“How was the road in?” Hamill asked, the two captains walking side by side as we headed for his makeshift base camp.

“Scenic. We lost our vehicle and most of our ammo,” Miller replied.

“Not to mention two of our men,” Sergeant Horvath added, grumbling.

“Damn. Lieutenant,” Hamill called out as we came into view of the Airborne soldiers. “Get Ryan up here.” The lieutenant called for Ryan, and soon a young soldier began jogging by.

“Isn’t it way too early to find Ryan?” Miles asked with a hushed voice. “I thought he was in Ramelle?”

“Yeah. Just watch,” I answered, waving him off. Ryan passed us then, going straight to his Captain. Our whole squad watched him, with mixed feelings.

“Told you he was an asshole,” Reiben remarked to me as he passed by, to which I just nodded.

“Sir, Private Ryan reporting as ordered,” Ryan stated, standing at attention in front of Hamill.

“At ease,” Captain Hamill started. Then he introduced Miller. “This is Captain Miller, 2nd Rangers. He wants a word with you.” Our Captain took Ryan off to side and had him take a knee.

“Private, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.” He paused, probably collecting his thoughts and trying to figure out how to tell him. There isn’t exactly a good way to tell someone their brothers are dead, as far as I know. “Well, there isn’t any real easy way to say this so, uh… so I’ll just say it. Your brothers are dead. We’re here to come get you, ‘cause, uh, you’re going home.” Ryan just stared at Miller, unable to fully process the news. He shakily moved back and his face contorted, tears threatening to surface. Hamill put a hand on his shoulder and knelt down next to him in support.

“Oh my God my brothers are dead…” Ryan finally muttered, squeezing his eyes shut in anguish. Hamill held him closer as the man continued his breakdown. “I was gonna take ‘em fishing when we got home…” Reiben started at that, staring at Ryan with a bit of confusion. Ryan is supposed to be the youngest brother, from what I remembered, so that was kind of weird. I just shrugged when Reiben glanced at me, then back to Ryan. “How- How did they die?” The Private asked, opening his eyes and turning back to Captain Miller.

“They were killed in action,” Miller said solemnly. Ryan just shook his head a few times at that.

“No, that- That can’t be. They’re… That can’t be! My brothers are still in grammar school.” Captain Hamill stared at Miller with an eyebrow raised.

“You’re James Ryan,” Miller asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Ryan answered, sniffling.

“James Francis Ryan, from Iowa?” Miller continued, all eyes on him and Ryan.

“James Frederick Ryan, Minnesota,” the confused soldier replied, looking back to his own Captain.

“Son of a bitch! It’s the wrong fucking Ryan,” Reiben said, the rest of us following with similar sentiments.

“Does that- Does that mean that my brothers are okay?” Ryan asked, daring to let hope slip into his voice.

“Yeah, I’m sure they’re fine,” Miller sighed, then turned to Captain Hamill. “We’re looking for a different Private Ryan. This is all just a big foul-up.” Miller stomped off, even as Ryan started to break down again.

“I gotta get home right now,” was the last thing I heard that Ryan cry out before we moved on, following Captain Miller. Sergeants Horvath and Hill, Captain Hamill, and I grouped up with him for a discussion.

“So where the hell’s our Ryan?” Horvath asked, incredulously.

“No idea. Are you in touch with your C.O.?” Miller asked Hamill. He just shook his head and said that he wasn’t. “Figures.”

“Well what unit’s your Ryan in?” Hamill asked.

“Baker Company, 506.”

“The guy with the broken foot, he’s 506 right?” Hamill asked Sergeant Hill, who nodded.

“Yeah. Charlie, I think. Here, I’ll take you guys to him.” He led us a bit further in, where we found an injured paratrooper leaning against a wall, a medic wrapping the man’s foot. “That’s him.”

“You’re 506?” Miller asked him, standing over the paratrooper.

“Yes, sir. Private Oliver.”

“You know a Private Ryan? James Francis Ryan?”

“Ryan? I don’t know- man!” He flinched, as the medic tightened the bandages on his foot.

“Where was your drop zone?” Miller asked next.

“Just inside of Vierville,” Oliver answered, wincing again.

“Vierville? How the hell did you end up way out here?” Apparently his plane had taken heavy fire, and the pilot had to take evasive maneuvers. The paratroopers still jumped, though, so they were scattered all over the place.

