Robert Lee Davies - Like Lambs Sent To Their Slaughter

LIKE LAMBS SENT TO THEIR SLAUGHTER

by

ROBERT LEE DAVIES

This story is dedicated to Delmar Day Holbrook who fought more than his share of the battle as a machine gunner across the Pacific Islands during the Second World War and as an infantry soldier in the battlefields of Korea. This story is also for my father, Barry Lee Davies, who spent forty-two years battling crime in city streets as a police officer. Most of all, this story is for my wife, Jeana, who is my soul mate and my everything.

Author’s Note

While this story is fiction, it is rooted in fact. Although the characters are fictitious, they represent the many young men who served on D-Day. While it is they who served who are the only ones qualified to give an accurate account to what it was like to have been there, the purpose of this story is to provide others with a window through which to see that these valiant young men were as real, compassionate, and mortal as you and I. It is with sincere respect and gratitude for those who gave their lives on that fateful day that I hope that this story will do some justice to their never being forgotten.

Chapter One When I turned my head around I found myself staring into the steel blue eyes of the sergeant major. “Eyes front, McDonald!” he said to me, and then raised his head a little and bellowed out to the other men. “All eyes front! Stay focused!” Cutler was on my right. Powell was one over. Stevie was to my left. Buddy was directly in front of me, to the left of the Bren - handled by Corporal Allen on his right. We were finding it hard to judge the distance to the shore when so low down against the surface of the sea. From our position within the landing craft, it seemed as though we were completely parallel with the water. White pillars of foaming sea were being drawn up over the sides of the landing craft as the continuous boom and cracking of gunfire echoed from the land ahead of us. I looked across the glistening surface to where the waves chopped against the edges of the coastline and guessed the distance to be at about a half a mile. The landing crafts to the left and right were also having a difficult time, as the waves pitched them up and out and then back down into the foaming sea. I looked to my right again in time to observe Powell be sick for the second time. The warm vomit splashed against the back of Allen’s pant legs and boots before forming into the long, narrow grates which traversed the length of the floor of the landing craft. As the steam from the vomit began to rise up and mingle with the salty air around our faces, it carried with it the vile and acidic smell of digested food and stomach bile. Powell’s face was grey-green within the morning starlight and had the appearance of wet, pale plasticine. Tears had formed in his eyes and webs of vomit hung from his nostrils and at the corners of his mouth. He tried to wipe at them with the back of a trembling hand while trying to both steady himself and keep hold of his Lee Enfield with the other. Poor bastard, I thought. Powell had once told me that he’d never be able to kill anybody, never be able to bring himself to take another man’s life. When I had suggested that when in the heat of battle the fear of being killed would most likely overcome his reluctancy to kill, Powell had insisted that he would never be able to bring himself to do it. Soon, I thought, you’ll get a chance to prove

yourself right! Hopefully, fate will prove you wrong, because that isn’t a training beach out there - no matter how serene it looks. It’s the north coast of France. And those won’t be straw-filled sacks like the ones we charged and yelled at and bayoneted. They’ll be real live Germans who’ve had plenty of time to entrench themselves behind the concrete walls that our bullets will bounce off. We’ll be on our feet and running, stumbling under the weight of the gear, while they take time to adjust their aim with precision before firing a shot off at each and every one of us. I looked away from Powell and tried to focus through the grey darkness of dawn and concentrate on the coast ahead. It appeared to be slightly closer. Mike Sector, Courseulles-sur-Mer, I thought. She lays straight ahead. The sound of the sergeant major’s voice whispered from some place in the back of my mind as I remembered the instructions we’d been given. Once the ramp opens, I recalled, we are to await orders to disembark. We shouldn’t fire from the landing craft. On disembarkation, we are to guide the soldier in front of us forward with the palm of our free hand, while readying our rifle with the other. Once our feet hit the sand, we are to run as fast and as far up the beach as our legs will carry us, while keeping a distance of six feet from the next soldier in line. We should try to refrain from stopping to return fire until we reach some sort of temporary cover from mortar fire and the machine-guns located in the turrets and pillboxes mounted on the concrete breakwater, situated along the beach paralleling the La Riviere-Courseulles Road. Upon clearing out the turrets and pillboxes, we are to try to make it as close to the La Riviere-Courseulles Road as possible, where we will dig ourselves in to the best of our ability. From there, upon receiving orders from the sergeant major or someone of higher rank, we are to advance forward where we will seize the Carpiquet airfield just west of Caen, while forming a link between the two British forces to our left and right. I looked at Powell again and saw that he had managed to regain some composure, although his hands shook as he held on to his Lee Enfield. I looked to my left and saw Stevie staring back at me. Neither of us said anything. Words were not necessary. Our friendship and loyalty to one another was conveyed through the awareness in each other’s eyes. As the dull booming of the guns behind and ahead of us traveled across the waves which worked tirelessly to pitch the landing craft up

