Normandy

“The world was on fire. The beach, the sky, even the water seemed to be set ablaze that morning. The racket of those machine guns sounded like the devil had summoned his own choir to welcome us ashore with their singing. The whistle of the bullets ricocheting off the steel plating of our Higgins Boats acted as a siren of inevitable doom, searching for a target they could penetrate. My boot soles drowned in my vomit as I anticipated what was to come next. Right there, the minute those ramps were lowered and we became sitting ducks for a war party of bloodthirsty Germans, I decided something.”

The room grew silent as the storyteller’s gaze drifted into the kitchen at the clanging of pots and pans.

“What did you decide, Grampa?” Joshua asked curiously. The 20-year-old sat across from his grandfather, eagerly waiting to hear how the story continued. His imagination ran wild as images of soldiers, gunfire, and boats flashed before his eyes.

“What did I decide?” the old man continued after a few long seconds before he looked his grandson in the eyes. “I decided there was no god. Not when there is horror like that. No loving god can rain such cruelty upon people. No god should allow us humans to act like rabid wolves.” The young man leaned back in his chair; his face lit up by the fireplace they were huddled by.

“Alright, boys, five more minutes,” a woman’s voice announced from the kitchen. Her words were followed by the rich aroma of pot roast.

“What happened next, Grampa?” the grandson inquired, clearly shaken by his grandfather’s last statement. Grandpa drew a breath from his pipe and leaned back in his rocking chair. His knees were shaky, and pearls of sweat started to form on his forehead.

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” Joshua continued quietly and placed his hand on his grandpa’s shivering leg.

“Now, now, young lad, I was the one to start this conversation, and with good reason.” His wrinkled hand patted a worn-out leather booklet on his lap titled Memoirs. “My days will have soon been counted, and I will bestow upon you my experiences, but first, I must prepare you for what you will read in here.” With a quick swipe of the handkerchief, the old man dried his brow and continued with the story. “The ramp was lowered, and we were ordered to wade through the water and storm the French beaches. Donny, to my left, was shot first. He fell before he even took a single step. Robert and Lou were next. Cut down. Me and Val, we were the first ones off the boat. The water came up to my chin. The soft sands of the seafloor grabbed my boots and tried to pull me under. The waves around me sloshed saltwater into my eyes, impeding my vision. My ears were filled with the cries of the wounded that turned to gargles as they slowly slipped beneath the surface. Those 100 yards I had to walk to get to dry land felt like swimming against a torrent current amidst a hailstorm. I reached the beach and looked around to see how many from my boat had made it ashore. I spotted two others out of the 36 men I had started with: Val and Miles, and me. We had made it to the beach. Behind me and to my left and right, I saw the other men scrambling towards land, the water turning a pale red with the blood of those brave soldiers. I turned my head back towards the cliffs and hills that lay before me. Perched atop them were the German “Wiederstandsnester”- the defensive fortifications where the machine gunners had set themselves up to stop our invasion. It was a clash of wills. Two worlds collided, each wishing to subdue the other. By the souls of my comrades, those beaches morphed into the riverbank of the Styx.”

“Is that where you met Johann?” Joshua had heard his grandpa mention this name before. A dark shadow would then always cover his face. He knew Johann was somewhat of a friend Grandpa had made during his time in Europe and was confused as to why Johann never came by for a visit. Grandpa had never before given an answer.

“No, no, son. I did not meet Johann until I escaped the horrid beach and made my way farther inland.”

He stood up and paced back and forth, cradling his walking cane in both arms.

“With only my M1 Garand in my hand, I had survived the gunmen and their wall of bullets. My head was ringing, and my hands and uniform were covered in sand. My mind kept jumping back and forth between my salty tongue and burning scratches and Donny, Robert, and Lou, who had been shot down before even raising their gun. They had done nothing! They were sent there to die, to be targets so others like me could make it to land. I spotted a bomb crater from a distance of about 50 yards out and started running towards it, desperate to escape the war and death happening above ground. The crater measured only about a dozen feet in diameter. I jumped over the raised dirt rim and slid into the center along its slick mud walls. It was silent down there. The gunshots echoed distantly. I closed my eyes and could see fireworks. The cries of pain turned to laughter. I hugged my M1 and tried to slow my breathing.”

Grandma came into the room with a big cast iron pot in her hands. She placed it on the table and looked over at her grandchild, locked into her husband's story of his earlier life. “Alright, sweeties, food is ready; you can go wash up,” she said softly, not wanting to interrupt but also wishing to pull her husband from his thoughts. Neither of the men looked her way.

“And that,” Grandpa continued, “that is where I met Johann - in that bomb crater.” His eyes began to well up. Wrinkles covered his forehead as he raised his eyebrows in sorrow. Rubbing his face with his callused hand, he looked up at the ceiling, fighting back the tears before he was able to calm his breathing, and the story went on. “Not a minute after I had taken shelter, did another soldier scamper over the crater's edge and slide to safety. I could tell by his uniform that he was German. My heart froze as our eyes locked. His face showed an expression of bewilderment. He stood only seven feet away from me. I was lying with my back against the ascending crater wall, my bayonetted rifle pointed at his chest. The fireworks and laughter I had heard just seconds before turned back to cries and the racket of machine guns. Then, every sound grew silent. My world became reduced to the German soldier, me, and the distance between us. The German slowly raised his own rifle, a Mauser, I believe he called it. His shoulders trembled. He couldn’t have been more than 17 years old. For a moment, we stood there on knife’s edge with one foot in the afterlife.”

The room grew silent. Grandma had taken a seat at the dining table and was now listening intently as well. She feared what would come next. She had never heard this story before but knew something had happened in that bomb crater. Something that had left a deep scar.

Grandpa raised his cane slowly. His right eye gazed down its shaft before he tucked his chin, and his lip began to quiver.

“And then,” he said silently, “I pulled the trigger.”

“The butt of my M1 recoiled into my shoulder. Johann’s body collapsed to the ground in a heap. He was no different than Donny or Lou, who lifelessly lay in the Higgins boat. He was now only a body, a uniform, a rank, a name: Johann. I lay there silently and trembled as the horror of reality came crashing down on me, and I cried out loud. I spent the next hours in that crater, overwhelmed by emotions and guilt. I saw only one escape. I pulled my sidearm from my holster and chambered a round.”

“That would have been justice. That would have been what I deserved.”

Grandpa's voice stuck in his throat as memories flooded back from their grave. That was the day he was forced to see more than the good in himself. He had come face to face with the darkness in the world and the darkness in himself. He had felt it grasping for his heart. Returning from his thoughts, he carried on, “The wind picked up as a storm brewed in my soul. A thought started to form in my mind, and I came to know something: Amidst all that chaos and fear, there is a god, and he is watching over me. There is a god, but he is not alone, and his authority does not go unchallenged.”

With those words, Grandpa walked back to the chair. He grabbed his memoirs and handed the booklet over to Joshua. “Do not judge me, son,” he pleaded softly.