Five hundred yards off the shoreline, my vision is already trembling. Clouds of ash blot out God’s light, and the electric humming of the motor drills into my ear. Back pressed on the cool surface of the coxswain platform, I watch the beach wade through the fog. Life or death.

I keep my head hunched, not daring to peek over the bulwark even though the wood walls wouldn’t save me from the bullets anyway. Harlow in front of me is whimpering like a dog, and the seawater’s dripping from his helmet to my black boots. I reach out and tap him as weak as I can on the shoulder, and he jumps.

“Hey,” I tell him. “You feel that?”

“You spooked me, Coleman.”

“What is it? The boat? The waves?”

“The whole earth. They’re shelling us.”

He doesn’t even finish as the barge to our right takes a hit in the center, and bodies go flying into the air. Plywood sailboat didn’t stand a chance. The pieces left floating on the water light up like tinder. One of the unlucky survivors bobs up and down on the surface with his legs blown off and his face pure madness.

Dangerously close. The waves carry us high upon its crest and sink back down. The thirty or so of us are shaken. “Sweet Jesus, we’re gonna die here,” says someone. Everyone else is silent. To my left, a private I don’t know the name of can’t regain his hands, and the canteen he drops rolls to my feet.

“D-doc could you get that for me?” he says. The ugly moustache above his mouth scrunches when he speaks. His putrid breath leaks out with every word.

I pick it up amidst the vomit and saltiness of the floor, and give it to him. He’s disgusted.

“Now who are you?” I ask him.

“Private Morgan, sir.”

“Ever worked a gun before?”

“No, sir. I run field operations. Reports, and all that.” He lifted a rusted typewriter with paint chipped off at the sides. “The most I’ve done is fire a pistol round or two.”

“And how old are you, kid?"

He scratches the thin, wispy hair bristles. “Nineteen. Just turned so a couple days back.”
“Well, this is one hell of a birthday present,” I say, pointing with my thumb to the grey sands. “I hope you don’t have family back home.”

Harlow glances back at us, and shouts over the crash of waves and explosions, “Are you really doing this now, Coleman?”

“Why not? Talking’s easy, and it makes the time pass.”

“Not that. You’re violating the number one rule of war.”

“And what’s that?”

“Never make friends.”

We fall quiet. In silence we watch the beach approach, and in silence we grip our guns tight ‘til our knuckles pale. We’re close enough to see the foamy white shores and hear the lapping of the waves. Another barge far off to our left is hit and founders. The captain’s doing all he can to keep the morale intact.

“You see those concrete bunkers atop the bluff with machinegun tips? That’s where the Kraut lives. And right now, the Kraut is cowering.” The captain’s voice booms above the rushing of the water. “He’s there, crawling on the blood-stained floor, sucking on some burned-out cigarette and downing watery beers. He can’t even look out the tiny slits of his bunker. Soon, he’ll take the gun in his shaky hands and miss every darn shot. That’s the sorry kind of fools we fight.

“And when we get there, we’ll knock on his door. We’ll gouge him out. We’ll string him by the wall, and burn his hide black. I will massacre every one of the German bastards.” He pulls a knife in the air: standard issue with serrated teeth. “And this beauty goes across their neck. Ear to ear.”

Fear clogs the air. We’re so close now. The grains of that godforsaken beach are hopping like fried shrimp. Sergeant Harlow and Morgan are breathing heavily. The gummy feeling in my mouth doesn’t disappear. It’s time. Metal groans as the ramp falls open. The lieutenant’s up and shouting, “Ramp down! Ramp--” He storms forward, but a bullet rips through his throat. Crawling on his stomach, he tries to speaks, but the air wheezes through the bloody hole without a word.

Then the machineguns mow down the clubfooted idiots. The floor is slippery from the onslaught. I pull Harlow close as I can, but he’s already spurting from every orifice. A bullet misses me by mere inches. It rings sharply, punching through the wood. Morgan crouches in the corner beside me, mumbling gibberish faster than the men fall.

“Over the side!” screams the captain, and a bullet gets him in the leg. Everyone’s scrambling to the cover of the sea, but the poor bastard can’t move. Well, darn him. I’m going. I grab Morgan, who’s still frozen there, heave him over the gunwale, and dive in after.

