Central Greece, May 8, 1944
The Nepalese man who only five years ago had not been more than twelve miles from his birthplace shifted his shoulders. The trench periscope went from left to right. Across the valley, he could see the German position that was central to the defending regiment's defensive scheme. Half a dozen machine guns had trails locked in an enfilade, a thick minefield bolloxed up the most logical secondary attack path, and half division's worth of guns were zeroed in on all of the reasonable assembly areas.
Across the valley, a Bavarian private who had been conscripted in 1939 and then volunteered for the parachute regiments looked through his trench periscope and saw the position that the enemy had been holding as a knife pointed at his regiment's heart. The knife wielding bastards were tough in night ambushes but mainly they called in artillery, and when the artillery was not available, they called in air strikes. So far, little hate had fallen on his position today. A few smoke shells to recaliberate ranging tables was all.
Seven miles to the south, another convoy of Canadian built trucks pulled off to the side to unload their cargo of shells to the 5.5 inch battery.