Dead Fish, Dead GIs. [Erik, Two Others]

[Jamie-Todd Peterson]

Date: June 6, 1944

“As soon as the door opens, you get your asses out, you got that? As soon as you’re off, get up to that ridgeline and we will rendezvous there. You got that? No screwin’ around, just beeline right up there.” Captain Schaefer ordered, pointing a rough finger at an imposing cliff face. Through the ocean spray and the rocking Higgins’s Boat Pfc. Peterson could hardly make out the imposing steel bunkers strung across the rocky terrain beyond the landing beach. Jamie-Todd clutched his M1 Garand tight against him, remaining starkly silent and still, in contrast to the rest of the platoon crammed in the landing craft. Captain Schaefer dug a piece of Double Bubble gum from his tunic and stuck it in his mouth, leaving the wrapper to float to the floor and be trampled on by shuffling boots. Sergeant Brown crossed himself and kissed a rosary with puckered lips. Corporal Mercer vomited over the side of the craft. A whole mess of Privates did a thousand different things, and Jamie-Todd stood ramrod straight in the middle of it.

The craft crested a wave, sending a fresh ocean spray over its occupants. Jamie was already drenched and he wasn’t even in the water yet. Suddenly, a commotion broke out. “MORTARS!” Lieutenant Burns screamed as the Higgins’ Boat next to theirs exploded into flames and began to sink below the churning seas, men on fire hopping into the water and burning up or drowning. In a matter of seconds the floating hunk of steal had slipped deep beneath the waves. It would be a miracle if anyone survived that… Jamie thought to himself in grim revelation. At least it wasn’t him who had got hit. More mortar shots exploded from the shore, but none seemed to hit, at least that Jamie-Todd could see. “Five minutes ‘till landing!” The engineer piloting the amphibious craft yelled. A new pang of silent fear jostled in the Pfc.’s chest. He slung his M1 over his shoulder and took a sip from his canteen, but it tasted metallic and just wasn’t the same after it had been sitting for hours in the humid climate. He hooked it back on his belt and brought his M1 back into his hands.

After what seemed like hours, the engineer spoke up again. “Landing in: Five, four, three, two…Opening!” The world seemed to go in slow motion as the gate unlocked and slowly cranked down. There wasn’t even a three feet opening before the first shot was fired. A sniper got a Private in the front row, a hole right through his helmet. The poor middle-aged man crumpled, a surprised look frozen on his face for eternity. Then the Machine Guns started firing. The whole front row went down in one burst, their torsos filled with bullets. The second row tried to run out, but all but one where chopped into bloody bits before Jamie-Todd’s eyes. Traumatized, the young Private First Class watched men slashed to ribbons by bullets, blood splattering everywhere: In the water, on the boat, on him. Lieutenant Burns shouted “Over the edge!” and hopped off the side into the choppy water. Some of the soldiers, including Captain Schaefer, followed him. Jamie watched the rest try to squeeze out of the front and failing miserably, only a lucky few making it off. He couldn’t do that. Just run into your own slaughter. He couldn’t. He was too young…too young. A MG bullet just clipped Jamie’s shoulder, shredding the 3ID insignia. He grunted and, unwillingly, hoisted himself over the side and into the brackish waters.

The cold came quick and sudden, flushing Jamie-Todd's entire body. His helmet bobbed under water, just held on by its chinstrap. His M1 slipped away from him, into the darkness. Jamie breathed in water. A small cloud of crimson puffed from his arm. Sergeant Brown punged into the water next to him and was immediatly hit by a hail of bullets. By god, they weren't even safe underwater. Jamie tugged at his webbing, trying to free himself from its weight. He was sinking like a rock. A few more seconds underwater...

[Andrew J. Ryan]

So here it was. The day had finally come to smash through Hitler's Atlantic Wall. They could be in Paris within the month and with Paris came Berlin. The war would be over by Christmas. Equipped with his trusty M1 Garand, Ryan braced for what he had been preparing several months for. It wasn't exactly everyday you hurtled yourself out of the front of a landing craft directly into MG and sniper fire. Suddenly, artillery rounds began exploding all over the place. For the most part, they simply splashed water over the metal walls of the landing craft. The instinct was to duck and cover as soon as you heard that explosion rocking your craft to the side and the rain pelted against the back of your hand as you held your helmet on for the ride. He had been stuck with Captain Schaefer's vessel. A competent fellow and a fine leader, but he sure as hell wasn't no Patterson.

Biting down on a Cigar in his mouth, Ryan was practically standing there in the midst of nervous soldiers with a calm mind and a stance like a stone wall. His hands were crossed and gently gripping one other down at his waist, while he stood with his feet spread apart. Sergeant Major Andrew Ryan was one mean, tough son of a bitch. His status in the 3rd Infantry Division was only rivaled by the likes of Captain Patterson and Steven McMillan. Ryan was known to be a ruthless son of a bitch in combat as well as a disciplinary and leadership figure. At the same time, he could be a great ally and even mentor to the younger American troops but a strong adversary for any Axis soldier that might run into him. Saltwater splashed down from overheard, forcing many of the men down beneath the walls of the landing craft. Ryan merely stood, bracing himself as the craft crested wave after wave.

"Landing in: Five, four, three, two…Opening!" Already tossing his cigar lightly over the side, Ryan had pulled the Garand over from the shoulder strap and into his arms. The moment had come as the door to the vessel suddenly flung open and smashed down onto the sand. A shot wrung out and one of the men in the front row stumbled backwards. Some of the men hesitated before running out from the craft, only to be cut down by MG fire. It was a hopeless battle to shove your way to the front and only get gunned down while cowards blocked off any and all exit. One of the first soldiers over, the Sergeant Major quickly followed suit behind Lieutenant Burns. Diving into the freezing cold water, he lost his helmet and his rifle. That was the least of his worries however, as he struggled to break free from the grasp of the chillingly eerie water. The struggle of life or death overcame the Sergeant Major, who began to tear off his heavy equipment.

