Chapter 52 – The Battle of Cherbourg (Part 13)

Miller had officially taken over as the new platoon leader after Luca stepped down. I pulled Luca aside for a private chat to make sure he was in the right headspace. He kept up that trademark optimism of his, insisting he was fine with the change in position. But I knew better. The real issue wasn't Luca—it was his men. They weren't exactly thrilled about taking orders from someone like Miller, who, until recently, was a desk-bound officer with no combat experience.

"Goddamn it, just hope the guy doesn't get us killed," one of the grunts grumbled.

They had a point. Miller outranked most of them by quite a bit, but that wouldn't mean a damn thing out there unless he earned their respect. And with this rough-around-the-edges bunch, respect had to be earned the hard way. If they didn't buy into Miller's leadership, things could go south fast—orders ignored, cohesion shot, the whole damn platoon falling apart.

I gave Miller a heads-up. "Miller, you know as well as I do—if you want those bastards to follow your orders, you're gonna have to show 'em you've got the chops. Out here, sweet talk ain't worth a damn."

He just grinned at me. "Don't worry, Captain. You'll see what I can do."

Our first push toward Cherbourg had paused briefly, giving the flyboys time to pound the city from above. While the bombers lit up the sky, Allied command re-evaluated our tactics, hoping to break the Germans' will with overwhelming firepower and sheer numbers. But turning strategy into victory still came down to us—the poor bastards with boots on the ground.

"Listen up, fellas," I told the room. "Our objective stays the same. We hit the German positions at city hall again at 0400. Make sure yours units are ready and working together like today."

I turned to Joanner with a nod. "Joanner, your men did a damn fine job today. When this is over, I'll be recommending you for promotion. It's about time you moved up."

He grinned. "Appreciate it, sir. Though truth be told, working under you ain't exactly a picnic. You always hand me the toughest nuts to crack."

Miller, attending one of my combat briefings for the first time, chimed in naturally. "That's just Captain Carter showing you how much he values you."

Joanner respected Miller, at least on the surface. He wasn't blind—officers like Miller, with the right background and connections, could go from platoon leader today to company commander tomorrow. Promotions came fast and easy in the rear echelon. Smart as he was, Joanner probably understood the game and kept his gripes to himself.

Joanner shot Miller a grin. "You're not wrong. Been waiting forever for the Captain to finally toss me a bone."

I laughed. "Joanner, I'd rather not let you go. Same goes for the rest of you bastards. You're the arms and legs of this operation."

Donovan suddenly brought up Winters and Harper, his voice dropping with a sigh. "Damn shame. Winters and Harper would've loved to be here for this."

The room went quiet. Every officer who'd known those two fell silent. Only Miller seemed untouched by the weight of it. Maybe because he hadn't fought alongside them. Maybe because he hadn't felt the loss the same way.

In battle, and especially at night when things quieted down, memories crept in. You didn't think about them during the noise and chaos. But when the shelling stopped, when the moon was high and the world went still, the faces came back. Faces you'd fought with, laughed with—faces now gone.

It wasn't just remembering. It was fear. Pure, gnawing fear of death. Some guys would wake up screaming in the dead of night, reaching for their rifle like they were still under fire. The sudden panic would jolt the whole barracks awake, only to find it was just a dream. In those moments, even the toughest soldiers cracked—some cried, some laughed hysterically, some cursed the sky, and others just sat there in silence. Strip away the uniforms, and we were all just scared men trying to survive another day.

"Alright, enough about the dead," I said, shaking the haze from my head. "Our job is to win this war—and get those crazy bastards outside home in one piece."

"Damn right," Donovan said with a smile. "We're gonna win this thing and march home with the rest of these knuckleheads."

His words got a good laugh from the room.

After wrapping up the operation orders, everyone cleared out except for Miller. He looked at me and chuckled. "You guys are something else. Never seen a bunch like this."

I smiled. "Well, once you're out there with us, there's no 'you guys' anymore. We're brothers. Out here, any one of these guys would take a bullet for you. And once you get close to them, you'll see… we're all just a bunch of poor bastards trying to stay alive."

He frowned slightly. "Why do you say that? Poor bastards?"

I pointed at him, then tapped my own chest. "Because we're all fighting for one thing—our own damn lives."

