The History Books Missed Something

It’s been nearly 82 years. I’m dealing with real health issues now and this all needs to be said before I’m gone. Don’t want pity, just the release. I did tell some buddies after the fact, and my wife when I got home, but they thought I was crazy. G.I.’s said blood loss. My wife warned me not to talk of such things. I don’t know how much time is left.

But the memories are inescapable.

The smell and the sound come back to me.

Dusky waves drove themselves against the Higgins.  Making me sick. The group of wind-battered soldiers standing in a tight bunch could hear the sound of the World – wide swathes of mantle – being rent by the rain of artillery as our American transport boat approached the sand. 

I was a mess… I’ll tell you that. No shame in it. Most of us were anxious. Weird thoughts running through my head. What would it feel like? When my body was ripped by shards of metal?  Shot down by German firepower?  Melted into a puddle of char?

The squawking of gulls was restless.  I remember the odor of smoke, mixed with salt and dimethyl sulfide rising from the ocean slapping around the Higgins.  White drips fell from the sky.  Spackling my shoulders.  The coxswain shouting:

“Four minutes!”

The stench of vomit.  Seeping into my skin like fetid lotion.  Seawater ran down my cheeks as I pressed the droppings-stained helmet against matted hair.  Bile swirled, tickling my throat. 

Soldiers in the boat were praying:

“Protect my brothers,” a voice coughed.

“Lord,” another trembled above a whisper.  “Watch over my body, frail and deficient in the absence of your redemption.”  The prayers were lost against a shrieking of artillery.  The reverberations on the sand ahead crashed across the water and drenched the Higgins boat.  “In your name, I wear this cross, which is the armor of salvation. We carry the shield of faith and your word.”

Listening in silence was yours truly, Eugene “Melons” Mizner. I was part of Company E, 2^(nd) Battalion, 8^(th) Infantry.  Those of us Americans standing bunched in a tight group on the transport boat were going to war.  I didn’t really care to go to war.  I wasn’t keen to shoot my M1 rifle. 

It wasn’t that I was scared, or a coward.  I wasn’t yellow.  At least… I didn’t think I was yellow.  I wasn’t frightened of Germans, but that didn’t mean I wanted to die on that day, either.  I remember being sure about that bit.  I wanted to fight for my country and to win the war. 

But not to die.

Not if I could help it.

“We’re all gonna die at some point, Eugene,” grandpa had said to me before our unit had left to join the Allied force assembling in England for Operation Overlord, the invasion of Nazi-controlled Europe.  Grandpa had sensed the nerves that I had worked so desperately to hide.  “So you might as well give those kraut bastards hell before they turn this world to ash.”

“I’ll give ‘em hell, sir.”

Like most of us volunteers, I had enlisted in the Army after the attack at Pearl Harbor.  Now – jammed between thirty infantrymen on a Higgins boat, churning towards the beach code named “Utah” and preparing to engage real, breathing, battle-hardened German Wehrmacht soldiers in combat – I was just hoping that I would hold my own when the bullets started to fly. 

There was a lull in the shelling. 

I thought I heard a weird, guttural sound carrying on the wind…

I tried to listen, but the strange sound faded…

Seagulls cawed while voices prayed.

“The Lord is my fortress.”

It was summer, 1944. 

“He, in whom I seek eternal shelter.”

The decision by Hitler to attack the Soviet Union had been a disaster.  After a series of victories, the war had turned against the Nazi Reich.  Now, the German army was in retreat and mired in battle on multiple fronts.  Operation Overlord was to be a decisive blow: an opportunity for us good ‘ol Allies to liberate Western Europe before advancing on Berlin. 

Despite careful planning, the invasion had run into setbacks.  Shitty weather – heavy rain, cloudy skies, and rough seas – caused the campaign to be postponed from June 5^(th) to June 6^(th).  Eager to commence the attack, this delay had been met with frustration by us boys in infantry.  The fellas and I had spent the extra night tossing in our bunks on the USS Bayfield. 

“Expect thirty percent casualties,” a briefing officer had informed the troops as we’d packed gear.  “Operation Fortitude has caused Rommel to stretch German lines thin.  The French coastline is vulnerable to attack.  They don’t know where we’ll hit ‘em, but the Krauts know we’re coming.”

“Hey, Melons!”

