WW2.1: Beachhead

Father Weston droned on in Latin. Barry Grant had never learned Latin, but the rhythm of Mass was comforting. He glanced around at the other soldiers here to take communion and receive the blessing of the church. They would need all the comfort and blessing they could get when they reached their objective. He saw a few heads up like his, not bowed in reverence or prayer, but restless in the knowledge of what they were tasked to do all too soon.

The soldier next to Barry jerked his head up to look incredulously at Father Weston. Rob Harris was the smartest person Barry knew and taught biology at a college in Vermont before elisting. And he knew Latin.

"What?" whispered Barry.

"He's not giving Mass anymore."

Barry returned his attention to the priest. He was still droning on in Latin, but it wasn't the familiar patterns he'd grown up with. If Rob hadn't said anything, he'd have chalked it up to differences between English and American Mass, or even accent. Brits spoke English funny, why not Latin?

He listened a little longer before whispering again to his increasingly wide-eyed friend.

"What's he saying then."

"It's weird. He's charging us with taking the enemy's position and, well, forbidding us to die until we're done."

"Forbidding us to die?"

"It's weirder than that. He's talking about our souls and a power that transcends the grave and a sacred quest."

"What do you think it means?"

"I have no idea."

Three days later, Barry was wet and cold, huddled in a landing boat with his rifle clutched to his chest. He'd been sick enough times that he had nothing left to give. He was so numb with misery that he didn't care enough to be scared. What would happen would happen, and it would be a relief just to get out of the boat, even if he died in the surf without even stepping onto the beach. He'd long since stopped flinching at the sounds of the guns. One direct hit, and his ordeal would be over.

"Ready, boys!" shouted their section sergeant. "We're almost there! Run for your fucking lives and kill anything that tries to stop you!"

Barry automatically checked his kit. Everything seemed right. He could feel the fear creep back into him as the minute approached. He and his company would jump out of this tub and straight into the German defenses on Omaha Beach in Northern France, a faraway land from his New Jersey home, a place where you heard stories of men visiting in their youth to fall in love with beautiful women.

He was here to kill and maybe die.

Ahead of him, the gate dropped into the surf and the lead rank of men jumped out into the waist deep water. The rest surged forward, and now Barry could hear the machineguns as well as the artillery. Then he was in the icy cold water, struggling against the waves, and no longer caring about incoming fire.

Men, dead and alive, were already on the beach. When the surf rolled out, bodies were left on the wet sand. Absurdly, it struck Barry to step carefully.

Soon, the water was shallow enough that he could break into a sprint. He could see cover ahead, where men were catching their breath and counting their blessings. With safety in sight, Barry and a cluster of men pounded the sand, seemingly untouched by the bullets flying around them.

It couldn't last, and the man directly in front of Barry jerked twice and lost his stride, falling and tripping Barry into a heap with him. Struggling to get up, it occurred to Barry for a second to check the man, but there was so much blood, he had no doubt the man was gone.

Coming to his feet and stepping out to run again, pain lanced up his right leg, and he fell again. Struggling up again, he found a crucifix dangling in front of his eyes and then a hand offered to help him up.

He looked up to see the man he'd just written off as dead gesturing impatiently for him to take his hand, blood and sand matted across his shirt. Barry took the proferred hand and was practically thrown to his feet, but again his right leg would not take his weight and he fell again.

This time, he felt himself lifted and carried across the other's shoulder.

"Leave me," he grunted against the jouncing as the man incredibly broke into a run.

"Shut up," came the oddly deadpan answer, impossibly not showing the exertion that it should have.

And before he knew it, he was among the men huddled under the cover of a jumble of rocks. Only two had watched them arrive, and they were clearly shocked at what they'd seen.

"How did you..." one began.

"I don't know," was all his rescuer said as he pulled at his shirt to look at his wounds. "Shit. This is bad. I don't have much time. I don't know why I'm not already dead. I can't believe I can't feel it."

Barry tested his leg again, but it was hopeless.

"I can't get any further like this, but maybe I can cover you guys," he said and checked his rifle.

"You can cover us better with this. I'll trade you."

Barry looked up to see another man unstrapping his Browning automatic rifle and pulling off extra ammunition belts and pouches.

"I hate carrying this thing anyway. We lost Johnson on the beach, but March there has more of my ammo."

Another man handed over two belts and a large pouch, as the B.A.R. gunner showed Barry how to use the big gun.

When everyone else was ready to move out, Barry braced himself up with one leg and settled the gun on the rocks on its bipod, taking aim at the closest visible defensive emplacement. He squeezed the trigger and unleashed an extended burst at the openings.

Whether his aim was true or not, it would keep the Germans' heads down, and the American soldiers began to swarm up the rocks and debris. Barry watched for any movement in the enemy's cover, and showered it with bullets whenever he saw any.

The tactic was working, and soon the lead men were close enough to throw several grenades. While the grenades were still flying, one of them, his shirt covered in his own blood, charged ahead, unbelievably leaping up the slope toward the Germans. As he reached the low wall, he ducked just in time for the grenades to land among the enemy and explode, and then he vaulted among them and the screams started.

While the screams of the German soldiers continued, the most gruesome smell Barry had ever encountered reached his nose. He turned his head to look upwind, toward the sea, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

They were gaunt and grey, uniforms and clothes in various states of repair hung from their forms. They walked clumsily but steadily toward him, swords, knives, clubs, chair legs, and claw-like hands lifted in menace.

Barry pulled the B.A.R. around as quickly as he could and pulled the trigger. His hand clenched in panic, he couldn't stop firing until the belt was expended, and still they came.

He was trying to get the next belt started when they were on him. He fell beneath blows and stabs and slashes, and yet found a peaceful detached contentment that he had enabled his friends and fellow soldiers to reach better cover and closer to their objective. He very nearly smiled as his vision faded to black.

The sense of purpose that filled him chased away all other considerations. He was not done here, and he stood to resume his duty, cadaverous attackers still clinging to his limbs and body. With almost casual disregard, he tore them from him and flung them away, kicking them back down again when they rose to attack again. He stepped to where the B.A.R. had fallen, vaguely curious that his leg no longer pained him as he retrieved it. The weapon seemed very light in his hands as he calmly fed the next belt of ammunition, turned to the regrouping lifeless horrors, and methodically dismembered them with extended bursts of bullets.

When his grisly task was done he looked back up the hill where the other soldiers were staring down at him and the scene around him. He walked up toward them as he again changed the gun's belt, stopping at last in front of the man who had carried him from the beach.

"Something has happened to us."

"I know."

He stuck out his hand, "Name's Grant."

"Cecil Williams. Go by Will."

"Barry," he answered as Will took his hand. "I think we're dead."

"Then let's make it count."

That day, D-Day, as American blood was spilled on Omaha and Normandy Beaches on the North coast of France, faithful Catholic men rose from where they fell dead, filled with the strength of purpose and duty, and lead their fellows through a harrowing defense of artillery, guns, and mindless walking corpses. When the last Nazi flag fell, and the field was theirs, they finally succumbed to their mortal wounds and fell dead again.

Their bodies were carefully boxed by medical corpsmen with specific instructions, and they were loaded back onto one of the assault ships. They were taken to an undisclosed location where they waited to serve their country one final time.