Bursting out of the water, he gently floated in the strong waves as he heaved air into his lungs. A newcomer, a Private First Class to be exact, emerged over the side of the landing craft. He quickly fell into the water and met the same fate of all of the rest. Faced with a struggle to break free and reach oxygen, but also pinned underwater by heavy MG fire. And if the newly red water was from the PFC as well... he was in an entirely worse situation. Risking his life once more, the Sergeant dove under in search for the man. Saltwater burned his eyes and threatened to seep through his lips and sting his throat and lungs. God damn, Andrew always had hated the oceans. The man struggled under water to break off his webbing and equipment with blood seeping out of his shoulder. Kicking further under, Ryan arrived before the man and began to work with precision to strip down the man. Not entirely though...

Grasping him in his left arm, he kicked for both of them and broke out into the surface again. Claiming victory against the harsh ocean sea. The man obviously wasn't in the best position to find his own way to the beach, so Ryan practically dragged him out. Setting him against a tank obstacle near the shore, he grabbed hold of a fresh helmet. Dumping seawater and blood out of it, he placed it on his head and grabbed a new Garand rifle as well. "You alright, soldier? Hold on a second, let me get you a medic to tend to that wound." Ryan prepared his throat before he hollered at the top of his lungs, "MEDIC! I need a god damn medic over here!" Observing the death and bloodshed all around him, he realized how slim a chance a medic would actually arrive on the scene to help the two men. The young Private would most likely have to make due with the wound in his shoulder.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

The day finally, came, after years of training, years of drills and maneuvers, the invasion of Europe Finally was happening, Hitler’s great “Atlantic Wall” was going to be crushed, right here, right now.

The Higgins boat crashed into a wave, the brisk, cold water spray splashed into Hobbar’s face. Hobbar shuddered as he brought his right hand up to his face, palm facing away from him and wiped off the water from his face. His nose stung, the salty ocean burned a small cut on his nose. Hobbar winced. He could feel his helmet shuddering on top of his dome. Hobbar put his hand back onto his M1 rifle, tightly gripping it. The wood felt rough, most likely from the sea salt, and it seemed to swell up from the water that it absorbed.

“Thirty Second! the boat driver called out. Hobbar looked out, he could see the shoreline coming close, growing longer. He began to be able to make out some beach obstacles that laid ahead. Hobbar’s stomach queezed, Damn Hobbar thought to himself, I shouldn’t have eaten that breakfast. Hobbar tried to joke to himself, keep his spirits up, try to become uptight. Hobbar took two deep breaths. Just then the Higgins boat smashed into another swell. The small troop transport bounced up, sending some troopers falling to the deck, and some tumbling towards the bulkheads of the small craft.

This landing was Hobbar’s first combat action, and he was expecting hell. He knew how that landing at Diepe a few years back ended up; mass casualties, many captured, surely a total defeat. In the back of Michael’s head, he kept trying to tell himself, This will not be like Diepe, this will not be like Diepe. It worked… for a little bit, but with each crash into an ocean swell his moral dropped just a bit. Each toss and turn in the heavy seas were a reminder of the hardships ahead. Hobbar gulped as the boat driver called out once more. “Get ready!” The driver paused, he quietly whispered “Give them hell soldiers” a whistle blew as the driver quickly dropped the bow ramp. “Go, Go, Go!”

With that, all the soldiers in the Higgins boat charged out. A hail of MG-42 fire rained death upon the boat. The lead trooper didn’t even move when he was hit. He barely flinched as his head exploded and shards of helmet and bits of brain flew back into the landing craft. The scene was similar with many of the troopers in front; they were cut apart with in the first 5 seconds. Hobbar was near the middle and when he saw the young troopers in front get chewed up, he instinctively pulled himself up along the side of the boat and rolled off into the sea off the Higgin’s port side bulkhead. He didn’t look back to see what was of the rest of the men, he just hoped enough of the troopers followed him over the sides.

Hobbar splashed into the arctic waters. He had experienced such chills back in swimming when the pools went un-heated, but never clad full of combat gear. The sheer weight of his rucksack and other gear started dragging Hobbar towards the ocean depths. Shit man! Hobbar thought, I don’t need to die like this! Got to get my self up! Hobbar unstrapped his gear, leaving only his day-pack and shovel. Getting rid of that 20 or so pound pack really made the difference, Hobbar was able to paddle up towards the surface. As Hobbar broke the surface of the chilly, salty ocean waters, he took a long, deep breath.

Hobbar saw a few of the men gathering up behind the beach obstacles. Hobbar thought that he’d join them and hopefully get in a position to move up and do some good. Hobbar started moving when he noticed something missing, he wasn’t holding his rifle in his hands. “Shit! Hobbar screamed aloud.

“Move up the beach!”
“Get up there!”
“Keep moving!”

Hobbar heard all sorts of screaming, nothing seemed to be where it was supposed to be, no-one was moving as fast as they should’ve been, nothing was going right…

[George O'Brian]

Here it was, the big day. D-Day it was being known as, the standard code for the beginning of a major operation. And hell was it major. There were hundreds of ships in the English Channel, the night before O'Brian had seen and heard what must have been half the Air Force going overhead.

And now, he was in a tiny flimsy almost landing craft he had been assured was bullet-proof. He was third on the right and clutched his M1 Carbine so tightly his knuckles were right. It was in a little plastic bag to protect it from spray and other pieces of crap that were floating around. He felt himself fly slightly as he broke a wave, and he ducked as a German Messerschmitt flew low overhead, dropping a bomb in to the water. A massive wave drenched the boat, but as Mustang came over just as quickly, firing off towards the enemy fighter. There was a cheer as the the enemy began smoking before hitting the water. A chatter of fire told him some Americans were making sure the pilot didn't swim.

"THIRTY SECONDS!" The cry came along the boat, and through the plastic O'Brian yanked the cocking handle on his weapon. O'Brian began taking charge of the boat. "I'll be with you guys all the way. Find some cover on the beach and we'll move from there. We have ships right behind us to bomb the shit out of the Krauts when we can guide them, lets not waste this, eh?"

A few unenthusiastic cheers came, but everybody was readying themselves, waiting for the "Go, go, go!"

It came. The steel ramp slammed down, and everybody began charging out. Instantly, MG42 fire came to meet them, and craters were being created by mortars. Without looking twice, the First Sergeant came charging out, holding his weapon tight. He saw what he wanted, a flipped boat up ahead on it's side. He had no idea how it had got there, and he didn't really want to know, but he ran straight to it, throwing himself down behind it ripping at the plastic of the Carbine. He freed the weapon and threw aside the cover.