“I haven’t seen a single guy from stick, Sir. God knows where they are,” Oliver finished. The captain asked him if he knew anyone from Baker Company or if anyone had mentioned where they were supposed to be. “No, Sir, but I know Baker Company had the same rallypoint as us.”

“Show me!” Captain Miller demanded, handing Oliver a map. The injured paratrooper pointed the spot out, then Miller thanked him and we were on our way. Miller asked Hamill if he had anywhere for us to rest, and we ended up holing up in an old church. We got in as it was getting dark, and the plan was to rest for about three hours. Miller and Horvath had their own conversation off to the side, Wade began copying Caparzo’s letter, and Jackson went right to sleep.

“How the hell does he do it?” Reiben asked, staring at Jackson, fast asleep on one of the pews.

“What do you mean?” Zach asked, still pressing a bandage over his face, over the entire upper right area of his face. Luckily he hadn’t lost the eye, but it was bloodshot and there was a long gash across his face just under it. He had decided not to take a dose of the health potion, much to our surprise, electing to save our limited supply for the greater battles ahead. “Do what?”

“Fall asleep like that. Look at him, he’s lights out as soon as his head hits the pack.”

“Clear conscience, maybe,” Mellish suggested.

“Oh yeah. He thinks everything is God’s will anyway, right?” I added.

“Yeah, what’s that saying? ‘If God’s on our side, who the hell could be on theirs?’” Reiben said next.

“If God be for us, who could be against us?” Cora suggested.

“Yeah, that was it. Hey, what was your name again?” Reiben asked her. “And why do you still have your helmet on?”

“Siskou. Cora Siskou.” She took off the helmet then, and stared back at him. Her black hair was cropped short, I realized, as even I had never seen her without a helmet before. I wasn’t sure if she always kept her hair like that anyway, or if she’d cut it at some point over the last few days. Besides her lack of facial hair she didn’t look like much more than a slightly effeminate man, in her uniform. “Some of the guys in our unit used to say I look like a girl without the helmet,” Cora stated, blinking. “It’s just a habit to keep it on, now.”

“Don’t look like a girl to me,” Mellish shrugged, smiling. That wasn’t really what she was hoping for, apparently.

“Thanks…” She muttered, barely hiding a wince. Her left eye was twitching a bit, and she covered it up by scratching her face.

“How long the four of you been together?” Reiben asked, this one directed at me. “Maxley, you were from a different unit, right?”

“Since basic training. Norton was with us too,” I answered.

“I was just in a different platoon; we were still in the same company. I remember Quinn and the others from training, but I don’t think I talked to them much,” the redheaded teenage soldier revealed, shrugging. The four of us paused at that, Miles’ eyes wide. So the residents of this world even have us implanted in their memories if they’re supposed to know us? I thought to myself, knowing with just a glance that the others were considering the same thing. It’s a blessing in disguise then, that most if not all of the rest of our platoon were killed on D-Day. I felt sick at the thought, but I was still glad we didn’t have to deal with people that we were supposed to know well. Even the wristwatches didn’t reveal anything about those who should have been our comrades, only giving information about ourselves. Cora grimaced after a few seconds, which must have caught Reiben’s eye.

“What is it?” He asked, while our medic shook her head.

“I was just thinking about the rest of our guys. One of them was wounded, but as far as I know the rest of them are dead. We’re the only ones left,” our medic sighed, slinking down the pew she was leaning against.

“Oh. Damn,” Reiben said, simply.

“Damn is right,” Zach agreed, his expression dark. The conversation made me think back to the first day, and our landing on the beach.

“One of our guys was killed next to me in the water, right when we got off the boat,” I sighed, remembering the first of the other new Players that I had had any interaction with, albeit a very brief one. “He was stuck, sinking into the channel. I grabbed him, tried to drag him up, and he seemed relieved. Hopeful, maybe. Then a burst of machine gun fire shot through the water and right at us. Hit him two, maybe three times, and a round even hit the side of my helmet, damn near took the thing right off.” I brushed my helmet then, before I remembered. “My old helmet, I mean.” I took a deep breath and laid back at that point, finished. I hadn’t thought much about the invasion until then- actively avoided thinking about it, really. That guy, and all the other guys on the boat, were just a bunch of nobodies, just like me. Would they have done better if they’d been the ones to make it? Could someone else have saved Caparzo? A whole slew of thoughts like those ran through my head as I drifted off to sleep, about an hour into our planned 3-hour interlude.