Artie “Sinatra” Keyes was prodding my shoulder.  I turned back and nodded dumbly, wondering if Artie was scared.  Artie was fit – athletic and tough – not short and overweight like yours truly.  Artie had been the star quarterback at our high school in Grafton.  Still, nothing could have prepared any of us for the quake of the advanced bombardment.  Artie sure looked scared.

And then again, I swear it…

I heard the strangest noise on the wind.

It was like a distorted wailing?

Far, far in the distance.

“Oy!” the coxswain moaned, turning the wheel of the ship.  “Bloody hell is that one doing?  He’s going the wrong way!”  The coxswain, George, was the sole English solider on the boat.  “LCC 60’s the only one left, Captain!  These currents–” George’s voice was buried under a string of explosions.  “We’re 500 meters south of Uncle Red.  We’re too far south!” 

“Follow the remaining LLC,” Captain Lees spoke evenly.  “Follow that boat, George, and keep it easy.”  Captain Lees, commander of Company E, earned our respect with few words and unchallenged purpose.  “Just follow that boat, George.  We don’t care where it goes.”

Mist reached over the sides of the transport and soaked my face as the coxswain spoke a response we couldn’t hear.  The landing craft, vehicle and personnel carrier – or Higgins boat, as it was called – dipped through a furrow of waves as it chopped across the waters of the channel.  The Higgins was 36 feet in length and 11 feet wide.  Powered by a 225-horsepower engine, it coasted towards the shore at 12 knots, tilting like a weed in the wind. 

“The heck is happenin’ out there, Melons?”  Artie vexed in my ear.  “Bladder’s gonna pop!  And how are we supposed to tell what we’re up against?  If we can’t see?”

The soldiers were standing on our toes.

“Maybe they didn’t want us to see?”

Angling for a peek of the sand. 

“Didn’t want us to see?” Artie was unnerved.

I tried listening again for the weird noise.

Straining to hear, but it was gone.

From what we could tell based on the back-and-forth between George and Captain Lees, three of the four LCC landing control crafts – whose job was to lead the boats carrying the ground forces to the approach sites on Utah Beach – had been destroyed by German mines.  Now, only LCC 60 remained, and according to George, it was taking us the wrong direction. 

As we prepared to disembark, soldiers who’d horded cartons of cigarettes were dumping them, trying to lessen the weight of their gear.  I was one of the few G.I.’s who didn’t smoke.  Grandpa had been a smoker for his entire life before it gave him cancer, which he swore to any man who’d listen was only cured by a month-long fast and the glory of God.  He’d made me promise to stay away.

“Two minutes!”

Welcome rumbles streaking overhead proclaimed the Allies had established dominance of the skies, wiping out the German Luftwaffe.  The boys in our Higgins were thunderstruck by 14,000 sorties of air bombings striking the coast – Martin B-26 Marauders, Boeing B-17 Flying Fortresses, and Douglas A-20 Havocs – which was to end moments before we reached the sand. 

In addition to the air assault, the bombardment group behind the landing ships was comprised of six battleships, twenty cruisers, and sixty-eight destroyers.  Behind the hundreds of landing craft roaring towards Normandy, these vessels fired their cannons in deadly unison.  The blasts created a swell of sound that propelled the Higgins forward. 

I’m not kidding, I could actually see the artillery shells shrieking overhead, pounding the German fortifications at Utah. 

The mission of the bombardment was threefold.  Stun the German gunners along the Atlantic Wall.  Embolden Allied forces as they neared the beach.  And create a network of foxholes for American troops to use once they came ashore. As anxious as I felt, I couldn’t imagine the horror of the German defenders, absorbing such punishment. 

It had to be hell on earth.

“Get ready!”  The detonations gave way to silence, and the coxswain yelled that we were fast approaching the beach.  “When that ramp goes down… you boys get out!”

“Melons?” came Artie’s tin-pitched whisper.  “Are we gonna be okay?”  Artie’s blue eyes were overcast with tension.  “We’re headed straight for the thresher.”  He reached for his crotch, wincing.  “Goddamn fuckin’ coffee…  What four-star moron decided coffee and spam made sense before a fuckin’ battle?” He chewed his lips.  “I’m gonna piss myself.” 

“What’s new?” I quipped.

“Sixty seconds!”

Now, without warning: the wail of wood and metal.  The soldiers around me lurched forward, yelling in alarm.  I would have fallen had we not been packed so tightly in the Higgins.  After a moment, it was discovered that our craft had hit a sandbar, a ridge of sediment built up along the shallows.

“Fuck ya doin’, limey?”

“Pull her loose, George!”

