Winters, at his desk, furrows his brow.
Back in battle, Easy's squad fans out along its new ditch. "This is the fallback position, here," Winters whispers. "Mortars, deploy here. First squad, on me. Go!" Fanning out in right angles, some men set up the mortar gun, while the others follow Winters, looking tired, dirty, sweaty, and ready to whoop some Nazi ass. Winters halts the run and studies the Germans from this new position.
Sitting at his desk, Winters furrows his brow.
Swiftly Winters counts the number of Germans manning the MG-42s and decides to fire upon them. He approaches six gunners and tells them to aim at a specific man, following him, ready to kill him on Winters's signal. Winters himself covers a seventh target. We see each man squint and take aim. One guy who doesn't have a weapon narrows his eyes just to share in the killing spirit. Winters shoots, and six other shots follow a second later; seven Germans drop, and the others run around squawking and trying to mount a counterattack. The mortar fire begins, and the gunners keep firing as well, in what looks like an even fight. Winters yells that it's time to fall back, and the mortar fire continues until Easy is safely back where it started. The ploy worked; the Germans' attention is away from annihilating battalion HQ and toward its new threat. Winters screams for someone to try to apprehend the Germans at the base of the dike. He also wants Boyle and Perconte to do...hell, something. Bullets whiz through the night, little neon sparks of danger. Winters gets on the radio and screams for Welsh to bring up Lt. Peacock with the rest of 1st Platoon and a backup machine-gun squad. "Dukeman," he screams, and someone who apparently answers to that name appears. Winters orders him toward the right flank, but as he goes, he's felled by an enemy bullet. Aw, Dukeman, we never knew ye.
The furrowed brow here shown belongs to Winters, who is at his desk, sitting.
Daybreak. Talbert tells Winters that the rest of 1st Platoon has arrived, and Gordon's toting a hefty gun. But enough about his trousers. Winters intently studies a grimy map, determining that the Germans are behind a solid roadway embankment and they're just in a small ditch. "They can outflank us along the dike and catch us here as soon as they figure it out," sighs Winters. But he figures that they have no choice in the matter, and must attack. Or they could adopt one of my patented techniques, which is to sprint like hell to the nearest tavern and clamp their mouths around a keg tap. Winters, being a stickler for honor and duty and courage, and all those pesky qualities, formulates a plan: Talbert takes ten men to the dike, Peacock takes ten along the left flank, and Winters takes ten up the middle. Everyone scatters.