On the ground floor of another bomb-ravaged building, a German soldier hugged his knees beneath a heavy, boarded-up windowsill. He held his breath, every nerve straining to catch the faintest whisper of movement around him.
Suddenly, outside the shattered window, he heard the soft crunch of boots on rubble.
"They're Americans!" he hissed, his voice barely more than a dry exhalation, as he whispered the warning to the three men clustered deeper inside the room.
"Hold this floor with him," Bockman barked, pointing at the soldier beneath the window and another young recruit. "The rest of you, come with me!"
The two men snapped to attention. Bockman nodded curtly before leading the others up to the second floor. At the stairwell's bend he paused, glanced back at the pair left below, exhaled sharply—and then disappeared upward.
"Conway, we'll go in through this building, then make our way to the rooftop of that wreck across the street—probably safer than going straight down the road," Rambo called to Conway, who was inching along the far wall. He pointed toward the crumbling shell of the structure at the corner.
Conway held up a flat hand—halt—and surveyed the street. Then he gave a rigid nod. "Alright, but moving through that building doesn't exactly inspire confidence."
"Better exposed to German MG fire out here," Rambo countered.
"Fair enough. You're the officer—we'll follow your lead."
Rambo cracked a grin. "Thanks for the reminder—I almost forgot." He turned back to Hill, who was lugging the flamethrower like a dead weight, and chuckled, "Hill, time for your performance!"
Hill's face tightened. Without a word he elbowed Conway aside by a few meters—Conway crouched low, covering him with his rifle as Hill stalked to the ruined entrance. Instead of peering inside, Hill stooped, picked up a fist-sized chunk of masonry, and rolled it across the threshold.
"Grenade!" the German soldier under the window shouted, heart pounding. He didn't see the rock; all he heard was something rolling in. He bolted behind a makeshift barrier of wooden tables and battered chairs. The second German soldier did the same. Both waited, breaths held, for the inevitable blast.
But ten seconds passed. No explosion. Realization dawned too late on the man at the table—they rose to defend himself, only to be engulfed by a sudden wall of flame.
From a few paces back, Hill unleashed the roar of his flamethrower against the far wall. The burning napalm leapt forward, through the doorway and into the room, igniting every flammable scrap inside. The two Germans caught in the open were instantly set ablaze. They screamed, flailed, and lunged for the exit—straight into the rifle fire Conway and the others had lined up.
The men fell. But the fire raged on, the acrid scent of charred flesh rising in sickening waves. Within moments the two bodies had been burned to blackened husks.
Chalmers, trailing behind Rambo, stiffened, turned away, and vomited against the wall. A few of the others—none of whom had ever seen a man burned alive—pressed trembling hands to their mouths, averting their eyes.
"Chalmers," Rambo said, clapping him on the shoulder with surprising gentleness, "get it out now—won't feel so sick next time."
Hill watched quietly, lips curled in contempt.
"You bastard," Chalmers spat through dry heaves at Hill.
Hill only snorted, eyes hard as flint, then turned away.
Conway waited until the room fell silent, then lobbed a real grenade inside. The blast cleared what remained of the obstruction; Conway shot to his feet and sprinted in, Rambo close on his heels—ignoring the retching Chalmers at the door.
"Watch out for those flames!" Rambo warned as more men poured in. "Don't get caught in the napalm!"
Conway froze a few meters from the stairwell. "I think there's still Germans up there!" he called back, pointing to the ceiling above.
"Everyone, keep sharp—enemy still up those stairs!" Rambo shouted to the men filing in behind him.
Conway crept to the foot of the staircase, laid his rifle on the ground, and edged his head around the corner. Two German soldiers glared down at him, submachine guns trained on the landing.
He ducked back. Their bursts pocked the wall where his helmet had appeared.
"Two at the top!" Conway hissed, keeping his eyes fixed on the stairwell's dark mouth. He turned and held out his hand. "Grenade!"
