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A sound of something exploding and tree branches falling cuts him off. Another artillery barrage, his mind supplies automatically as he reacts immediately; pushing Roe’s and Hufferson’s helmets back in the foxhole, and almost yelling out an order to stay low.
Almost.
A stray artillery shell beats him to it. It lands somewhere close — how close, he can’t tell, but enough to physically knock him down. Blown up snow, mud and wood blocks his vision for a moment, littering him with bits and pieces of each. There’s a loud ringing in his ears, one that would make a man go deaf if he wasn’t already.
With air knocked out of his lungs, he drags himself to the nearest half-filled foxhole, arms protecting his head as he tries his best to hide away from any more shells.
There’s only one problem — well, one of many, but it crawls up his spine and settles cold in his gut: it’s quiet.
***
L.T Winters one-shots, just like the title says. (Most of them set in Bastogne)