He wiped the water that had splashed on to his bow and though for a second. He was about to stand up to look towards the enemy when a large pattering of fire hit the side of the boat. Despite the metal between him, he threw himself to the ground, ears ringing. Smiling crazilu he shouted out "Waddya know, they are bullet-proff!"

He looked out to see, and saw the radioman from his boat, looking lost slowly crawling forward. Taking a few quick steps, O'Brian moved out, grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him back. "Private McGee, get your self together! We need to get the ships firing on them!"

He recieved a small nod, and the radio was dropped on to the sand and the reciever brought around. By time the First Sergeant looked up again, a few other men had gathered behind the boat. "Listen in, try and spread this around. We're going to order a twenty-second strike on the Germans, firing for effect. They're gonna drop smoke in the end, then we charge to the barbed wire. Get your ass out of here, otherwise it won't be good. Let's do this guys, let's do this!"

He turned to the radioman, who gave an encouraging nod before yelling in to his handset. He just hoped this would work half as well as he hoped.

[Jamie-Todd Peterson]

Jamie-Todd Peterson knew he was going to die, deep in the English Channel. His eyes blurred, his nose stung, and his lungs burned. Jamie watched the lifeless body of Sergeant Brown float down into oblivion, red water swirling around him like a grim halo. Suddenly, seeing Brown disappear like that, Jamie lost all the strength, and will, to live any longer. He had decided that this moment was going to be the last in his short life. He relaxed all muscles in his body, opening his airways to the salty seawater. His exhausted limbs spread out in a peaceful fashion, and he just waited to die. Then, through half-closed eyes, Jamie saw a figure darting toward him. Was it an angel? Was he about to gather Jamie’s soul and take him off to heaven, or hell, wherever young casualties of war are sent? He smiled weekly as the angel grabbed hold of him. But then he did an unexpected thing. He freed Jamie from his watery grave.

The “angel” shrugged the young man’s webbing off, followed by his belt, shovel, and cartridges. Then, he grabbed Jamie’s left arm and kicked furiously, breaking the surface. Jamie stared at the quickly approaching surface. He had been much closer to it than he had thought. When he finally broke, a wave of sound and relief swept through his whole body. Peterson took in a massive breath, and a dreadful fit of coughing racked his ribs. As his savior paddled them both to the beach, Jamie sputtered out what seemed like a pint of water and blinked the salt from his blue eyes. His helmet had slid back on his head, and his dark bangs where plastered against his forehead. He turned his head away from the carnage on the beach and stared at the Sergeant Major’s rank insignia.


A few seconds later, the Sergeant Major and Jamie beached, and the Pfc. collapsed against the sand. He sputtered again, coughing out the last of the water. His cheek pressed against the rough grains. He was so tired…so tired…

The Sergeant Major then pulled Jamie up again, and he half crawled to behind a steel tank obstacle. “You alright, soldier? Hold on a second, let me get you a medic to tend to that wound." The Sergeant Major continued to call for a medic, but Jamie tugged at his superior’s sleeve and meekly said “I’m alright, Master Sarge, just a little scratch…” The boy brought his good hand up to his wound and fingered it, wincing in pain. The kraut bullet had caught him good, but luckily it had never actually entered his arm. It was pretty deep, and had sliced the 3ID blue-and-white insignia in half, the edges frayed and bloody.

Jamie looked around at the carnage on the beach with terrified eyes. The corpse of an officer landed meters from him, everything but his chest up obliterated by German mortars. A boy, no older than 18, lay a few feet away, crying and trying to hold his spilling intestines inside his dying body. Jamie-Todd fought back tears. He wouldn’t cry. He was a man now. Men didn’t cry. Meanwhile, some of the Higgins’s Boats where still landing. One of them had stupidly placed a Combat Engineer with a flamethrower in the front line, and as soon as the door dropped the whole boat was engulfed in angry flames. A man, his body flaming, ran from the boat, screaming his lungs out until he was chopped up by MG42 fire. Jamie had to do something. He had to do something.

The boy realized he had no weapons except his issue knife strapped to his gaiter. He needed a rifle. Jamie looked around for an intact M1, and found one next to the crying boy with his intestines spilling out. It was a miracle he was still alive. Peterson glanced at the bunkers and sprinted, low to the sand, over to the dying soldier. As soon as the poor fellow looked at him, his face, twisted in pain, light up in hope. “Are you here to help me? Will you help me? Please! Please please please! Oh god, Oh god, help me!” Jamie almost broke down tugging the rifle from the boy’s clutching hands. As soon as he wrestled hold of its wooden stock, the Pfc. darted away, bullets kicking the sand at his heels. As he slid back next to the Sergeant Major, he could hear the cries of the boy. “No! No! Don’t leave me! Please! Help me! Nooooo! God damn you!”

[Andrew J. Ryan]

Ryan grimly watched as the Private First Class rushed off in a search for a weapon, only to pull an M1 Garand off of a young, dying boy. No older than eighteen, the boy was furiously rolling in the sand and attempting to jam his intestines back into a large hole in his abdomen. Grimacing, he turned to look away as the boy finally stopped kicking. At his side was the Prviate First Class again, gripping the bloodied weapon in his arms. "Sergeant Major Ryan. What's your name son? In a moment, were going to storm up to that barbed wire. You understand?" Ryan turned over to face the crimson sea as bullets pinged against the tank obstacles and sand, causing miniature amounts of sand to rocket upwards. Where is that god damned radioman when you need him, the Sergeant Major thought to himself.

Suddenly, the German lines erupted with large explosions. God damn, Ryan loved Naval Guns. He turned over onto his other side to witness the explosions, disappointed as must of them merely exploded against the cliff side or the bottom and did no damage. "Come on boy, lets move up into a better position while we can." Tapping the PFC on the shoulder, he stayed low and slowly made his way further up the beach until they were about halfway there. The explosions had stopped almost as quick as they came, but the MG fire hesitated to continue. Smoke had begun pouring out over the superior German positions and blocked out any view of the beach. Obviously, who ever called the artillery strike knew what he was doing. "Move in! Move in to the barbed wire! Let's go! Now! Now!" Ryan's hoarse voice roared all across the beach as he sprung up from a crater.

