“I’m in Hell”, he thought, “this is Hell.” Before Jonathan Woodrow could finish his thought, he was violently shoved onto the ground by an artillery blast. Sand and debris flew high into the air, covering Jon with a fine tan dust, as he laid on his back.  Even as the world around him erupted with sounds of  total war; men shouting, the cracking of rifles, machine guns firing, bullets whizzing furiously, smashing into the ground far too close for comfort, and the roar of the rough surf drowning out the cries of the wounded, Jon seemed only focused on the gray early morning sky of June 6, 1944. As he gazed up towards the heavens, the chaos unfolding around him seemed to fade away.

“Let’s get moving, Corporal!” A deep and angry voice interrupted the day dream. Jon had zoned out for a moment, and looking over his shoulder he saw Colonel George A. Taylor standing in the surf but a few feet from his head."There are two kinds of people who are staying on this beach: those who are dead and those who are going to die. Now let’s get the hell out of here.” That was all the motivation Jon needed. Still under heavy machine and artillery fire, Jon slowly rose up from the sand and followed Colonel Taylor, who was now a good 40 feet ahead of him. Taylor continued onward into the unfolding chaos, gathering anyone left leaderless.

“See that sand dune? That’s our objective. Get there, and we still have a chance of surviving this. Now get moving!” Barked Taylor as another artillery blast sent sand high into the air.
Jon ran forward, though still shaken from the first artillery blast, towards a sand dune and out of the open where men were being torn to ribbons. The machine gun fire seemed to intensify with every step taken closer to the bunkers that overlooked the beach of Omaha, the menacing sight of Hitler’s Atlantic Wall. Jon’s six foot two frame hit the sand dune hard, and he was breathing heavily. Fewer men than he had expected made to the sand dune, and when he looked out towards the sea, he saw countless broken and mangled bodies of his brethren. He saw young men’s bodies tangled in barbed wire. He saw entire landing crafts be ripped apart from a single artillery blast, consuming all hands instantly in a massive explosion. Jon looked on, helplessly watching his comrades fall as they courageously pushed forward into near certain death. Suddenly, a body practically dove on Jon. Jon screamed, more out of surprise than pain of being crushed. A small man, roughly five foot five and lightly built rolled off of him.

“Hey Buddy!” the grime covered face called cheerfully.

“William, is that you?” Jon said, his voice shaking.

“The one and only.” the dirty face said in a smooth voice.

“William Smith, I thought you were dead! I hadn’t seen you since boarding the landing craft!” Jon’s voice was filled with excitement. He had meet William during basic, while stateside. That was almost three years ago, they had fought in North Africa, Landed in Sicily, and fought together in the mountains of Italy. They were more than comrades, they were brothers.

“You should've known better than that!” said William with a chuckle. “ You know-”
William was cut off by Taylor’s sharp tone “ I’d hate to break up such a lovely reunion, but we have a beach head to secure! Let’s get off our lazy rear ends and take out those MGs, they’re tearing us apart!” Before either one of them could react to Taylor’s commands, a grenade landed between  the two friends.

“Grenade!” yelled William, who without hesitation leaped on top of it. What was only a mere few seconds felt like a lifetime as Jon watched William be thrown violently up into the air by the blast.

“NO!” yelled Jon, as he ran back out into the open to where his friend laid. The bullets were smashing the ground around him, throwing up sand and dust, but Jon didn’t notice, or he didn’t care.

“Stay with me William, come on man, STAY WITH ME!” Jon repeated several times. William was mortally wounded, and was bleeding perpetually from his abdomen.

“Medic, MEDIC!” Jon frantically cried.

“Corporal, GET BACK HERE!” Screamed Taylor, but Jon ignored him.

“Come on Buddy, don’t quit on me now!” Jon was losing his cool, and he was losing him. William only made eye contact, and gave a simple nod as if to say; It’s alright Jon, it’s alright. Jon was holding William in his arms as he passed. Jon rose up from the ground, William’s body still in his hands, and sprinted back to the dune. There a medic began to check him, but it was too late.

Jon’s heart became violent inside of his chest. His blood began to boil, his eyes a stinging red. As Jon watched more of his comrades fall, his anger only intensified. Something changed inside of him on that day, the war had was no longer just a phase of his life, it had become personal. War had taken away his best friend, his brother. “I’ll end this war, even if it’s the last thing I do.”  Jon thought, full of anger and malice. “They will pay for what they have done to you.” He thought as he looked over were William? laid.

