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I think I'm gonna be sick. My stomach feels like it's being twisted upside down and inside out. The sea sickness tablets ain't doin' squat. Just as I'm about to spray my breakfast onto the cold hard floor, the guy next to me beats me to it. That does it. A domino affect sweeps through the tiny transport. Now my feet are soaked in puke as well as sea water. What a way to start the day. We're told we're almost there by the British guy steering the little craft. Great. Anything to get off this crate. Suddenly, I come over with a chill. I can see the beach now, and the faint explosions and muffled gun fire are becoming clearer with each passing second. We're part of the second wave. We were meant to hop aboard the transports as they came back. They almost had to push some of us on when we saw the holes that riddled just about every craft. Some of the Brits piloting them had wounds in their arms and legs, but they just shouted at us to get on. Typical stiff upper lips. They didn't even wash the blood out, they just packed us in and wished us luck. Alright for them, back with the fleet. I wish I'd joined the airborne, at least they get to fly in and catch them unawares. They have the easy job.
Almost there now. We can see twisted and scorched metal, the remains of several transports, below the water. There are bodies mixed in with the mass of metal. They didn't even get to the beach. I turn around and see the guy behind me is almost white, muttering to himself, eyes wide open. Suddenly, fear hits me too. I always lived with a "Won't happen to me" attitude, but just by looking at where we're going, I can see this may be it. We're close enough to the beach to make out what's happening. There aren't words to describe what we can see, but "hell" comes to mind.
"Twenty seconds!" our leader screams over the sounds of the crashing waves, the machine gun fire and the explosions in the water around us. The craft next to us is torn apart and sent to the bottom of the bay by a shell. They didn't even have the chance to get off. Ten, twenty men... killed in an instant. Maybe they were the lucky ones.
The craft stops. The door opens. The whistle blows. The men hesitate. What we see is a massacre, plain and simple. I hear orders being shouted back and forth, but I don't take them in. I stand there, a sitting duck in the open, my jaw dropped. The sounds of the battle are muffled, like I've suddenly gone deaf. It's like an out of body experience, everywhere I turn, I see horror. The dead litter the beach, the sea is red with blood. I see young men dragging themselves along the sand, an arm or a leg missing. I see them screaming in pain, begging for a medic, some begging to be put out of their misery. One boy cries and begs for his mother. I spot one wounded man limping up the beach, colt 45 in hand, blasting aimlessly at the concrete bunkers that are delivering so much death and destruction. I hear the crack of a rifle shot, and he drops to his knees, then slumps into the sand. This snaps me out of it. A sergeant is shaking me as hard as he can, and I realise I'm kneeling on the beach, behind some tank defences. I didn't even know I'd moved from the boat, but here I am, weapon in hand, taking heavy fire from the German outposts.
"Get up the beach!" he tells me, and pushes me from behind my hiding place, along with the guy in front of me. A stream of enemy fire cuts him to pieces, and I dive back behind cover before the deadly line of hot lead reaches me. I'm soaking wet, I'm freezing cold, my fingers ache, my head hurts, I've thrown up once and feel like I can do it again, and I'm smeared with the blood of my comrades. I've spent the last year getting to know these men. We trained together for all those months, running long distance, going over battle tactics, night exercises, weapon handling. Months and months of training, and it doesn't mean jack right now. No matter how well trained you are, you stand as much chance as the next guy. Cruel fate picks who lives and who dies today. Every whim, every gut feeling of the Germans manning the machine guns changes each man's life forever. Every time he points his gun somewhere new, he's changing history. These men could've become great inventors, politicians, business men, officers, fathers. Instead, their lives are cut short, ended abruptly. And for what? To take a beach, to liberate a country, to end the war? Why are we dying just because some madman decided to play God? Is it our problem?
The sergeant pushes me again. I refuse to move. He screams something about court marshalling me if I don't do as he says. Yeah, in the middle of a huge battle, bullets flying over our heads, he's thinking about punishing me. I see a better hiding place, further up the beach, so I make a run for it when I think the machine gun fire has lessened slightly. The sergeant follows, but isn't with me when I get there. I turn and see him lying face down in the wet sand, a streak of blood washing back and forth with the tide. I turn my attention back to the beach. The madness continues.
