The dew had soaked through her shirtfront by the second hour. By the time the sun had begun to rise, Zhanna was damp and miserable. It was an uncomfortable position at best but she couldn't deny its strategic weight. Alone in this line of bushes, Zhanna's only source of light had been the faint pinpricks of cigarettes from either treeline. German or American, she had a perfect view of what would soon turn into chaos in the pink dawn.

No one had wanted her to break off from the mainline, where it was sure to be safe and there was plenty of backup but she reminded them that this was what Zhanna did. She was a sniper and fighting alone was what she was good at. While sitting and waiting in the foxholes of the American line had been a safe move, it wasn't going to help them in the coming battle. Zhanna could flank the enemy, providing a closer view of their line of defense and give an edge to the next morning's battle. Winters had agreed, after some consideration. Strayer, still shocked by her work in Carentan, had allowed it without question. Zhanna was, after all, not one of his men and if she was lost, he wouldn't, as he said, "lose any sleep over it."

Buck's protest had been out of concern and while Sveta hadn't joined her, she did exchange a hurried good luck, before the blonde had wriggled out of the foxhole and into the darkness. Zhanna had crawled through the grass to a line of bushes that looked out of the German line, the American line and the field between the two. Forming the first hide she had made since the battle of Smolensk had been strange but the branches and leaves gave her cover in the now rising sun.

Zhanna's rifle was resting against her shoulder and she could only wait for the first shot to be fired before beginning her private assault on the Germans. The hours before she had left the American line had been eventful. They had lost Talbert to a friendly bayonet and Zhanna had listened to the German line croon a cry of victory over a battle that hadn't been fought yet. Winters, when he had paused at Buck and Zhanna's foxhole to check on them, had seemed nervous. As nervous as Lieutenant Winters could be. Nerves never showed obviously on the man but appeared in a furrowed brow or a pursed lip. His brow had been furrowed when she had suggested flanking the enemy. He couldn't deny that it was a tactical move but Winters had told her to be careful.

As if Zhanna wasn't cautious enough. Agata had raised her to be vigilant, if not paranoid. It was the only reason she was alive today. Watching the sky slowly turn pink with the rising sun, Zhanna was reminded of mornings in the Samsonov home, when she would rise before Sveta or Veronika and sit in the window seat on the landing and watch the sunrise. She would always face the west, knowing that that same sun was rising over her parents. She would imagine them safe in Poland with family. Now, the vision was so familiar Zhanna didn't even have to try to conjure it. The image of her parents and her grandparents safe was the strength she needed to fix her eyes on the German line as the first shot was fired in the Airborne's defensive.

The silence that had stretched over the field was now broken, shattered like ice. That first shot had left the air weakened, ready to be filled with the heavy artillery. All images of happy families and safety were replaced with the harsh reality of the present. Zhanna's hands found familiar purchase over the rifle and began to pick her targets.

The Germans ran through the line, a few heads bobbing above the bushes didn't offer much in the way of a target but Zhanna wasn't discouraged. She was feeling more confident after Carentan, the rust loosened from her fingers and shedding like red snow. Zhanna had worked so hard to be a loyal Russian and a good soldier. All her work was coming back to her now.

The few soldiers who had been foolish enough to look above the bushline fell to the ground, Zhanna's bullets finding their mark. She settled into the steady rhythm. Zhanna's mind and instinct took over the well oiled machine that was her muscle memory and began to fire her rifle without a single thought. She would sight her target, let out a low exhale that rustled the leaves of her hide, and then squeeze the trigger. Sight, exhale, squeeze. Sight, exhale, squeeze.

It was familiar. It was a beat that her heart fell into line with. It was comforting like the hebrew lullabies her mother would sing or the soft exclamations in Polish that her father refused to abandon, no matter how dangerous. It was familiar. The relationship between Zhanna and her fiel was that of a family. A bond that had been strengthened by loss and experience.

Zhanna sighted a German as he sped along the length of the line, exhaling sharply. The leaves rattled. As she squeezed the trigger and the German hit the dirt, the leaves kept rattling. Long after the breath had left her lungs. The rattling spread, shaking the twigs and settling in the pit of her stomach. It shook every bone in her body, her teeth quaking in her jaw. Zhanna paused the rhythm of the bond, looking over her shoulder through the cracks in her hide as the rattling grew in ferocity. It turned from rattling to the rumbling of thunder, growing and growing as the sound of an engine grew closer. It wasn't her breath or the brewing of a storm. The creak of metal edged closer and Zhanna used one of the choice Polish exclamations that Casimir saved for times of particular stress. Tanks were emerging from the treeline and Zhanna's hide was directly in their path.

Zhanna pushed aside the branches and leaves that had concealed her and started to crawl frantically away. All her thoughts of caution and paranoia hadn't prepared her for the impending danger of being crushed by a German Stug. She managed to slither through the treeline moments before the tanks plowed through the saplings, where Zhanna had spent the night sheltering.

