Never Give An Inch


"Jon, I'm scared," whispered Minase behind him.

"I'm scared too, angel, but I'll keep you safe," Jon whispered back, before crawling through the undergrowth and opening up a secret tunnel to a safehouse.

The Japanese weren't able to see them in the darkness, and both Jon and Minase found safety in their little alcove for the night.

As she slept with her head on his shoulder, Jon kept a lookout for soldiers who got too close. Thankfully, none came, though he knew he would never let them harm her, harm him.

He had everything he needed in his world resting on his shoulder, and nothing could take her from him.

Never give an inch.


War is rough, and war changes people. Adrian would have never believed it.

Yet, at the moment, Bastogne was burning in hell all around him. Attending to a fallen private, he does the best he can, directing his medics to drag the man to cover and safety, while he fires his pistol at an enemy he can now lock eyes with.

Damn them, damn this place! thought Adrian, as he swore he stood witness to what he was doing. Everything felt surreal, from shooting and killing Germans, to reloading his pistol, to dragging one of his wounded medics behind rubble, as if he were watching from the sky instead of seeing everything face to face.

Brother, are you alright? whispered his sister into his mind, while he tried to focus. A bullet nicked his arm, and he forcefully wrapped a bandage around it. His arm can wait, his boys cannot. Grabbing another wounded soldier, he dragged him behind safety, and grabbed his weapon to shoot back at the Germans who thought wise to besiege their position and kill his men.

He had to bring these boys home. He himself had to return home. As he killed with one hand and rescued with the other, his thoughts were always to his sister, and how she needed him to come back home.

Never give an inch.


It was hell all around them, in these deep caverns.

The Flesh grew all around them, and their handlers and lesser men died, dragged down and infected. Zhyr didn't care at all - they became threats, and threats must be terminated.

The cleansing fire did much to clear the cave, although the smoke obscured vision and made the air dangerous. More infected creatures and soldiers choked and died around it, but it did not care.

The threat must be exterminated at all costs. The mission must be completed at all costs. The Zhyr lifted up its flamethrower, turned on the pilot light, and ignited and scorched its way to victory.

Never give an inch.


It has been days since he took off his Red Cross.

Not like it mattered. The Japanese were savages. The symbol meant nothing to them.

They have tried torching their medics and the wounded men, trying to demoralize the other medics, the ones who still believed in never having to pick up a gun, never being allowed to by the binding power of the cross that should've protected them.

The next Japanese squad that attempted that trick were caught on lead feet when Tyler grabbed a M3 and began to pepper the animals. They died where they stood, and the soldier Tyler was treating would go on back to Stateside and live.

The fighting was brutal all around him, and the Japanese were relentless. But they have not yet encountered Tyler. Tyler swore he would protect the men he was assigned to take care of and serve, even if that meant bloodying his hands.

The Japanese would never push him back, and will never stop him from protecting his fellow soldiers.

Never give an inch.


Normandy was hell, Forrest concluded.

The sands were soaked red with blood, and the sky was full of smoke and flak and bullets as war raged on all around them.

Forrest looked down at the man in his arms, blown apart by a landmine. There was no saving him now. Discarding his body and taking his tags, Forrest rushed to the next hedgehog, and began treating the screaming teenage boy, who was flailing about, a MG42 bullet to the abdomen doing the damage.

Hush now, I got you, ordered Forrest, as the air continued to explode around him, and people around him died in droves. But, for every man that died, they were able to crawl just a bit further up the beach, and the machine gun posts and artillery posts fell quiet.

Forrest did his job and kept up with the advance, treating those who were hurt, and taking the tags of those who have fallen. He may not have been a combatant, but he knew his care would help to take every bit of the beach, and deny it from the enemy.

Their blood bought this beach, and Forrest would make sure it would not be in vain.

Never give an inch.



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