"Keep going! Don't stop! Keep moving!" The same orders, repeated again and again. It's a difficult situation. Run up the beach, towards the enemy strongholds, where we're likely to be killed before we even get halfway there, or stay where we are, where we're safe, but make no progress. If we make no progress, the fighting will continue until we're all dead, the beach lost, the invasion hindered. Either way we lose.
"To hell with this!" I hear the man next to me scream over the constant rattle of machine gun fire. Can't say I blame him.
"Go, go, go! Get moving!" More screams from our officers and non-coms. As one, we rise from our cover and charge up the beach, as fast as our heavy equipment will allow. One of us gets hit, then another, and another. The Germans can just keep firing, swinging their guns back and forth, left to right and back again. They're bound to hit something. The beach is flat, and in-between anti-tank defences, there's nothing but open ground. A killing field, filled with hot searing bullets, explosions and dozens and dozens of corpses.
We keep running. My clothes feel heavy, they're soaking wet and every time I hit the deck, I pick up more sand. My weapon feels like it's getting bigger, the small backpack feels like a lead weight and my legs feel like jellow. We reach a mound, with a barbed wire fence. Somebody shouts a warning, and I duck as the fence blows, sending a shower of sand into the air, covering us in yet more filth. I don't even have time to catch my breath before somebody's pulling me to my feet, telling me to keep moving. We're too far in for the MG42s to see us now, but there are still sandbags on the cliffs, with soldiers only too willing to put us down. I haven't even fired my weapon yet, it's simply been an ornament in my hands, something to cling onto. I raise my M1 to eye level and start taking pot shots at the Germans overlooking us. I don't think I hit any, but they duck as I punch holes in their sandbags. Some bursts of fire from the guys next to me with Thompsons make sure they stay down as we rush towards the trenches. We've made it. A sergeant tells us to keep put and stay ready as he rushes off, and we slide down the concrete walls as the fatigue suddenly kicks in. One man seems to be having trouble breathing, another lights up a cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn't even draw from it, he just holds it, staring into nothingness. One guy is crying. He can't be any older than 18, and he's seen things that no man should ever have to endure. My ears are ringing, I couldn't tell you if the gunfire had stopped or not, I knew I would still be hearing it. I slowly stand, and walk to the top of the hill we came over, helmet in one hand, rifle in the other. From here I can see almost the full length of the beach. German machine guns are still taking life after life. I can't make out any faces, but I know there must be an expression of agony on every man on that beach. Huge craters cover the beach, and provide pitiful cover for the American soldiers still fighting. It's almost hypnotic, almost unreal. But it is real. The men are cut down, shot to pieces, killed without a chance. No chance of fighting back, no chance of living a normal life. What might have been will never see light. Under different circumstances, these men may have been close friends. Had they met in a bar, or on the street, these Germans and these Americans could get along fine. But because of one man, ONE man, all this carnage is necessary. Their leader wants something, our leader doesn't. Because of that, we're sent to kill and be killed. People we don't even know. Sure, the propaganda makes them out to be evil, but this is the first time most of us have even seen a German. And it's in the sights of a rifle. It's alright for the generals, the presidents, the rulers. They can sit back and think of us as mere statistics, assets to be used to win a war. How easily they forget that we're people, living, breathing men, just like them. We've just been dealt a bad card, we're the unlucky ones who have to do the fighting. We're dying for other people's beliefs.
Some are fighting for personal glory, some because of the draft, but almost all want to make a difference, because of the tyranny of the Nazis. Little do they realise that we shouldn't HAVE to be doing this. Millions of deaths, all because of one bitter, resentful man.
The crack of a rifle stops my train of thought. I don't feel anything, but I look down and see blood on my hands. The word "Medic" escapes my lips, and my left leg gives, dropping me down into the mud. The men run up and drag me back to the outside of the bunker where I had been sat, away from the danger. Raised voices echo through my ears, I can't make out what they're saying. I see the red and white of a medic, and smile. They're shouting at me to stay with them, not to give in, but the rest is just noise to me. Tired. So very tired. I'll just close my eyes, sleep for a little while, get my strength back. I close my eyes.