She hadn't anticipated crawling through the open field that she had spent hours watching the night before. Shouts from the American line declared that they had seen the tank and were now voicing their displeasure. Zhanna didn't have time to be annoyed, not when she was clawing her way through the grass.

Her hearing was a buzzed overtone, a thousand bees in her ears, dulling out the shouts and screams of pain or fear. Her nails dug into the soft dirt, pulling herself along the field much slower than she would have liked. Zhanna couldn't lift her head without fear of a bullet or a grenade sending shrapnel into her face. She was blind and submissive to this battle. No amount of scrambling could get her clear fast enough. The tanks were still rumbling behind her, it's shells exploding before her.

The dirt under her nails and the furious scrabbling at the grass wasn't giving her enough speed. The tanks were gaining on her and the bushline where her platoon mates lay was still several meters away. Zhanna would have to run for it.

Her legs trembled as she bunched them under her, preparing to spring. The first few steps were weightless, buoyant with the danger of the tanks behind her and the encouragement of the men shouting before her.

"Casmirovna! Let's go!"

"What the hell is she doing?"

She saw the shell before it exploded. The silver cylinder buried itself deep in the green and brown ground a few meters away. Silver like the necklace she had buried. The shell burst before her eyes, shattering any visions of home that might have surfaced. Zhanna, still propelled by the sprinting motion, flew forward. Ears still ringing and body cracking on impact. Every bone in her body felt like ice, brittle and shards scattered. Her rifle dug into her spine, and she couldn't move. She couldn't move and she was out in the open.

Only a few moments prior she had been safe in the bushes, in a carefully crafted hide. Zhanna had been as safe as she could be. And now she was out in the open, the sun bright on her pale skin. She couldn't hear. She couldn't think. Zhanna could only feel the shaking of the ground and the sun on her skin. She was melting, her body of ice bare to the sun. Movement seemed impossible. Something trickled down her neck and into her hair. Was she really melting?

Despite her numbness, something started to pull her toward the American line. Or was it the German line? She didn't know where she was anymore. Just the sky above her.

"Kto są wy?" She murmured. When they didn't reply, she opened her mouth to try again but all words were thrown from her. Zhanna tumbled down a slope and her view of the sky was replaced with swimming faces and leaves.

Winters's voice cut through the echo of her mind, the buzzing and the screams. Had he been the one to pull her clear? "Casmirovna?"

Blindly, she turned toward his voice. His voice was heavy with concern. She blinked, clearing smoke from her eyes. Her hand, when traced against the wetness at the base of her neck, came away stained in red. Her fingertips bloody and her ears still ringing, she threw her rifle aside. Winters stayed by her a moment. His hand, helping her sit upright, lingered to support her. It wasn't until Zhanna gave his shoulder a shove and nodded towards the line, where a battle was still being fought and coughed out. "Go," that he left her.

Sat in the dirt, watching the platoons fire madly and the machine guns rattle, Zhanna felt numb again. She couldn't hear, Winters had left her. She didn't know where Buck or Sveta were. She was an island in the catastrophe of her solo mission. Swaying in the current and melting in the sun. She didn't know what to do, so she did the only thing she could.

Zhanna pushed her way through men, shouldering her way between Liebgott and Welsh, pulling her rifle back to her shoulder. She sighted her first target and pulled the trigger. After that it was all a blur. Explosions, bodies hitting the ground. The German line disintegrating when the American Armored pushed through, sending the Panzers fleeing and the German soldiers running for their lives. Zhanna kept firing, the only thing she could think to do was to pull that familiar trigger.

The weight was familiar in her hands no matter the pounding in her head or the blood trickling from her ear. She didn't stop firing, not when the Germans had disappeared from sight. Zhanna fired one, two, three more times until a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. She whirled around, lashing out at the sudden contact. Buck raised his hands in a calming gesture, showing he meant no harm. Zhanna looked around. Their own line was starting to pull back, encouraged by their victory though some grumbled about Dog company's lack of assistance. The injured were being pulled away and those left were passing around cigarettes.

"How was your trip?" Buck asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"A blast," Zhanna muttered, swiping her sleeve along her cheek in the attempt to mop up the blood. "I'm fine," She said, shrugging off Buck's concern. She wasn't. She still couldn't hear from her left side and, though the pain had subsided, her vision was still a little blurry around the edges. She didn't want to go to a med tent or leave the line. "What happened to the Dogs?"

"High-tailed it at the first sign of the tanks," Buck said grimly. His dirt-streaked face was hard and she could easily see the annoyance in his eyes. "Left you out in the open too. If I could give Speirs a piece of my mind...."

His voice trailed away. Zhanna didn't think it was all Speirs's fault. Men followed orders until they couldn't. Whether it was survival or cowardice, they couldn't follow the order. She understood that but Buck didn't yet. He was still the sports star, all-american boy. His eyes were as bright as the American Dream and he hadn't received the cruel awakening of war yet. He was a good ally but he didn't always understand.

"If you see him," Zhanna said, reaching a hand up for Buck to lift her onto her feet. "Tell him thank you for the cigarettes."