The coxswain shifted the engine into reverse but the Higgins boat was unable to pry free.  When George started forward again, attempting to power through the sandbar, the Higgins hardly budged.  The bunch of us could hear the engine sputter and whir, weakly.

“We’re sitting ducks!”

“Staley!” Captain Lees spoke above the others.  “Get the ramp down!”  With shouts of consternation coming from all around, an engineer went to lower the ramp at the front of the boat.  The man reached for a winch that was connected by cables to the bow and turned.  The mechanism was jammed, however, and the ramp became stuck.  “I said get it down!”

“I can’t,” the engineer croaked.  “It’s jammed!”

“Forget it, then, and pay attention!  We’re going over!”

At the Captain’s command, the troops near the perimeter of the Higgins locked fingers, creating footholds for the soldiers at the center to clamber over the walls of the boat.  I watched Artie escape this way, pushing up as two infantrymen helped him scale the side. 

“Private Mizner!”

When it was my turn, the same two soldiers teased me about my weight (this was a recurring theme) as my fingers slipped on the plywood rim of the Higgins, unable to grip it.  Captain Lees came up from behind, shoving my ass over the top, and I tumbled headlong into the sea. 

Now that was a scary moment.

Adrenaline burned like a gunshot.  Making my blood sting.  I remember my brain stammering while my feet kicked, trying to find bottom, but where they expected to feel seabed, there was nothing.  And it was cold… it was too cold. I loosened the straps of my gear as bubbles escaped my lips. 

“We’re all gonna die at some point, Eugene.”

Grandpa’s voice was ringing in my ears.

Instinctively, I tugged the string of my floatation vest and drifted back to the surface, where all of Company E swam from the stranded Higgins before washing up on the coast. 

To our surprise?

With Allied warships silent apart from occasional bursts of artillery lobbed at German positions inland, it wasn’t nearly as chaotic on the beach as we’d anticipated.  We quickly made our way across 200 yards of open sand that lay between shore and seawall. 

Once we crossed this divide, the causeway – a stretch of road that ran parallel to the coast – would take us to the nearby town of Poupeville. 

Assuming the pre-dawn air raids had worked, the 101^(st) airborne should have secured the town.  If we managed to create a beachhead to unload troops and gear, the next step was to cut off the Cotentin peninsula, take Cherbourg and build a base of operations to penetrate into Europe.

A pair of A-20 Havocs roared overhead, firing at targets beyond the seawall. We took cover behind a Czech hedgehog, an anti-tank obstacle made of bisecting iron beams.  The beach was littered with these structures, deployed by the Germans to hinder American armored units once they reached the coast.  I could smell detritus coating the metal.

“This ain’t bad,” Artie offered. 

“We’re lucky,” the radio operator shook his head, ear pressed against the receiver of his set.  “Those boys at Omaha are in trouble.”

“Heads down!” came the call from Captain Lees.  “Down!”  A squadron of American Marauder aircraft flew in low, the growl of their engines making the soldiers drop. 

We were mystified to observe small arms fire from behind the seawall…  A pistol wouldn’t dent the Marauders.  Why weren’t the Germans using their 88mm cannons? 

“Up!  Up!”

“Move it! Move!” 

“Move to the seawall!”

At the far end of Utah Beach, a four-foot high slope of concrete and wood rose up from the ground, forming the seawall.  A pillbox – a fortified stone guard post that was a bulwark of the German coastal defense grid – was built into this boundary. 

I remember the tangerine bloom of muzzle flashes and tracer fire coming from inside the pillbox.  The shots were inaccurate; bullets hissed and danced ineffectually against the damp sand around us. Honestly, I think we were all feeling a bit relieved.

“They can’t even aim!” Artie clucked when they took cover behind the next Czech hedgehog.  “Who said the Krauts were killers, huh?  Who told me that?”

“Maybe the shells got ‘em?” I proposed hopefully.  “Or the planes?  Something’s not right, Art... I don’t think we’re in the right place!”  I hacked up seawater and pointed to a second German pillbox to the North.  “See?  Look over there, on that hill way back.  Pretty sure that’s the battery at Les Dunes de Varreville.  At least, I’m pretty sure it is…”

“You sayin’ we’re lost?” Artie squinted, following the line of my finger.  “Maybe you’re right, Melons.  Well, if that’s why we ain’t gettin’ shot at, being lost works just fine.”  The radio operator agreed.  “Let’s hurry.”  We raced forward and soon reached the seawall, where troops had gathered in clusters, awaiting guidance from their commanding officers. 

