paradoxically, deafening quiet and silent bedlam
a cacophonous nothingness
the explosions felt more than heard
soaked from chest-down in saltwater/blood/vomit/sweat/terror
running, spitting, choking, swimming
the beachhead a few hundred yards away—may as well have been light-years
the nauseating BRRRRRRT BRRRRRRT of the MG 42s
indiscriminate in carnage
PFFFT PFFFT PFFFT PFFFT as their rounds sliced into the water
the sickening meaty thud as they found their targets
just run, just keep running
get up a decent head of steam
(about 7 or 8 good running strides in the surf)
then trip
over the body
of some kid
from Iowa
try not to think about it—he’s got a girlfriend and a kid brother
try not to look at him—eyes open, drawn screaming face, somehow both serene and
violent
get up
keep running
a grown man of 40 years screams for his mom as he bleeds from his chest and neck
dead in 10
nothing to do to help him
a breeze clears the smoke for a moment
the heart sinks at the sight of bodies and cliffs
can’t turn around now
keep running
hit the sand, finally, to find it sticky with syrupy blood
the surf froths pink
tuck in behind a small barricade, pretend it offers any real protection
vomit
cry
a great crusade, the general had called it
he’d better be right, or he’ll have to answer for these bodies
get up
keep running
almost to the wall
legs burning, eyes burning, lungs burning, arms burning
feet heavy as boulders
running for a half-hour now
no time to rest in the shadow of the stones
up and over—it’s a 40-foot climb, and God only knows if it’s even the right spot
no sign of the commander or the first sergeant
catch up with them later
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRT BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT
screams and silence
the M1 Garand in your hands weighs only 11 pounds
starts to feel like 40
its lethality has not been tested, nor has yours
until now
the metallic POP-POP ringing in your ears the way it did hundreds of times before, but
never when aimed at a man with his own family dreams regrets pains
POP
the shattered innocence of having taken a life numbs the senses
except nausea
and the feeling that
you might never be
warm again
at the end of the longest day, the sun sets
hidden under a hedgerow, desperate white-knuckled grip on the walnut stock of that M1
(your best friend and worst enemy)
sleepless night passes with a taunting, preternatural sluggishness
loneliness incarnate, the inescapable emptiness unfilled with patriotism
the tears only stopped flowing because your canteens ran dry
in the deathly quiet, the screams echoing in your memory
a cheeky preview of every single night for the rest of your life
find the captain in the morning—he said something about Colleville-sur-Mer and linking
up with the guys from the 101st and pushing on east
hell, there’s a war to win
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