A second later, they crashed open the door, each soldier hurling a pair of grenades into the Nazi ranks. Morton held Weatherby close to him, and the boy’s legs moved steadily, despite his recent injuries. Soon as the explosions and smoke popped off in the field, they were off. They pounded to the woods. Dutch fired his shotgun as he ran, racking the pump with each step to provide just a hint of covering fire.
They dashed forward, and reached the tree line. Behind them, the Nazis surged into the church. Sergeant Candle didn’t look back, but soon heard a thunderous explosion ripping through ancient stone and dirt. Even from where he stood, he could feel the heat. Newt was gone, but he had gone down fighting. There was no time to stop or mourn, no time to even look at the wreckage.
“Move it!” Mort cried, as the German infantry followed them and started shooting. A bullet banged off his helmet, nearly knocking him down. Sergeant Candle swept up Weatherby, carrying the boy in his arms. He felt another shot slashing past him. They weren’t going fast enough. They needed to cover more ground.