More transports arrived behind us, unloading groups of naval engineers – nicknamed Seabees – whose objective was to destroy the anti-tank obstacles on the sand. 

The Seabees accomplished this task with remarkable efficiency, using timed explosives to dismantle the hedgehogs along the beach.  The next wave of landing craft came aground and lowered their ramps, delivering the olive-drab Sherman tanks of Company C, 70th Battalion.

Right then, I heard that strange noise again!

What the fuck was it?

Nothing I could imagine…

Some kinda animal?

Wailing in the distance…

“Hear that?” I asked Artie, who didn’t answer.

“Listen up, everyone!” Captain Lees took a knee.  “We’re adjusting.”  Company E assembled in full force at the base of the seawall.  “The tide pushed us off course.”  I watched in awe as the American tanks crawled up the sand towards us.  “We’re 1000 meters south of Uncle Red.  Once the tanks arrive, we’ll use the causeway and reclaim Poupeville.”

“Should we move north, sir?”

“Negative.  Kraut defenses are weaker here.  We can still get to the causeway.”  He sounded remarkably content.  “First, we gotta clear this bunker.”  Captain Lees used his machine gun to indicate their target.  “After that, Seabees blow the wall, and we’ll follow our tanks inland using exits 1 and 2.  Private Miller!” he barked.  “Gomez!  Sterilize the pillbox!”

The soldiers, upbeat from crossing the beach with minimal casualties, hollered in approval.  Captain Lees ordered Artie to take a pair of cutters and inch carefully up the seawall, where he reached forward and snipped away a section of barbed wire. 

Miller and Gomez took out hand grenades, preparing to toss them inside the pillbox.  As they were about to pull the pins, however, they heard frantic shouting coming from inside.

“The hell is that about, sir?”

“Why they screamin’?”

“Don’t sound German to me…”

“It’s Russian, sir,” replied Joe Langford, who doubled as translator for Company E.  “They’re, ah, Russian prisoners, sir.  At least, that’s what they’re yelling.  They, uh… they wanna surrender, sir.  They’re saying… they’re saying the Germans ran away.” 

“They what?” Captain Lees hesitated.  His men asked how there could be Russians in France.  “Germans don’t have enough regulars to defend these beaches.  They’ve repurposed POWs from the eastern theater…  Mizner!”  I shrank at my name.  “Keyes!  Take Langford and move through the wire.  Tell ‘em to come out with their hands up.  Weapons stay in the pillbox.”

The rumble of American tanks was growing louder as the armored machines rolled up the beach, towards Company E.  We gripped our rifles and slithered through the clipped wire and over the crumbling seawall.  Joe followed, calling out in staccato Russian. 

When we dropped down to the other side of the wall, we each took a firing position on the causeway, aiming our rifles at the pillbox.  Joe cleared his throat, shouting.

Though my attention was focused on my rifle sights, I was able to visually mark the rooftops of Poupeville in the distance.  Many of the taller buildings had taken direct hits from the Allied planes and warships.  Shingled roofs destroyed, they stood scarred and burning in the daylight.  Thick smoke billowed from the steeple of the church. An ashen spiral, choking the sun.

In the corner of my sight, I glimpsed a tan-colored military jeep speeding down the causeway, bumping on potholes as it raced away from the pillbox, in the direction of Poupeville.  I spotted a trio of German soldiers sitting inside.  There was something odd about it.

A weird feeling came over me.

The man driving the jeep was enormous…  Shoulders like an ox, with an unkempt, coarse red beard.  He dwarfed his two passengers.  There was a strange, long box in the back of the jeep. Wrapped in chains. The Germans turned right, suddenly, veering into a field. 

I heard a yell from the pillbox. 

The Germans were quickly forgotten.

“Heads up,” Joe cautioned.  “They’re coming.”

Moments later, a line of disheveled soldiers trickled out from inside the pillbox, arms stretched above their heads.  Most were either very old or very young: much younger than myself.  Some were injured, others sobbing.  Clothes tattered and covered with soot.  Joe spoke hoarsely in Russian, and the prisoners arranged themselves on the causeway.

“They’re talkin’ crazy, Captain.”

Joe was bewildered as he listened.

“Whaddya mean?”

“They’re saying, er… the Germans took something… that was important?” Joe was trying to find the words. “They, uhh… they keep saying the Germans took something from their homeland and brought it here… and she’s awake now. They’re scared shitless.”