10,300 men lost their lives during D-Day. Each and every day we take our freedom for granted. They gave their lives so that we could live ours. We'd do well to remember that.
Almost there now. We can see twisted and scorched metal, the remains of several transports, below the water. There are bodies mixed in with the mass of metal. They didn't even get to the beach. I turn around and see the guy behind me is almost white, muttering to himself, eyes wide open. Suddenly, fear hits me too. I always lived with a "Won't happen to me" attitude, but just by looking at where we're going, I can see this may be it. We're close enough to the beach to make out what's happening. There aren't words to describe what we can see, but "hell" comes to mind.
"Twenty seconds!" our leader screams over the sounds of the crashing waves, the machine gun fire and the explosions in the water around us. The craft next to us is torn apart and sent to the bottom of the bay by a shell. They didn't even have the chance to get off. Ten, twenty men... killed in an instant. Maybe they were the lucky ones.
The craft stops. The door opens. The whistle blows. The men hesitate. What we see is a massacre, plain and simple. I hear orders being shouted back and forth, but I don't take them in. I stand there, a sitting duck in the open, my jaw dropped. The sounds of the battle are muffled, like I've suddenly gone deaf. It's like an out of body experience, everywhere I turn, I see horror. The dead litter the beach, the sea is red with blood. I see young men dragging themselves along the sand, an arm or a leg missing. I see them screaming in pain, begging for a medic, some begging to be put out of their misery. One boy cries and begs for his mother. I spot one wounded man limping up the beach, colt 45 in hand, blasting aimlessly at the concrete bunkers that are delivering so much death and destruction. I hear the crack of a rifle shot, and he drops to his knees, then slumps into the sand. This snaps me out of it. A sergeant is shaking me as hard as he can, and I realise I'm kneeling on the beach, behind some tank defences. I didn't even know I'd moved from the boat, but here I am, weapon in hand, taking heavy fire from the German outposts.
"Get up the beach!" he tells me, and pushes me from behind my hiding place, along with the guy in front of me. A stream of enemy fire cuts him to pieces, and I dive back behind cover before the deadly line of hot lead reaches me. I'm soaking wet, I'm freezing cold, my fingers ache, my head hurts, I've thrown up once and feel like I can do it again, and I'm smeared with the blood of my comrades. I've spent the last year getting to know these men. We trained together for all those months, running long distance, going over battle tactics, night exercises, weapon handling. Months and months of training, and it doesn't mean jack right now. No matter how well trained you are, you stand as much chance as the next guy. Cruel fate picks who lives and who dies today. Every whim, every gut feeling of the Germans manning the machine guns changes each man's life forever. Every time he points his gun somewhere new, he's changing history. These men could've become great inventors, politicians, business men, officers, fathers. Instead, their lives are cut short, ended abruptly. And for what? To take a beach, to liberate a country, to end the war? Why are we dying just because some madman decided to play God? Is it our problem?
The sergeant pushes me again. I refuse to move. He screams something about court marshalling me if I don't do as he says. Yeah, in the middle of a huge battle, bullets flying over our heads, he's thinking about punishing me. I see a better hiding place, further up the beach, so I make a run for it when I think the machine gun fire has lessened slightly. The sergeant follows, but isn't with me when I get there. I turn and see him lying face down in the wet sand, a streak of blood washing back and forth with the tide. I turn my attention back to the beach. The madness continues.
"Keep going! Don't stop! Keep moving!" The same orders, repeated again and again. It's a difficult situation. Run up the beach, towards the enemy strongholds, where we're likely to be killed before we even get halfway there, or stay where we are, where we're safe, but make no progress. If we make no progress, the fighting will continue until we're all dead, the beach lost, the invasion hindered. Either way we lose.
"To hell with this!" I hear the man next to me scream over the constant rattle of machine gun fire. Can't say I blame him.