Rambo pulled the pin with one hand and pitched it into the stairwell. The concussion shook the building—dust rained down—but the Germans evaded the blast.
Still under fire, Conway sprinted to cover, then opened up with his submachine gun.
"They're pinned!" he yelled. "—Shit, need a new mag!"
Rambo stepped up, swapping to Conway's position and laying down suppressing fire so Conway could reload.
Above, one of the Germans ripped the pin on a stick-grenade and lobbed it down.
"Goddamn—grenade!"
Rambo yanked Conway down behind cover. Caught completely off-guard, Conway went face-first into the dirt.
"Damn…" Conway was about to curse when a thunderous "BOOM!" cracked through the air and something heavy landed on him. He shoved it off—only to see Rambo, blood streaming down his face.
"Rambo! Rambo!" Conway scooped him up and shook him—Rambo stirred, still alive. "Quick, get him out for medical treatment—he's hit!"
"Conway, get out of the way. Watch me burn these bastards!" Hill barked, staring at the wounded Rambo.
"No—you can't reach them from here!" Conway shot back without hesitation.
"Then what do we do? We're pinned down!" Hill snapped, the flamethrower suddenly feeling like dead weight.
"Chalmers, over here! After I lob this grenade upstairs, lay down covering fire with your machine gun. Then I'll dash to the stairwell corner and take over suppression. Chalmers, you keep tossing grenades upstairs, and Hill, you move up to my spot to unleash the flamethrower. Understand?" Conway called over to Chalmers, who looked pale but nodded.
"Got it, buddy," Chalmers replied, and Hill gave a firm nod as well.
Following their plan, Conway sprinted toward the stairwell when the tell-tale "rat-a-tat-tat" of machine-gun fire cut through the air. At the same time, he saw a long, smoking cylinder arc down from above.
"Damn—another German grenade!"
"BOOM!"
Conway dove away from the stairwell just in time; the blast missed him. He tried again and again, but every time he neared the stairwell, the Germans up top would toss down a grenade and unleash machine-gun fire, forcing him to duck back once more.
Conway tried again to edge toward the stairs—only for another grenade to follow.
"Damn cowards!" Hill shouted angrily up at the Germans upstairs, flamethrower raised. "Come out and face me like men!"
"Shut up, Hill!" Conway snarled without taking his eyes off the stairs. "Think that'll work?"
Hill fell silent, scowling. Conway shook his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Goddamn Nazi scum!" he spat. Forced to abandon the previous plan for now, he stormed in place, seething with anger.
At that moment, Joanner led his men up to the building's entrance. Seeing Conway and the others hesitating just short of the first-floor stairwell, he called out, "What's going on?"
"Sir," Conway replied, "there are Germans on the second floor. We can't get up— they're holding the stairwell exit up there!"
"How many?"
"I only saw two at the landing, but there could be more hiding upstairs."
"Just two Germans and they've pinned you down? I'll see for myself!" Joanner shoved aside the reporting soldier and strode inside.
On the first floor, pockets of flame still smoldered, reluctant to die—almost as if the fire itself warned that the Germans wouldn't go down without a fight.
A few quick steps brought Joanner to the base of the stairs, just as Conway was about to dash up. "Let me take a look," Joanner said.
"Careful, sir— they're tossing grenades down!" Conway warned, stepping aside.
Joanner glanced up the narrow stairwell. There was no cover: anyone who showed themselves would be cut down by the Germans already in position above. A head-long charge here would mean heavy casualties.
"What's your plan?" he demanded.
Conway ran Joanner through the original plan.
"No way! There's no cover in that stairwell. Even if your grenade makes it up there, you'll be cut down by German MG fire the moment you stick your head out. And if it doesn't kill them, they'll just toss grenades back down and pour machine-gun fire on us—casualties would be terrible. I can't go for that," Joanner said flatly. "Let me think."
He paused, then his eyes lit up. He remembered the makeshift "tank" they'd cobbled together back on Omaha Beach. "Grab a few men and haul that cabinet over here! I've got an idea to take those bastards out."