"Harris. Take point. We move in sixty seconds."
If you meant something else—like extracting script files from an actual .rar archive, or writing a different genre (fantasy, sci-fi, etc.)—let me know and I'll adjust the output accordingly.
"I'm not asking for opinions," Cole said. He looked at the youngest of them, Private Delgado—nineteen, scared, but steady under fire so far. "Delgado. You still got that smoke?"
He slid back. "Machine gun. Nestled in the church ruins. Two hundred meters, maybe less."
Cole closed his eyes. Two hours until dawn. No air support. No tanks. Just seven men, half a clip each, and a river full of dead things floating downstream.
Cole watched the eastern sky. No sunrise yet. Just the gray promise of another day of killing.
"Harris," Cole whispered, "check the far bank."
He saw nothing. Then movement . A helmet rim. Not American.
Sergeant Cole held up a fist. Five men stopped behind him. Behind them, the burning outline of Saint-Lô flickered like a bad memory.
No one argued. They checked their weapons. Delgado crossed himself. Russo spit over the side.
"Yes, Sergeant."
Then Lieutenant Vance's voice crackled over the radio, broken and distant: "…Cole… pull back to Phase Line… repeat… pull back…"
He thought of home. A front porch in Virginia. His daughter's bike left in the driveway.
Silence. The river gurgled.