Normandy

“Marines don’t die, we just go to hell to regroup.”

United States Marine Corps

I sit nauseous, rocking back and forth in the landing

craft that bears us to the beach. My Garand lies cold

in my hands, fingers too numb to clutch it tightly.

Naval fire rips the sky asunder like God’s own fist

smiting the Jerries and their concrete bunkers.

Fighters duel overhead in streaks of brown and green

and white and black dancing a ballet of death as beautiful

as it is lethal. Stray fire from both sides lifts sprays of seawater

into the air, which looks and feels and sounds and speeds

like machinegun fire, sending us diving for the LCA’s gunwales.

We jolt forward as the craft hits the beach and the ramp slams down

in a column of seaspray. The ell-tee orders us forward and we

charge onward, darting for tank traps scattered like jacks on the sand.

Nicholas Garino