Brothers In Arms- Hell-s Highway [Chrome]

The rumble of Allied trucks came from the south at last—the corridor still open, barely. Billy pushed off from the tank, adjusted his helmet, and fell in beside Jake. They walked together down the endless, muddy road, two brothers in arms, with the ghosts of a hundred more marching silently behind them.

Eddie turned, eyes wide as dinner plates. A burst of German fire caught him in the chest. He crumpled like a discarded puppet. The rain washed his blood into the mud before Billy could even close his mouth.

When it was over, the field was quiet except for the rain and the moans of the dying. Billy leaned against the smoldering tank, hands shaking. Jake walked over, a fresh gash on his cheek, his uniform torn. Brothers In Arms- Hell-s Highway

“Not yet,” Jake said. “We’re the Screaming Eagles. We don’t leave until the job’s done. And neither does Eddie. We carry him home—all of them. That’s what brothers do.”

The first Panzer IV emerged from the mist like a beast from a nightmare. Its tracks chewed the mud, and its long-barreled gun swung toward their position. Around Billy, the remnants of Easy Company opened fire. Rifles cracked. A bazooka team let loose a rocket that screamed across the field and struck the tank’s side skirt with a flash of orange. The tank kept coming. The rumble of Allied trucks came from the

What happened next was not strategy. It was fury. The squad crawled through the ditch until they were parallel with the lead tank. Jake pulled the pin on a fragmentation grenade, waited two beats, and lobbed it into the tank’s open commander’s hatch. The explosion was muffled, but the tank lurched to a stop, smoke pouring from every seam.

Billy crouched behind the crumpled wreck of a German half-track, his M1 Garand pressed against his chest. Beside him, breathing in the same wet, diesel-tainted air, was his squad leader, Staff Sergeant Jacob “Jake” Marino. They had been brothers since Toccoa, Georgia—through the jump into Normandy, through the bloody hedgerows, through the frozen hell of Bastogne. Now, September 1944, they were on a road they’d come to call Hell’s Highway. Eddie turned, eyes wide as dinner plates

“Hell’s Highway,” Billy muttered. “They can have it.”