"Go, go, go! Get moving!" More screams from our officers and non-coms. As one, we rise from our cover and charge up the beach, as fast as our heavy equipment will allow. One of us gets hit, then another, and another. The Germans can just keep firing, swinging their guns back and forth, left to right and back again. They're bound to hit something. The beach is flat, and in-between anti-tank defences, there's nothing but open ground. A killing field, filled with hot searing bullets, explosions and dozens and dozens of corpses.
We keep running. My clothes feel heavy, they're soaking wet and every time I hit the deck, I pick up more sand. My weapon feels like it's getting bigger, the small backpack feels like a lead weight and my legs feel like jellow. We reach a mound, with a barbed wire fence. Somebody shouts a warning, and I duck as the fence blows, sending a shower of sand into the air, covering us in yet more filth. I don't even have time to catch my breath before somebody's pulling me to my feet, telling me to keep moving. We're too far in for the MG42s to see us now, but there are still sandbags on the cliffs, with soldiers only too willing to put us down. I haven't even fired my weapon yet, it's simply been an ornament in my hands, something to cling onto. I raise my M1 to eye level and start taking pot shots at the Germans overlooking us. I don't think I hit any, but they duck as I punch holes in their sandbags. Some bursts of fire from the guys next to me with Thompsons make sure they stay down as we rush towards the trenches. We've made it. A sergeant tells us to keep put and stay ready as he rushes off, and we slide down the concrete walls as the fatigue suddenly kicks in. One man seems to be having trouble breathing, another lights up a cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn't even draw from it, he just holds it, staring into nothingness. One guy is crying. He can't be any older than 18, and he's seen things that no man should ever have to endure. My ears are ringing, I couldn't tell you if the gunfire had stopped or not, I knew I would still be hearing it. I slowly stand, and walk to the top of the hill we came over, helmet in one hand, rifle in the other. From here I can see almost the full length of the beach. German machine guns are still taking life after life. I can't make out any faces, but I know there must be an expression of agony on every man on that beach. Huge craters cover the beach, and provide pitiful cover for the American soldiers still fighting. It's almost hypnotic, almost unreal. But it is real. The men are cut down, shot to pieces, killed without a chance. No chance of fighting back, no chance of living a normal life. What might have been will never see light. Under different circumstances, these men may have been close friends. Had they met in a bar, or on the street, these Germans and these Americans could get along fine. But because of one man, ONE man, all this carnage is necessary. Their leader wants something, our leader doesn't. Because of that, we're sent to kill and be killed. People we don't even know. Sure, the propaganda makes them out to be evil, but this is the first time most of us have even seen a German. And it's in the sights of a rifle. It's alright for the generals, the presidents, the rulers. They can sit back and think of us as mere statistics, assets to be used to win a war. How easily they forget that we're people, living, breathing men, just like them. We've just been dealt a bad card, we're the unlucky ones who have to do the fighting. We're dying for other people's beliefs.
Some are fighting for personal glory, some because of the draft, but almost all want to make a difference, because of the tyranny of the Nazis. Little do they realise that we shouldn't HAVE to be doing this. Millions of deaths, all because of one bitter, resentful man.
The crack of a rifle stops my train of thought. I don't feel anything, but I look down and see blood on my hands. The word "Medic" escapes my lips, and my left leg gives, dropping me down into the mud. The men run up and drag me back to the outside of the bunker where I had been sat, away from the danger. Raised voices echo through my ears, I can't make out what they're saying. I see the red and white of a medic, and smile. They're shouting at me to stay with them, not to give in, but the rest is just noise to me. Tired. So very tired. I'll just close my eyes, sleep for a little while, get my strength back. I close my eyes.
10,300 men lost their lives during D-Day. Each and every day we take our freedom for granted. They gave their lives so that we could live ours. We'd do well to remember that.