“Who is she?”

“It’s some kind of animal.”

“An animal?”

“Yessir. These people are terrified.”

“What the hell kinda animal?” Captain Lees hesitated. “Let the guys behind us take care of this. These people are probably mental from getting bombed to pieces.”

With the all clear, Company E joined me, Artie and Joe on the causeway.  A few men laughed about the surrendered Russian prisoners, who were quickly restrained and guarded at gunpoint.  Captain Lees stood off to the side, analyzing maps and conferring with his lieutenants.  As suspected, they had arrived south of the intended landing site at Uncle Red. 

We were instructed to clear the area before the seawall was demolished. A handful herded the prisoners down the causeway while the rest of us moved into the pillbox itself. 

“USA kickin’ ass so far,” Artie gloated.

A shock coursed through the structure as the Seabees used their charges to destroy the seawall. When we moved back outside, the Sherman tanks were kicking up the remnants of the concrete barrier as they butted onto the causeway.  Company E cheered the arrival of their armored escorts.  It was a great thing to see. The turret of the leading tank swiveled to face Poupeville.  The hatch popped open, and a man with a tidy black mustache emerged, grinning in the sun.

“Outstanding,” Captain Kearney, leader of Company C, 70th Tank Battalion, blinked as he adjusted to the daylight.  “Outstanding performance, gentlemen.”

“It’s still early,” Captain Lees growled. 

Captain Kearney retrieved a pair of binoculars, wiped the lenses with a square cloth, and examined the rooftops in the distance.  He spoke down through the hatch, and with a mechanical belch of smoke, the Sherman tank rocked forward.  Once the line of tanks had started along the causeway, Company E assembled in formation and followed close behind.

The causeway leading to Poupeville was rough – bumpy and uneven – damaged by missiles and bombs.  The tanks clanked nosily as they passed alongside the towering green hedgerows that lined the road.  While vast sections of countryside had been flooded by Germans to slow our advance, this stretch of road was passable.

The sea air was warming.  I remember the feeling on my skin. Company E, trailing the tanks, seemed slightly more at ease now that the beach had been left behind.  We joked about French girls, hardly paying attention to the nearby signs that warned:

Achtung! Minen! 

S-mines – informally dubbed Bouncing Betties – would jump and explode at waist height, maiming anyone in proximity.

“Shut up and watch your feet,” Captain Lees, peeved by the chatter, cautioned us to stay alert.  “Step on a Betty?  She’ll blow your goddamn balls off, and that’s the least of your concerns.  Betty’s a real man-eater…  Bitch’ll cut you clean in two.”  The description hit its mark.  The voices faded.  Dozens of wary eyes now scanned the grass and road.

Including mine.

As we came around a bend in the causeway, the column of armor and infantry passed by a crashed Waco CG-4A, the most widely used American glider in the war.  The engineless planes were towed to the battlefield by larger aircraft and released to land anywhere they could find.  Fields and roads, mainly.  Casualty rates were high and, looking at the wreckage? I didn’t wanna say, but I felt sure that whatever was inside – human or machine – had been crushed to a pulp.

We stared in amazement at the sight of crumpled fuselage and towering flames.  We crossed ourselves and muttered solemnly before hurrying to catch the Shermans. 

As the column approached Poupeville, we could make out intermittent whumps of Allied ships firing at targets further inland.  Crackling echoes of distant machinegun fire. A mortar shell exploded in a pasture adjoining the causeway; I suddenly recalled this as the same field where the German jeep had disappeared while we had been clearing Russians from the pillbox. 

Nestled in the middle of the pasture was a ramshackle hay barn.  Even from a distance, we could see the two-level structure was in disrepair.  

The barn looked timeworn – on the verge of collapse – with a white-painted exterior that was dry and rotten.  Its windows were splintered, making it impossible to see inside.  Muddy rays pried through the clouds.  Glancing off the dilapidated wood. 

The Germans in the jeep were nowhere to be seen. 

Moving past the field, we finally arrived at a stone bridge less than fifty yards from town.  The bridge – spongy green moss wrapped around its foundation – acted as a culvert, allowing a stream that wound to the sea to flow under the causeway and towards the coast. 

The Sherman at the front of the column came to a halt when it reached the bridge. Captain Kearney emerged.  He peered through his binoculars.