and then back down again, I let my thoughts trail back to a warm afternoon in the Autumn of 1942. I could remember seeing Stevie sitting on the front steps of Hipwell’s Drugstore and Soda Fountain from where I stood at the intersection of Wellington and Yale West. When the light changed to green, I had stepped out and crossed the street. Stevie had looked up at me from where he sat. His elbows supported the upper weight of his body as he leaned back against the coolness of the concrete steps. He held a half-finished bottle of cola in his left hand and a cigarette in the other. “Hey! What gives? The ole man finally fire your ass over at the station?” “Where’s Katherine, Stevie?” I asked, ignoring his cynical greeting. “You seen her around yet this morning?” “Yeah. Sure. Her and Ellen are over there at the record store checkin’ out the latest hits.” “Okay,” I said, turning and beginning to walk back in the direction I had come from. “Hey ... wait up!” Stevie yelled out, standing up and tagging along after me, leaving the glass bottle of cola on the steps as a beacon of his return. “Where ya goin’? Ya just got here?” “I gotta see Kath!” I said, walking at a fast pace ahead of him as we crossed the street, crisscrossing in between the cars that had come to a stop for the traffic lights. Aware that Stevie was still following me, I entered the glass doors and walked into the Barber Drug store. Katherine and Ellen stood at the far end of the counter, each studying the paper jacket of a 78 record. Frank Sinatra’s new release, Pistol Packin’ Mama, was thumping from the single speaker of the store’s phonograph. The proprietor watched us skeptically as we walked over toward the two girls. “Kath! I gotta talk to you outside,” I said. “Alone.” “Geez,” she moaned. “I’m right in the middle of ....” “Forget it,” I interrupted. “Sinatra can wait!” Ellen stood with the record jacket in her hands, listening to our conversation, but pretending to be too entranced with the crooner’s voice to even notice that her boyfriend Stevie was now standing by her side. “Groovy music,” Stevie offered. She nodded, but said nothing, casually directing all of her attention to myself and Katherine.

“Can’t this wait for two minutes?” Katherine protested. “Besides, I thought you were supposed to be working at the service station this morning? What gives?” “Please, Kath. Let’s go outside. I need to tell you something.” She studied my face and immediately sensed the anxiety. “You’re starting to scare me, David,” she said, taking a step toward me and looking into my eyes for some type of clue to what it was that was so important. “Tell me what it is. Just tell me.” I shook my head. I could see that Ellen had casually moved closer so as to nonchalantly monitor our conversation. She leaned closer to me and whispered, “Are you breaking up with me, David? Because of last night? Is that what this is about?” “No,” I said quietly, shaking my head “Never, babe.” “Then what?” she asked, looking both puzzled and worried. “Why all the urgency? What is it? Just tell me.” “Kath ....” She waited, her eyes fixed on my lips, waiting for them to form the words that she now awaited with anticipation. “My papers have come through. I received the call at home just a few minutes ago.” The words hit her as though she had run face-first into a brick wall. She stepped backwards and, without realizing that she was shaking her head from side to side, whispered, “No ... no.” I nodded. “No,” she said again, louder this time. “I came to you right away,” I offered. “I ....” “How long?” she asked, looking away from me and out through the store window at the traffic in the street. “Monday morning. I have to be at the train station on Monday morning.” She did the math in her mind, attempting to calculate the number of days that were left. She looked back at me and saw me do that supposedly adorable little thing that I always did when I was feeling nervous or upset. Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes. “Oh my god, David! Oh no!” I reached out for her and she fell forward into my arms, where she quietly wept, with her head down, as though there was no one around. The war had already begun to distance us. Suddenly, I had begun to feel profoundly alone and empty inside. “Hey,” I had tried. “Maybe it won’t be for long. Maybe the war

will end before we even get over there!”

