"Goddammnit, it's almost like they were fucking PROPHETS!"

Omaha Beach seems to have turned into Omaha Bloodbath. Normally you would be delighted by the fact that in bloodbaths, the enemy too, would take heavy losses as well.

But not at this place. Machine guns shred your fellow soldiers, friends, as high-power bullets cut and tear off flesh in strips and chunks. Artillery blasts pieces like it was a darned meat shower. Mines force sharp shrapnel into every pore of every poor American bastard who steps on them.

"Quit your whining, Private!" your platoon leader Lieutenant Sierra Foxman shouts back in return. What's left of your platoon cowers in a massive blast hole, courtesy of the Landkreuzers the Nazis set up, absolute mammoths of metal impenetrable by just about any projectile the U.S.A. has to throw.

All the while as shells and bullets fall around you, your group shouts out conversations, mainly because they see that not only has crap hit the fan, the fan also GENERATES crap of its own to disperse.

"Lieutenant, sir, how the hell are we gonna fight these Krauts?"

"We're all gonna die! We're all gonna die!"

"Fuck your whining, Carl. It's kill or be killed!"

As your comrades keep talking, a massive cannon round strikes.