Five Minutes Longer

by Matt Nute

A hard, cold rain washed over the troops at Bastogne. The small town had been besieged for three days, and was still awaiting supplies. The Allies' relief effort was expected any hour, but the forces of the SS war machine kept pressing in on the city.

Allied troops stationed in Bastogne had withstood the siege to the best of their abilities. Street by street, block by block, they slowly were forced to withdraw. Rations and ammunition were both running dangerously low. Only hours before dawn, the Germans had begun a mortar barrage from the east, making most of the main roads impassable. Throughout the day, the horrible 'steel rain' continued, combined with blitz-style attacks from within the city.

The Allies had dug trenches through many of the packed-dirt roads, and maintained their supply movement through them. Each soldier moved quickly and purposefully, knowing that any careless step would be his last. Sleep was a luxury, to be had in fifteen-minute bursts while a fellow soldier stood guard.

Every trooper feared that this would be their day to die. But to some hearts, filled with hope and valor, it would be their finest hour.

"O for the hills of fairest green, the heather rolling gay; the music of the Erin waves, and the sun to guide my way..." the whispered hymn came softly from one foxhole to the ears of a beleaguered soldier, half buried in the mud and clay. He smiled, face almost indistinguishable under the soot and dirt.

"Flynn! At ease that noise! We're on watch, not in church!" he hissed at his comrade. The Irishman across from him raised his head cautiously and wiggled his fingers in front of his nose as a gesture of defiance. Corporal Nute scowled at the young Irish private. For the three months that they had served together, from the march to Ardennes, to here in Bastogne, "Mick" Flynn had been the platoon's greatest, and at times only, source of morale and good cheer.

"Yes, Corporal!" whispered Flynn. "Silent as a churchmouse, Corporal." The smile was almost audible, and contagious as well. Corporal Nute slid his head below the edge of his foxhole and surreptitiously removed his steel helmet. Slid beneath the canvas webbing were two photographs. One was of his family, taken before he had left to join the service. The other was a news clipping of a uniformed man, but wearing a uniform unlike that of Corporal Nute and Private Flynn.

He wore a mask, covering the upper half of his face, making his features unclear. The red-and-white stripes across his abdomen perfectly matched those on his triangular shield. The star on his chest, and the 'A' on his brow were as much a symbol of patriotism to Corporal Nute as Old Glory herself. He was Captain America, scourge of the Nazis and hope of the oppressed everywhere. And hero to one lonely soldier far from home.

With a sigh, Corporal Nute replaced his helmet and checked his rifle. He had enough rounds, he thought, to last him through perhaps another mild firefight. Already, his platoon had fallen back from their base camp, which had been destroyed in the mortar attack. He had been placed in charge of Flynn's squad, after their sergeant had thrown himself on top of a German grenade, shielding his troops. Nute, too, had lost close friends in the war, most in the past few days.

But that was far from his thoughts, and grief could come later. All there was now was duty. And survival. He pulled a crust of bread from his pack and gnawed on it, eyes surveying the evening horizon for any movement. He waited, and he watched, half-expecting a German tank platoon to overrun his position any moment. And he welcomed that fear, knowing it was all that was keeping him alert, after three straight days of moving and standing watch.

"Corporal!" came the hushed cry from across the street, "I see somethin'!"

"Flynn, if it's a bird or a dog again I'll let the lieutenant deal with you..."

"No, I think it's a Kraut! Two of 'em, moving across the west edge of the plaza!" Nute edged up slightly and looked. Indeed, Flynn's eagle eyes had spotted the enemy. Only it wasn't two brown-shirted troopers, but an entire squad. Silently creeping in the shadows of the ruined buildings, they moved like ghosts, their black helmets dull in the early moonlight.

"Waffen SS..." Nute breathed. Hitler's elite commandos. He gave the 'fire on my mark' signal to Flynn, chambered a round slowly into his rifle, and took up a sniper's rest against the lip of his foxhole. He waited until he could see all five soldiers, then drew a bead on the first.

