File- Medal.of.honor.allied.assault.incl.dlc.zi... -

By 15:45, they held the crossroads. The tanks rolled through at dusk, their green hulls splattered with Normandy clay.

Powell had landed on Omaha Beach at 08:15, four hours after the first wave. He’d seen men die before their boots touched the sand. Now, three days later, he was fighting through hedgerows that had become graveyards for tanks and dreams alike.

Near Saint-Lô, Normandy Date: June 10, 1944 — D-Day +4 File- Medal.Of.Honor.Allied.Assault.Incl.DLC.zi...

Powell took a long drink. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “One day. We just have to survive that long.”

Lieutenant Mike Powell pressed his back against the cratered stone wall of a shattered farmhouse. The ping of his M1 Garand’s empty clip ejecting was still ringing in his ears. Three German soldiers lay motionless in the tall grass ahead, but he knew more were coming. Somewhere to his left, Sergeant Hawkins was shouting into a broken radio, trying to reach battalion. To his right, Private First Class Barnes was feeding belts into his Browning .30 cal. By 15:45, they held the crossroads

Powell sat on the back of a Sherman, unwrapping a stale ration bar. Barnes handed him a canteen.

“Barnes, suppressing fire on the machine-gun nest. Hawkins, you’re with me — we go through the bocage, left flank. On my signal.” He’d seen men die before their boots touched the sand

“You ever think we’ll see something besides this?” Barnes asked, gesturing at the smoke and ruins.