Chapter Text
April 8th, 1945
“Any man that can walk is fine,” somebody was saying.
Norman cracked open his eyes. He’d fallen asleep in the half-track after they’d evacuated him. More men had joined him in the back since he’d been sleeping, crammed shoulder to shoulder along the benches. The back of the truck was open, and outside, his old platoon lieutenant, Hopper, was standing next to a Master Sergeant with a clipboard who looked awfully familiar. Norman had seen him yesterday morning too.
“You,” the Master Sergeant said to Norman in a broad southern drawl. “You’re being reassigned. Report to Sgt. Collier. 1st platoon, 66th Armored.”
Norman blinked at him, pulling himself upright. “Excuse me?”
“You deaf, boy?” the Master Sergeant barked.
Norman looked around, a little wildly. Looking at their faces, all the men in the truck were familiar; they were each from his old 5th Army platoon. He was in a brand-new field jacket, the same one he’d put on the first time yesterday, a mist of rain beading on the crisp green fabric. Outside, the forward operating base was terribly familiar. It was the exact same one as yesterday.
A hand clamped around his arm and the Master Sergeant dragged him off the back of the truck. It was a transport truck with an open top, the same one he’d been on yesterday, not the half-track at all. The men inside were all looking at him with mingled pity and relief. They were glad it wasn’t them. They’d done that yesterday, too.
Norman had to be dreaming. The medics had given him morphine when they pulled him out of the tank; he didn’t need it, but he’d been grateful for anything that might put him to sleep. He regretted it now.
“Well?” The Master Sergeant was getting red in the face waiting for Norman to say something, his thick eyebrows almost meeting over his nose.
"No sir," Norman said slowly. “I’m not deaf.”
"Then get your shit and get moving.”
Norman slowly fished his duffel from below his seat. Nobody helped him grab it this time. The Master Sergeant left with one last glare at Norman, scribbling something down on his clipboard. Lt. Hopper patted Norman on the shoulder sympathetically and without another word went around to the front of the truck.
The first time around, Norman had tried to argue. "I'm not trained to serve in a tank unit," he'd said.
The Master Sergeant had shut that down quick. "You got two hands and a rifle, don't you?"
Norman stood in place, looking around. Off beside the barn, rising up above the swarm of activity, he saw the Fury. A couple hours ago she’d been pockmarked with thousands of bullets, her tread unfurled on the ground. A coffin for the men of Love-One-Six. Beside her are the other tanks in the platoon – Lucy Sue, Murder Inc, Old Phyliss and Matador. He’d seen them all burn that afternoon.
Now, they’re all in front of him, all unharmed.
This had to be some sort of morphine-induced hallucination, or stress-related breakdown, or maybe the Krauts had invented a new form of gas. Hell, maybe they'd figured out how to reverse time, and he'd somehow gotten caught in it.
Normal didn’t know what to do. It all felt too real to be a dream. He could smell the cow carcasses rotting in the field, and the surface of the puddle he was standing in was shivering from the artillery strikes, and his fingers were cold on the strap of his bag.
It was the same as yesterday. It was the same day. Which meant, even if he was only hallucinating it, that the crew was still alive.
He started walking. Sure enough, when he passed one of the buildings, he found Sergeant Collier standing barely ten yards away from the Fury. "Sergeant Collier?" he called out, heart in his throat.
Collier looked up, annoyed. "Maybe. What the fuck are you?"
Norman stared at him. Last time he’d seen Collier, his face had been missing; Norman had draped his field jacket over what was left of his body, then taken the revolver from his hands and settled down beside his corpse, waiting to die.
Here, Collier was still alive. A little beat up and covered in a layer of mud and glaring at Norman, but alive. “The fuck's wrong with you, kid?”
Norman finally dropped his gaze, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. "Nothing, sir. I'm your new assistant driver."
“No. No, you are not,” Collier said, and turned away.
Norman remembered that from the first time. He’d been so anxious about making a bad impression on his new sergeant, scared of the man’s scarred and hardened face, terrified about heading up to the front. He’d chased after Collier. This time, he couldn’t move his feet.
After a moment, Collier turned around and took a few steps back toward him. “Who told you this?
“The Master Sergeant,” Norman said.
“Bullshit,” Collier said, still glaring down at him. “What’s your name?”
“Norman.”
Collier’s mouth worked a bit, like that was the wrong answer. Norman stared up at him helplessly. Collier was close enough that Norman could smell the stink of blood and gunpowder on him.
Something in Collier’s expression relented. “How long you been in the Army?”
“Twelve weeks basic, two weeks coming over here,” Norman said, rote. One day in the Fury, where they all died except for him, and now he was standing there like it had never happened.
Collier sighed and gestured at the Fury. “That’s home. Do as you’re told. Don’t get close to anyone.”
Instead of leaving, Norman studied Collier’s face. He would’ve given anything to have Sgt. Collier alive again a few hours ago, but this made him feel sick to his stomach. The only thing he could think of was how Collier’s handsome face looked without any skin, mashed to a pulp from the German grenades.
Collier raised his eyebrows at Norman. “Get moving,” he said, and walked away.
Seeing the tank crew scrambling over the Fury was just as hard. Norman had hoped it would be a good thing, seeing them again, but all it did was remind him that they were all dead. He should’ve told the Master Sergeant to fuck off and tried to wake up.
“Hi. I’m Norman,” he said.
They stared him down, stone-faced, until a very real and alive Gordo took his duffel and rummaged through it. They were all filthy, and look exhausted; Norman was uncomfortably aware of how clean he was in his new uniform.
“Where’s your cigarettes?” Gordo demanded.
“I don’t smoke,” Norman said. “You could have my ration next time, though.”
