2 June 2012
The harsh rhythym of the guns launched an ongoing staccato, as I ran down the beach. Debris was flying everywhere, not to mention the blood and bits of flesh and shards of bone. It was horrendous, a massacre in every sense of the term.
People were still trying to come ashore but they were getting mowed down instantly - either that or they drowned from jumping over the side of their landing crafts too early; it was too deep, they had too much gear on, it was too heavy to fight against, and more peaceful than what the ones who made it to the beach were facing.
Barbed wire stuck up in great long coils, trying to prevent us coming on the beach, and there were land mines everywhere. I found myself clambering over craters and bodies. Lots of bodies. Bodies of men I knew and had been sharing a cigarette with last night. It was too much to take in at once.
The sand had turned from a beautiful golden colour, to a dusky pink, stained with the blood of a thousand or more men. Pink was my daughters favourite colour, but I'd never look at it the same way again. Id probably never have the chance. I have given anything to just be able to hold her in my arms, and tell her daddy's here to stay, don't you worry. I sharply brought myself back to reality; there's no time for daydreaming out here.
A landline went off, too close to me for comfort and I instantly felt like I was plunged underwater. I couldn't move forward in a straight line. Instead I staggered. People were shouting screaming, but I couldn't hear them through the fug. Shell shock. I'd heard of this but never experienced it. It was like watching the world go by in slow motion; watching a comrade hit and have his chest exploded due to heavy fire and unforgiving bullets is never a good sight, but in slow motion you could see every detail in his face. All the pain, hurt, regret, fear... It was written plainly in his eyes as he collapsed in a heap on the ground.
I dived into a sort of bunker. It was more just a sandbank really, and waited for some of the shell shock to wear off. I was next to a young man, who I swear was no more than eighteen. He was whimpering like a beaten dog, covered in a filthy mix of mucus, tears, blood and sand. My heart instantly went out to him, but then the order came. 'GO OVER THE TOP'. I looked at him, and said to him that we could do this and we could make it through, but I don't know if he heard me. I gathered together my courage and launched myself over the top of the bank and started running for the next.
Suddenly I saw the flash of a muzzle. Something slammed into my chest and knocked me flat. I tried to catch my breath, and get up, but I couldn't. My breathing was becoming ragged now. I out my hand on my stomach just below my rib cage and the lifted it away to reveal the awful truth. Blood. Too much blood. I could feel my splintered bones piercing through my flesh. That was it. It was over. I was going to join the ranks of those whose blood was staining the sand my daughters colour.
My daughter!
The pain of longing and loss overwhelmed even the physical horrors that had reduced my chest and stomach to a bloody pulp. I'd never again hold her, read her a bedtime story, or tell her what I'd been dreaming of going home and saying to her. Darling sweetheart, I'm here and I'm never going to leave you again. The war is over. With this idea of love in my mind, I reached for the locket around my neck, with their pictures in it. My beautiful wife Elizabeth, and our little angel Isabelle. I couldnt move my arm - I couldnt reach it. I was denied this one last request and tears of anguish flooded down my face.
The gun fire in the background was still pounding out an irregular rhythym and people were still screaming. But for me, it was over. The world faded to black, and my laboured heart gave up its fight. Darling, I wish the war was over.
I.Sparrow
D-Day • Opuss № I