Chapter Two We had been advised that in order to reach the road, we would have to make it past a straggling settlement of tall pillboxes and squat machine-gun turrets anchored to a high concrete breakwater. We would need to employ the standard fire and movement techniques, as we had been trained to do in Aldershot, by section and platoon. We had also been advised that the beach would be covered with wooden and steel obstacles wrapped in massive coils of barbed wire, explosive teller mines, and hidden land mines. Buddy had the mine-detector. The man to the left of Buddy, Lance Corporal Smith, had the signal exchange. Poor bugger, I thought. It’ll be an extra sixty pounds you’ll have to carry up that beach! Myself, I had enough to carry. I had my Lee Enfield rifle, five-hundred rounds of .303 ammunition, six hand-grenades, six two-inch mortar shells for the mortar team, and a bayonet. The bayonet, we had quickly learned in the numerous training maneuvers, could be as much a hazard as an asset. Sergeant Anderson’s voice crept up from a memory of a hot summer afternoon of intensive

training in Aldershot. ‘If thrust into the chest,’ the training sergeant had bellowed, while demonstrating a forward movement with a mock rifle, ‘rather than the abdomen, there’s a good chance that the blade will become lodged between the man’s ribs ... and you’ll find yourself standing there like a bloody fool, trying to dislodge it while bullets are flying all around you! Always strike for the abdomen! And if it does become lodged, fire your weapon so as to shatter the bones holding it in! That should dislodge it!’ I imagined myself standing on that sandy beach, with my bayonet stuck between the ribs of the chest of another man. Would he stare into my eyes in disbelief as I worked to free it? I wondered. Or would he fight desperately before I had a chance to work the bolt and fire off that round that would blow his insides out? Or ... would it be myself who would be standing there in disbelief? “Right, lads!” the sergeant major yelled out above the sounds of the landing craft and the hollow thudding and booming which traveled across the water. “Keep your heads down!” Before lowering myself a little more, I took a quick glance forward and searched for growing detail of the French coastline. It was still obscure against the darkness of the early morning skyline. From what I could see, I estimated it to now be about seven-hundred yards away. The engines of the landing craft seemed to be turning over faster as the stench of burning oil and fuel had become noticeably stronger. Powell still periodically wiped at his face where he’d been sick. Buddy had placed the mine-detector between his boots and was pinning it with his calves in order to free his hands. I watched as he worked frantically to unsling his rifle, recheck the loaded magazine, and to make sure that he had one up the spout. Corporal Allen was looking down at his tunic to make sure that the blanco hadn’t rubbed off the brass buttons. Stevie was simply staring ahead, trying his best to see around the height of the ramp in front of us. Suddenly, the smell of excrement invaded our nostrils. I looked around, as though expecting a confession from one of the men nearest us. “Eyes forward,” the sergeant major ordered again. “Better to shit here than in the face of the enemy!” “Why not shit all over the face of the enemy?” asked a private from somewhere to our right, trying to break the air of nervousness. Stevie snickered. The rest of us followed with a brief interval of murmured laughter. The sergeant major said nothing, permitting us a few moments of release. Inevitably, he hissed at us. A sudden and

