WW2: The Battle of the Bulge

 Bullets were flying; tank shells launching and exploding.  

Men on either side fell; Germans and French alike.  

The ping of rifle cartridges being emptied sounded all around the thick forest, with soldiers reloading them as fast as they could, lest they be shot before they could be of any use.  

One man, a French soldier who was part of the Chasseurs Ardennais, stood behind a tree, Mauser Model 1935 rifle shaking in his hand as he struggled to reload.  

The marching boots and yelling of enemy Germans grew ever closer as his hands continued to shake, his fear permeating the air in such a way he swore he could smell it.  

Finally, the click of the cartridge of ammo resounded in his ears.  

Quickly, the man laid down, flat on his stomach, and joined his brothers-in-arms as they fired round after round straight into enemy bodies.  

"Nach vorne! (Forward!)" One of the German officers yelled, lifting his Karabiner 98k as he started the charge towards cover.  

The cry resounded through the forest, prompting any and all Germans who heard it to rush the French position.  

Bullet shells pinged as they hit tank armor, and explosive shells from the tanks uprooted trees as the 7th Panzer Division grew ever closer to the Chasseurs Ardennais.  

But the opposing fire didn't stop no matter how close the Germans got; bodies kept on falling and bullets kept on flying.  

Suddenly, an anti-tank shell flew towards one of the Panzer 38s, blowing its cannon sky high.

 It seemed the French had an Anti-Tank gun.  

"Vorstoß zur feindlichen Böschung! (Advance to the enemy embankment!)" One of the soldiers yelled out as they emptied their mag into the enemy.  

"Tenez bon! Ne les laissez pas arriver ici ! (Hold Fast! Don't let them get here!)" The French commander yelled, his voice echoing through the battlefield, somehow being heard over the din of tank shells and the constant firing of bullets.  

But the stream of Germans seemed never-ending.  

For every German killed, two more would pop up.  

And for every Frenchman killed, no-one came to take his place.  

The attack lasted for 18 days, with every French soldier dying and only the commander making it out, albeit captured by the Germans.  

The French fought till the very last bullet was gone.  

The Germans fought till the last Frenchman fell.  

And World War 2 would go on, uncaring about the sacrifices and deaths it caused, uncaring about the people it hurt.  

For that is the nature of war.