow up?” Hill asked.

“In the mines. Since the day I turned twelve, I dug into them for coal. I miss the tunnels, and I miss the sounds of the pickaxes chipping away at stone. I miss my family too,” Mark said.

Unlike Private Hill, Mark would never see his family again. They were long gone. He had no one left to mourn him when he died here. Except for maybe private Hill. In his way, Mark hoped the boy would remember him when he was gone. It was a frightening thing to be forgotten.

Suddenly, the sounds of footsteps in the streets below filled the air. Private Hill grew an excited smile.

“That'll be the troops now.”

He rushed to the window and pulled back the curtain.

“No!” Mark cried.

It was too late. There was a brief pause as he looked through the glass window. His smile turned to a frown, then to a look of horror.

“It's the Nazis?” He said it with confusion.

Gunfire rang loudly in the air. They had spotted him so quickly. The glass of the window exploded, and bullets ripped through the thin wood of the wall. Private Hill fell to the floor with a hard thud. Mark could see his jacket soaking with blood. Not again. Not another one.

Hill turned, rolling to his side. His bloodshot eyes stared right towards Mark, wide as saucers. He was surprised that death had come for him. Crimson blood sputtered from his mouth. He must have been hit in the lungs. The young boy looked so frightened. It tore Mark up inside. Hill began to choke on his own blood as it filled his lungs and throat. It overflowed from his mouth like a fountain and spilled to the floor. His suffering wasn't long, at least. Only a minute after being shot, Private Hill stopped breathing.

Mark had failed again. They had died again. Yet he still lived. He always lived. He could hear the Germans coming up the stairs. Either they'd kill him or he'd become a prisoner of war. He suspected the latter. He wouldn't die. He never did. He closed his eyes tightly and only opened them when he heard the creaking of the floorboard across the room.

The room was dark. It was night. Mark must have drifted away. The Germans must have thought he was dead and left. Just his luck. But Mark had heard a floorboard creak. That was what had woken him up. He slowly lifted his head up and looked down the hall.

There was a person standing in the hall beneath the last light that still shined. At first, Mark thought it was a German soldier finally here to finish him off. He quickly realized he was wrong. The man wore a suit unlike any Mark had ever seen. It has a strange style and cut. He supposed it must have been foreign. The man wore a black felt fedora.

“Who are you?” Mark croaked weakly.

The man did not answer; instead, he looked up, and Mark finally understood. The man had glowing red eyes, like the burning pits of hell itself. The moment he saw them, a feeling of dread flowed through Mark. He began to shake with fear. This thing was evil and ancient. It was death. The Grim Reaper had finally come for him.

Mark wasn't afraid of death. Not anymore. He was tired of the war and loneliness. He was tired of losing friends and killing young, drafted German boys. Mark was actually relieved that the reaper had finally come for him. He was overjoyed that his luck had finally run out.

“It's about time, you bastard.”

Again, the Grim Reaper said nothing. It only stared at Mark, almost as if it were unsure what to do.

“You don't talk, huh? I thought you talked to us at the end. You don't want to scold me for my life and my actions.”

Again, the reaper said nothing.

“If you're not going to talk, then get it over with. I'm tired, and this bullet wound hurts like hell.”

The Grim Reaper lifted its hand and pointed towards Mark. The shadows shifted from the room, following the finger. They flowed toward Mark. The sole light in the room flickered and then winked out. Mark was left in the darkness.

He was so tired. He hadn't expected death to feel so exhausting. He'd expected it to be quick and terrible. Instead, it was a slow and agonizing affair. Mark would be glad when it was done. He felt his eyes close on their own. He drifted to sleep for what he thought would be the final time.

***

When the Metz had finally been captured two weeks later, American soldiers were sent through the buildings to look for bodies. They found what remained with Mark’s men in the old hotel building. They were reported as KIA on the casualty reports, and letters were sent home to their families. Of course, they never found Mark's body. He was marked MIA but presumed dead. He had no one back home to care.

Only one of the five soldiers who searched the building noticed a small woven symbol burned to the wooden floor of the hotel. He thought it was odd but didn't care to report it. After all, he'd seen a lot of strange things on the front lines. A simple symbol didn't seem worth the effort of explaining to his superior.