Winter’s Rebirth: B1 - 0. The Battle of Okinawa (Patreon)

Winter’s Rebirth Index

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In the frigid north of a decaying empire, twins Victor and Elara are reborn into a world of magic and danger. Once siblings in the 1940s, Victor, a fierce World War II soldier, and Elara, a woman hiding a tragic secret, now face a new life with memories of their past.

Determined to protect Elara and build a better future, Victor harnesses his wartime skills and knowledge with the gemstone powers of his new world. Meanwhile, Elara, quietly recalling their shared past, becomes the calm force that balances Victor’s fiery drive as she learns what it means to become a lower noblewoman.

Guided by mentor, an unlikely ally from Earth of centuries past, Victor must seize destiny rather than let it come to him to protect his family. As they navigate political intrigue, secret societies, and the mysteries of their new world, the twins must unite to defend their home, unlikely friends from discrimination, and step into the roles of leaders in a medieval world of magic.

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Note that he does use some racial slurs common to that time due to...obvious reasons. It will be addressed in the next few chapters.

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The relentless rain hammered the battlefield, turning everything into a muddy, swampy mess. The downpour made it almost impossible for either side to move or maneuver effectively, but the constant thumping somehow soothed Victor’s tired mind—he’d been up for four days at that point. Maybe he could get some sleep with the heavens crying for him.

Air and naval operations were a bust right now and they didn’t know when the Japs would continue the fight. Hell, he half expected them to crawl through the pelting downpour just to drink their blood at this point with how insane the damned bastards were.

The rains in the last week of May were particularly heavy in the center, where the troops were unable to resume their offensive. It really was something; foxholes caved in under the weight of the water, Jap bodies decomposing under swarms of flies, and the hell the front-line units had to shoulder, carrying supplies and the wounded on their backs through the quagmire… It all made his heart ache.

In one of the makeshift covered areas, Victor sat, slathered in filth, trying to eat some of the meager food they had left. The conditions were miserable, and morale was at an all-time low. Desertion was inevitable for the vets, so naturally the greenies would be browning their dirty britches.

Water dripped from every surface as he surveyed his hardened units of badasses; well, most were as tough as they came, sitting in the shit, soaked through head to foot. Still, the men huddled together, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the hellish environment; they were a family.

He glanced up as three men dragged a panicked young boy from a foxhole, thrashing and crying out for his mother and that he wanted to go home. He watched them pull him through the muck and blanket of rain into the trench.

Victor set his food aside and wiped the filth from his hands, though it did little to clean them. He stood up, his movements slow and deliberate with the nervous men shifting around him; they’d had to kill some of their own men when they got like this during quiet nights, when the enemy was creeping about, looking for them.

He walked over to the trembling boy, no older than seventeen, as the hardened soldiers cursed him and tried to cover his mouth. The boy was a mess, using the fight he should be saving for the enemy, his eyes wide with fear as Victor approached, stretching out his stiff muscles.

He recognized the look—he had seen it many times before, and this kid was caught in the middle of one of the bloodiest battles of the war. That didn’t matter, though. He was here, and either he was one of them, or he was practically on the enemy’s side. Sometimes, they just needed a good kick in the ass to get their mind straight… Hopefully, this was one of those times.

Victor’s open palm connected with the boy’s face, his whole body stiffening, eyes wide as Victor gripped his chin and locked eyes.

“What’s your name, son?” Victor asked, voice rough but not unkind through the pattering hail. “I asked what’s your name, maggot.”

“J-Johnny, sir,” the boy stammered, tears mixing with dirt, mud, and blood from his split lip.

He sighed internally. This kid should be at home, not here in this godforsaken place. He has potential if he can get through this initial panic.

Victor placed a hand on Johnny’s shoulder and forced eye contact again. “Listen here, maggot. Do you have any idea what your cowardice means for the rest of us? Your brothers are out there, bleeding and dying. You think you’re the only one scared? Every single one of us is scared out of our minds. But we don’t run. Do you want to be a bug that gets stepped on by the Japs, or do you want to be a soldier, taking down fifty Japs with you? Your cowardice isn’t just about you—it’s about every single man in this unit. Do you want their blood on your hands?”