deliberate silence consumed the boat, apart from for the continuous booming in the distance, the roar of the engines as the landing craft pitched against the crashing waves, and the dull thudding of our own individual heartbeats deep within our eardrums. After a few moments, I risked a quick glance back at the sergeant major. He looked at me and offered a reassuring wink before nodding his head forward. As I looked forward again, I realized how he had been like a father to us over the last few months. Firm but fair. Critical but understanding. Unmerciful but compassionate. Solemn in his endeavor to make men out of boys. Serious in his commitment to make soldiers out of men. Unrelenting in his quest to teach us what he believed we needed to know to in order to survive. My analysis of the sergeant major as a father carried my thoughts back to that same autumn day of 1942. I had been standing at the intersection of Yale East and Maple Street, watching my father clean the windshield of Mr. Langford’s 1940 Mercury, while struggling with the difficulty of how to tell him that I was to be shipped out in just a matter of days. Maybe if I had been in uniform, it would have been easier. Maybe not. When I had finally mustered up enough courage to face the moment, I took a deep breath, wiped the palms of my hands on the front pockets of my blue jeans, and then crossed the street toward the service station. “Son ... how are ya’?” he had asked, smiling, as I approached him. “I’m okay, Pop,” I said. How are you doin?” “Busy! It’s been busy as all get out today,” he answered, while taking the gas nozzle from the Mercury and placing it into its slot on the pump. “That’ll be a buck-forty, Ted!” he called to Mr. Langford. I watched as he accepted a two dollar bill from the man and made change from the coin in his front pocket. “Thanks again, Ted!” he called out, as the man started the car and pulled away from the pumps. “It is busy,” I said, as another car turned into the lot and pulled up to the pumps. “Yes ... busy enough that I could use you around here full time! Besides ... you’ll never learn the business only working three days a week! Take today for example ... you could be learning the ropes and earning yourself a buck instead of chumming around!” I said nothing as he walked over to the car. “You can fill it up,” I heard Mrs. Curtis say. I watched him as he unscrewed the gas cap and then slid the nozzle into the tank. Our conversation had been put

on hold while in earshot of the customer. A few moments later, he walked past me on his way toward the front of the Chrysler. I stood quietly as he leaned forward and reached in through the grill in order to open the hood. “David ... you know that I’d be more than happy to pass this business on to you in a few years,” he said, reaching into the engine compartment for the oil stick. “But first you’d need to ....” I nodded and looked away. “.... be willing to put in the hours in order to learn the ....” “Dad!” I interrupted. “They’re shipping me out!” I watched as he ran the steel stick through the oil rag he kept tucked into the back pocket of his coveralls and as he slid it back into its port on the engine block. He pulled it out and again and looked for the level at the end. “She’ll need a quart!” he called out to Mrs. Curtis, who sat watching me from behind the wheel. “That’s fine!” she called back. “That’s fine!” My eyes followed him as he walked over to the rack between the pumps and selected a can of 10-30 weight oil. These would be my memories of this man, I had thought. The memories that I will take with me. I stood quietly, studying every detail of the dark, sinewy hands as they pierced the stainless steel spout through the top of the can. For the millionth time, I noticed how the muscles within the powerful forearms rippled as they were extended forward to position the oil can over the intake on the valve cover. I studied the features of the aging face - tanned and rugged, with an expression of resolution. My father said nothing as he disposed of the empty oil can, checked the level on the stick again, and then closed the hood. I waited as he walked along the length of the Chrysler, returned the gas nozzle into its slot on the pump, and collected the dollar-seventy from Mrs. Curtis. “Exactly how long is it until you leave?” he finally asked me. “They want me at the train station and ready to go by eight on Monday morning.” He had offered nothing in response. Only silence. Although I stood and waited for him to offer some words of reassurance, the words that I imagined a father would offer to a son leaving to go off to war, he simply stood in his solitude, wiping grease and oil smears away from the spaces between each of his calloused fingers. I had been able to see the pain as it immediately became etched into the lines on his face. An eternal pain, I had thought, an eternal

feeling of helplessness ... from this moment on ... as a father is suddenly faced with the possibility of losing his only son. I had been awkwardly struggling with something to say in an attempt to break the painful silence between us when my father had finally spoken again. “Don’t talk too much about this around your mother son. These next few days will be very hard on her.”

