Requiem For a WWII Soldier

I can taste the vomit in my mouth
As the whaleboats reach the beachhead.
I can hear my captain yelling
Over the noise of the ship and the roar of the ocean.
But I cannot understand him.

The door drops.

Blood.
I'm hit with a wave of hot, sticky blood.
I watch my comrades fall before me.
Their lives taken from them
Without even a warning.

My instinct tells me to get off the boat.
Without thinking, I am over the wall and in the water.
The vomit taste is replaced by the salty water.

My the weight of my B.A.R. is pulling me to the bottom,
The shoulder strap strangling me.
I can die now with it,
Or later without it.
I'll take my chances.
All around me, blood blossoms from those less fortunate than I.
The brilliant red floats through the dark water,
Decorating this bleak grave.

I surface.
I am overwhelmed by the sound of gunfire and explosions.
I know that I must get out of the water,
Or I too shall perish without setting a foot on land.

I look up towards the beach.
There are many men already there,
Making their way through the chaos.
I swim towards them.

Once on land, I grab another gun
Off one of my fallen allies.
A bullet grazes my calf.
Cold, burning in my leg.
But no pain.
I must get out of the gunfire.

The great metal crosses
Meant to keep armor off the beach, and protect the enemy bunkers,
Become sanctuaries among the frenzy.
But there's no point in hiding too long.
The bullets will hit their mark sooner or later.

As I run through the sand,
I am quite conscious of the weight of my pack.
A mine goes off near by, and I am thrown to the ground.
Quiet.
I cannot hear a sound besides the throbbing in my skull.
Everything is moving around me, almost in slow motion.
I watch my comrades fall.
One after another.
The whole beach has been stained red
On this horrible morning.
And with a great whoosh of sound,
I return to reality.

I have to keep moving.
A still target is an easy mark for the turret guns.
I dart between the iron crosses.
Always moving.

A bullet rips through my right shoulder.
This time I am fully aware of the searing pain.
I press my hand against the wound,
And take it away to find it stained red.
I try to keep going, but the wound slows me down.

I catch another bullet in my stomach.
I fall to my knees.
The loss of blood is making me groggy, weak.
I try to shout for a medic, but no sound passes my lips.

I know this is my end.
I'm not angry, not upset.
I just hope that in some way,
My life has aided the cause of this war,
And that my death shall prevent someone else's.
I lay my gun and pack down next to me.
Maybe they will be useful to a soldier luckier than I.

My vision begins to fade
As I feel consciousness slipping past my frail grasp.

Learn more about this author, Josh Glassman.
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