Dashing across the beach, random MG fire still managed to pick many men off as it burst out of the heavy smoke. Moving swiftly to avoid obstacle after obstacle, he finally arrived at the barbed wire which was dug into a long, small mound of sand that provided cover from most of the MG-42 fire. Plopping down against his new cover, he turned to face the wave of American soldiers storming across the beach. "Lets go, boys! We need some bangalores up here! Get us some bangalores up here!" The smoke cover depleted after a few minutes, but most of the men had managed to make it to their objective. The barbed wire. The ones that had failed the task, were either lying dead in the sand, screaming in pain and misery, or ducking down behind cover. The rest of the men were being heavily surprised from the German fortifications that just seemed to not fall after all that had been thrown at them.

Two Combat Engineers emerged from a small crater, both of them carrying a couple of bangalore torpedos, used for clearing out barbed wire. Before they could even barely make it halfway, they were cut down by MG fire and dropped their explosives. "Someone hurry up and go get those! We need those damned bangalores!" An officer called out down the line. Ryan grunted as he realized that no one would actually volunteer to do it, except him. "McCarthy, and Ramirez on me! Lets get those damned things!" The Sergeant Major ordered to the two nearest Privates. Exposing himself, was a risky and deadly move. Ramirez and McCarthy never had a chance as they became two corpses full of lead, while Ryan dove into a small crater from German artillery. Having kicked the explosives into the hole along with him, he gathered the explosives up before jumping out of the hole again. Darting all around like a crazy man, he managed to zig zag his way up to the wire before collapsible in the sand. Exhausted, he passed the explosives down the line to be used properly. "Ah shit, I think they might of got my leg. " He grunted at two small holes in his trousers. The bullet wounds weren't serious, but were going to be quite the pain in the ass.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

Hobbar miraculously was able to wade his way towards shallow waters and into cover behind a beached Higgins boat, it was ripped apart by mortars, but the heavy hull shielded dozens of troopers from the onslaught of the machine guns. The waves pounded limp corpses back and forth along the rising tide. Hobbar looked at the bodies, the faces, some no older than 18, some looked even younger. This one private’s body smashed against Hobbar’s leg, Michael looked at the boy, his eyes wide open, his chest ripped apart by MG-42 fire, it was a nightmare. That could’ve been me…I could’ve been ripped apart by those machine guns up ahead. Michael didn’t want to look anymore, he turned his head away from the boy. He still was missing a weapon, he saw weapons all over the beach, scattered about in the sand, bloodied, some torn apart by the mortars and machine guns.

Michael reached out for the nearest rifle without exposing himself to the machine guns up ahead. He didn’t want to end up like that poor private. Michael extended his fingers, inching his way up towards it. Just as he almost reached the strap, the waves pushed the rifle forward, “Damn!” Michael screamed, “Stupid rifle… Hobbar exhaled deeply as he slammed his eyes shut then opened them back up.

Officers were scrambling to get some men organized, but most ended up being unsuccessful. A few NCOs were able to lead squads up at a time. Hobbar looked back, landing craft were still coming towards the beach, if the first wave couldn’t get off the sand and off the beach, any more landings would definitely be cut down. Hobbar scanned the horizon, during the briefing, the brass said that they were getting DD tanks on the beach. “Where are those damn DD Tanks!” Hobbar impatiently twisted his head side to side, but he couldn’t see the instantly recognizable inflatable sides of the tanks.

A Corporal looked at Hobbar, “We’re done for!” he was scared as heck, and you could see it in his eyes, he almost refused to move any further. “Those DD Tanks are sunk! At the bottom of the damn channel! We can’t get off this beach!” The young corporal seemed right, but Hobbar couldn’t give up, not just yet.

“Stow that talk Corporal, we’re not done for, not by a long shot, as long as we’ve got boots on the deck and out hearts are beating, we WILL push on… Hobbar paused, he could hardly believe himself, how could he expect the Corporal to believe him too? Hobbar shook out that thought, if he was to be a leader, he had to demand success, Hobbar continued, “Now get you’re ass off this beach! There’s cover by the shingle! Get to that seawall!”

Just then Hobbar heard loud explosions, Ships? Firing? He looked at the destroyers just off shore, smoke billowed from their cannons, Hobbar now heard the shrieks of the large Navy rounds flying over head. “Fucking A!” Hobbar screamed and cheered, a few of the younger enlisted saw him and followed suit.

“We’re going to be okay?”

“Damn straight we are!” Hobbar apparently spoke too soon, the shells only hit a little before the bluffs, kicking only dirt and sand into the air. Shit… that didn’t help. Only a few second later did he realize that the guns did help. Smoke rose up and clouded the beach, making it possible for troops to advance. By god, that did it… Hobbar looked at a few enlisted men behind him, “Lets go! Move your asses!” Hobbar started sprinting towards the shingle, machine gun fire still picked men off slowly, but without being able to aim, the gunners had to just blind fire, which was to the advantage of the Americans on the beach.

Hobbar made it up to the shingle and dove onto the sand barricade, he’d just remembered AGAIN that he still didn’t have a rifle. How the heck am I going to fight this war without a weapon? Michael shook his head. Hobbar looked around for a rifle, a dead soldier laid a few yards away, with the smoke cover, Hobbar got up and dashed for the weapon, he grabbed it, Good, operational.

Down the line, troopers were being called upon to get some Bangalores up into position, At least someone is thinking, Hobbar thought, he just kept low and waited for the clearing to move forward.

[George O'Brian]

The Navy made it's support known, a series of massive shells thumping in to the cliff face. As the high explosives detonated, O'Brian felt his ears pop and whine. The radioman was shouldering his radio, and everybody was grabbing their weapons. Two soldiers behind him had bangalores in their arms, and he spotted a Flamethrower coming his way. Great, a walking target.

He peered around the boat, and smiled. The nearest bunker had taken a direct hit and was crumbling, large pieces of concrete smacking in to the sand. Smoke was starting to billow out of a few shells in the sand. The First Sergeant raised his voice, screaming out to all and sundry, "We've got cover. Let's move, let's move!"