“N-No, sir!”

“Good. We’re all in the same boat here. This is the toughest fight any of us will ever face, but we’ve got a job to do. We fight together, or we die alone. So get your gear, get your sorry ass back in that line, and show some damn backbone because your brothers need you, soldier. That’s an order!”

“Y-Yes, sir!”

Johnny’s fear began to ebb as his eyes widened in understanding. With a resolute nod, he met Victor’s gaze. Satisfied with the response, he returned to his meal. Despite the relentless rain, a glimmer of optimism surfaced within him. The announcement of mail time echoed through the storm, signaling that their vital connection to the outside world was approaching.

Victor reflected a bit while watching the boy scurry off with the three men to get back into their foxhole, his steps hesitant but more determined than before. At least the kid’s got some fire in him now. Maybe he’ll survive…just maybe.

A sigh passed through his lips while peeking out of the makeshift cover to see the relentless rain continued to hammer down on his men, the pattering against their helmets mixing with the murmurs; the grasslands this field had been at the start had turned into an unrecognizable mire.

He wiped the wet from his eyes, a futile gesture, and only smeared more dirt across it as the hurricane continued to assault his face. Mac nudged him as he passed, a long-time friend who had followed him through his climb up the officer ladder.

“You good?,” he mused, trying to light a cigarette without much luck before giving up and tossing the ruined stick into the mud. “You sounded a little soft there, Cap”

As Victor searched the blinding veil, he muttered, “Maybe it’s the rain getting to me… It’s damn near as ruthless as the Japs. Shit can barely see a foot in front of me… You know, if this rain keeps up, we might just drown before the Japs get the chance to kill us. At least it’d saved the trouble of bleedin’ out in this shitter.”

Mac snorted. “Hell, Cap, if we drown out here, at least we’ll be cleaner when they bury us. Even the crows abandoned us in this damn typhoon. This mud’s got us looking like we’re halfway to Hell already, so maybe they think their job is done.”

Victor chuckled at the dark humor. “Yeah, maybe the devil’s just prepping the ground for us. One big muddy welcome mat to Hell.”

The mud clung to his boots, making each step a struggle as he patted the sergeant’s back in passing while walking the trench, water up to his knees. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and decay as he continued, the stench of decomposing bodies mingling with the sharp tang of gunpowder.

He returned to his makeshift seat under wooden boards meant to allow access over the trench and resumed eating his cold, soggy rations. The men around him were trying to find some semblance of comfort in the miserable environment, and what waited after it passed would be another type of storm.

They were huddled together, sharing stories and dark jokes to keep each other’s spirits up. It was a sad sight, but also a heartwarming one that kept them going.

The battlefield was eerily quiet, save for the constant thump of the rain, howling wind, and thunder. The enemy was likely in the same predicament, hunkered down and waiting for a break in the weather to continue their death march.

Occasionally, the distant sound of artillery fire echoed through the ambient noise, but for the most part, the front lines were stagnant. Few even lifted their heads at the noise at this point.

“Mail time!” a shout rang through the trench, cutting through the monotony. The men perked up, a flicker of hope lighting their weary faces. Mail was a lifeline, a connection to a world beyond the mud and blood and back to home. For him it was his little sister’s letters and the promise of a Montana property he was still developing that kept him going.

Victor leaned back, letting out a weary sigh. The rain continued its assault, the cold seeping into his bones nonetheless. Wonder if Elara sent me another letter. God, I need something to take my mind off this shithole and suicidal Japs rushing us on their God Emperor’s divine edict.

One of his men, a certain grizzled sergeant named Mac, sidled up to him with a grin. “Hey, Cap, you think your lil’ sis sent you another copy of Wizard of Oz? Heard you lost the last one in this muddy mess a few weeks ago.”

“And whose spreading that story?” he chuckled, stretching out his stiff limbs and feeling slightly better now that he had a bit of food in his belly. “The true story is it got blown up in an air raid because some sorry turncoat gave away an officer bunker location.”