No, I just saw Snuggly's post and realised I hadn't written anything for a while, and WW2 has been on my mind a lot lately, especially after reading Band of Brothers, though ironically, it doesn't feature the D-Day landings, only the airborne assaults, but since I know more about the beaches, I thought I'd write about it.
i think he just wrote it to get his stats up
Pretty darn good MoJo, interesting to see you writing that sort of stuff - powerful and thought-provoking.
I think I'm gonna be sick. My stomach feels like it's being twisted upside down and inside out. The sea sickness tablets ain't doin' squat. Just as I'm about to spray my breakfast onto the cold hard floor, the guy next to me beats me to it. That does it. A domino affect sweeps through the tiny transport. Now my feet are soaked in puke as well as sea water. What a way to start the day. We're told we're almost there by the British guy steering the little craft. Great. Anything to get off this crate. Suddenly, I come over with a chill. I can see the beach now, and the faint explosions and muffled gun fire are becoming clearer with each passing second. We're part of the second wave. We were meant to hop aboard the transports as they came back. They almost had to push some of us on when we saw the holes that riddled just about every craft. Some of the Brits piloting them had wounds in their arms and legs, but they just shouted at us to get on. Typical stiff upper lips. They didn't even wash the blood out, they just packed us in and wished us luck. Alright for them, back with the fleet. I wish I'd joined the airborne, at least they get to fly in and catch them unawares. They have the easy job.
Almost there now. We can see twisted and scorched metal, the remains of several transports, below the water. There are bodies mixed in with the mass of metal. They didn't even get to the beach. I turn around and see the guy behind me is almost white, muttering to himself, eyes wide open. Suddenly, fear hits me too. I always lived with a "Won't happen to me" attitude, but just by looking at where we're going, I can see this may be it. We're close enough to the beach to make out what's happening. There aren't words to describe what we can see, but "hell" comes to mind.
"Twenty seconds!" our leader screams over the sounds of the crashing waves, the machine gun fire and the explosions in the water around us. The craft next to us is torn apart and sent to the bottom of the bay by a shell. They didn't even have the chance to get off. Ten, twenty men... killed in an instant. Maybe they were the lucky ones.
The craft stops. The door opens. The whistle blows. The men hesitate. What we see is a massacre, plain and simple. I hear orders being shouted back and forth, but I don't take them in. I stand there, a sitting duck in the open, my jaw dropped. The sounds of the battle are muffled, like I've suddenly gone deaf. It's like an out of body experience, everywhere I turn, I see horror. The dead litter the beach, the sea is red with blood. I see young men dragging themselves along the sand, an arm or a leg missing. I see them screaming in pain, begging for a medic, some begging to be put out of their misery. One boy cries and begs for his mother. I spot one wounded man limping up the beach, colt 45 in hand, blasting aimlessly at the concrete bunkers that are delivering so much death and destruction. I hear the crack of a rifle shot, and he drops to his knees, then slumps into the sand. This snaps me out of it. A sergeant is shaking me as hard as he can, and I realise I'm kneeling on the beach, behind some tank defences. I didn't even know I'd moved from the boat, but here I am, weapon in hand, taking heavy fire from the German outposts.
"Get up the beach!" he tells me, and pushes me from behind my hiding place, along with the guy in front of me. A stream of enemy fire cuts him to pieces, and I dive back behind cover before the deadly line of hot lead reaches me. I'm soaking wet, I'm freezing cold, my fingers ache, my head hurts, I've thrown up once and feel like I can do it again, and I'm smeared with the blood of my comrades. I've spent the last year getting to know these men. We trained together for all those months, running long distance, going over battle tactics, night exercises, weapon handling. Months and months of training, and it doesn't mean jack right now. No matter how well trained you are, you stand as much chance as the next guy. Cruel fate picks who lives and who dies today. Every whim, every gut feeling of the Germans manning the machine guns changes each man's life forever. Every time he points his gun somewhere new, he's changing history. These men could've become great inventors, politicians, business men, officers, fathers. Instead, their lives are cut short, ended abruptly. And for what? To take a beach, to liberate a country, to end the war? Why are we dying just because some madman decided to play God? Is it our problem?