---

“Hey Quinn,” I heard someone saying, nudging my shoulder with their boot. “Get your guys up. We’re moving out in ten.”

“Okay…” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. When I saw who woke me I corrected myself. “I mean, yes, Sir.” Captain Miller just smirked and stepped back, leaning against a wall while Sergeant Horvath tried to wake up Reiben.

I got Zach up first, then Cora and Maxley. They got up and ready real quick, but our last guy was another story altogether. I swear, Miles Porter could sleep through an air raid; it took a good five minutes for Maxley and I to get the guy up. We had to resort to dumping water on his face to get him to open his eyes. While we did that, Cora changed Zach’s bandage. She was glad to find that it wasn’t infected and that the bleeding had long since stopped. We were ready just in time, and Captain Miller led us out, marching in the dark all through the night.

The next several hours were wholly uneventful for us, though we could hear and sometimes even see the explosions from the shelling and fighting going on miles away. We just crept on through the cloud-covered night, staying quiet and not stopping for anything.

The sun was already high in the sky by the time we found the rallypoint. Said rallypoint was really just a few big canopy tents held up by a bunch of logs, with some broken down airplanes on the edges. Dozens of wounded paratroopers were lined up under the tents, and even more bodies were covered up off to a side. Captain Miller told Wade and Cora to make the rounds, see if they could help any of the wounded, and Zach decided to tag along. Apparently Cora had given him a bit of first aid training during the first few days, when his arm was still hurt. He didn’t really have much else to do at the time, anyway.

I just stuck with the captain, and the only officer we could find in the entire camp was a Lieutenant DeWindt. He’d been the pilot of one of the downed planes. He was supposed to be flying in a Brigadier General, and the Army reinforced several parts of the plane with steel plates to keep him safe- without telling DeWindt. He had to make evasive maneuvers when the plane took fire, but the added weight meant it didn’t handle properly. So they went down, simple as that.

A new group, maybe an entire company, of Airborne troops marched towards the camp, many of them lightly wounded. They were escorting a dozen or so French civilians along with a line of German prisoners. Captain Miller sent Mellish, Maxley and Miles to check down the line, to see if any of them were Ryan, or at least had some info on him.

Sergeant Horvath and I checked DeWindt's plane out and, sure enough, a soldier wearing a helmet emblazoned with a single white star was stuck in a seat, a part of his face scraped off and a thick tree branch stuck through his abdomen, coming out from the other side of the seat.

“I couldn’t pry him out of there- I’d need a winch.” Having seen him ourselves, Horvath and I agreed. “We were just too damn heavy… Plane went down, couldn’t stop. We just kept going… Twenty-two guys dead.”

“All that for a General?” Miller asked, subdued.

“One man,” DeWindt agreed.

“One man? We know all about that,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“FUBAR,” DeWindt suggested. Miller, Horvath, and I all agreed.

“What’s FUBAR?” Maxley asked, as he and a few of the others joined us by DeWindt’s plane.

“Oh, it’s German,” Mellish joked, and Reiben and I laughed quietly.

“Never heard of that…” Maxley mumbled in response.

“Maxley, Mellish, there’s more paratroopers out there. Find out if one of them’s Ryan. They nodded and got back to work, Maxley still trying to figure out what the word meant.

“You might want to look through these, Sir,” DeWindt stated, pulling a pouch off of his belt, the sound of metal clinking coming from within. “Dog tags. More than I really want to count, Sir.” Miller stared at the bag for a second, then handed it off to me.

“Quinn, Reiben, see if Ryan’s in there.”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied. Jackson joined us, and we headed for a couple of crates lying around outside. We dumped the bag out and sifted through the tags, reading the names out loud. We got a little too into it, actually, basically playing cards with the tags with a sense of morbid enjoyment.

“Hey, I think I got a winner here,” Jackson said, passing one of his tags to me. “Ryan, right?”

“R-I-E-N-N-E. That’s Rienne, Jackson. It’s French. This ain’t him,” I said, frowning. This was useless, really. We already knew Ryan was still alive- even if some freak accident had messed with the plot enough to kill him, we would have been removed from that world and sent back to the Island, according to what the watch said.