“Damn… That’s rough. You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Cap. So, your sis is comin’ up on her 4th anniversary, huh? Have you met the guy and put the fear of God in him?” His mud-caked face split with a yellow-toothed grin. “Taken him out to your Montana spread to put a little grit in his belly? How’d he dodge the draft?”

Victor waved his hand. “Nah, I keep Elara outta this mess. Ever since our old man booted me out at sixteen, we’ve only talked through letters. She’s got a good life; her husband’s a train mechanic. A damn hard-working guy who keeps things movin’ back home. She sounds a bit lonely sometimes, but all the more reason to end this hell, right?”

“I hear ya, Cap!”

Shaking his head, Victor chuckled. “As for that Wizard of Oz stuff, yeah, it wouldn’t surprise me. She’s been hooked on that series lately. Keeps her mind off the war and her husband’s long hours, I guess.”

Mac laughed, a deep, hearty sound that momentarily lifted the gloom as other soldiers listened in, waiting for the mail to get to them. “Well, if she did, maybe you can read it to us. God knows we could use a good story to take our minds off this shitter.”

A smile lit his face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. A good story sounds like a damn fine idea right about now. The thought of Elara and her endless optimism brought a warmth to his chest. She was always trying to keep his spirits up, even from half a world away.

His officers were quick to gather as word spread, and the mail delivered to him. In the tarps they used as shelter from the deluge, he found enough water to clean his hands and wipe them dry to disperse the articles—his soldiers’ lifelines.

Victor watched the men nearby eagerly tearing open letters and packages. The sight brought a bittersweet ache. He wasn’t quite sure if he missed home or not; most of his adult life was spent at war, in some form or another. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that. Not here. Not now.

When the last letter was handed off to officers to deliver to their individual units, Victor had a chance to look down at his own—three of them; only his sister or command ever wrote him, yet, oddly, the third was from someone new—a woman by the flowy handwriting.

He recognized his sister’s neat handwriting immediately; she’d been an educated girl since their family came from some money, not enough to be rich, but well enough off, not that that mattered to him after being disowned.

He tore hers open first, his heart pounding with anticipation. The rain continued to pour over the tarp he was using for cover, a few other soldiers nearby sharing it to read their own. But, for a moment, he was transported away from the battlefield, back to a world of imagination, seeing a warm kitchen with her laughter.

The letter was filled with her usual cheerfulness, updates on mundane things that felt like treasures in this hellish place. She wrote about their mother’s garden when she got a chance to return home, the latest town gossip, and, of course, her obsession with The Wizard of Oz—a place of magical escape, as she put it.

At the end of the letter, she mentioned sending another copy of the book, knowing how much he ‘seemed’ to enjoy it. It certainly was something different, he had to agree.

Victor’s eyes lingered on her words, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Damn kid always knows how to brighten my day. She’ll be twenty-three next month and she’s married now. Maybe I should stop calling her that…

He carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket, the warmth of her words a small beacon of hope in the relentless hurricane. He opened the next letter from Major William C. Chamberlin. Reading the letter in his mind, his eyes glazed over:

Captain Victor E. Smith, I regret to inform you that your little sister, Elara P. Jackson, has died. I’m told that she was found murdered by her husband, Kyle J. Jackson, in their home while intoxicated. After which, he took his own life. My condolences.

Victor’s legs gave way, falling against the wall and into the watery muck. Elara was murdered… What? This has to be some sick joke.

“Captain?!”

Cries from his men rang out as they rushed to his side, but he was too stunned to fully register their concern. “No, everything was fine,” he mumbled, the image his sister had given him in all her letters shattering around him as he continued to read the same line, rain now patterning across the paper.

Some of his men seemed to catch sight of the content as they moved the tarp over him, a somber and sobering atmosphere ensuing.

“Took his own life?” Mac growled, nose twitching and hands tightening around his gun. “The coward.”

Victor was too busy opening up the last letter; it was thick and filled with reports from one of his sister’s friends from college, Patrisia. Every line and document made his teeth grind. 

From the Police report, neighbors noted it was common for Kyle to return angry and drunk after working on the railroad… She would hide bruises in public gatherings and would make excuses for his behavior… Why didn’t she tell me! Why didn’t…

Patrisia’s last letter made it all clear:

If this does reach you, Victor, know that if she wasn’t talking about Wizard of Oz, she was talking about you. She thought the world of you and loved every letter and bad joke you’d tell. I know she wouldn’t have wanted me to send you all of this but I knew the military would inform you about what happened and didn’t want you to be left in the dark.

