Boots sank into black sand as the ramp slammed down, metal screaming against metal, and the night swallowed the sound like a mouth closing over a secret. Rain cut sideways, sharp as needles, and the shoreline flickered in brief white flashes where flares burst and died. Someone shouted a prayer. Someone else laughed once, too loud, and stopped.

Five of us ran because standing still meant becoming a shape the dark could recognize.

We had promised—said it aloud in the hold of the boat while diesel fumes burned our throats and salt crusted our lips. Come home together. A dumb thing to swear in a war that lived on breaking vows, but we said it anyway, like boys daring fate to listen.

I was Private First Class Daniel Mercer, nineteen, from a town small enough that the church bell told everyone when to wake. Sergeant Hale led us, shoulders wide, voice steady even when the air ripped apart around us. Corporal Ruiz moved like a cat, low and quick, a cigarette always tucked behind his ear even though he never smoked it. Benny Kline carried the radio and a photograph of his sister folded until it was soft as cloth. And Tommy Reed—Reed was the youngest, freckles bright even in moonlight, smile stubborn as if he could grin bullets away.

Enemy soil smelled different. Not worse—just wrong. Mud held a sweetness like rot. Smoke lay heavy, pressed flat by rain. We crossed a strip of dunes, then a hedgerow that clawed our packs, and Hale signaled us down with a fist. Mortars walked the beach behind us, thumps spaced like a giant’s heartbeat.

We lay there, chests heaving, counting breaths. Hale’s mouth moved. I read it: Together.

Orders were simple. Take the crossroads before dawn. Cut the wire. Hold until armor came up. Simple words that hid a thousand ways to die.

Ruiz slipped forward first, wire cutters whispering. Reed crawled after him, too eager, helmet bobbing. A flare bloomed, turning rain into silver threads. Everything froze. In that light, I saw the promise again, hovering between us like a ghost.

Gunfire cracked. Not loud at first, then all at once. Ruiz went down hard, a sound torn out of him, and Reed screamed his name like it could pull him back. Hale roared and we moved, firing blind, bullets tearing leaves into confetti. The wire sagged, cut clean, and we poured through as if a gate had opened in hell.

By the time we reached the ditch beyond the road, Ruiz was still. Hale pressed his fingers to Ruiz’s neck, then closed his eyes and opened them again, sharper. He said nothing. We didn’t need him to.

Dawn crept in shyly, gray and wet. We took the crossroads with grenades and curses. A truck burned, wheels melting into tar. A helmet lay upside down, rain pooling in it, reflecting a sky that pretended nothing had happened.

We held.

Morning brought counterfire. Afternoon brought a runner with a message Hale read twice. Night brought cold so deep it felt like hands inside my bones. We ate ration crackers, shared a canteen, told each other lies about home. Kline talked about his sister’s laugh. Reed talked about the girl who waited for him, the one with hair the color of wheat. Hale talked about a fishing boat he’d buy when this was over. I said less. I listened. I counted heartbeats again.

Second night, shells found us. Earth jumped. Sound vanished, then slammed back. When I could hear again, Kline was crying softly, radio smashed, photograph gone. Reed crawled to him, pressed his forehead to Kline’s helmet. Hale dragged them both deeper into the ditch. We held.

Third day, armor didn’t come.

Fourth day, patrols tested us. Ruiz’s cutters lay where he’d dropped them, rust already blooming. Reed picked them up, slipped them into his pocket like a charm. He smiled at me, thin and brave.

Fifth night, fog rolled in thick enough to chew. Shapes moved in it. Voices whispered in a language I didn’t know but understood anyway. Hale split us, two and two, with Reed shadowing him. I wanted to argue. I didn’t.

Shots snapped close. I fired. Someone screamed. Fog swallowed the scream. Kline stumbled, grabbed my sleeve, then jerked away as if yanked by a rope. I lunged and caught nothing but air that tasted like iron. A shadow rushed me. I swung my rifle and felt it connect, felt it stop connecting, felt hands on my coat and a weight that pressed me into mud until I kicked and the weight rolled off and ran.

I crawled back to the ditch, breath shredding my chest. Hale didn’t answer my whisper. Reed didn’t either.

Silence came like a verdict.

At dawn, I found Hale. He lay against a fence post, eyes open, mouth set, hands still gripping the earth as if he’d tried to pull it over us. Reed lay nearby, cutters clutched tight, freckles dulled by dirt. Kline was nowhere. Fog lifted its skirt and left.

Only one of us stood.

Weeks later, I rode a truck away from that place, bandaged and empty, promise ringing in my ears like a joke that wouldn’t end. Medics talked. Officers wrote. A chaplain put a hand on my shoulder and said words that slid off. I stared at fields passing by, all of them wrong.

Home came eventually. A train. A station. A bell. Mothers hugged sons. Fathers shook hands too hard. Someone asked me how many. I said a number. It wasn’t enough.

Nightmares followed, faithful as dogs. Crossroads. Fog. Cut wire. Faces I could almost save if I just reached faster. I woke soaked and shaking, my own breath a gunshot.

Years stacked themselves. I worked. I married. I learned the sound of rain on a roof could make my hands tremble. I learned to drink coffee without shaking if I held the cup with both hands. I learned promises can be kept in pieces.

Once a year, I drove to a hill where a small stone listed toward the sea. Names carved shallow by time. I brought cutters, old and rusted, and set them down. I brought a photograph I’d found months after the war in a crate marked unclaimed—Kline’s sister laughing, hair flying. I brought a fishing lure, bright as hope, for Hale. I brought a ribbon the color of wheat.

I told them the truth. I came home alone. I carried you all with me.

Wind moved the grass. For a moment, it sounded like five men breathing together.

Then it stopped.