“Airborne’s taken the town,” Captain Kearney scanned the buildings before lowering his sights.  “Have no doubt, gentlemen,” he cautioned.  “A cornered Kraut will fight to the death.  I want you to stay alert until we have reinforced the 101^(st) and have cleared every structure.  Floor by floor.”

Captain Kearney lifted the binoculars.

I heard a dull, wet CLUNK. 

The binoculars exploded into a cloud of blood, and Captain Kearney’s jaw ripped open, swinging sideways and letting loose a gush of bone.  Before anyone standing around the tank could move, Captain Kearney slumped in the turret, head nearly separated from his neck.

“Sniper!” a voice cried. 

“Get down!”

We all fell onto our stomachs in terror, crawling away from the open road and into the meadow, guns bristled in every direction.  My heart was going crazy. I spied Captain Kearney hanging slack in the turret – his face turned inside out – when a second bullet ricocheted against the hull. 

“It’s coming from the barn!”

“Suppressing fire!  Four o’clock!”

A stream of gunfire consumed the decrepit structure, filling the air with bone-rattling sound, splinters and sawdust.  We all laid down side-by-side, aiming down our rifle sights and firing at the building.  Bullet holes peppered the walls from top to bottom – left to right – racking the wood diagonally before one of the Shermans fired a shell at the target.  The side of the barn exploded outwards, dousing the field in a rolling swell of smoke. 

“You three!  Neutralize that location!” 

I remember the shock when Captain Lees yelled his command from a concealed position in the grass.  Me, Artie and Joe Langford – closest to the sniper – got up and raced in a line towards the building. This was pure adrenaline. It was twenty yards to the target, now shrouded in flame. 

Guns raised, we closed in on the burning barn, scanning for movement.  I sprinted through the field, chasing Artie and Joe.  Trying not to sneeze from the pollen and smoke.

There was a rustle outside the barn. 

Someone scrabbled up: towards the door.

“German!” I yelled. “German!”

Joe, closest to the building, screamed a warning and discharged his rifle, followed moments later by me and Artie.  We must’ve fired dozens of pinging shots, kicking up mounds of dirt, and yet, somehow, the figure vanished into the dark beyond the entrance. 

Artie swore, indignant, reloading his rifle as we approached the barn, positioning to enter and clear the building.  I remember being distantly aware of Captain Lees yelling.

As we passed over the spot where we’d seen the rustle in the grass – where we’d sighted the gray of a German Wehrmacht uniform scuttling inside the barn – a lump of dented metal hopped up from between our feet, pausing at Joe’s waistline. 

Such a clear memory of this.

I watched the disk spinning in slow motion.

“Betty’s a real man-eater.”

The Captain’s warning blared in my head. 

“Bitch’ll cut you clean in two.”   

As I remembered the words, the S-mine detonated.  The ferocious blast tore Joe in half, unstitching the clothes from his body.  Exposing his abdomen in a burst of blood and carelessly dumping innards onto the wildflowers.  The shockwave passed through Artie and me, dropping us.  There was an uncanny silence before we both howled in agony. 

“We’re all gonna die at some point, Eugene.”

I knew it was bad.  Honestly, I didn’t want to look, but there was no choice.  I raised my head.  Both my legs had been shredded by the shrapnel from the explosion. 

Blistering metal flecks embedded in my hips.  Red-hot fragments melting my clothes and skin.  A sensation of dampness was spreading across my lower body, drenching my pelvis in warmth. 

“Art?” I tried to speak. 

Joe Langford had been bisected by the mine.  Bare pink entrails spilled out from his midsection.  Charred intestines smoldering from the explosion.  Artie was rolling on the ground, eyes wide with confusion.  Heels stamping the earth as he gurgled in protest.  Sticky redness bubbled up from his mouth.  A long, six-inch slice of the Betty was stuck in his throat.

“We’re okay,” I lied. 

I knew I was lying.

“Uhnngh…”

“Stay with me, Art.”

As we writhed, a figure emerged from the barn.  A mountain dressed in a German uniform.  Nervous face adorned with a wild red beard.  Even racked by the worst pain I had ever felt in my life, I remembered: this was the giant I’d seen driving the jeep away from the pillbox! 

The massive German soldier leapt from the doorway – firing a pistol into Joe’s skull even though my comrade was dead – before grabbing us survivors by our ankles.  I begged for help as the giant dragged me and Artie into the gloom beyond the door. 

As the blood loss put me into shock, my ability to process what was happening became fractured and unclear. That’s why the doctors, my buddies and my wife never believed what happened next. They said I was too fucked up to think clearly. That I was delusional.