He grabbed his carbine around the semi-pistol grip and started running around teh Higgin's craft, his feet slipping slightly in the sand as he moved. He heard running behind him, but felt himself thrown to the ground as the flamethrower was hit. He heard screaming behind him, but he couldn't stop, not with the Machine Guns. He picked himself up stumbling slightly and grabbing another man's collar to give him a yank upwards and covered the last few meters, diving on to a small sand dun topped with barbed wire. He spat sand out of his mouth and gave his weapon a quick wipe with a finger to remove sand. He couldn't see anyone from his boat, so he just adapted.

He got low, "Any officer's, any officers at all?" He was relived as he recognised the vertical stripe on the back of a helmet, and was greeted by a Lieutenant. That was good, less responsibility. A stitch of MG42 fire came nearby, and everybody pushed down in to teh sand, holding their helmets on their head for some strange reason. The weapon passed, and only one cry of "Medic!" came. O'Brian rolled over the other way, and saw a .30-cal being set up in the sand. Not good, it was practically a fire magnet.

Quickly, he moved to down, keeping his body stooped checking if people were alive. He dropped back in to the sand as the .30 began firing, lines of tracer showing how close it was to the Germans. One body fell from the high perch, and their was a loud cheer from the lines. He found himself next to a Sergeant Major he vaguely recognised from the ship. He could follow him, back him up.

A loud cry came, echoed by everyone. "Fire in the hole! Bangalores!" As people repeated it, they pressed themselves in to the sand, taking a deep breath. The explosives detonated, creating a breach in the defences. O'Brian looked up to see the gap, and waited for everybody to start streaming through.

[Jamie-Todd Peterson]

Jamie-Todd breathed heavily, listening to the sound of bullets pinging against the tank obstacles metal prongs. The boy wrestled with the M1’s action, finally getting the metal parts to open. To his relief, he found a full clip and shoved the action back into place. The wooden stock was smudged with scarlet and the steel of the barrel flecked with innards, a grim reminder of where the rifle had come from. Jamie unsheathed the trench knife from his gaiter and fixed it on his new rifle, the blade shining dully in the foggy sun. Through ringing ears, Jamie listened to the Sergeant Major introduce himself frankly and explain that they would rush up to the barbed wire. “Private First Class Peterson, sir. 3rd infantry, F Company.” Jamie said, dazed. He turned his head to peer at the kraut lines, watching the silhouettes of young Germans man the machineguns.

Suddenly, strange whistles invaded the beach and for a split second the infantry could see shells rocketing through the sky. “God bless the navy…” Jamie muttered with a smile as the shots collided with the cliff face. Giant plumes of smoke obscured the young man’s view of the Germans positions. He felt a light tap on his arm and turned to see the Sergeant Major telling him to advance, to get a better position while the barrage was still fresh. Jamie nodded in agreeable unison and stood up, but didn’t run. He raised his rifle to his eye and pulled the trigger in the general direction of the German lines. He felt the gun jump back and could tell the poor shot hadn’t hit a soul, but it made him feel good that he could fire back at the menace, that he wasn’t completely defenseless.

As soon as he saw the Sergeant Major dart out, Jamie followed, rifle in hand as he sprinted to the nearest cover: a mortar hole filled with rancid water and dead bodies. He kept it in sheer focus as he ran, but suddenly, disaster struck. Jamie-Todd’s boot snagged on an abandoned helmet and he went down. As he fell, the boy saw the world in slow motion, the plumes of smoke, and the dead bodies of so many GIs. Then, a great surprise to the mesmerized boy, he hit the sand hard and did a somersault, rolling a few more feet in the sand. The grains mixed with his wound, stinging like a son of a bitch. He got up as quick as he possible could; hoping sand had not gotten in his action. Dark patches of sweat had appeared around the armpits and groin of his uniform, due to the stress and constant strain. He heard the Sergeant Major roar to get to the barbed wire while they still had cover, and Jamie gladly obliged.

The Pfc. sprinted up to the twinkling spikes of the wire, bullets from the recovering Machine Guns pounding against the sand next to him. Finally, heart pounding and lungs heaving, the soldier flung himself down on the mound of sand where most of the surviving troopers where taking cover. The Sergeant Major lay next to him, screaming something about Bangalores. Jamie looked through the steel twines and saw that the shells had done little damage, other than eroding the cliff face and blowing up a handful of bunkers. A screaming German toppled from one of the slits, sending a wave of cheer through the row as he hit the ground, ending his young life.

A pair of combat engineers holding at least half a dozen explosives emerged from the beach and hardly stepped before they where cut down and joined the piles of bodies on the beach. Jamie-Todd was almost sure the Bangalores where gone too, until the Sergeant Major was asking for volunteers to help him fetch the explosives. Me? Go out there again? Are you freakin’ crazy? Jamie thought to himself as the man ordered two Privates to go with him. As soon as they leapt out of cover, the privates where torn to shreds, but the NCO kept going, leaping around like a lunatic to evade the MG fire. Jamie was beginning to have serious doubts about his superior’s sanity. The man grabbed armfuls of bangalores and bounded back to the sand bank. He muttered something and looked at his trousers, where two red holes where emerging. “Aw shit, sir, are you wounded?” Jamie said as he passed bangalores down the line of US soldiers. One of the big green tubes landed in the Pfc.’s hands, and he stared at the pounds of TNT in his hands. When the order went out, Jamie thrust the business end into the barbed wire and set it off, then put his hands over his helmet and waited for the inevitable blast. When it came, Jamie took a breath, grabbed his rifle, and looked up.

Huge holes in the wire had appeared, and the officers and high ranking NCOs appeared thrilled. “Get through the wire! Go, go, go!” Captain Schaefer screamed before opening up covering fire with his Thompson. A few Sergeants chucked grenades at the German bunkers. “Go! We’ll clear out the bunkers later! Just go!” The Captain screamed and the American troops ran through the openings in the barbed wire, a few still getting entangled in the barbs. Jamie-Todd could only imagine how many krauts they where running into.

[Andrew J. Ryan]

OOC: Oh snap, Jamie, you guessed it right. Ryan is actually very much insane, it really only shows in battle.

