By Rebecca Morgan
“You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hope and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you.”
– General D. Eisenhower
***
6th June, 1944
Twelve miles from shore, we climb into the landing craft.
“Remember,” the coxswain warns, looking at each of us as we set out. “Save no one. We need manpower on the beach.”
No one responds. What could we say? None of us wanted to face the possibility of leaving our friends behind.
The sky is overcast and gray. Somber, as if she knows what is about to come. What the day may bring forth, and so she cloaks herself to hide her eyes from the bloodshed.
The landing craft bobs like a cork on the choppy waters. My breakfast of beans and wieners rolls in my stomach. Around me, my mates retch onto the craft’s bottom. The upchuck swirls around my feet, tainting the air with its sourness and decay.
When we left, we’d been laughing, joking. But that seems like a lifetime ago as the beach, known to us as Omaha, comes into sight. Silence falls, suffocating us. I can taste the fear, bitter as the salty ocean spray. Others, including my brother Gerald, have gone on before in the first waves. It’s our birthday, the lucky thing we’re counting on to get us through the day.
The rattle of machine guns echoes. Cries of the dying hang between heaven and earth.
Happy birthday to me.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” Pete begins at my side.
“Couldn’t you quote a more cheerful verse?” Frank grumbles, holding his gun tighter.
We went to confession before we left, the priest freeing us from our sin. But the thought of being free of my past errors before God does not comfort me as we head into battle. For liberty or not, justified or not. For the safety of the free world or not.
I’m still about to kill.
In mere minutes, I’ll pull the trigger.
Machine guns fire, reminding me of my sister’s typewriter when she pounds the keys, only so much louder.
“Drop the ramp, Gordon,” the coxswain shouts.
Bullets thud into the wooden boat. Ricochet off the metal ramp, the only thing between us and Death. He stands over us now, scythe in hand.
The coxswain curses. “Drop the ramp!” His voice is strained above the noise, broken by fear.
I do as he says.
The ramp falls, water exploding upward.
Bullets, their way unfettered, enter the craft.
Ten men around me drop.
Gone in a blink.
Frank lies at my feet, intestines protruding, blood wetting my boots—I freeze in horror as he claws at them.
“Help me,” he pleads, eyes wide and unseeing.
Dropping to my knees among the blood and bodies and bullets, I squeeze his hand and give the only thing I have. “I will fear no evil: for thou art with me—”
Frank shudders. And he is gone.
Something in me breaks, and I plunge into the ruddy water. Not stained or dyed red. It’s blood I’m wading through, like this is the Nile after Moses struck it with his rod. Bodies float around me. Wounded men sink below the surface, weighed down with their ninety-pound backpacks. Save no one.
Heaving and gasping, I stumble to shore. Two hundred feet of sand lies between me and the shelter of the seawall. Already men clamber for its protection.
I can feel the bullets as they whiz past me, making my hair stand on end. The beach is muck and mire. Body parts are strewn across like so much trash. Men scream for mothers. I leave them all behind. Most are beyond saving anyway. Get to the Germans. Take out the guns.
The eyes of the world are upon me.
The ground explodes ahead, sand and blood and human flesh raining down me. Pete was in front. Pete is gone.
Why him and not me?
Falling to the sand, I search my uniform for my waterproof cigarettes. Numb fingers fumble for a match, but they’re wet and unusable. My bones ache for a smoke, anything to calm me against the constant barrage of guns.
Remnants of the tide are blood. Moses and Aaron have been here as well. Two brothers against millions so long ago.
Or is it pure blood my hand is in?
So much death. The smell burns into memory.
“Gordon,” a voice reaches me over the cries of the dying. The never-ending fire of the guns. “Gordon.”
Eyes look at me beseechingly, begging me.
Gerald.
Keeping low, I crawl through the sand toward him, then clasp his hand. His grip is wet and weak. Pieces of shrapnel protrude from my brother’s stomach. Turning away, I lose my breakfast, and it mixes with the waste of war.
So much for luck. For birthdays. For going where the other does.
Men storm past me. They spare us no glance. The world waits. And waits. For me. For us. For rescue. For everything to be right again, in God’s good time.
We need manpower on the beach.
Save no one.
“Gordon,” Gerald wheezes, his hand gripping mine tighter. I feel his pain as if it were my own. My bones burn. My blood is cold.
I pull my hand from his.
Save.
No.
One.
***
6th June, 2004
If the eyes of the world were upon me, then let your eyes see a field of white crosses. Run your fingers over the Geralds, the Franks, the Petes. Let the grooves imprint upon your skin.
Look and see that we saved no one, to save you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
You made me cry again. You have such a way of drawing the reader smack into the action, to experience it as if they were there. Just, wow!
Thank you. <3
Powerful story! Every generation needs stories like this to remember what others sacrificed for us. Thank you for this today. One question: what’s the significance of 2004 at the end? Excellent job, Rebecca!
There isn’t any significance to the date. It was just the time I chose for an older Gordan to warn newer generations to never forget the sacrifices of the old.
Gripping!
I don’t think I’ve teared up before while reading a Havok story, but this one made me. Beautifully and powerfully written.
Thank you. <3
What an excellent story to commemorate the 80th anniversary of that dark, heroic day. My great-uncle fought on those beaches and always understandably refused to talk about what he had experienced that day. This story gave me goosebumps. Thank you!
A very powerful story, Rebecca! Good job!
Thank you! <3
Raw, real, truthful. The connection to Moses and Arron was sweet relief for me connecting us to God. Am reading The Priest by Francine Rivers right now. More need to think deeply as you have portrayed here about how it really must have been for our soldiers. Thank you for this today. You are blessed and we are blessed by you.
Your story made me value D-day more than anything else ever has. Thank you for that!
no.words.
There are no words.
This story is one of the few here that has made me actually cry.
Well done.
That was stunning! I love stories that make me feel, and yours nailed that for me.
Visceral and powerful — thank God for those heroes
Such an emotional piece—that final line!
Powerful story.
Wow, powerful story!
Thank you. Very much.
My grandpa was in WWII, and he died this past year. He didn’t talk about the war much, if at all. I think he would’ve appreciated the honor and kindness you showed in the telling of this tale.