Chapter Three ‘They probably won’t fire until we’re within three-hundred feet of the shore line,’ the sergeant major had told us. ‘The heavy stuff will most likely go right over our heads!’ The mortars will be doing their thing all around us! Just remember that all you have to focus on is

moving your ass forward up that beach to a spot where you can take cover!’ The stench of the burning diesel fuel mingled with the foulness of the expelled vomit and excrement and hung heavily in the salty air. Waves began to spiral along the length of the landing craft. The sea spit against our faces as white foam spilled over the gunwales and formed around the toes of our boots. The sound of what seemed like a million shells began to fill the air. I raised my head a little and peered around the helmets and the height of the tall ramp in front of us. I could now clearly see the long line of the beach ahead, silhouetted by the first light of dawn. I estimated it to now be at about five-hundred yards. “Keep your heads down!” the sergeant major bellowed from behind me. “And check your weapons one last time!” In unison, we did as ordered. Magazines clicked and bolts rattled as the men around me checked their rifles. I checked that there was one up the spout and that the ten-round magazine was locked into place on mine. Then I moved on to check the foresight to see that it was clean. Then the back-sight, to ensure that it was set at three-hundred yards. I looked up in time to see Cutler raise the cross on the chain around his neck and kiss it with his lips. I suddenly thought of the locket which hung on the silver chain around my neck. With my left hand, I reached down the front of my tunic and brought it out into the grey light. Inside was a small sepia photograph of Katherine and I sitting on the front porch of her parent’s house back in Chilliwack. Katherine, I called out in my mind. May God help me through this and take me back to you, Katherine. I raised the locket to my lips and held it there. The moment carried me back to a memory from that autumn of 1942. We had stretched ourselves out under the warmth of the early Autumn sun, beneath the swaying branches of a tall, majestic Maple Tree. With our gaze positioned toward the blue sky, we watched the afternoon clouds drifted lazily by. An occasional breeze tugged at the corners of the blanket on which we lay, in feeble attempts to lift and carry it away across the long blades of grass. The whistle of a passenger train could be heard in the distance. There was the faint echo of dogs barking in the backyards of the town below us. The engine of an aircraft could be heard as it passed overhead high above us.

She rolled onto her side and snuggled up against me, sliding the fingers of an open hand across the breadth of my chest. In response, I turned toward her and snuggled my face into her hair. I drew in a deep breath so as to take in her fragrance and then moved down to kiss the nape of her neck. My head began to swim and my heart raced as I gingerly traced the outline of her shoulder and then traveled down toward her waist with the tips of my fingers. When they reached the roundness of her hip, I pulled her closer so that she would feel me against her. She tilted her head upward so as to look into my eyes. I placed a hand gently upon her face and slid my fingers through her long, auburn hair. She snuggled her face into my chest and inhaled deeply, taking in my fragrance. After several peaceful moments, she turned her head to the left so as to kiss the inside of my wrist. I wrapped my arms around her in an embrace and then rolled onto my back and carried her with me. She giggled and told me how grass felt cold and naked against her knees as she straddled me. She placed the palms of her hands upon my chest. As she had let the yellow, patterned summer dress rise carelessly high upon her thighs, I knew that she could feel me beneath her - just as I knew that she could feel my chest move with each breath that I took. She looked into my eyes as she began to unfasten my shirt, one button at a time. She then leaned forward and placed an ear over my heart. Her hair draped across my shoulders and cascaded down into the crevices of my neck as she listened to my heart beat. Life, I thought to myself. Every heartbeat is a moment of this life. Without moving, she whispered into the soft breeze. “I love you.” I said nothing in return. She waited a moment and then lifted her head so as to see my face. Our eyes met in silence. She rested her chin upon my breastbone, wiped a strand of hair away from her face, and then raised an eyebrow at me. “I said ....” “I need you!” I told her. She frowned as though pretending to test my sincerity and then smiled at the value and truth in my words. She then raised a hand up toward my face and began to trace the outline of my mouth with the tip

of her index finger. An image of her watching me board a troop train bound for Halifax the following day passed through my mind, trespassing and invading, ruining the moment, and leaving the feelings of finality that it carried with it. Will I be back? I thought to myself. Several long, silent moments passed before I sat up and positioned myself so that we faced each other. When our eyes met, it was with an intensity we had never shared before. Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes when she heard me say the words that came next. “I love you, Katherine.” A tear escaped and began to roll down her face. I leaned forward and gently kissed it away. At that moment, I knew that I had come to love everything about her. I knew that I had come to love her more than anything else in my world. More than life itself. I had wanted and needed to know that she would remain true to me. I had wanted and needed to know that she was prepared to save herself entirely for me. I looked into her eyes and whispered, “I want for you to wait for me. I want for you to be my wife when I return. I want to marry you.” In response, she pulled me close and whispered, “Make love to me.”

