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War Stories by Gordon Korman6/30/2023 Rattling up the ruined street came the first of the American Shermans, late to the battle but maybe not too late for him. He could feel the dozens of German rifle barrels drawing a bead on him.Īnd then-hope. At the last instant, he hurled himself out into the street, just as the heavy wooden door frame came down. The bakery disintegrated around him, collapsing into dust. The flash came a split second before the explosion. but it was time to face the fact that this one might very well be his last. The soldier had survived many battles in this war . . . The dead from both sides lay thick in the streets. It had been how long-ten minutes? fifteen?-since he had last seen an American uniform. His entire company had been cut to pieces by a Panzer division as they waited in vain for their own tanks to arrive. He was separated from his unit-if there was any unit to be separated from anymore. Now it was just a burnt-out shell, along with the rest of the French town, after days of air and artillery bombardment, mortar strikes, and sniper fire. The soldier crouched in the doorway of what had once been a small bakery. The rattle of machine-gun fire sliced through the endless booming, carving a spray of concrete chips from the stoop dangerously close to his combat boots. The exploding artillery shells blossomed all around him, turning the dark of night into fiery orange day.
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