“Up and over soldiers! You heard me, let’s go!” Shouted Jon angrily. “ Come on, let’s get going!” Jon screamed at the soldiers, who were now becoming more afraid of him than the hail of bullets that facing them. Jon was rambling like a devil, screaming and hissing like a madman.

“We'll be torn apart out there!” protested a soldier.

“We can't stay here while our men are being killed!” Jon screamed back over the roar of Hitler’s buzzsaws, MG 42s

“You heard the man, go, go, go!” Shouted Taylor in agreement.
The men, at first hesitant, began to sprint gallantly into the hail of machine gun fire. Jon lead the pack as they all ran together like a wolf pack as they sprint through the forest during twilight, until they reached the bunker. The bunker was tall, dark and gray, with the only source of light coming from the roaring machine guns. Jon studied his surroundings, and motioned a few men to plant satchel charges. They placed a few charges on the rusted iron door that stood between them and the inhabitants of the bunker. The few remaining soldiers readied themselves to breach the bunker. Jon loaded his M1 Garand, and aimed it towards the door.

“Blow it!” Yelled Jon, and the bunker door blew open in a cloud of dust and fire. Angry and frightened shouts could be heard from inside as the soldiers rushed in. Over to the left corner Jon saw movement, and without hesitation fired three shots. The figure, back arched upwards, stumbled backwards and collapsed. Within the same instant a German Officer walked through a door the the right, armed with a handgun, and quickly gunned down two of the soldiers. Jon instantly spun around and fired the remaining five rounds at the officer. Bing! The empty clip ejected from his rifle.The officer fell to his knees with a mighty groan of agony, slowly leaned to his right, and collapsed onto the floor. Jon stayed focused on the body of the officer as the remaining troops cleared the bunker. A very short, but intense firefight broke out, and ended when the remaining Germans surrendered. 

“Clear!” called a soldier.

“Clear” continued the echo.

“ Nice work Corporal, you got an officer.” said Colonel Taylor as he began to search the body. “Crazy Nazis, the world's better off with one less of his kind. How do you feel?” Jon was too focused on the officer’s lifeless face to hear the Colonel’s words. The man was young, no older than his early twenties, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. He looked much like his late friend, William, only taller. Jon continued his study of the officer as Colonel Taylor shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the bunker.

“I have avenged you, brother.” he said quietly in the darkness of the bunker. “Why do I feel so empty then?” Jon asked himself inside his head. “I got him, but I don't feel any better” The sun carefully peaked through the overcast skies, and through an opening in the bunker, most likely made by the naval support. Jon looked up towards the heavens, and saw the silhouettes of P-51 Mustang fighters in the sunlight for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

40 Years Later

Jon stood atop the rocky bluff overlooking the beach, which now had dozens of beach goers playing and resting on its soft sands. Jon’s hair, now silver in color, blew gently in the salty  breeze. Children's laughter and seabirds’ calls could be heard. The bunkers were gone, no barbed wire lied on the sand. The sun shone proudly through the occasionally cloud, with the sky a deep crisp blue. Standing next to him were his two grown sons, who were looking over several of his grandchildren. Jon slowly turned around, and began his way towards the thousands of white marble crosses and Stars of David, aided by a cane. He waked for some time, but he knew exactly who he was looking for. He stopped when he found a marker that read in plain text: PRIVATE WILLIAM N. SMITH 1924-1944. Tears began to sting his eyes as he knelt in the grass next to his friend.

“Hey Buddy” His voice cracking, “I just-” his voice broke, “ I just wanted to say thank you for the last time-”  he started again, “Thank you William. Without you, I wouldn’t of made it off the beach. I wouldn’t of had two sons or my grandchildren. Thank you, brother, you won’t be forgotten.” The tears were rolling down his cheeks unopposed, and Jon slowly stood back up, remembering the times that they had taken on the world’s greatest evil together. He remembered his c***y smile, his larger than life attitude, and overall charisma. He remembered William’s final moments of life, and how peaceful he looked, even as he faced death.

“Thank you, brother.” Jon thought. Then Jon walked alone, away from the beach for the last time.
END