He nodded quietly. I could tell he finally understood. Miller was lucky—he'd been in the safety of command posts up to this point. He'd seen the wounded, heard the casualty reports, but he'd never looked the enemy in the eye, never felt the ground shake under his boots from incoming shells. He didn't know yet that out here, no one gave a damn about medals or glory. You fought to kill whoever wanted you dead—and hoped you lived long enough to see another sunrise.

The all-day air and artillery bombardment lit up the enemy lines. It brought a rush of excitement back into the ranks. Veterans didn't put much stock in that sort of thing—they'd seen enough to know better—but some of the younger guys were already celebrating. Hell, some of them even thought the whole damn fight for Cherbourg would be over in two days.

"Looks like we'll take Cherbourg without even breaking a sweat," Miller said, half-joking.

I shook my head. "The Germans won't fold that easy."

He smirked. "You're too much of a pessimist. I mean, sure, they've still got fight left, but they're on their last legs."

"That's the difference between an officer fresh outta HQ and one who's bled in the mud," I said with a wink.

Miller's face turned serious. "Carter, this is my first time leading men into battle—face-to-face. Up to now, I've only seen things from behind a scope or on paper through field reports. Are the Germans really as tough as you make them out to be?"

"It ain't about being tough," I said. "Just remember this: the war in your reports ain't the war on the ground. Out here, these aren't numbers—they're men, flesh and blood. Same as us."

I was angry, not at him, but at the way guys like us turned into data points on some damn chart back at HQ.

"I get it now," he said with a sigh. "No wonder you've got guys like Joanner ready to follow you through hell."

"Miller, you and I aren't that different. Otherwise, we wouldn't get along so damn well."

"You mean... because of me and Cheryl?"

I nodded but didn't say more. A man willing to give everything for love is a good man in my book. Hell, I'd lowered my standards on what counts as 'good,' but that's the way I saw it. A good man doesn't steal, doesn't lie, doesn't hurt others—just lives his life clean. Doesn't have to be a damn saint. And Miller was that kind of good man.

He smirked. "You're one to talk. I've never seen you fall for any woman. Unless… it's that Monroe gal?"

I didn't answer, but he pressed on. "Well, Carter, I gotta say—you've got shitty taste. Monroe's not the kind of woman most men can handle. Word is, after she got back to the States, she had a sit-down with the President himself."

"When the hell did that happen?"

Miller grinned. "Now you're paying attention! She wrote something about postwar global cooperation—some highbrow paper that caught the President's eye. Sounds like bullshit to me. I bet some guy was whispering that crap in her ear from between the sheets."

"You really think that?" I couldn't help but admire the man's imagination—hell, he might not be far off.

"Wait... was that guy you?" Miller raised an eyebrow, eyeing me suspiciously. "Didn't take you for the smooth-talker type."

He paused, then added smugly, "Of course, I don't need to explain my charm. It speaks for itself."

I shot back, "Maybe I'll tell Cheryl how irresistible Miller is—how women line up for miles, but he only has eyes for her. Maybe she'll bless you with a house full of beautiful daughters."

He laughed. "Why daughters? Why not sons?"

I cracked up. "'Cause I'll have sons—and I'll marry them off to all your daughters."

He scratched his head. "Now that sounds like some weird tradition from the East."

I was about to say something back, but decided it wasn't worth the trouble. So I changed the subject to something. "Alright, Miller. Enough of that. Tomorrow, you're staying close to me. You'll be our reserve."

He bristled at that. "You don't trust me, do you, Carter?"

"It's not that," I said. "It's that your situation is... complicated. Your men don't know you, don't trust you yet. You're like a stepfather walking into a house full of angry teenagers. You've gotta earn it. Once they know you can protect them, once they've seen you lead them to victory—then you'll get your own mission, like Joanner."

"But I can prove it now!" he said, clearly frustrated. "I can earn their trust. You've gotta let me try!"

"This is war, Miller. Nobody proves a point with lives on the line. There's no room for ego out here—people die for that shit. You'll get your shot. But first, you stay by my side. See it up close. Then we'll talk."

Miller slumped, deflated. "Carter... why don't you believe in me? I can do this, I swear."

I laughed. "Miller, you know some guys piss themselves the moment a shell lands nearby, right?"

"Son of a bitch!" he swore. "You're treating me like I'm some green recruit?"

Now he got it.