Utah

We had often heard tell of warm and welcoming climes in the lands south of the English channel. Many amongst us had known those lands for their eternal sunshine, for their beaches of soft, white sand and for the magnificent cities which lay beyond. Yet, our venture into French territory that dreaded summer’s day, was anything but welcoming. On that very day, the sun did not emerge. It hid behind a sky of pale grey. What little sunlight did seep through, conversely, quickly succumbed to an emerging cloud of black smoke which swelled from the beach head.

We were welcomed by a sound of unrelenting machinegun fire, of which rained down upon us from every conceivable angle. It struck our Higgin’s boat more times than I could have counted, particularly in that flustered state of mind. If that wasn’t bad enough, we also had to contend with Gerry’s mortar fire, each of us standing helplessly as shells splashed disconcertingly beside the LCVP en route to the beachhead.

My superiors had sent us all into a living hell - and we were none the wiser for thinking this call to arms would make make us all heroes. They sent us all to our deaths, crammed within vessels of iron, just like sardines in a tin can.

As if suddenly awakening from a deep reverie, I had just become aware of the man to my left owing to the repetitive metallic clanking noises his flask made as he attempted to take a swig from it. The bespectacled youth’s hand were trembling so violently that it begged the question as to how much of it he actually drank. It wasn’t until a stern voice called unto him that he decided to abandon all hopes entirely.

“Get a grip son,” said a man to my right, who was taking a drag out of his cigarette. This man carried himself in the same manner most veteran American soldiers had, with an air of confidence which was almost tangible. As he spoke, he stared ahead towards the shoreline, wide-armed and square-jawed; and his undying gaze did not waver even as he addressed the boy who trembled. “If we’re to die today, we’ll die as men, y’hear?”

Perturbed, the boy cast his flask aside, instead opting to re-align the round glasses sliding off the edge of his nose. Not that it mattered, the thick black smoke around us was enough to leave us in complete darkness until our eventual touchdown in shallow waters. “If this ain’t FUBAR, I don’t know what is, Mason”, he said.

“FUBAR?” I said, dumbfounded. These Americans had such a way with words.

“Relax son, air support should’a demolished these bastards long before our coming”, said Mason. He then turned to face me, “and just where the hell are you from, anyway? That accent sure as hell ain’t American,” he added, gruffly.

“I’m... I’m from Malta,” I stuttered, not that I expected him to know where Malta was actually located.

“Holy dog shit!” he said with a tone of assent. “Ain’t you boys the farmin’ type? The hell y’all doin here?”

I hadn’t taken offense. In truth, amid the increasing sounds of machine gun fire and death taking place around me, any attempt at an insult towards my heritage was rather laughable. 

Mason chuckled, even amid the darkness and the odd whizzing of bullets. I could not help laugh with him. In my mind, the prospect of death beyond the tall iron doors of the LCVP was a sure thing - no sense being grim about it. He simply held out his arm. “Mason,” he said sharply, “and the maverick beside you is Johnson. For the last time son... get a grip!”

The boy with the round glasses did not answer. He merely gulped, hugging his M1 carbine as if it were an enlarged, metallic teddy bear.

“Carmelo,” I said, addressing Mason. As I turned to him, I noticed him staring at the iron crucifix dangling from my neck.

“Car-melo?” Mason twisted his face. He had obviously never heard such a name before. “Look more like a holy boy if you ask me. Think I’ll call you… ‘Bible’. You a believer, son?”

“We’ll see.” I replied.

The barge’s rise and fall had begun to die down in the moments which followed. That, coupled with the now-deafening sounds of mortar-fire had only meant one thing.

We had finally arrived.

In that moment, another American, a Captain, called out to us from the front. His hand remained clasped around the lever of the front door as the landing craft came to a slow and steady halt. He shouted instructions towards us, all-the-while signaling which direction we had to sprint towards with his free hand. I nodded in understanding. Though like many others, there wasn’t much else I could gleam from his orders other than ‘get to safety’ and ‘rendezvous’. Yet, if the unyielding gunfire was of any indication, ‘getting to safety’ was by no means, a plan to object to.

Once the sound of gunfire had reached a deafening threshold in our ears, our landing craft had come to an abrupt halt. It lodged itself across the sand of the shallow waters - it was the sign we had all been dreading. To make matters worse, the already malodorous black smoke now brought forth the additional rancid smell of death. With our Higgin’s finally at a standstill, the captain’s hand rose up high. He folded his fingers into a number ‘three…’

Then into a ‘two…’

Then into a ‘one…’

But before we could make our way out, a large bang reverberated from the base of the barge, with it, a powerful explosion launched the entire vessel upwards amid a chorus of panicked screams from the men alongside me. It cast us all out of the boat and into the cold sea of ‘La Manche’. Rifle, pistol, grenades… I watched helplessly as each item I could have used to increase my chances of survival had suddenly scattered into the sea. With them, gone were any lingering hopes I may have had of surviving the ordeal ahead. For a fleeting moment I had wondered whether I was in fact, dead, succumbed to German artillery in the same quick fashion as many before me. Yet, once my body found its way out of the air and into the ice cold water below, I knew that it was all just wishful thinking. It wasn’t until a hand had taken me by the scruff of my neck, that I was able to regain my footing once more. 