The sergeant pushes me again. I refuse to move. He screams something about court marshalling me if I don't do as he says. Yeah, in the middle of a huge battle, bullets flying over our heads, he's thinking about punishing me. I see a better hiding place, further up the beach, so I make a run for it when I think the machine gun fire has lessened slightly. The sergeant follows, but isn't with me when I get there. I turn and see him lying face down in the wet sand, a streak of blood washing back and forth with the tide. I turn my attention back to the beach. The madness continues.
"Keep going! Don't stop! Keep moving!" The same orders, repeated again and again. It's a difficult situation. Run up the beach, towards the enemy strongholds, where we're likely to be killed before we even get halfway there, or stay where we are, where we're safe, but make no progress. If we make no progress, the fighting will continue until we're all dead, the beach lost, the invasion hindered. Either way we lose.
"To hell with this!" I hear the man next to me scream over the constant rattle of machine gun fire. Can't say I blame him.
"Go, go, go! Get moving!" More screams from our officers and non-coms. As one, we rise from our cover and charge up the beach, as fast as our heavy equipment will allow. One of us gets hit, then another, and another. The Germans can just keep firing, swinging their guns back and forth, left to right and back again. They're bound to hit something. The beach is flat, and in-between anti-tank defences, there's nothing but open ground. A killing field, filled with hot searing bullets, explosions and dozens and dozens of corpses.
We keep running. My clothes feel heavy, they're soaking wet and every time I hit the deck, I pick up more sand. My weapon feels like it's getting bigger, the small backpack feels like a lead weight and my legs feel like jellow. We reach a mound, with a barbed wire fence. Somebody shouts a warning, and I duck as the fence blows, sending a shower of sand into the air, covering us in yet more filth. I don't even have time to catch my breath before somebody's pulling me to my feet, telling me to keep moving. We're too far in for the MG42s to see us now, but there are still sandbags on the cliffs, with soldiers only too willing to put us down. I haven't even fired my weapon yet, it's simply been an ornament in my hands, something to cling onto. I raise my M1 to eye level and start taking pot shots at the Germans overlooking us. I don't think I hit any, but they duck as I punch holes in their sandbags. Some bursts of fire from the guys next to me with Thompsons make sure they stay down as we rush towards the trenches. We've made it. A sergeant tells us to keep put and stay ready as he rushes off, and we slide down the concrete walls as the fatigue suddenly kicks in. One man seems to be having trouble breathing, another lights up a cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn't even draw from it, he just holds it, staring into nothingness. One guy is crying. He can't be any older than 18, and he's seen things that no man should ever have to endure. My ears are ringing, I couldn't tell you if the gunfire had stopped or not, I knew I would still be hearing it. I slowly stand, and walk to the top of the hill we came over, helmet in one hand, rifle in the other. From here I can see almost the full length of the beach. German machine guns are still taking life after life. I can't make out any faces, but I know there must be an expression of agony on every man on that beach. Huge craters cover the beach, and provide pitiful cover for the American soldiers still fighting. It's almost hypnotic, almost unreal. But it is real. The men are cut down, shot to pieces, killed without a chance. No chance of fighting back, no chance of living a normal life. What might have been will never see light. Under different circumstances, these men may have been close friends. Had they met in a bar, or on the street, these Germans and these Americans could get along fine. But because of one man, ONE man, all this carnage is necessary. Their leader wants something, our leader doesn't. Because of that, we're sent to kill and be killed. People we don't even know. Sure, the propaganda makes them out to be evil, but this is the first time most of us have even seen a German. And it's in the sights of a rifle. It's alright for the generals, the presidents, the rulers. They can sit back and think of us as mere statistics, assets to be used to win a war. How easily they forget that we're people, living, breathing men, just like them. We've just been dealt a bad card, we're the unlucky ones who have to do the fighting. We're dying for other people's beliefs.
Some are fighting for personal glory, some because of the draft, but almost all want to make a difference, because of the tyranny of the Nazis. Little do they realise that we shouldn't HAVE to be doing this. Millions of deaths, all because of one bitter, resentful man.