I felt so helpless watching her struggle to keep everything together, trying to be strong. I just wanted you to know that you were her hero. All the men you’ve saved. All the stories she hears from the wives, sisters, or mothers she connected with, the other members of your teams that were sent home wounded, all she heard was that you inspired their men, brothers, and sons to keep going.

I wanted to thank you. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I know you and all the other soldiers don’t really send home what is happening to you out there. I know it’s worse than we can imagine. I just hoped that this provided some answers. Thank you for keeping us safe.

Blood leaking down his bitten lip, he folded the letter up and pressed his fist against his forehead. A band continued to wind round and round his chest with every breath as silence hung over his men, feeling his pain and rage—she’d done it for him, to keep his mind clear on the mission.

His nose twitched as he forced a laugh. “Dammit… I can’t even make that son of a bitch pay… Shit.” Rolling around his jaw, he forced himself up and nudged his head to his men. “Get back in position, orders could come the moment this hurricane passes.”

Victor slumped under the tarp as his men nodded, patting him on the arm without a word—none needed to be shared; the weight was felt.

Mac was the only one who stayed by his side, the rain continuing to pour, now mixed with his own silent tears under the cover. The world around him was a blur of mud, rain, and pain. He could hear the murmurs of his men, the occasional laughter that eventually picked up, trying to cut through the gloom, but it all felt distant.

As night fell, the storm began to ease, the relentless hail finally showing signs of relenting. The steady patter of rain became a softer drizzle, allowing the men to move with slightly less difficulty, but now hampered by limited visibility.

He remained under the tarp, brooding, the darkness around him. However, partway through the night, a courier approached, crawling through the mud above to slip into their trench, drenched but determined, his face a mask of resolve.

“Captain Victor Smith—is Captain Smith here?” he called out, his voice barely audible over the residual storm.

Victor sighed. Not trusting his voice at the moment, he shrugged off the tarp and motioned to him in the soft light hidden under one of the officer’s covers a short distance away. The courier handed him a letter, saluted, and disappeared back into the muck like an alligator. He opened the letter, the words blurring momentarily before coming into focus.

Captain Smith,

The artillery bombardment will commence at 0530 hours. You are to be ready to blow the whistle at 0600 hours to begin the charge. We will be taking Kunishi Ridge. Check damages now that the storm is passing and be ready to push.

Major William C. Chamberlin.

He read the letter twice, the responsibility of his position settling over him like a shroud. Pull yourself together, bastard, her internally chided, rubbing his face and running his dirty fingers through his brown hair. If I fall apart here, Elara, my men…every sacrifice we’ve made will be lost.

Victor stood, his legs shaky but his resolve hardening. “Mac!”

The man jolted, eyes flying open beside him and almost falling off his gun, propping him up, and into the mud. “What’s happening, Cap?” he asked, tired eyes darting to the folded letter in his hand, his expression one of concern and readiness.

Loosening himself up and putting away Elara’s letter back into his breast pocket, his voice became steel. “Gather the officers. We’ve got news on the next push…and it’s going to be hell.”

Mac nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation if he was saying that. “Well, shit. I guess I shouldn’t have prayed for the storm to break… Every damn prayer I make, I swear.”

Victor couldn’t help his frown breaking a brief moment as Mac moved swiftly through the trench; he was a good friend. He gathered the officers who would relay the orders to their respective units. He breathed out an audible hiss when Mac returned through the black with the shadowy figures of men, their feet half in the grave already.

“The storm treated you well, I see… Mud men, the lot of you.” A few chuckles came from the dirty soldiers. “The rain is letting up. I need a report on equipment, dead, and any other trouble or godsend your unit’s got. On the double.”

A few of the secondary officers swiftly left at the order as the higher officers waited for the real meat of the gathering. He looked at each of the hardened faces. Victor had to fight down his frustrations for being here and not home for what could have been the first time in a long time—home to have protected his little sister.

