Windward Review Volume 19 (2021): Empathy and Entropy

to go home. No, I needed to go home. My boy just turned two last week: another
memory stolen from me. If today went like I thought it would, I might never be there
for one of his birthdays. Had it really been that long? Margaret was pregnant when I
left. Now, James was a big two-year-old, and all I knew of my own son were the bits
of information she sent in letters. Not even a fucking picture.
Margaret wasn’t sounding any happier about me being away either. Terms
like “divorce,” “separation” and “Red from shipping and receiving” were thrown around
a lot. “Red from shipping and receiving” was also twenty years older than my wife.
None of it had stopped her from having a few “moments of indiscretion” with him over
the last two years. God damn, if the Nazis didn’t make punching their ticket easy. All
I had to do was think about “Red from shipping and receiving” whenever I felt any
doubt.
“Here we go!” the squid screamed once more.
The LCVP struck the surface hard enough to knock me down and right into
the soupy fluid below. Our ramp released from its’ housing, hitting the beach with a
wet plop of sand and salt water. But we weren’t on the beach. In fact, we were about
fifty meters from it. Shit, that fucking idiot dropped us on a sandbar, I raged. Today
was going to start with us swimming ashore instead of getting dropped there. How
many would make it through the rough waters? That was anyone’s guess.
Enemy machine gun teams were right on the money though. 8mm rounds
spat from German MG42s and ripped through the densely packed Rangers in front.
Turns out the armor worked pretty good, not one bullet punched through the walls.
They just ricocheted around, shredding bodies with abandon.
“Oh shit, oh fuck, oh god dam-“ the squid was stammering when he realized
his error.
“In the water!” I screamed.
“I can’t swim!” one voice came through the racket.
“I’m hit!” another added.
“It’s swim or die! In the water god damnit!” I said, putting an end to their
complaints in the way only Sergeants could do.
We started tossing ourselves over the side or through the bodies of our formerly
living comrades. I opted to go over the side. A burst of MG42 fire sprayed towards
me for my trouble. Close calls came with the business, but that was closer than I ever
wanted. One of them even skimmed my boot sole as I was going headfirst into the
Atlantic.
Sea water was changing to red, like an algae infested pond, once I flopped
in. My gear was heavy at the best of times. Getting it soaked through didn’t do me any
favors either. Saltwater flowed into my mouth, and even though I knew I shouldn’t, I
inhaled. It tasted just like water impregnated with human blood would taste like: coins
and salt.
Fear managed to get me moving again after the shock settled in. Before I
knew it, I was ripping my gear off with desperate wrenching movements. Ruck sack,
bandolier, weapon, helmet, all of them were thrown off as fast as I could manage.
When I was finally light enough to fight my way to the surface, I did so with frantic
flailing motions.
Most people inhale when they get above the water line. I decided coughing
would be better. It was a god damn miracle that I hadn’t died down there, and I had
enough saltwater to entertain a family of Marlins in my stomach. The coughing and
sputtering continued for a few moments while I took in the scene. In short, it was a
massacre.
Windward Review: Vol. 19
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