“On your feet, Bible!” Mason’s voice bellowed as he dragged me to a sandy shoreline. “Get your ass behind some cover! Now!”

He needn’t have told me twice. With as much haste as I could muster, I dived behind the first thing I could find - one of the many rusted hedgehogs lining the beachhead. I ducked under it, without so much as a second thought, all-the-while attempting to shrink myself down to the size of a mouse in hopes that no bullet would make its way through one of the many openings. In my attempt, I caught sight of a familiar object sitting neatly beside the hedgehog - a pair of round spectacles, broken and drenched in blood.

I was shortly joined by Mason, who simply jogged to my position whilst callously firing his weapon in the direction of the enemy.

“Where’s Johnson?” I shouted.

Mason did not answer. Instead he inclined his head, nodding to my left. Johnson, or what was left of him at least, was indeed lying there.

“We gotta make our way there!” Mason yelled, as more men convened to our position, each among them returning fire with the same tenacity as that of the enemy. Mason pointed towards a low, grassy ridge to the west of the beach. Many of our boys had already established a foothold there. That, it would seem, was the rendezvous.

I wanted to agree, though try as I might, words could not escape me. Between the whizzing of bullets, the sound of explosions, the smell of death and Johnson… it was all too much for what Mason correctly termed ‘a farmer’. Thought it wasn’t until he caught me by the throat once again, this time staring at me with a look of pure rage, that I began to understand that there was hope yet. “Get the fuck up there!” He cried, “Move!”

Taking Johnson’s bloodstained rifle, I turned on my heels and fled, hurtling through mazes of barbed wire and running as fast as I could towards the grassy platform Mason had previously indicated. He remained close behind me, taking shots with his heavy machine gun. Sure enough, we had come by a sward of tall, green grass which stretched out as far as the eye could see. In better days, one could easily admire the beauty of the open plain, though in that moment, the beauty of the beach was overshadowed with scenes of violence emanating from a network of trenches which lay just below. Regardless, by reaching that position, it had suddenly dawned upon me that we were clear of the black smoke which occluded our view of the German defenses.

Our boys, of which were mostly American, had already flooded the trenches in great-a-number. They were shortly joined by myself and the gruff American who had callously pushed me over the parapet and into the trench. He followed, discarding his weapon in place of his handgun. As he took point, I followed too. I followed behind him through a dense network of passages and towards the sound of gunfire, taking my first shots at what seemed like a fleeing German guard.

It had all seemed to be going well, almost uncomfortably well. From well beyond our position, Mason and I could even hear American soldiers breaking into song. Had it been over already, I wondered?

As we swept through the trench, I was distracted by an ominous glint which shone from the sandbags behind the parados. Rifle in hand, I attempted to take aim, but I was too late. A German sentry emerged from behind the wall, aiming his pistol towards me. There was a loud ‘bang’.

The last thing I could remember, was falling into complete darkness amid a sensation of excruciating pain in my chest.

It had to be it, I thought. Death, such as it were, had found me at last. Though if I were truly dead, then how was I still able to hear the exchange of gunfire around me? How was I still able to hear the sound of song emerge from the west? How was I able to hear Mason muttering curses as he exchanged fire with the man who shot me?

My eyes had opened once again. This time, to the blurred sight of what seemed like Mason wrestling with a man in a grey coat. As my vision slowly restored, I was able to see that they were fighting over a Luger, presumably the last remaining loaded gun they could get their hands on. I blinked, repetitively, until the image of their tussle came into full view. Then, in silence, I drew Johnson’s rifle, aimed and fired.

Gerry was dead before he hit the ground.

I half expected Mason to turn around and thank me. Hell… I had just saved his life. Instead, he just stood there… grinning.

“Sun’s out,” he said, looking towards the now-clear sky, a sardonic smile gracing his blood-stained face.

He was right, the Sun had indeed emerged. It illuminated the green fields behind the Utah beachhead in a manner which I had yearned to see ever since learning of my involvement in operation ‘Overlord’. I couldn’t help but heave a heavy sigh, turning to face the tumultuous chorus of song breaking out as the American’s sang victory at the beach head. Soldiers carrying the star spangled banner drifted past me, carrying their rifles on their shoulders as if mere faggots of wood.

“Think it’s about time I ask again, Bible,” said Mason, “you a believer, son?

But before I could realize what he was on about, Mason gestured towards the iron crucifix around my neck - the one which now had a bullet lodged within it.