Somehow, Job and I had miraculously become part of Major Langford's command. As we headed toward our makeshift billet, I couldn't help but ask Lieutenant Miller, "What exactly is this guy's name?"
Miller threw an arm around both me and Job, laughing uproariously. "You're the first person in all my years who calls him 'this guy.' Just a heads-up, buddy: don't ever address him that way when he's around, or you're a dead man."
I looked puzzled. "Seriously? Does Major Langford have such a tiny ego that calling him 'this guy' would set him off?"
Miller cackled. "Lord have mercy. If Major Royce Langford ever heard you call him that, he'd shove a German grenade down your—well, you get the picture."
Job tilted his sniper rifle against his shoulder, unfazed. "Let's just hope God spares me from having to grind his bones to dust first."
Miller, though, was easygoing once you knew how to read him. He told us a bit about Major Langford: one of the First Infantry Division's most respected commanders, someone the higher-ups were watching closely. Rumor had it that the Army Command might soon promote Langford straight to colonel—or even brigadier general. If that actually happened, anyone in his unit would be riding that lucky streak right alongside him.
"You can't believe your luck," I muttered, a twinge of envy in my voice. Getting fast-tracked from major to general—that was the kind of fortune that made your buddies sick with jealousy.
Job rolled his blue eyes. "Lucky bastards are a dime a dozen. But damned if it's going to be me this time."
Miller and I exchanged a knowing look and both patted Job on the shoulder, commiserating. "Poor kid," we said in unison.
Along the way, Miller leaned in conspiratorially and revealed another secret about Major Langford: he loved being shown respect more than anything, and he seethed if anyone dared disrespect him. Those who whispered behind his back—or worse, contradicted him to his face—always found themselves on the receiving end of some "small inconveniences," courtesy of the major. But, of course, that was never talked about openly.
Frankly, I wondered how a man with such an arrogant streak could ever make general. But then I figured: maybe a man whose first instinct is to command respect—by demanding it—actually knows how to lead. Perhaps that wasn't a flaw so much as a peculiar kind of strength. After all, if a soldier can't even show his commander a shred of respect, how does he expect to earn respect himself? As I reflected on that, I silently regretted my earlier slip of the tongue. Respect. I recalled, as clearly as day, how Major Langford had apologized to Job back on Omaha Beach—and I understood why that mattered so much.
We had spent two grueling days fighting on Omaha Beach before we finally punched through the first German coastal defenses. The Army had sent in DD (Duplex Drive) amphibious tanks to support the landing. Though nicknamed "swimming tanks," the technology was far from perfect. Each tank rode in on a landing craft that released it about two kilometers offshore, hoping it could float to the beach under its own power.
The flotation devices—literally canvas pontoons smeared with grease—weren't modern waterproof materials. They only stayed stable in waves less than thirty centimeters high. But that day, the surf was kicking up nearly two-meter swells.
Between the water pressure, salt corrosion, and relentless waves, those DD tanks never made it. Fortunately, most of the tank crews survived: their emergency breathing kits lasted five minutes, and they had inflatable life rafts. The 16th Infantry Regiment managed to pull most of them from the water alive.
Even now, some of those DD tanks lie underwater off Omaha Beach, frozen in the moment they tried to climb ashore. Over time they've become artificial reefs—silent witnesses to that fateful day.
Suddenly everything clicked for me: it wasn't that the U.S. Army didn't want tanks on the beach—it was that they physically couldn't get them there. In a country that values its soldiers' lives as much as America does, you don't intentionally send armor into a fight you know those tanks can't win.
I remembered crouching in the hold of the USS Samuel Chase yesterday, just a few hundred meters offshore, hearing bullets pinging against the steel plating. The closer we got to the beach, the heavier the German guns spat fire. Only then did I realize that all the naval bombardment had been a cruel tease: the concrete bunkers still stood intact, staring at us like they were mocking our guns.
Even the bombers overhead were a joke—they were terrified of friendly fire, so they dropped their bombs behind the German lines, deep into the town. Meanwhile, the machine-gun nests on the shore still belched death.
When the ramp hit the water, I was the seventh man out. Bullets grazed my ear as I hit the surf. Behind me came the dull thud of flesh being torn apart. A kid named Menla was the twelfth to jump. As soon as he did, the MG 42 at the ramp chewed into him. In that single moment, half of our thirty-man landing party never made it off the boat—some drowned in the red-churned water, some lay dead on the pebbly beach. Miraculously, I staggered onto the shingle bank. God only knows what luck—or fate—kept me alive.
Now, scattered gunshots scarcely drowned out the cries of the seagulls. Tents had mushroomed up on the sand, and ammunition crates were stacked like little hills. A few Shermans finally clawed their way onto the beachhead, their barrels at the ready, as if expecting a German counterattack that would never come.
Fresh troops were forming up, heading straight for the front lines, their footsteps so measured it made your heart constrict. They had no idea how many men had perished to open this bloody route—how many of them were fated to fill the graves along the way.