What happened next was real.

It was so hot. Bright orange light surrounded us. I could still hear the Captain shouting orders… bullets began to whiz and thud against the wall as the massive German sealed the entrance to the barn behind us.  When his grip released, I found myself pressed into a corner of the building. 

Bundles of hay were strewn across the floor.  Crumbling rafters interlaced high above.  Weary light trickled down to where flames twirled in the center of the space.

The tank had destroyed a large section of the building; much of what was left was burning to the ground.  Even in my stupor, I was aware that the hay barn would collapse in minutes. 

Artie was slumped against the door – breathing slow and heavy.  Burgundy fluid poured over his collar.  Artie had drawn the metal from his carotid, which was not good, as it was allowing the blood to drain from his body.  Unfettered.  Artie sagged to the side, mouth hanging open, as a stream pulsed out of this hole in his throat.  Bright red blood was spraying everywhere. 

There were voices nearby. 

Voices speaking in German.

The voice closest to my ear was grating…  Furious with an uneven pitch.  Hacking out some angry protest, almost hysterical, before sniggering like a child and then shrieking again.  A second person responded, sternly silencing the first.  Clipped and clear.  This new voice sounded older: gravelly and much more sober.  I didn’t speak a word of German and yet I was positive they were arguing.  A third voice grunted sparingly from behind the hay. 

I ignored the Germans and turned to help my friend.  Artie was dying… he would bleed to death without a doubt.  We locked eyes and it became obvious that Artie knew what was happening.  His gaze was terrified.  Artie gagged, breathlessly wheezing for help.  I leaned over and went to hold my best friend.  As our fingers touched, a muddy black boot knifed through the air. 

Shattering my hand. 

I yipped in fear and fell back.

“Amerikanischer Feigling.”

I clutched my shattered hand and stared as our assailant.  The German had pale blonde hair combed fastidiously to the side.  Tousled with dirt and sweat.  Like crops in blight.  Something familiar…  Now I remembered.  The color reminded me of summers in Grafton, when droughts left the sweet corn parched and sickly.  Below the ugly hair were his eyes.  Silvery firmament flecked with russet.  Boyish features that masked his true age. 

Panting and wiping a line of spittle, the German solider stared hungrily between us wounded Americans.  He looked like he wanted to eat us.  A moment later, a second soldier came and stood next to the first.  This man was older.  Handsome yet crooked features.  Eyes, nose and jaw off-center.  Salt-and-pepper hair that hugged his ears; leathery skin lined by seasons.  Square jaw in need of a shave.  Next came a face with a rusted red beard. 

The giant who had pulled us inside. 

There was an escalation of yelling, and I felt absolutely certain that the Germans were debating what do with us.  The blonde man was making horrid choking sounds and digging his nails into his own cheeks.  That stuff was terrifying… This was a soldier taken by frenzy. 

Suddenly, I noticed something.

In the corner of the barn was a box.

It was the same box that had been bouncing in the back of the German’s jeep as they sped away from the beach. Looking closely, I saw it was a heavy, ornate coffin, hewed from iron and bronze. Thick chains were wrapped around the center of the box.

And it was… shaking?

At that moment, the side of the barn transformed into blinding light. The Sherman had fired another shell from the causeway, and the force of the explosion snapped Artie’s head back, killing him instantly.  Maybe mercifully, I thought in the days that followed. The Germans were also flung backwards, violently, into the rear of the barn, where all three slumped like ragdolls. 

The strange box was upended, and the chains disturbed.

In my wounded state…

I heard that weird, animal cry…

“We’re all gonna die at some point, Eugene.”

The blonde solider sat up, screaming and holding his hand where his middle and pointer fingers had been lopped off by shrapnel.  The older German was clutching his knee.  The red-bearded giant – seemingly uninjured – raced to the far end of the barn and unbolted a heavy sliding door. 

The giant opened the gate.

I saw the tan-colored jeep. 

The older soldier on the ground began to shout as the blonde German pushed to his feet and limped towards me.  When he reached yours truly, the blonde bent down low, snapping loudly and trying to catch my attention.  I was fading fast… slipping into darkness.

I felt the wounded hand – the one absent two fingers – tapping my nose. 

The blonde unholstered his pistol and slid the gun into my mouth.  The steel scratched my lips as the barrel thrust over my tongue and deep into my throat, choking me.  The German was talking to himself, very quietly, while the pistol shivered in his hand. 