Without hesitation, Corporal Nute fired. He had no time to see his target fall to the ground as he dropped down and chambered another round. As he rose to fire again, the chattering buzz of machine gun fire echoed through the streets. The firefly glow of tracer bullets whizzed over his head as the startled Corporal dropped to the ground.

The Germans had lured them into revealing their position, and had chosen this moment to attack. Nute cursed as he heard the repeated "thump-thump" of mortar rounds being lobbed over his head, to explode behind him.

"Take this! And this! And this!" Nute could hear Flynn screaming at the top of his lungs, firing again and again into the gunpowder haze. Raising up on his hands and knees, Corporal Nute crawled through the narrow trench that linked his foxhole with Flynn's. If Flynn had a better firing position, Nute reasoned, then two could fire more efficiently than one, perhaps fooling the enemy as to their numbers.

He slid through the mud, hands clammy with sweat. Finally, he rested against the back of Flynn's position, making momentary eye contact as the young Irishman kept firing. Corporal Nute grabbed the lip of the foxhole and pulled himself up. He pulled a grenade from his belt and winged it toward the source of the gunfire. The explosion of shrapnel cut through the din, and the flash reminded Nute of the fireworks he had seen as a child.

"You got 'em, Corporal!" whooped Flynn. "Blew every last Jerry to He--" His cheer ended in a sickly gurgle, followed by the pop of a sniper's rifle. Corporal Nute averted his eyes as the body of Private Michael Flynn slumped down into the mud, minus the top of his head.

Fueled by anger and sorrow, the Corporal grabbed another grenade from his friend's belt. Pulling the pin, he counted "one..two.." and then heaved the grenade. It exploded in midair, and the Corporal rolled from his position, charging into the smoke. He fired blindly, knowing that he was, in all probability, the only survivor of his platoon. All dead because of his mistake. Through eyes clouded with tears of rage, he charged, firing again and again, until a sharp pain in his chest spun him around, and everything went black.

"Daddy, can I be a policeman when I grow up?"

"You can be anything you want to be, son."

"Can I be a pilot?"

"Of course. You can do anything."

"Daddy, can I be the President?"

"Yes, Matthew, you can."

"Daddy, can I be a soldier like you?"

"..."

"Daddy?"

"I pray you never have to, Matthew..."

Corporal Nute was shocked back into reality by the blast of an artillery shell going off near him. The concussion half lifted him to his feet, and he began staggering towards one of the ruined buildings for cover. Glancing around, he checked his rifle. Empty. Across the plaza, he saw the Germans leaping into the trenches his men had dug. They would try and follow them to the base camp, but would only find that they led nowhere. Around him, Nute could hear the sound of soldiers marching, and harsh commands being barked in a language he did not comprehend, knowing only that it was the tongue of the faceless enemy.

He checked his equipment. He still had his canteen, his gas mask, his empty rifle, and one last grenade. He was about to pull the grenade from his belt when he heard a calm voice form behind him,

"Ease down, soldier. Don't give it up just yet." The Corporal turned to see a figure walk out of the smoke towards him. His heart caught in his throat. He blinked his eyes, certain he was dead or dreaming. As the figure knelt next to him, Corporal Nute's eyes glanced from the red-gloved hands, to the blue chainmail, to the eagles' wings covering the man's ears.

"It...it's you!" he gasped. "You're Captain America!" The Captain nodded.

"That's right. And you're wounded. We need to get you back to your unit." Corporal Nute shook his head.

"We were overrun. The relief... the relief effort didn't come. They didn't come." he panted weakly. Captain America grasped the shoulders of the young soldier, easing him into a seated position.

"The Allies organized a relief effort. American paratroopers and French infantry are arriving now. I had to get in and make sure that the anti-aircraft batteries wouldn't shoot them down." Corporal Nute raised an eyebrow.

"How many men did you bring with you?" he asked. The Captain smiled.

