The young man nervously looks among his comrades as they all fix bayonets. The ammo is finally gone, and there is only one thing left to do. They move through the night, shadows drifting among the trees. They don't need to go in any one direction, though they are moving west; the enemy is all around them. The movement suddenly stops, grey ghosts hunkering down amongst the trees, staring at the main line in front of them. A look passes between them all, one which the young man almost misses. A look of grim resignation, one final act of defiance. The faces turn towards the enemy line, then the jaws drop, letting out a thundering roar. The bayonets are lifted, and the grey ghosts suddenly surge from the tree line, charging the enemy position. It's only a second or two, but it seems like an eternity before the sharp crack of rifles and the stick-against-gate-posts machine gun fire erupts into the dark night, searching fingers of fire finding the men around him. He moves forward into the fire, screaming his defiance into their faces, pushed forward by the raw energy of the men around him, something they never taught in training. His bayonet seems to extend from his rifle, his rifle from his arms, searching for a green uniform. Metal finds his uniform first, the young man suddenly slipping in the icy snow, the rifle falling from his suddenly weak hands. He falls backwards, one arm raised to the sky, the other falling back in a futile attempt to halt his fall. His eyes widen, staring up past his uplifted arm at the dark sky, the falling snow. A lifetime flashes before his eyes, one that is entirely too short to end like this. A final image, that arm raised in salute to a man, the one who represents him and his people. He falls into the snow, the arm falling back above his head, his final breath swirling up in the cold air.

The Americans advance over the remains of the German attack later in the morning. Many of them look down, looking among the bodies, searching for some reason as to why they'd charge at a strong position like that, why they'd throw their lives away in a futile bayonet charge. If the Germans were still alive, maybe they'd see the devotion, the pure fanaticism in their eyes for that man with the hair and the mustache. If the Germans were still alive, maybe they'd see the zealotry for God, country, and folk, the ultimate cause of their final act. But the Germans are not still alive, having preferred to face death with nothing more than an empty rifle and a sharp piece of metal than face defeat and the destruction of their beloved Germany. The Americans shake their heads at the sight, and at the young man's body. They will be seeing many more like him.