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Here is a story I wrote. Please leave contructive criticizm. I'm working on a prelude and a postlude too.

John was hungry; he hadn't eaten in two and a half days. He could tell the war was about over as he lay in his foxhole. He was almost asleep as he though of his home. BOOM! An artillery round landed barely over ten feet away, If he hadn't of been in his foxhole John would of been torn to pieces by the shrapnel. He grabbed his M1 Garand and hopped from his hole and ran to his captain. The other men of the platoon were gathering to receive orders. "MOVE"! The captain shouted as he pointed to the west. The bombs were falling.

John ran with all his will, silently praying until he got to the enemy bunker. He was dodging bullets when he got to the wall, his foes would not be able to see him there. They lost six men from the running to the bunker, two from shrapnel, four were gunned down. Panting, John looked for his friend Buck, hoping he had not been shot. John found him gripping his B.A.R. so tightly his knuckles were white. His muscles bulged from the nineteen-pound automatic weapon. Their captain said that they should sneak around the corner of the wall and up the stairs and take out the wall guards.

As John and his fellows rounded the corner and suck up the stairs they prepared to fight. They rid themselves of all pity for the enemy, all remorse of killing, and all fear of death. The quiet night was alive with gunfire. The enemy never saw them; they never thought they'd get this far between the mist, smoke, bombs, and bullets. It was another quiet, boring night for them, and their last. Johns platoon didn't loose a man on that wall top, but six well trained men lay broken and lifeless on the bloodstained ground below.

As John and his platoon walked through the bloody wreckage of corpses he wondered how much time he had left on earth. He had survived so much. They all crouched on the wall top wondering where they would go after they scrounged up all the food they could. A man in the platoon found a trap-door; through it were tunnels, where they went nobody knew. They descended quietly into the tunnels, unsure of what they would find. They moved quickly but quietly, taking out any resistance they came across. Soon they discovered an enemy encampment; they sent Buck in to mow them down while the others provided support. The bullets started spraying and caught the enemy off guard, but they weren’t stupid, they threw themselves flat and took cover. This was no big challenge for the well trained American riflemen. The fighting was over in a matter of minutes, but they lost the man who found the entrance.

They traveled through the rest of the tunnel without incident, but the constant feeling of being watched stayed with them. The finally emerged on a plain in the early morning. It was nice to see the sun, to feel its rays. They rested and strategize until noon, and then set out again. They traveled throughout the day, always on the move and ready for anything. They moved onto a rocky beach by nightfall. They sat around a small fire eating rations and talking about home, wives, girlfriends, and little brothers they all left behind.

Then it was silent, nobody said a thing, somewhere in the back of his mind he thought he heard the bolt of a rifle close but he wasn't sure. Suddenly the loud crack of a rifle echoed out into the night. Buck slowly keeled over with a gaping hole in his chest and a spray of blood coming from his back. John realized what he thought he heard was real; there was a sniper hiding in the darkness. "SNIPER!!!" The commander shouted as they scattered into the dark shield of night, firing at whatever moved. The men were in disarray, firing blindly into the night. They forgot their training in the hail of fear; snipers tend to do that to even the most level-headed soldier.

John was in the cover of a boulder when he saw a group emerge from the blackness. He tensed up, taking aim until the group was recognizable. He saw that it was his fellow Americans and rejoined them. The greeted him with wide eyes, pale faces, and shaking. He soon learned the commander had been killed, friendly fire no doubt. That meant John was the commander now, whether he liked it or not. Truth was, he would die for these men, his brothers...

John commanded well, well enough for him to be respected by his men. Traveling ever on, never losing their awareness. John was pained by the loss of his friend; he was the second he had made, and the only one left. John was alone. Trying to reconcile for the loss of Buck, the men were sympathetic, all knowing that he was Johns closest companion.

Traveling by the ocean, they saw two things, rocky sand, and dark water. After a few days of this they came across to the first patch of trees they had seen in what seemed like ages. Finding a small clearing on the side away from the shore, they made their camp. The woods were thick, too thick for a soldier to move quickly through, and these woods surrounded John’s camp on three sides, and on the side facing away from the beach there was a fallen tree, which was quite large.

The men let their guard down, seeing as they hadn't seen a German in several days. Sentries were still posted, of course, all the other men slept. It was about midnight when the first shot ran out. A sentry fell. Before his lifeless corpse hit the ground the other men were already positioning their selves for a fight. A harsh shout in a foreign language range out, several more shouted in unison in response. John then heard the sound of marching feet, another shout, the marching turned into an all out charge. Out of the misty night came the devils their selves.

John fired and one dropped with a hole in his head. "One Nazi down, a hundred thousand left." He muttered to himself. "FIRE AT WILL!" He shouted to his men. The first two lines and a half fell. It started to rain. Nazi's fell like wheat to the scythe. The enemy kept coming, they seemed innumerable. John then realized there was no way out, unless..... "Follow me!" John shouted. He jumped over the tree, sprinted ten yards and made a quick dash to his left. John was taking Germans down like nothing; his adrenaline was over the top. He felt like he personally could kill every last one of these bastards. Especially after what they had taken from him, his dearest companions.

He looked behind him; his men had kept up, what was left of them anyway. Three fourths of his men were gone. He let out a shout of anger. Suddenly he felt a piece of hot lead enter his gut. His shout of anger became a grunt of pain and bewilderment. He fell to the muddy ground. His men began to stop. "Run!" He weakly shouted in pain. Reluctantly they obeyed. His mouth started to fill with blood so he rolled on his side and let the blood drain out of his mouth. He started to cough, blood went everywhere. He knew what had to be done. He would never surrender to the scum, and he wouldn't give them the pleasure of ending his life.

He put the barrel of his rifle under his chin, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the trigger....... Click. He was out of ammunition. He cursed his rifle, and threw it; he cursed the Germans, then he cursed himself for being such an idiot, for getting himself killed. He started laughing at the fact that, no matter how much he had endured, he was still not dead, the Germans couldn’t kill him. Several moments passed and his laughing grew louder.

A Lugar was fired three times. A German had shot John. He was a sight, a rifle wound to the gut, three pistol rounds buried in his chest, blood and mud covered, and chuckling. His assailants were a German commander with the Lugar, and two of his guards with MP-40 submachine-guns. They were talking in German, probably about what to do with John.

John suddenly got an idea, he slowly reached for his belt, the Germans seemed not to notice. He quickly pulled his 1911 handgun and emptied the magazine into the commanding officer. Bursts of mp-40 fire ended John’s life. That German squad had killed John, but they learned the meaning of fear, and fears name was AMERICA.