“Pete, what’s the time?” he asked, cracking his neck and feeling the weight of all the sleepless nights on his mind and body.

“Eh, 0020, sir.”

“We’ve got a bit of time then. I won’t lie to any of you… It’s about that point for us to dine in hell, and it’s noisy as a bull moose in rut, those pits; so tell the men to rest up as best they can before the beasts come for their asses.”

Smirks flashed in the dim light under the tarp and he sucked on his tongue before releasing another long sigh. “At 0530, bombardments start, and when I call my whistle…we take Kunishi Ridge.”

Victor let the weight of his words sink in for a moment, watching the officers around him absorb them. He felt the exhaustion in his bones, the ache of sleepless nights, and the hollow emptiness of grief, but he pushed it all aside. Duty called.

As he finished briefing them, Mac, ever the observant one, stepped forward in the flicker of lantern light. “Cap, the men are going to need more than just orders tonight. How about a speech? Something to light a fire under their asses.”

Smiling faintly at their eager faces, Victor rolled around his neck. “Of course you cold toddlers want a speech. Alright, Mac. Gather the little girlies for some fire.”

The officers dispersed quickly, spreading the word; they couldn’t get everyone since he led 220 men, but enough to share the message.

Victor stood up straighter, brushing off some of the muck clinging to his uniform. He took a deep breath, thinking about everything they had endured, everything they had fought for. Memories of battles across the Pacific flashed through his mind—Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Saipan, Tinian, Peleliu, and now Okinawa.

When the men had gathered, huddled in the trench, eyes fixed on their captain, Victor began to speak, his voice steady and clear, cutting through the darkness and the failing rain.

“Men, look around you. We’ve walked through hell together. From the scorching beaches of Guadalcanal to the bloody sands of Tarawa, to the brutal jungles of Saipan, and now here we are, in the mud and muck of the bloody hell that is South Okinawa. Some of you came from other units and some of you were here with me from the start, but one thing is for sure… We’re Marines.”

Approving sniffs, nods, and even a few tears were shed as some remembered the graves they’d left along the way to this nightmarish front. Victor pounded his chest twice, letting it sink into his soul.

“Every step of the way, you’ve shown what it means to be a Marine. You’ve shown grit, courage, and an unbreakable spirit. We’ve faced the worst the enemy could throw at us. We’ve seen brothers fall, and we’ve kept moving forward with a growing army of angels at our backs.”

He paused, somehow feeling emotion surge back into his numb heart from the bloody footprints he’d walked to this moment. “And I’d walk through hell with each and every one of you again. Because I know what you’re made of. I know the strength in your hearts, the fire in your souls.”

Victor rose a little and pointed to their next dinner appointment. “Beyond this ridge, the Japs wait. They fight for their God Emperor, for their honor. But let’s be clear—what a load of horseshit. They fight because they have to. We fight because we choose to. We fight for each other, for our families, for freedom. We are Marines. We are better trained, better equipped, and we have more heart than any Jap you’ll ever face.”

He grinned, feeling the embers burning within his lungs ignite.

“Remember what we’ve done, remember the battles we’ve won. We’ve been through worse, and we’ve come out on top every damn time. We’re not just fighting for victory. We’re fighting for every man who stands beside us, for every name carved into the memorials back home, for every letter sent to a loved one, promising we’d return—that we’ll drag them back from hell if we have to.

“So when this whistle blows, I want you to remember who you are. You are the United States Marines. You are the best fighting force this world has ever seen. You are my brothers, and I trust you with my life. And I’ll be damned if we don’t take that ridge and show the Japs what Marines are made of.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, seeing the cold hellfire burning in their eyes. “Semper Fi, brothers.”

“Semper Fi!” The cry echoed through the trench, a powerful, unified roar that cut through the storm.

The men dispersed, energized, and ready for what lay ahead. Victor sent the reports back to command, detailing the damages and the condition of his men. Despite the turmoil in his mind, he managed to catch a few hours of restless sleep as morning drew near.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Mac shook him awake. “Cap, it’s time.”