The Sergeant Major had thrown himself down onto the sloping embankment of sand, practically making him invulnerable to any fire. Suppressing rounds impacted at the top of "the shingle", spraying sand down onto the men and "pinging" off the tops of helmets and stray rocks. Weeks before the invasion, the soldiers had studied the slope which would be set as the first objective and rally point before securing the beachhead. Gathered behind the protection of the sand and gravel, his prodded his index and middle finger into the trouser holes. Slipping the two fingers back out, he found them drenched with a ruby red liquid. Dragging the blood across his chest, most of the blood wiped off on the uniform leaving behind a crimson red stain. By his side, Peterson was questioning him about his health with a strange look in his eyes. Ryan simply nodded to confirm he was indeed wounded, the streak of maroon on his uniform more than clarifying it to the PFC that the Sergeant Major was very much wounded.

A medic made his way down to the line and stopped at the wounded Senior NCO. Ripping open a packet of sulfur, he gently poured it into the bloodied hole in his thigh and the second in his left calf. Grasping the man by the collar of his jacket, he thrust him down the line. "I'm fucking fine, Doc. Go help someone else!" He called out to the man, who quickly vanished down the assembled men. Glancing around, Ryan realized that there numbers were drastically slim even compared to the estimation that would be able to make it this far. And worse than that, the bombardment had practically done shit to the barbed wire or the bunkers atop the bluffs. The humming of Sherman engines...was nonexistent. Shifting his left leg upwards to roll over onto his right side in preparation for the bangalores, a burst of pain shot up through his body like a bolt of electricity. The searing pain froze the Sergeant Major up who clenched his teeth together and let the agonizing pain give away to an empty numbness. He half expected that a medic had manged to sneak up on him and jammed a needle of morphine into his damned leg.

The call of "Fire in the Hole" spread down the approximate 15 yard stretch of men and promptly, everyone ducked down by instinct and steadied their helmet on their head as the explosions tore through the deadly metal wire fortifications. It was instinctual. Andrew didn't exactly follow his instincts. In fact, many of them just simply didn't exist to the large, bulked up man. His blank gaze remained the same as he watched the whole process of "Duck and Cover". Some might lend the ability to pure insanity. Others might say it was a man mastering his primal, instinctual urges. Some just said he had balls. Big balls. "Grab your balls and lets move in boys!" Jumping over the edge of the shingle that was left exposed after the explosion, Ryan was one of the first men over the wall. His first thought was, Damn, why am I thinking of balls all of a sudden? An odd thought for the giant of a man who was sprinting through hazardous MG fire. Although, in his current state, it was more like running with one leg while the other dragged along behind him.

Crossing through the small area that was middle ground between the beach and the bluffs, the troops moved through sand dunes, barbed wire fortification, mines, and some marshy areas. The Americans scattered throughout the area once more, losing a large portion of the men in the initial push. Some fell prey to MG or rifle fire, some were forced to take cover in dunes or craters, and some were blown apart on the mines. Ryan, all though somewhat leading the charge over, had fallen behind. By his side, a Private had decided to assist the wounded man by taking some of the weight off the injured left leg. As they neared the hundred foot bluff, the man beside him fell prey to the hail of lead and Ryan lunged forward into the sand. Lying face down in the sand beside dozens of other corpses, he looked to be another fallen soldier. Another man cut down by the volleys of fire. One of the brave who risked the waves, the obstacles, and the shingle. As he lay there, dead, he knew he had done his part. The Sergeant Major had risked his life to get through the wire and over the wire.

It was not so. Lifting his head upwards, his eyes made contact with some of the men gathered beneath the destroyed bunker. A good majority had been able to make it to the bluff it appeared, but Ryan had fallen like the others. Face covered in another man's blood, he slowly crawled forward amongst the fallen soldiers. Instantly, the bolt of pain shot up through his leg and surged through the rest of his body only subsiding moments later. Slamming his face down into the sand, he roared a muffled cry of pain, before he picked his face back up. This time, he slid his M1 Garand up before and nodded at one of the men to signal that he could get rid of a sandbag fortified MG that was pinning them down. Steadying the butt of the Garand rifle with his right shoulder, he closed his left eye and took up aim. Lining the iron sights up with the top of Kraut helmet, his finger hesitantly hovered over the the trigger as he licked his lips in anticipation.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

Hobbar had his head tucked into the sand, keeping hit low and hidden from the enemy gunners up on the bluffs. Screams of the wounded were everywhere, and the beach was full of weapons and ammo, blood from the fallen and limbs blown off by artillery and mortars. Hobbar lifted his head and took a peak back, just to see what was going on back on the beach, a few more waves were making up towards the shingle, that was good, men were getting out of the waters finally, but the only problem was, unless the soldiers could get past this shingle, they would all be completely decimated.

A loud cry came, echoed by everyone. "Fire in the hole! Bangalores!"

The call came rushing down the lines with lightning fast speed. Hobbar even repeated the call, “Fire in the hole!” The soldiers pushed their heads into the sand as the Bangalores fuse slowly burned.

A section of barbed wire exploded into oblivion. Sand, mixed in with a few pieces of wire and debris rained down onto the beach , smoke obscured the gunner’s view, which was good for the moment, “Lets go!” Hobbar screamed, he slid down the small embankment and pushed on two privates who were standing near him, “We’ve got cover, get off the beach!” The two privates that Hobbar pushed up slowly slugged themselves up and off the shingle, unfortunately, MG fire cut one of the young privates up. Shit... Hobbar thought, Those guns are going to get us all unless we diddy bop on up there! Hobbar took a deep breath then screamed, “Move! Those mortars have this whole beach pre-sighted, and unless you move, those shells are going to be raining in right here!” Hobbar viciously pointed at the shingle, “Now get your asses up and to that defilade over there!” Hobbar pointed at the areas just under the bunkers.

Hobbar got up and made a mad dash towards the bunkers. MG fire was landing all around him, kicking up sand and dirt. Hobbar couldn’t be bugged down by it though, he had to keep moving, or he was a dead man. The path towards the bunkers and even at the base of the bunkers was filled with impact craters, perfect for the American soldiers, they had concealment and defilade from the German gunners that were firing from atop of the bluff and bunkers.

“Everyone stay in cover!” Hobbar kept his body pressed right against the concrete bunker’s base, it was antiquate protection for the time. Hobbar looked back at the beach, men were starting to pour past the shingle and towards the bluff, the with the bunker gunner still firing, the beach was far from clear. Hobbar looked around, “Where are all the officers?!”

