More Advance chapters on P@treon.com/Saintbarbido.
-0-
-France, 1943-
(Bond's P.O.V)
The past two months had been a whirlwind of mud, blood, and adrenaline.
War was everything I'd been expecting and nothing like I had at the same time.
An apt observation made after six missions over those two months- most of which were reconnaissance or reinforcement runs.
I'd slipped into the shadows of enemy lines, carried wounded men out of skirmishes, and even held off advancing troops with little more than a rifle and sheer determination.
My squad wasn't a frontline battering ram; we were the eyes and ears of the Allied forces, the ones gathering intel and keeping the bigger picture intact.
The work was demanding, but I wasn't the same green recruit who had frozen at the sight of his first kill.
With every mission, I learned, adapted, and grew sharper.
My team wasn't just a collection of soldiers anymore; they were comrades. They protected me and I protected them. In addition, they were my teachers.
Evelyn's calm presence and steady hands guided me through more first-aid lessons than I cared to count.
Marcus, ever the cynic, had taken to calling me "rook" while offering tips on sniping.
And Captain Royce? He had me studying strategy late into the night, poring over maps and reports by lamplight in his tent.
Over those weeks, I killed, laughed, survived and belonged.
-0-
One crisp morning, Marcus handed me a rifle fitted with a scope and pointed me toward the tree line.
"Time to see if you've got the makings of a proper marksman," he had said, chewing a blade of grass.
Up until then, our lessons had purely been theory. He wouldn't let me touch his sniper rifle- even when I offered to clean it for him.
I eyed the long gray weapon on his shoulder and wondered if he'd let me hold it if I performed well.
The target was a broken signpost about 500 yards out. Marcus dropped to his belly and motioned for me to do the same.
"Rook, sniping's not about brute force," he said. "It's finesse. Wind, distance, elevation—they all play a part."
He plucked a straw from the grass and held it up. "See how it bends? That's the wind talking. Adjust for it."
I squinted through the scope, feeling the breeze tugging at my face.
Following his instructions, I took note of the straw, adjusted my aim and exhaled slowly, squeezing the trigger. The shot rang out, splintering the signpost. Right in the middle.
My shooting was something I was always proud of. The dozens of hours spent at the range had certainly paid off.
"Not bad," Marcus said, grinning. "But don't get cocky. A moving target's a whole other beast."
---
Evelyn's lessons were a different kind of challenge.
During one harrowing mission, we had to amputate a soldier's leg to stop an infection.
The man screamed, thrashing against the straps we'd used to hold him down. Blood sprayed across my hands as I sawed through the bone.
"Steady, James," Evelyn said, her voice calm despite the chaos in the medical tent."You're saving his life."
I wasn't sure I believed her, but I kept going, even as bile rose in my throat. When it was over, I sat in the corner of the tent, trembling with nausea.
"You did well," Evelyn said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Not everyone has the stomach for this."
I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a warning.
---
At night, Captain Royce pushed me harder than anyone.
He'd spread out maps and mission reports, quizzing me on tactics and leadership.
"War isn't just bullets and bodies, Bond," he said one night, tapping the map. "It's about seeing the whole field, anticipating the enemy's moves. The better you are at that, the fewer men you lose."
His words stayed with me.
---
Our seventh mission was different and unknowingly, things were about to drastically change.
The squad had orders to infiltrate a Nazi-held village and sabotage a munitions factory.
It was a dangerous operation, more suited to a strike team than a support unit.
When I asked Royce why we'd been chosen, he simply said, "Orders are orders. Keep your head on a swivel."
Something about it felt off, but I didn't argue because we weren't alone. Four other squads would join us and act as the main strike force. We were relegated to rear guard for fire suppression during the strike force's retreat.
That night after touching ground, my squad split into two teams as the strike force advanced to complete the main mission.
Royce and Marcus positioned themselves east of the factory, while Evelyn and I took the west.
Following my instincts, I suggested we move further south, near a water tank by the main road. Evelyn hesitated but eventually agreed.
We waited in tense silence, the distant hum of machinery and the occasional bark of German orders carrying through the air. All in all, the strike force infiltrated the Factory without being discovered.
Suddenly, a deafening explosion ripped through the factory while they were still inside. Flames roared into the sky, and the strike team's radios went silent.
My heart dropped and I cursed under my breath. "It was a trap."
Moments later, I spotted a group of 4 German soldiers heading toward the west—toward the position we were supposed to hold.
Heart pounding, I raised my rifle, adjusted the scope and picked them off one by one, each shot calculated and precise.
Evelyn crouched beside me, pale but composed. "If they're hitting this position, what about Marcus and Royce?"
I didn't need to hear more. Grabbing the radio, I tried hailing them, but there was no response.
"Evelyn, fall back to the rendezvous point and call for back-up," I said, my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest. "I'm going after them."
"James, you can't—"
"Go!" I barked, already sprinting toward the eastern flank, hoping beyond hope I made it in time. Fortunately, I hadn't heard gunshots.
---
Unfortunately, I found them too late. Marcus and Royce were surrounded, their bodies crumpling under a hail of bullets as soon as I broke through the tree-line.
I screamed, my voice lost in the chaos, and charged in, rage blinding me.
The German commander didn't see me coming until my bayonet was buried in his chest.
His soldiers turned their rifles on me, but I was already moving, ducking and weaving as I fired my handgun and threw grenades into their ranks, shielding myself with a body.
More soldiers arrived at the scene.
Under the cover of smoke, I emptied my handgun at them, retreating into the trees.
When the bullets ran out and my cover exposed, I drew my knives, slashing and stabbing with a ferocity that felt almost animalistic.
Blood sprayed across my face, but I didn't stop. Not until the last German soldier lay dead at my feet.
My breath came in ragged gasps as I stumbled to Royce and Marcus. The captain's blue eyes stared lifelessly at the sky, while Marcus's trademark smirk was frozen in a grimace.
I knelt between them, the weight of their loss crashing down on me. My hands trembled, slick with blood—some theirs, some not.
---
A shout broke through my haze. I turned to see more Germans closing in, rifles raised. My grip tightened on my knives, and I braced myself for the end.
Then, gunfire erupted from behind me, cutting down the advancing soldiers. Evelyn appeared with reinforcements, her face a mix of relief and horror as she took in the scene.
I stood there, covered in blood and surrounded by bodies, staring blankly at Royce and Marcus.
"James," Evelyn whispered, placing a hand on my arm.
I didn't respond. My mind was blank.
Shrugging her off, I knelt before Marcus and took his sniper rifle ofd the ground, wiping the mud and caked blood from the barrel.
It felt heavier than my Lee-Enfield, but...also right in my arms.
"I won't let you down."
I promised my dead friends, my teachers. My brothers.