The barrel was chipping my teeth.  So I bit down, hard. Trying to make it stop.  The German spoke louder now. Jabbing his severed fingers at his own eyes.

Asking me to look…

I was ready…

BANG!

Suddenly, the coffin on the floor.

It burst apart into pieces.

“Was ist passiert?”

I heard the most terrible sound…

An inhuman wailing filled the air.

“Nein! Die Frau!”

The gun vanished from my mouth as the blonde jumped to his feet, rejoining his comrades as they aimed their guns in fright towards the dust that filled the air.

Coughing as a strange mist entwined with the smoked filling the barn. I choked on the acrid mixture, rubbing my eyes and trying to make sense of what I could see.

There was a woman standing there…

Right where the coffin had been.

It was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She was tall and slender, with dark brown hair that cascaded down the moonlight skin of her neck and back. A white frock of sorts adorned her shoulders and covered her body. She had a slight hunch, and I noticed with amazement that she was holding a long metal scythe. The same kind like grandpa used in the summer fields as a kid.

“W – what?” I tried to stammer.

As captivating as she was, the woman was screaming the most horrible sound you could possible imagine. I realized this was the same strange wailing I had heard from the Higgins as we had approached Utah beach. That seemed a lifetime ago! The sound was so terrible that I worried I would go deaf. Not that it mattered much given the fact that I was bleeding out from my leg wounds.

I covered my ears.

What the hell was she?

It was truly the worst sound!

The Germans were yelling and began firing their weapons at the woman in white. The blonde used his pistol while the others unloaded their submachine guns. The lady was just a few feet away and their bullets tore her to bits. And yet? As each red hot piece of metal passed through her body with a bloom of flesh and blood? It was right away stitched and healed…

The Germans went to reload their guns. My eyes went wide as the lady reached back with the scythe, bellowing furiously. With one graceful swipe: she cast her steel blade forward and simultaneously decapitated the three men in a single stroke. I saw their heads thud lifelessly on the ground and their bodies collapsed in a tidy row. My mind was doing loops.

“Please… don’t hurt me…”

The spectral woman lifted me from the burning hay and held me in her arms. I was very close to her face, and even though I was dying? I couldn’t help but remark at her porcelain skin. Her piercing blue eyes that seemed to peer well past my soul.

For some strange reason?

I didn’t feel scared.

I was sure that I was about to go join Artie and so I just focused on my prayers and wished that my wife back home would forgive me for leaving her sooner than I wished.

That she’d be proud.

And go on living life.

The maiden was looking deep into my eyes. Her expression was one of strange concern and patient understanding. Her white lips moved as she spoke an unknowable language.

Some intense, vibrating sensation began to fill my body as she held my arms and began to twirl. The lady held me tight, holding my body as we danced in the middle of that burning barn. She was very strong, and my legs were lifted from the ground. Bullets shattered the crumbling structure.

“What’s… happening?” I asked.

She smiled at me as we twirled and twirled and twirled. This was not any smile I had seen before. I saw the design of the universe in her expression. And, as I passed into darkness? I knew that everything would be okay. That she had chosen that I should live.

When I woke up next?

I was in a hospital…

It took six months, but they somehow saved my legs. Still have a limp to this day. I wasn’t able to return to the war, sadly. As much as I wanted to keep fighting. I prayed for the strength to avenge Artie, and Joe, and all my fellow warriors who gave everything for what they believed in, but it wasn’t meant to be. I was discharged and sent back home to heal and find new purpose.

I spend every day missing them.

Artie, Joe and the rest of my guys.

Wishing I could’ve done more to help.

I breathlessly explained what happened to my doctors, friends and wife. They all just looked at me with pity. Can ya blame them? It was really frustrating for me, to be honest, for years. But after a while? I simply accepted that I had seen something that they weren’t able to understand and never would. I tried to research what it could’ve been, but I’m not good at that stuff.

And eventually? Life just went on.

The war ended, we had kids.

I’m a grandpa now myself.

Like mine, I tell the young ones never to smoke and to always fight for what’s good in this world. Other stuff somehow became more important than what happened that day.

The end of my natural life is close now, and I’m at peace. Guess you could say it makes sense enough, looking back on it as I’ve been doing.

A miracle in more ways than one.

And yet, in the dead of night? When I’m alone with my thoughts? I see that coffin tearing apart in the burning barn. I tremble at her magnificence…

The maiden who saved me.