A private behind him shrugged his shoulders

“Then who’s in charge here?!” Hobbar screamed. He waited for any officers to arrive and take charge of the situation.

[George O'Brian]

This was it. They had an opening. A fucking opening in to the middle of Nazi land. With a large cheer, a roar of pure desperation, every man and his dog pushed himself up, running through. Not quite understanding why - it just seemd right - he lifted his carbine to his shoulder, aimed in the rough direction of a German machine gun, and began clicking the trigger, emptying all fifteen rounds before feeling his weapon stop. He upped his pace, moving along the soft sand to some of the concrete positions sticking out of the sand.

He came to a stop as he approached, dropping to his knees and leaning against the large concrete. It was bloody thick, and he had a feelin git would block any German fire. It had landed in a patch of barbed wire, crushing the obstacle. He peered around the edge to see a German sandbag bunker blocking a small pathway up to the cliff - the most logical way up. It would have to be taken out.

Yet again, he found himself surrounded by Private and very junior NCOs. He spat in to the sand, finally noticing he still had the salty taste if seawater in his mouth. Thankfully, a Lieutenant had finally joined them, some Thompson-toting bad-ass somehow still munching a cigar. "Alright, listen in," drawled the man, thinking quickly, "We're gonna clear ourselves some room by putting some rifle grenades in to that bunker. Should clear us enough room to get up there, so we can kill some fucking Krauts."

Acting quickly, the men moved around and refile grenades were set on top of Garands. The Officer swapped the cigar for a whistle and blew it. O'Brian swung around, a fresh clip in his Carbine and began firing wildly at the bunker, and he heard a few explosions as grenades wer sent off. He stayed out long enough to see a few sandbags collapse, but the main defense intact. "Slightly higher. Should take them out."

They did it once again, adjusting their aim. It worked this time, the entire bunker came tumbling down, Germans crying out in pain to be met by a hail of American ammunition. A cry began coming along the beach. "We have an opening. Move, move, move!"

[Jamie-Todd Peterson]

Private First Class Peterson soon found himself flustered and alone, sprinting through the sand with his bloody M1 Garand swinging around in his hands. His boots were sucked slightly in the beach sand, and some was kicked up with each step. His left gaiter was nonexistant and his right one was muddy and splattered with blood from wading through the corpses on the beach. His trousers were torn and battered, torn to peices from barbed wire and to-close-for-comfort Machine Gun bullets. His tunic was not much better, sopping wet and soiled with mud, sand, sweat and blood. His slight wound stung with feirce abandon, and it would most certainly be infected if he survived this carnage.

***

A German sandbag bunker sat upon a hill a little while away, Nazi soldiers fired down at the advancing American soldiers with bolt-action rifles and a Machine Gun. Among the soldiers the the emplacement was Nikolaus Goeth, a young German man enlisted in the Heer as a private. Nikolaus, along with the other Germans, kept a hail of bullets raining down on the grouped Americans, hoping in vain that they may not take the Normandy Beachead.

***

Jamie-Todd slid in with a small grouping of soldiers huddled around a cigar-munching Lieutenant. The officer fiddled with his Thompson and explained that they needed to take the sand-bagged bunker out with rifle grenades, and luckily a few troopers had them and passed them around to other soldiers with M1s. One ended up in Jamie's hands, put there by a older Corporal who couldn't use it with his Grease Gun. Jamie stared at the thing a moment before mounting it, taking into account how much heavier his rifle seemed with it on. Although trained with one briefly in Basic, the Pfc. had little idea how to aim it. But he had to as the Lieutenant ordered them to be fired in succession. Jamie lined it up with the bunker and released it as the order to fire was given, and it smacked dully into the cliff wall, just below the sandbags. "You got to be shitting me..." Jamie said as most of the self-propelled grenades met the same fate as poor Peterson's.

The officer ordered to aim up and shoot again, so Jamie and the rest of the men did just that, launching them again at the kraut position. This time, Jamie-Todd witnessed his smack inches away from one of the German soldiers, blowing him from his emplacement and sending the poor Jerry tumbling and screaming to his death. Most of the sandbags had been eradicated by the blast, and the officer was quick with ordering a storm to clear it of any stragglers. Jamie took a deep breath and made sure his bayonet was secured tight, reloaded, and charged with the rest of the soldiers.

***

Niklaus was zapped back from the sandbags as the American's rifle grenades hit, shrapnel imbedding in his forehead and bringing a fair amount of blood into his eyes. The German attempted to raise his racked body off of the cold rock and grab his rifle. A few other Heer soldiers had survived the blast, but a good portion of them where now in smithereens on the floor. Niklaus heard footsteps and readied his weapon...

***

The first thing Jamie saw when he came into the battered remenents of the bunker was a German soldier, bleeding and kneeling on the ground. His grey uniform was caked with dust and grime, and the poor fellow grasped his weapon like his life depended on it. And in fact, it did. Jamie, without a bit of mercy, stabbed his bayonet down at the soldier, but the German was quick and grabbed the barrel of his rifle and twisted it out of Jamie's hands, bringing him down with it. The Kraut then brought his rifle up by the barrel, using the butt as a club. He smashed the weapon down, but Jamie had brought his M1 up to block the blow. The American combatant twisted his rifle so that his opponent's flung away, leaving his torso wide open. Jamie scrambled to his feet and gouged with his bayonet, stabbing it into the German's ribcage. He removed it as the Kraut screamed, kicking his limbs in pain. Jamie brought the bayonet down again and again as the German cried out, the blade entering and exiting his body rapidly. Blood was everywhere. Blood. All the blood... Jamie-Todd kept on stabbing at the body far past the German's passing, just to see the blood. It was beautiful. It splattered and spouted. Blood. He loved it. At that moment, a timid young man had become a cold-blooded killer for just a moment.

[Andrew J. Ryan]

Desperately trying to make contact with the nearest soldiers, he realized he went unnoticed as he sullenly rested his head against the sand. The searing pain was still overwhelming his entire left leg, but the constricting strain of his trousers reduced the bleeding and acted as a temporary tourniquet. Dejectedly lying in the sand as if he were an actual corpse, he hoped he didn't infect the wound or bleed out without proper medical attention. His bold actions usually ended up getting him in dire trouble, but he never so much as this. Dimly watching from his "fortress of corpses", the men who had advanced to the edge of the bluffs were loading rifle grenades onto their Garands. Swiftly, he rolled over onto his back and prayed that no MG gunners had seen such. Digging his hand through the sand at a snail-like pace to tear a grenade off his belt, he prepared the semi-automatic rifle for an entirely different purpose. A few seconds later, he was back on his stomach with the famous "pineapple" grenade loaded on to the front of his M1 Garand.