“Damn,” Reiben said, holding up another tag. “Look at this poor bastard, huh?” The tag had a hole in it, probably from a gun. I snickered as he looked at me through the hole, blinking.

“Guess they ain’t bulletproof,” Jackson stated, and Reiben and I agreed. We passed some of the tags around, betting like we were playing poker.

“I got two guys from New York,” I said, dropping two tags back into the pile.

“I call, raise you a couple of Virginians,” Reiben laughed, dropping in a handful of his tags.

“I‘m gonna have to go all in, fellas,” Jackson started, before someone came to break us up.

“The whole god damn Airborne’s watching!” Wade interjected, hastily grabbing the tags and shoving them back in the bag. “These aren’t poker chips.” I looked around, subdued, and found that the passing paratroopers really were watching us, most of them glaring.

“Alright, alright,” Reiben said, and helped Wade put them back in the bag.

“He’s not here,” Miller admitted. Apparently even he’d gotten in on it, as he dropped the last few tags bag into the bag. “Maybe we should bust up into a couple of different groups, huh?” The captain started, walking over to the paratroopers on their march. “And wander the woods like Hansel and Gretel, calling his name. He’s bound to hear us sooner or later. Ryan!” He finally called out, the rest of us getting up, handing the sac of tags over to Wade.

“Ryan! Anybody know a Ryan?!” Miller called out walking up their line. “Private Ryan, 101st Airborne? Anybody know a Private James Ryan, from Iowa? James Ryan?!”

“Hey Joe,” a soldier near the captain started, turning around. “Doesn’t, uh, Mandelsohn pal around with a Ryan from B Company?”

“Yeah, I think so,” answered a taller soldier, a few yards behind him.

“Bring him up here, would you?” The first guy asked again, and the tall guy nodded and went back.

“Think we’re finally getting somewhere?” Reiben asked me, as we waited for him to find Mandelsohn.

“God I hope so,” I replied, as the tall soldier came back with another guy. The right side of his face was charred, his ear practically burnt black. After a spiel about his hearing- a German grenade had gone of right by his head- Miller asked if he knew Ryan.

“Do you know Private Ryan?”

“Who?!” He shouted back, to compensate for his near-deaf state.

“Private Ryan. James Ryan?” Miller asked again.

“Jimmy Ryan?” Mandelsohn called back.

“James. James Francis Ryan,” Miller repeated, again.

“No, no, no, James Francis Ryan.” Everyone perked up at that, glancing at each other silently.

“Get me a pencil, something to write on,” Miller said, looking back at us. “Quick! Quick! Come on, a pencil!”

“Here, Captain,” Maxley said, stepping forward. He held a piece of paper as well.

“Write this down,” Miller said to the young redheaded soldier. Maxley transcribed Miller’s next statement. “James Francis Ryan, question mark, Iowa, question mark. Do you, does he know him. Read the message, show him.” He motioned towards Maxley. He held up the note, while Mandelsohn read it.

“Yeah, of course I know him, Sir!” Mandelsohn replied, smiling.

“Does he know where he is?” Maxley showed him the next note, and he nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, we missed our drop zone by about twenty miles, ended up over by uh, Bumville or some damn place. Him, me and a couple of other guys were coming here to the rally point, ran into a Colonel who was gathering up men to go to, uh, Ramelle. To babysit a bridge. That’s the last I’ve seen of him, Sir,” Mandelsohn finished.

"Great! Great! Thank, say, write thank you.” Miller turned around then as Maxley wrote out the last message.

“You’re welcome!” Mandelsohn called back. As we gathered up again, Miller taking out his map.

“We’re here,” Miller started, pointing out the rallypoint's location. “Ramelle is on the Merderet River right here. Just to the southwest of us.”

“What’d he mean by ‘babysit a bridge’, Captain?” Miles asked.

“The target has always been Cherbourg. We can’t move on Paris until we take a deep water port, and Rommel knows that. So he’s going to try to get his armor across the Merderet River anywhere he can.” He held his compass over the map, shifting it around until the compass line up with the compass rose on the map. His hand was shaking, something I hadn’t noticed since we had joined the mission. We watched in silence as the compass rattled in his hand. “If Ryan’s still alive, he's in Ramelle. Let’s go.”