The German defensive line was thrown into motion as soldiers rushed forward in waves, reinforcing the first line from every direction. Boots pounded against mud and shattered earth, rifles clutched tight as they moved under the cover of darkness. The sudden surge in American firepower had drawn immediate attention, and German officers wasted no time dispatching additional troops to stabilize the front.
Inside a reinforced bomb shelter, Locke leaned forward, peering out from cover again and again. Each artillery strike briefly lit up the battlefield, turning the darkness into a flickering nightmare of fire and shadows. He stayed low, patient, tracking movement and waiting for the exact moment to strike.
As the frequency of American artillery began to taper off, he could feel it—the subtle shift in the battlefield. German soldiers nearby were adjusting, moving, reacting. That was his window.
In the next instant, Locke launched himself out of the earthen hole. His body blurred into afterimages, his speed pushing past what the eye could follow. Using darkness as his ally, he tore across the battlefield, heading straight for a bunker bristling with firepower.
Gunfire erupted relentlessly. The bunker's narrow firing slits spat out streams of bullets, the machine guns roaring as they pinned down advancing forces. Above it, a mounted cannon adjusted its angle, firing intermittently with devastating force.
But the bunker wasn't as secure as it should have been. With the first defensive line under pressure, most of its stationed troops had already rushed forward, leaving behind a skeleton crew. For Locke, that was more than enough.
He reached to his side, pulled free a grenade, and yanked the pin with practiced ease. Without hesitation, he hurled it through an open gap in the bunker where no gun barrel blocked the way. The soldiers inside didn't even notice, too focused on maintaining their suppressive fire.
He didn't wait to watch.
The moment the grenade left his hand, Locke was already moving again, sprinting toward the next bunker with relentless speed.
Seconds later, a dull, heavy explosion tore through the night. The concrete structure erupted from within, flames and debris bursting outward as the bunker was obliterated.
At first, nearby German soldiers hesitated. Some thought it was a malfunction, an accident inside the bunker. But as more explosions followed and the structure continued to collapse under the internal blasts, realization set in.
Something was very wrong.
Panic began to ripple through the line.
Far behind the German defenses, atop a distant observation tower, Major General Pilder lowered his telescope only long enough to pass it to the sergeant beside him. His face was flushed with excitement, his eyes blazing as he watched bunker after bunker erupt into chaos.
"Quick! Get every frontline officer on the line," he barked. "We're launching a full-scale assault immediately!"
"Yes, sir!"
Around him, officers scrambled to relay the order, their voices sharp and urgent over communication lines.
On the battlefield, American soldiers heard the renewed signal. Gunfire surged once more, and under the cover of coordinated fire, they leapt from their positions and charged forward, advancing on the now-disrupted German line.
"Major General… did Major Locke really pull it off?"
A colonel hurried over, disbelief written all over his face as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Pilder let out a booming laugh, raising the telescope again as another bunker exploded in the distance.
"Ha! Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful!" he roared. "Locke, you magnificent bastard!"
If the man had been standing beside him, Pilder might have grabbed him in a crushing embrace right then and there.
The battlefield thundered with explosions. Artillery from the rear resumed its bombardment, shells raining down indiscriminately, even as some German units were still attempting to withdraw. The line broke under the pressure, collapsing piece by piece.
From the German command post, the commander stood rigid, his face dark as he watched the destruction unfold through his telescope. He said nothing, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes.
The battle dragged on until dawn.
When the first rays of sunlight finally cut across the battlefield, they revealed a grim landscape. Trenches were soaked in blood, the ground littered with broken bodies and scattered limbs. Smoke still curled into the air as the echoes of battle slowly faded.
From within a collapsed bomb shelter, Locke pushed himself up and stepped out into the light. His once-clean uniform was gone, replaced with a German officer's attire that no longer fit properly. Dust and dirt clung to him, his entire body coated in the aftermath of war.
The moment he appeared, American soldiers nearby froze.
Then chaos erupted again—this time with cheers.
"Holy hell! Major Locke's alive!"
"I swear to God, that man can't die!"
"Get the commander! Now!"
They rushed toward him, faces lit with awe and excitement. Before Locke could react, a group of soldiers hoisted him into the air, tossing him up and catching him again as they shouted his name in celebration.
He had been fighting all night, exhaustion still clinging to his body, and now he found himself being thrown around like a trophy. It took the arrival of a sergeant pushing through the crowd to finally bring some order, forcing the overexcited soldiers to set him back on the ground.
Letting out a long breath, Locke steadied himself and patted the shoulder of one particularly muscular soldier beside him—the one who had nearly dropped him during the chaos.
The soldier only grinned, eyes filled with admiration.
Under the guidance of the officers and surrounded by cheering troops, Locke waved casually and began walking back toward the American camp.
The frontline had already begun shifting forward. As he approached, a group of high-ranking officers, led by Major General Pilder, strode out to meet him.
"Locke! My dear friend!" Pilder called out, his voice booming as he closed the distance and pulled Locke into a tight embrace. "You were incredible! The bravest, strongest soldier I've ever seen. A true hero of the United States Army!"
Locke gave a small smile, gently patting the old general's back to calm him down.
"I was just doing my duty," he said evenly.
"My duty," Pilder repeated, nodding vigorously. "Good! That's exactly what a real soldier says! You hear that?" He turned sharply, glaring at the officers behind him, his expression shifting instantly. "This is what a soldier looks like. Not the useless lot of you!"
The officers stiffened, none daring to respond.
Without wasting another second, Pilder led Locke into a command tent. From a prepared case, he took out a set of insignia and stepped forward with solemn precision.
"Colonel Locke," he declared, fastening the rank onto Locke's uniform. "As of today, you are the only man in U.S. military history to reach this rank in just one month."
He stepped back and delivered a crisp salute.
Locke returned it calmly, his expression unchanged.
After the brief ceremony, he was immediately dragged off by a crowd of officers eager to celebrate. Lunch was laid out in extravagant fashion, far beyond the usual rations of war.
Lobster, exotic meats, roasted turkey, steak, seafood—an absurd spread given the circumstances.
Locke didn't hesitate. He ate everything placed before him, mentally noting that this was easily the most lavish meal he had enjoyed since crossing between worlds.
Once the meal ended, he was finally allowed to rest.
After a short struggle to settle down, he sank into a warm bed, the fatigue of battle catching up to him at last.
Staring up at the dark green fabric of the tent ceiling, he stretched his limbs and let out a quiet breath.
"Damn… Captain America," he muttered under his breath. "I'm really putting myself through hell just to track you down."
The truth was simple. His relentless efforts on the battlefield weren't just about victory—they were about rank. Only by climbing high enough would he gain the freedom to move as he pleased within the military.
Otherwise, how was he supposed to find Captain America—who was probably still just a scrawny nobody—somewhere in the vast chaos of war?
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