The first barrage of rifle grenades were generally a failure as they cascaded against the tip of the bluffs and rained debris down, only taking a small toll of lives on the sandbag bunkers that were defending a pathway up to the top. The sandbags were a thorn in the side as they took out masses of men rushing over the shingle and now had gone into a frenzy of suppressing fire on the source of the rifle grenades. Lining the sights up with the top of the bluffs, he was the first to fire the rifle grenade in the second wave. The grenade landed in the dead center of the defensive positions, the fatal force almost single handily taking out the entire fortification. A wave of Germans took up the places of their fallen comrades, only in time for the second barrage of grenades to rain down upon them. The explosive force through sandbags and corpses forwards, rolling them down the cliff and into the sand.

Ignoring the pain in his leg, Ryan was up on his feet in no time. The intense pain had simply failed into a natural numbness, as if Ryan had adjusted to all the agony it could cause him. Trotting towards the path, he saw the rest of the men taking advantage in the hole in the German defense as well. The sight of a Sergeant Major running full force with at least one leg, his other dripping with blood, his sleeves rolled up, and his helmet crooked to the side emerging from the piles of the dead must have been some sight. A jumpy Private nearly shot the Senior NCO who had shocked and awed him. Andrew managed to keep up the bulk of the charging force, not falling too far behind of the front. His leg wound made the steep climb up the path a daunting challenge, but he persevered only to come face force with a charging Jerry. Stumbling backwards, he fired off two shots which caught the man in the chest and sent him down for the count. Tumbling back against the remnants of a sandbag bunker, he realized how lucky he had been that the suicidal German hadn't knocked him clean over the edge.

Regaining his balance, he slowly walked forward, adjusting to the pain that accompanied walking. Slightly disorientated, his gaze veered away to that of a man standing over a German and rapidly stabbing him with a bayonet. Charging the man, his grip clenched around the man's shoulders from behind to restrict any movement. He didn't want the man to turn around and stab him with a bayonet. He had the figure out a young boy though and the pressure the bulky Sergeant Major was exerting on him had already predicted the result of the fight. Practically ripping the man off his feet, Ryan hurled the man down beside the German soldier he had just murdered. Kicking the rifle down into the dirt and forcing it to remain there, he bent down and grasped the Private First Class by the front of his uniform. Lifting the boy off the ground, who he recognized as Peterson, he made sure that the rifle remained out of his grip. "The man's dead, Peterson. Leave him to rest in peace, or so help me, I will see to it that you reach the same fate." His grip loosened and he slowly turned away, to continue the fighting with the rest of the men.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

The Americans were really starting to get off the beach now. About two squads worth of troopers gathered up by the base of the concrete bunker, everyone was huddled up, trying to keep close to the wall in defilade from the MG42 gunners on top of the bluffs. Soon, an officer showed up to lead the soldiers. Hobbar couldn’t help but to laugh. The man was toting his Thompson and munching on a cigar. The Lieutenant looked confident and seemed to inspire the rest of the young troopers huddled down in the sand trying to stay alive for as long as possible.

"Alright, listen in," drawled the man, thinking quickly, "We're gonna clear ourselves some room by putting some rifle grenades in to that bunker. Should clear us enough room to get up there, so we can kill some fucking Krauts."

Hobbar didn’t have a rifle grenade, so as the Lieutenant started throwing out the orders, he moved back behind everyone who had the specially mounted weapons.

The soldiers got ready and in an almost elegant motion, fired all of their grenades up the bluff. The first volley didn’t do much damage, the grenades simply exploded just below the sandbag bunkers. The gunner noticed the Americans trying to take him out and shifted his fire to the bottom of the cliff. The 7.92x57mm rounds slammed into the beach, kicking up sand into the young American’s eyes. Luckily, Hobbar had backed up and was safely back away from the fire. The grenadiers re-mounted their grenades on the tip of their rifles and all stood at the ready once more.

"Slightly higher. Should take them out."

Hobbar looked at the soldiers, they got ready. The enemy machine gunner paused, most likely to reload or cool down his weapon.

“Fire!” The Lieutenant called out seeing that the machine gun had paused in its deadly rain. In an almost symphonized movement, the grenadiers moved out of cover, aimed up and fired their rifle grenades. This time, the rounds were effective and smashed directly into the sandbag bunker. The German gunner tumbled down the hill, cut and bruised, but still alive.

A young Private lunged forward and bashed the German soldier to death. The Private seemed to keep hitting the young German until a Sergeant Major had stopped him. Hobbar couldn’t blame the young Private, he would’ve kept hitting the German, Hobbar was scared shitless right now.

"We have an opening. Move, move, move!"

The tide was finally turning for the Americans on the beach, the company had achieved the first confirmed German kill of the day and an opening off the beach was created. Hobbar looked at the soldiers cluttered by the base of the bunker, “Lets go boys!!!” Hobbar shouted as he moved out of cover and headed up the hill.

Hobbar started running, the dirt was up the hill was difficult to navigate up. At some parts, the dirt and sand was loose, making it hard to climb up. At other parts, the soil was hard and compact, easing the climb up. Either way, the climb up was treacherous; Machine gunners from the bunkers had complete enfilade of the route up. Rounds smashed everywhere around Hobbar, at times making him want to just jump back down. No… Hobbar thought to himself, I can’t turn back now…there’s no retreat, no turning back now.

Hobbar quickly made it up the hill nonetheless and found himself in a trench. Good, at least we have some cover and protection from the hail of bullets from both the bunkers and from further behind the enemy lines. Hobbar kept low, steering away from the enemy fire. He looked back and saw a few fellow Americans on his rear. Good to see that some more men made it up. Hobbar looked at them and screamed, “Cover fire boys!” Hobbar took a quick rise from his cover and aimed at the German’s general direction. He fired off a few rounds, not minding if he was hitting or not, he was just trying to keep the German’s heads down.