“You motherfucker,” Gordo said, but he handed Norman’s bag back rather than throwing it in the mud.
“You go to tank school?” Bible asked.
“I’m a clerk typist,” Norman said, and then added, “I learn fast, though.”
To hell with it — if he had to relive this day, he wanted them to like him this time.
-
They still made him clean up the bow gunner’s seat and the remains of Red’s face, though. At least this time he didn’t puke.
-
Gordo instructed him how to harvest the most meat per bullet when they rolled out on the flank guard mission, the first of an unforgiving day. The road was barely worth the name, muddy and rutted from the spring rain. The same German civilians as yesterday were staggering down the road in an endless march.
“Our tanks are shitboxes,” Gordo said, indicating the interior with a nod. “You see how thin the metal is? We get hit, I’m gone, right through the escape hatch. See that? Can’t wait for nobody else to get out. I ain’t helping you. Got it?”
“Sure,” Norman said. “How much combat do you usually see in a day?”
“Too much. We just got back from another mission. We were the only survivors. This here is the final push. We ain’t had a day of leave in months. They sent us into the Ardennes this winter. I nearly froze my balls off. Before that, North Africa. Sweating my balls off chasing around fuckin’ Rommel. I tell you what, kid, I hope these motherfuckers surrender soon so I could get an afternoon off and take a shit. I ain’t had a good shit since Belgium.”
“Quit yapping, Gordo,” Collier said from his perch in the commander’s basket. “Kid, you hear me, you plugged in?”
Norman had forgotten, again. He fumbled his helmet onto his head. “I hear you, Sarge.”
Gordo sighed. “Wardaddy thinks we’re all gonna save the world, but me? I just want to get drunk in Paris, fuck a cabaret dancer, and get a full night’s sleep. Hey, kid, you play cards?”
“I don’t,” Norman admitted.
“You’re a bastard,” Gordo told him sincerely.
-
The same thing happened, of course, because it was the same day. Norman kept his eyes right the entire time until he spotted the kid with the rocket launcher darting through the trees beside the road. This time he cut the kid down with the greasegun before he could get a round off.
The whole right flank of the convoy erupted in shooting. Everyone was yelling. Norman couldn’t even see the body through the underbrush. Bullets chopped the leaves off the oak trees and sent splinters flying.
“What the fuck are we shooting at?” someone yelled. The shooting spluttered down barely a second later, a few lone bursts ending the brief firefight.
Collier hopped out of his turret without a word to them, down the side of the Fury and out into the woods. His gun was loose in his hands, like he was out for a stroll. He disappeared for a moment behind the trees.
“Didja see a squirrel or something?” Coon-ass asked from behind the .50cal gun.
“Got an enemy soldier with an anti-tank rocket,” Collier said crisply when he came back, and climbed up the Fury, past Norman’s seat. He tapped him on the helmet. “Good work.”
Norman flinched, remembering how Collier slammed his head into the hatch last time, and then realized his hands were shaking, sending tremors down the barrel of his gun. He let go and exhaled.
Gordo grinned at him as he put the Fury back in gear. “Nice shooting, choirboy. You did good.”
“Thanks,” Norman said, almost giddy with relief. He did it. He fixed it. Lt. Parker and his men were alive; Lt. Parker yelled at them to move out, and they did, second in the line. Norman didn’t look back at where he shot the kid.
-
There was what seemed like an entire battalion packed into the small settlement along the road. The radios buzzed with chatter. Men shot big guns into the distance at targets Norman couldn’t see.
The tanks came to a halt along the mud-stricken main road and Lt. Parker went off to report to the commanding officer. Last time around, Norman could barely see anything through the gray haze of fear; this time, he stuck close to Gordo as the men crawled out of the tank and lit up cigarettes, broke into their ration packs, and checked their weapons.
“We’re going into it again,” Gordo said, pointing his cigarette at Lt. Parker, who was coming out of the ramshackle barn, buckling up his helmet. They were all sitting on the Fury, waiting for orders. “Look. You can see it rolling downhill.”
“Lord bless us, for these Krauts we’re about to fuck up,” Coon-ass said, looking up at Bible to gauge his reaction. Bible smiled serenely.
“Quit laying around, you fuckin’ princesses,” Collier said, even though they’d all been doing exactly that. He jumped off the Fury. “Let’s get ready to mount up.”
-
They moved out with Lt. Parker leading the platoon. Each tank had at least ten infantry men riding on top, like kids on a haystack ride. Norman frowned when they kept driving down the road rather than flanking through the field.
“They’ve got to have us zeroed on this road,” Collier muttered from the commander’s basket. “I told him we should be going through the fucking field.”
The silence was tense. Turning his head, Norman could see the field they’d attacked through the first time, where the troops were dug in and pinned down. There was no fire from the German line yet.
Lt. Parker’s voice came through the comms. “All tanks, halt. Drop your troops and button up. We’re going in.”
The infantry officers echoed the call. The infantry scrambled off the tank, knocking their boots against the side. Norman dropped into the Fury and closed his hatch. He still couldn’t make out much of anything through the periscope, but he knew there was a line of tanks and cannons out there, just behind the screen of trees, waiting to tear them to shreds. He wished Collier was leading them. The LT sounded tense on the comms.
“All tanks, move out,” Parker ordered.
They continued down the road at a crawl. Norman remembered the bump and rattle of the tanks plowing through the trees and into the field last time. This time they were creeping forward in a line. Norman didn’t know much about tactics, but he did think this would be much easier to shell.
Collier was right – the Germans had the road zeroed. Norman was right, too. Their cannons didn’t miss.
April 8th, 1945
Norman woke up with a jolt on the back of a transport truck. The Master Sergeant was pointing at him. “You,” he said. “You’re being reassigned.”