Milan, March 11, 1944
The corporal slapped the private on the shoulder. A moment later, the bazooka trigger was pulled and the rocket erupted out of the end of the tube. As the shape charge was crossing the alley way, the rest of the squad threw smoke grenades even as the BAR team emptied a magazine in the direction of the German strong point. Four seconds later, every man had safely crossed six yards of open space and found new cover behind yet another stone building.
The corporal counted his men. He smiled for the first time in hours. It was a predatory smile, but a protective one as well. Everyone made it across without injury. The German response was slow and light, only a few rifle shots in the general direction of the smoke screen instead of dozens of machine gun bullets. He stopped smiling and started to fish for a cigarette. He really wanted a whiskey, but that was contra-indicated in the middle of street fighting. One of the riflemen, a replacement whose name he now needed to remember, pulled up a Zippo and lit the old man's smoke and then three others. He hunched over and gave instructions to a pair of riflemen, he needed them to scout the corner of the building to see if they were far enough around the German strongpoint to be out of their line of fire.
The two men pulled out mirrors on thin extensions and began to move forward. Ten minutes, neither had been shot.
One more alley to rush, and then they would assault a corner building where the bazooka could pour fire into the rear of the strong point that had held up the company since dawn. There could only be a few more strong points like this before the Pennsylvanians had cleared their section of the city.