The crack of a rifle stops my train of thought. I don't feel anything, but I look down and see blood on my hands. The word "Medic" escapes my lips, and my left leg gives, dropping me down into the mud. The men run up and drag me back to the outside of the bunker where I had been sat, away from the danger. Raised voices echo through my ears, I can't make out what they're saying. I see the red and white of a medic, and smile. They're shouting at me to stay with them, not to give in, but the rest is just noise to me. Tired. So very tired. I'll just close my eyes, sleep for a little while, get my strength back. I close my eyes.
10,300 men lost their lives during D-Day. Each and every day we take our freedom for granted. They gave their lives so that we could live ours. We'd do well to remember that.
Almost there now. We can see twisted and scorched metal, the remains of several transports, below the water. There are bodies mixed in with the mass of metal. They didn't even get to the beach. I turn around and see the guy behind me is almost white, muttering to himself, eyes wide open. Suddenly, fear hits me too. I always lived with a "Won't happen to me" attitude, but just by looking at where we're going, I can see this may be it. We're close enough to the beach to make out what's happening. There aren't words to describe what we can see, but "hell" comes to mind.
"Twenty seconds!" our leader screams over the sounds of the crashing waves, the machine gun fire and the explosions in the water around us. The craft next to us is torn apart and sent to the bottom of the bay by a shell. They didn't even have the chance to get off. Ten, twenty men... killed in an instant. Maybe they were the lucky ones.
The craft stops. The door opens. The whistle blows. The men hesitate. What we see is a massacre, plain and simple. I hear orders being shouted back and forth, but I don't take them in. I stand there, a sitting duck in the open, my jaw dropped. The sounds of the battle are muffled, like I've suddenly gone deaf. It's like an out of body experience, everywhere I turn, I see horror. The dead litter the beach, the sea is red with blood. I see young men dragging themselves along the sand, an arm or a leg missing. I see them screaming in pain, begging for a medic, some begging to be put out of their misery. One boy cries and begs for his mother. I spot one wounded man limping up the beach, colt 45 in hand, blasting aimlessly at the concrete bunkers that are delivering so much death and destruction. I hear the crack of a rifle shot, and he drops to his knees, then slumps into the sand. This snaps me out of it. A sergeant is shaking me as hard as he can, and I realise I'm kneeling on the beach, behind some tank defences. I didn't even know I'd moved from the boat, but here I am, weapon in hand, taking heavy fire from the German outposts.
"Get up the beach!" he tells me, and pushes me from behind my hiding place, along with the guy in front of me. A stream of enemy fire cuts him to pieces, and I dive back behind cover before the deadly line of hot lead reaches me. I'm soaking wet, I'm freezing cold, my fingers ache, my head hurts, I've thrown up once and feel like I can do it again, and I'm smeared with the blood of my comrades. I've spent the last year getting to know these men. We trained together for all those months, running long distance, going over battle tactics, night exercises, weapon handling. Months and months of training, and it doesn't mean jack right now. No matter how well trained you are, you stand as much chance as the next guy. Cruel fate picks who lives and who dies today. Every whim, every gut feeling of the Germans manning the machine guns changes each man's life forever. Every time he points his gun somewhere new, he's changing history. These men could've become great inventors, politicians, business men, officers, fathers. Instead, their lives are cut short, ended abruptly. And for what? To take a beach, to liberate a country, to end the war? Why are we dying just because some madman decided to play God? Is it our problem?
The sergeant pushes me again. I refuse to move. He screams something about court marshalling me if I don't do as he says. Yeah, in the middle of a huge battle, bullets flying over our heads, he's thinking about punishing me. I see a better hiding place, further up the beach, so I make a run for it when I think the machine gun fire has lessened slightly. The sergeant follows, but isn't with me when I get there. I turn and see him lying face down in the wet sand, a streak of blood washing back and forth with the tide. I turn my attention back to the beach. The madness continues.
"Keep going! Don't stop! Keep moving!" The same orders, repeated again and again. It's a difficult situation. Run up the beach, towards the enemy strongholds, where we're likely to be killed before we even get halfway there, or stay where we are, where we're safe, but make no progress. If we make no progress, the fighting will continue until we're all dead, the beach lost, the invasion hindered. Either way we lose.