"Just one." His blue eyes looked into the Corporal's brown ones for a moment, then surveyed the wounded American before him. A dark stain had spread across his olive drab uniform, and red-flecked spittle dotted his lips. Painfully, Captain America closed his eyes. It was obvious to the eye of a trained medic that the Corporal's lung had been punctured. Cap placed his hand on the soldier's forehead, removing his helmet. Wiping off the dirt and sweat, the Star-Spangled Invader removed his glove and placed his palm on the injured troop's face. Cold and clammy, already. He glanced at the two photographs inside Nute's helmet.

"May I?" he asked. The weakened Corporal nodded. Captain America surveyed the first. Glancing from the picture to the boy (man, he corrected himself) before him, he raised one blond eyebrow.

"Your family?" Another nod. "Where you from, Corporal?" he asked in a kind voice.

"Ca..California. Small town. Mom and Pa are back there waiting for me to come home." Nute slowly closed his eyes.

Feeling a rush of fear, the Captain shook the wounded soldier. "Stay with me, soldier! Tell me about them, your family." Nute opened his eyes a crack.

"Mom... Mom bakes the best peach pie in the county. She'd laugh at me now, all dirtied up. She used to yell at us kids when we'd traipse through the house all muddy, but she'd laugh all the same." He smiled sadly.

"And your father?"

"Pa. Pa's the greatest man I know. He fought in the Great War. Lost a leg in it, too. When I told him I'd enlisted, I didn't know if... I didn't know what he thought." Captain America placed both hands on Corporal Nute's shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

"Your father would be proud of you, soldier." Cap's eyes fell onto the second picture inside the helmet lining. He picked it up gingerly. He raised an eyebrow again, glancing at the injured man before him. The Corporal merely shrugged.

"What can I say?" he remarked with a grin. "You're a hero." Captain America shook his head.

"I'm just a man, same as you. Nothing makes me any more of a hero than you."

"Than me? Come on, Cap! You fought with the Human Torch, the Invaders! You said yourself, you just took out a gun battery single handed, look at all you've done! You're braver than any one of us out here." Captain America sat back, a faraway look in his eyes.

"It's said that a hero is no braver than normal men, he is only brave five minutes longer. You stayed out here when others would have ran, Corporal. In my eyes, that makes you the hero."

Corporal Nute let that sink in. Then his body was racked by a painful convulsion. He coughed, spitting out blood. Captain America rushed to his side.

"We need to get you out of here, soldier." Nute shook his head.

"Don't fool yourself, Cap. I've been in enough trenches to know this when I see it." The thumping sounds of the mortars started again, followed by a slow hiss. The Corporal looked over his shoulder.

"You know what that is, Cap?" Captain America nodded.

"They're gassing the troops." Nute reached to his side.

"I noticed you don't have one of these." he whispered, holding out his gas mask. The Captain pushed it away, shaking his head.

"I won't leave you undefended out here." Nute thrust the mask back at him with all his strength, glaring into the eyes of his idol.

"Five minutes longer, Cap. Just five minutes longer." Slowly, and with tears falling from his face, Captain America accepted the protective mask. He slowly stood, buckling his shield onto his forearm.

"Cap?" croaked the Corporal from where he lay in the mud.

"Yes, Corporal?" responded Captain America. The soldier raised one bloodied hand.

"Nute, Matthew T. Loomis, California." Captain America grasped it with his shield hand, pulling back his cowl with the other. The two soldiers took a long look at each others' faces.

"Rogers, Steve. Saugerties, New York." Weakly, the Corporal dropped his hand and smiled.

"Wait till I tell the guys I met Captain America, they'll never believe..." Slowly, his voice faded off and he closed his eyes. Choking back tears, Captain America pulled up his cowl and strapped the gas mask across his face. Stepping out of the ruined building towards the battle, he stopped.

Slowly, he came to attention, and performed an about-face, facing back into the dark shadows of the rubble. Bringing his hand up slowly into a perfect salute, he prayed a quick prayer for his fallen comrade. Then, he was gone, into the haze of battle.