Beneath, there’s no hint of war. The salt burns my eyes, but there is peace until mortar fire blows the water apart just beyond. The sea turns red. Wood splinters everywhere, and the bubbles that rise from the dark depths are cloudy with gore. The private disappears from sight as soon as the explosion. People--no, torsos and limbs--sink and drift with the currents. The force hurls me deeper along with survivors drowning by their packs. I don’t think I can breathe anymore. The shine of light seems leagues away. Or maybe not. God, my head aches.

I break through the muddled light, and the underwater muteness fades to the thunder of combat. I take deep breaths, and the air rushes in my lungs. Never mind the mouthfuls of sand. Never mind the sting of my eyes. I am alive.

A bullet grazes my helmet. I am still here, in the middle of an onslaught. I hide behind the steel obstacles. The lean cross-like structure barely covers me, but anything is better than lying naked on the field.

Able Company’s a disaster. Not a sergeant in sight, and I guess every captain or lieutenant’s dead. The machine guns are killing the ones left by the dozens. They’re hiding in clusters against the steel obstacles like me, and all it takes is a well-placed round to take scores out. Those left are fresh, young faces swathed in red rushing from cover to cover. I glance at the filthy band on my sleeve with its cross signifying vitality and all that bull. I have to heal all these little boys. Not that it matters. They’ll be dead by the end of today.

One of them with a high-bridged nose hobbles around. The artillery shots fall around him like explosive raindrops, and his eyes are limp in a thousand-yard stare. He curves his lips, and without warning, he’s dashing into the thick of the battlefield. What in Christ is wrong with him. Shells erupt the sand a few feet away, and shrapnel bites him in the chest. Goddarn idiot pushes himself up on his knees. He’s down in seconds. The blood’s spurting up in curves. He turns to me, and the ugly moustache scrunches. “Coleman”.

Oh sh– I pull the nearest bulky soldier, and say “Cover me. I’m going for Morgan.”

He nods, and clears the sand off his rifle. The blare of the bullets’ my signal to go. I run through the bodies, steering away from them and averting my eyes. I can’t stare them in the eye, or the fingers, or whatever. A medical officer has him on his back when I get there. The ground is soft with his blood. There’s no saving him. I’m trying anyway. He’s writhing in the sand as the officer injects a tiny dose of morphine.

“That’s it. Come on to someone else we can help.”

“Can’t, sir. I broke the number one rule of war.”

“We’re wasting our time. Look at him, for Christ’s sake!”

“You go, sir. I’m staying right here.”

His eyes are critical in a death gaze, but he keeps the pressure on the private anyway. We’re sitting right in a hailstorm of bullets, and the dust settles into his wounds. The blood’s still spilling over my hands. God, would he quit staring with those big round eyes? He’s so pale. Not good, not good. And now, some assholes by the shoal beneath the bluff call me out–probably cut their finger or some crap. Slap on a Band-Aid, for Christ's sake! I have real men to treat here.

There’s a clank of metal against metal and I peer up just a second to see the officer hit through the helmet, eyes wide open. Yeah, that’s what you get, bastard.

The private’s shaking badly, but the flow weakens. I double the pressure on the bandage, and the blood stops altogether.

I just did it. It’s the work of the Almighty frickin’ God.

Another clink. No, no, no. It can’t be. A hole in my leg and the blood’s streaming. I put my hand to it, and it comes back crimson. Someone’s dragging me back and shouting, but I can’t hear a word he says because the bullets keep screaming in my ear, and that clinking sound goes on and on.

“Let me go, goddarn bastard. It’s just a bit of blood. I don’t even feel the pain. Son of a b****! Let me go, let me go, I had him!”

Morgan’s staring with those freakish eyes. His face is a bloody mess again. I could’ve saved him. Listen to yourself. He’s dead. You’re dead. You knew you were both dead men all along and you were just waiting for a miracle. “If there were God, never would He have permitted what I have seen with my eyes.” Darnit, Morgan. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Focus. No exit wound. A bandage is good enough to keep it clean from infection. I’ve got morphine pumping in my veins. I’m okay. Yeah, I’m swell. Now it hurts like a sledgehammer to my bones, but I’m still okay. I can still help. Someone’s wailing. His arm is torn open. Now go to him and tell him it’s all right and watch him die just like everyone else.