He straightened, looking up as the first rumbles of heavy shells broke the silent dawn. Artillery fire rained down on the enemy as if God woke up and fell out of bed. The ground quaked, sending shockwaves through them, and the sky lit up with flashes of fire. Victor listened to the cacophony, feeling the vibrations in his chest.

“We’ve still got some time,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Let the birds sing for us and soften the Japs up for dinner. I like them nice and tender.”

The bombardment continued, the relentless pounding of artillery creating a symphony of destruction. Victor steadied his men, getting them ready to push, hearts pounding, adrenaline surging, waiting to hear his whistle as not to give away the precise timing of the assault. As 0600 approached, He readied himself, feeling the weight of the moment pulling him down.

He glanced at Mac and the others, nodding once. Then, with a deep breath, he blew the whistle. The piercing sound cut through the noise, a signal that echoed through the trenches.

“Semper Fi!” the Marines screamed in unison, their battle cry filling the air as they surged toward Kunishi Ridge.

Victor led the charge, his blood rushing with a mix of adrenaline, grief, and resolve. The ground was a treacherous mire, each step a struggle through the sticky mud, but his Marines pressed on, their eyes fixed on the ridge ahead. The artillery barrage had left the landscape scarred and smoking, debris and bodies scattered across the field with gunpowder burning their noses.

He moved with purpose, his voice cutting through the chaos as he shouted orders to his men. “Keep moving! Stick together! Watch for snipers!” His words were a lifeline in the storm of battle, guiding his men through the hellish terrain.

The Japanese defenders were ready, emerging from their bunkers and fortified positions to rain down fire on them. Bullets whizzed past Victor’s ear, the sharp crack of gunfire mingling with the roar of explosions. He saw men fall around him, their bodies crumpling into the mud, but he couldn’t afford to stop. He had to stand as a beckon to follow.

“Cap, on your left!” Mac’s voice rang out, pulling Victor’s attention to a machine gun nest that had begun to tear through their ranks. Without hesitation, Victor signaled for a flanking maneuver. “Baker Squad, cover fire! Cover fire! Alpha, with me!”

He led a small group in a wide arc, using the shattered remnants of trees and debris for cover. The machine gun’s staccato rhythm was deafening, but his focus was unyielding. He gestured for his men to halt and took aim with his rifle. “Suppressing fire!” he ordered through the screams, shells, and machine guns; the Marines unleashed a torrent of bullets toward the nest.

With a primal yell, Victor surged forward, closing the distance. Yanking a grenade off his belt, he hurled it into the nest and it shot true like a professional pitcher’s throw; the explosion silenced the guns inside, sending fragments of earth and steel into the air. The Japanese soldiers who survived the blast were quickly dispatched by his men.

Victor didn't stop to celebrate the victory. “Forward! Keep moving!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. The ridge was within reach, but the cost was high. More Marines fell as they approached, the early morning air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning flesh.

As they neared the top of Kunishi Ridge, a new threat emerged. A hidden bunker opened fire, the rapid bursts of machine guns cutting down several of his group—Pete fell, holes peppering his body.

“Dammit! Cover me!" he bellowed, and without waiting for a response, he sprinted toward the bunker.

Bullets kicked up mud around his feet, but he didn't falter or wait to see if anyone listened. He reached the bunker and pulled the pin on his last grenade, tossing it inside. The explosion rocked the ground, silencing the interior.

Victor stumbled back, his ears ringing from the blast. He turned to see his men rallying, pushing forward with renewed vigor. But his relief was short-lived. A sharp pain erupted in his chest, and he looked down to see blood spreading across his uniform—a sniper had found its mark. He dropped to his knees, the world spinning around him; they’d hit a few arteries, maybe his heart.

Mac was at his side in an instant, tossing in his own grenade to clean up whoever was left inside the ravaged nest, his face a mask of concern. “Shit! Cap! Hang on, man!”

He gritted his teeth against the pain. “Keep pushing… Take the ridge,” Victor gasped. “Finish the job, Mac… Finish the job.”

His vision blurred, but he could still see his men fighting, their determination driving them forward. He felt a fierce pride, knowing he had given everything for them, for his sister, for his country, for victory. With a final, shuddering breath, Captain Victor Smith fell limp.

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