Warren Gantry stands at the bow of a landing craft on D-Day, holding back the mounting fear.
Grace
JP Sclafani
Warren Gantry squeezes his eyes closed, wishing with all his might that he could be anywhere else but here today in this stinking boat. The unyielding wind buffets his face with a stinging rain, but he is beyond caring. He is just trying to hold on, as the landing craft takes the crest of another wave, then slams down hard in its wake.
The 200, or so, soldiers huddle together, crammed in the long square bow, using each other for support against the violently, heaving sea. Lives crossed and then spliced together haphazardly toward a single goal. A multitude of bomber squadrons buzz overhead in mass formation against the gray morning sky stretching back from the horizon, like an endless swarm of angry bees. While a plethora of explosions and sounds of warfare sound in the distance.
A man next to Warren retches onto the floor, which is awash in sea water, vomit, urine and a host of unidentifiable matter which sloshes over their boots. The sea air is befouled with the stench of gasoline, gunpowder and human fetor.
"Please God"...pleads Warren, as the bitter taste of bile invades his mouth. His teeth are chattering uncontrollably as his body trembles, either from the cold misery, or the terror mounting inside. His bowels churn and he struggles against the need to release.
It is "D-Day", June 6, 1944, the day they have been training for these last few months. Everyone knew and anticipated it, but for the day to finally arrive, on such a miserable morning, was surely an odd awakening for most. The men were already fatigued from the 48 hour journey from Scotland. The stormy, unrelenting sea is an enemy that nobody can master, and the attack was already postponed from yesterday due to the horrendous weather conditions.
Warren glances at the terrified faces of the soldiers, thinking how many would not be making the return trip. Most, like himself, are just out of their teens.
A prayer he once read comes to mind, and he recites:
"We pray, oh Lord, for strength and courage that we may not falter in these days which try the souls of men..."
Warren's shivering has now turned to trembling, whether out of cold, or fear. But he would make it- he just had to. To honor his promise to Grace that he would return. He concentrates hard to form her image in his mind. Only she can comfort him in this, his hour of need. Soothing relief among so much insanity. It was her eyes; intelligent, yet soft and green as moss. Her gaze, like a caress that invites you in. He could almost smell the pleasant fragrance of her fine golden hair, like honeysuckle on a gentle spring breeze. He yearns to hold her, rest his weary head on her delicate shoulder, bury himself in her heavenly warmth.
"Grace", he says her name out loud. She is his reason to live. She stands before him, smiling, drawing him in close to her.
"Return to me". She says, letting her delicate nightgown slip to the floor. She takes his hand and places it tenderly on her naked flesh, just above her heart. "Heart of my heart". She whispers, trembling slightly at his touch. His hand lightly moves over the burgeoning swell of her breast. She emits a throaty breath as he brings his lips toward hers.
"I love all of you", he says. "You are my sanctuary".
A sharp explosion rattles the front of the craft, and machine gun bullets pepper the side. The landing crafts ramp slams open into the churning surf. "Let's go boys! make for the beach, whatever the cost, do not stop!" The sergeant's gravely voice yells amid the deafening turmoil and chaos surrounding them. Soldiers hop from the boat, some just fall into the swells and in no time are awash in the tempestuous sea amidst the floating debris and dead bodies.
The rat-a-tat, machine gun fire from the shore is unrelenting, and shells burst around them in watery explosions.
Warren freezes at the ramp, mouth agape, staring with wide eyes at the horror show before him. He bellows a war cry, rifle raised in defiance, and plunges down deep into battle.
You took on a daunting task of writing realistically about what it was like to go ashore on D-Day. From my view, you succeeded quite well. For the few that are still alive, I hope that you had interviewed one of them or heard one of them talk about it at some time.
Unlike most short stories. It doesn't come to any satisfactory conclusion. Just the reality of the beach battle about to begin for Warren. Certainly could be the first chapter of a novel.
Armageddon, a fact-based historical novel, is the third book of The First Strike Trilogy: A high-stakes race against time and politics unfolds in this gripping historical account of SIOP-62, revisit the tension of a pending nuclear attack, at a time
Mushroom Cloud, a fact-based historical novel, is the first book of The First Strike Trilogy: USA and the Soviet Union are building nuclear arms for a face off in a potential nuclear war in the late 1950's and early 1960's.
Grace