Lieutenant Miller shoved Job and me into 3rd Company—Major Langford's own unit—barely bothering to introduce us before turning on his heel and walking away. Just like that, I accidentally became acting company commander of 3rd Company. The previous commander had struck a mine yesterday and crawled headfirst into heaven. Otherwise, that position would never have been mine.
Despite the carnage, 3rd Company had fared relatively well—only about twenty men lost yesterday. After a few fresh replacements, our rosters were back to full strength.
But these guys had zero interest in their new "company commander." Even when I told them I'd personally led the assault that ripped open the D-1 gap, they just gave me half-hearted glances—as if to say, "We're here already. What's the point?" Worse yet, Job just leaned against a wall, casually cleaning his battered Springfield sniper rifle, as though he were watching a joke unfold. That stung more than anything.
My face burned with anger. I'd never commanded so many men before, and I was determined to show this lot who was in charge—not for pride's sake, but because hesitation on this hellish battlefield could cost lives…including mine. As I stared at their defiant expressions, a savage thought crossed my mind: maybe I should "teach these punks a lesson," just like that damn major would do. Find some way to make them pay, so they'd understand that 3rd Company answered to me and no one else.
That oppressive tension and wounded pride settled over me like a vice. I had to demonstrate my authority—insisted I could no longer tolerate their indifference. If they didn't respect me, how could I trust them to follow orders when it really mattered?
"Attention! Company, fall in!" I barked without warning.
Surprisingly, 3rd Company snapped to attention almost immediately—that much I could credit them for. Their formation was ragged, but at least they came together.
Stationed by my side, Job cradled his rifle with an expression that said, "What on earth is he doing?" He probably had no idea what I was plotting—The new boss is making a strong first impression.
"You lot move like a squad of housewives!" I snarled at these stunned GIs. They definitely hadn't expected this.
"Sir!" someone called.
"What was that?" I roared. "Have the Germans' machine guns suckered the balls right out of you?" I slammed that last insult home, spitting it out.
"Sir!" came a louder cry. Evidently, the men could no longer stomach my tirade.
"Oh, fantastic! Still got some balls left? That's great!" I bellowed. My face turned beet-red—felt like someone had slapped me full in the face with a crimson-painted glove. That reckless, nothing-to-lose rush of "I'm the big man now" surged through me. Honestly, it was perverse how satisfying it felt to make those battle-hardened GIs go purple, their veins bulging in fury. I never expected to have this much power over so many grown soldiers. Of course, I owed it all to the ROTC training I'd signed up for back in college—the tactics they taught me about "establishing authority."
"Sir!"
Throughout the entire camp, every GI froze in place, dropping whatever they were doing and craning their necks to see what was happening. Even soldiers strolling by on their way to the latrines stopped in their tracks. It had become the most spectacular showdown anyone had seen all afternoon. Yet Job, standing right next to me, looked shocked.
I snapped my fingers twice. "Enough clapping already." The applause died, and an almost reverent hush fell over everyone. Only the distant crack of gunfire reminded us of the hell to our front.
"I'll be blunt: yesterday you all fought here at Omaha, and you've seen this war's cruelty firsthand. But let me tell you—your skills and experience so far are nowhere near enough. The war isn't over yet. Sure, it might end soon, but our fight against the Germans will continue. Maybe that bastard God has decided to let some of you—or even me—die down here in hell. But never, ever will we forsake the honor of our country, the honor of our Infantry Division!"
My voice dropped low and steady. "Above all, though, we need to survive. In the days to come, I will fight side by side with you, and I will do everything in my power to keep you alive so you can go home to your mothers. That is my solemn promise—to you and to that damned God."
Silence reigned for the longest moment. I saw tears glisten in almost every soldier's eyes. Job was the first to react—he began to clap, and soon 3rd Company and the surrounding troops all joined in a thunderous ovation. In that instant, I knew: from today on, these men would obey my orders. I was Lieutenant James Carterr—the man who gave them hope of survival. A weight settled on my shoulders: one hundred and twenty living souls, all depending on me. My chest felt tight, like I might collapse under the responsibility.
Later, Job pulled me aside. "Lieutenant Carterr," he admitted quietly, "if I'm honest, when I first saw you, I wasn't impressed—your rank isn't so much higher than mine." He tapped his own insignia and gave a wry smile. "But your speech convinced me. You're nothing like those other officers who lecture about 'honor' and then stand aloof. You spoke from the heart, and I respect that. In that moment, I realized I'd never match up to you—at least not yet."
"Is that so, Job?" I said with a chuckle. "I didn't know you admired me so much." The truth was, though, my real motive was far more selfish: I needed these GIs to protect me, to keep me alive until this war was over. After all, soldiers always die faster than officers—that's an immutable law. But I'd never admit that out loud.
Watching those young men joke, tease, and swagger in the distance, my mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. Had I truly rallied them solely to safeguard my own life? Even now, I couldn't sort out exactly where my duty ended and my fear began.