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Writer's pictureBrennan

Omaha

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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