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Hours blurred. The winter sun crawled across the sky like it didn’t want to witness this. Smoke thickened. The junction became a landscape of broken things.
But it held.
And then, like a tide turning, the German push began to slow.
Not because the enemy lost courage—because they lost momentum. Because every time they tried to punch through, they found steel and discipline waiting.
Finally, over the radio, a new voice cut in—crisp, authoritative.
“This is Third Army command. Relief column approaching. Hold your positions.”
Leon laughed once, a sharp sound. “Relief,” he muttered. “Look at that.”
Eli didn’t feel relief yet. He’d learned not to trust a word until it became a fact.
But when he finally saw American tanks cresting the hill—their stars bright against grime—something in his chest loosened like a fist opening.
The Germans withdrew into the trees, leaving burning wrecks and scattered footprints behind.
Saint-Laurent was still standing.
The junction was still American.
And the Midnight Eight were still alive.
After the fight, the world felt too quiet.
Infantrymen emerged from ditches, faces hollowed by adrenaline. Some stared at the Black tank crews with something like awe, as if they’d just witnessed a rule being broken.
A young lieutenant approached Lullaby, helmet crooked, eyes red from smoke.
He climbed onto the tread and tapped the hatch. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked.
Eli popped the hatch and looked down. “Staff Sergeant Carter,” he said. “Midnight One.”
The lieutenant hesitated, then offered his hand.
It was a small thing—just skin and bone and an awkward pause—but Eli felt its weight.
Eli took the hand and shook once. Firm. Professional.
“We would’ve been overrun,” the lieutenant said. His voice was rough, honest. “Thank you.”
Eli nodded. “Do your men need anything?”