"To hell with this!" I hear the man next to me scream over the constant rattle of machine gun fire. Can't say I blame him.
"Go, go, go! Get moving!" More screams from our officers and non-coms. As one, we rise from our cover and charge up the beach, as fast as our heavy equipment will allow. One of us gets hit, then another, and another. The Germans can just keep firing, swinging their guns back and forth, left to right and back again. They're bound to hit something. The beach is flat, and in-between anti-tank defences, there's nothing but open ground. A killing field, filled with hot searing bullets, explosions and dozens and dozens of corpses.
We keep running. My clothes feel heavy, they're soaking wet and every time I hit the deck, I pick up more sand. My weapon feels like it's getting bigger, the small backpack feels like a lead weight and my legs feel like jellow. We reach a mound, with a barbed wire fence. Somebody shouts a warning, and I duck as the fence blows, sending a shower of sand into the air, covering us in yet more filth. I don't even have time to catch my breath before somebody's pulling me to my feet, telling me to keep moving. We're too far in for the MG42s to see us now, but there are still sandbags on the cliffs, with soldiers only too willing to put us down. I haven't even fired my weapon yet, it's simply been an ornament in my hands, something to cling onto. I raise my M1 to eye level and start taking pot shots at the Germans overlooking us. I don't think I hit any, but they duck as I punch holes in their sandbags. Some bursts of fire from the guys next to me with Thompsons make sure they stay down as we rush towards the trenches. We've made it. A sergeant tells us to keep put and stay ready as he rushes off, and we slide down the concrete walls as the fatigue suddenly kicks in. One man seems to be having trouble breathing, another lights up a cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn't even draw from it, he just holds it, staring into nothingness. One guy is crying. He can't be any older than 18, and he's seen things that no man should ever have to endure. My ears are ringing, I couldn't tell you if the gunfire had stopped or not, I knew I would still be hearing it. I slowly stand, and walk to the top of the hill we came over, helmet in one hand, rifle in the other. From here I can see almost the full length of the beach. German machine guns are still taking life after life. I can't make out any faces, but I know there must be an expression of agony on every man on that beach. Huge craters cover the beach, and provide pitiful cover for the American soldiers still fighting. It's almost hypnotic, almost unreal. But it is real. The men are cut down, shot to pieces, killed without a chance. No chance of fighting back, no chance of living a normal life. What might have been will never see light. Under different circumstances, these men may have been close friends. Had they met in a bar, or on the street, these Germans and these Americans could get along fine. But because of one man, ONE man, all this carnage is necessary. Their leader wants something, our leader doesn't. Because of that, we're sent to kill and be killed. People we don't even know. Sure, the propaganda makes them out to be evil, but this is the first time most of us have even seen a German. And it's in the sights of a rifle. It's alright for the generals, the presidents, the rulers. They can sit back and think of us as mere statistics, assets to be used to win a war. How easily they forget that we're people, living, breathing men, just like them. We've just been dealt a bad card, we're the unlucky ones who have to do the fighting. We're dying for other people's beliefs.
Some are fighting for personal glory, some because of the draft, but almost all want to make a difference, because of the tyranny of the Nazis. Little do they realise that we shouldn't HAVE to be doing this. Millions of deaths, all because of one bitter, resentful man.
The crack of a rifle stops my train of thought. I don't feel anything, but I look down and see blood on my hands. The word "Medic" escapes my lips, and my left leg gives, dropping me down into the mud. The men run up and drag me back to the outside of the bunker where I had been sat, away from the danger. Raised voices echo through my ears, I can't make out what they're saying. I see the red and white of a medic, and smile. They're shouting at me to stay with them, not to give in, but the rest is just noise to me. Tired. So very tired. I'll just close my eyes, sleep for a little while, get my strength back. I close my eyes.
10,300 men lost their lives during D-Day. Each and every day we take our freedom for granted. They gave their lives so that we could live ours. We'd do well to remember that.