Chapter Four “Four hundred yards to go!” the sergeant major yelled out above the din of the boat and the crashing of the waves around us. “Keep focused, lads! And wait for the command!” I looked forward between the men in front of me and around the height of the ramp in order to see the shore line. I could now see every detail of the beach in the cold of the misty, morning light. The sand looked hard and packed above the water line. Yet, I knew that it would be as soft and loose as sugar and hell to run across under the weight of our packs. My thoughts drifted back to all the times we had practiced in Morecambe Bay, running up and down the beach for hours on end. At first, in our bare feet, with the hot sand biting at the flesh between our toes. Later, in our socks, feeling the wetness of the morning tide seep through. Finally, in our leather boots and with the straps of our canvas packs digging into our backs and shoulders. At first, when running across open sand, a pair of regular issue combat boots seem to triple in weight and each successive step feels as though you are setting down and lifting ten-pound bricks. In time, we found ourselves developing muscles we never knew existed in our ankles,

calves and thighs. I looked down at my Lee Enfield and saw that I had forgot to close the bolt. After sliding it forward and feeling it drop into place, I used my thumb to flip the catch to safety, and then made a mental reminder to myself that the last thing I must do before stepping forward to exit the landing craft is to move the catch again. With my left hand, I reached behind my back and felt for the handle of my entrenching tool strapped to my back between the smaller and bigger packs. Quickly, feeling that time was running out, I twisting the cork of my water bottle to make sure that it was tight. I then reached up with my left hand and opened the two ammunition pouches above my breast, peered down to check the contents, and then closed them again. I recounted the hand grenades hanging from my belt. Six. I finished by unscrewing the valve on my life belt and rapidly blowing an extra lung full of air into it. All ready to go, I thought to myself, and suddenly found myself remembering another time of disembarkment - a chilly, windy morning in that same Autumn of 1942. My mother had stood on the platform, her white knuckles nervously clenching the brown paper bag in which she had packed me a lunch. There would be a note in it. There always was. I had watched as she intermittently freed one hand to dab at her eyes with a palm full of exhausted Kleenex. My fourteen-year-old sister stood further back, being careful to prevent her eyes from meeting with mine. She had always pretended to hate me; however, I had sensed that she had always secretly adored me. She had always depended upon me. She had always unconsciously expressed a need for me. And now, standing here, watching as I prepared to leave them, ‘goodbye’ was not an option for her. I looked into my father’s tired eyes. They said ‘’Goodbye forever. Forever to never see you again. To never hear your laughter again.’ After a few moments, the words had come. Words I had waited for so long to hear : “I’m proud of you son.” Tears began to well in the lids of my eyes and I struggled to hold them back. I could not speak for fear that my voice would break. I nodded my understanding. Awkwardly, my father reached out for me - as if to ask for one

final chance. We held each other in a peaceful silence as a cool wind lifted and carried brown, brittle Autumn leaves up and around us. The moment surfaced a distant memory from a lifetime before. A memory of being a young boy - safe, with my father’s arms wrapped around me in a loving and protecting embrace. The almost unexplainable but understandable need to preserve the moment - to savor his fragrance as my face was held gently against his shirt. A summer sun had warmed us both together. I had heard the gates begin to open behind me, their metal hinges squealing in protest as the worn rubber tires moved defiantly across the concrete. The crowd had begun to spill over onto the wooden planks which paralleled the tracks. Young men with duffel bags slung over their shoulders began to step up into the steel-paneled cars. Within moments, faces began to reappear. Uniformed torsos leaned out of opened windows as girls tippy-toed for one last kiss. Arms were extended and fingers had touched. I had picked up my canvas duffel bag and had looked around the station - first over the cheering and crying along the length of the train and then back at my family. There was nothing more to be said. There was nothing more that could be done - to prevent this parting. Slowly, I turned and began to make my way through the crowd toward the nearest train car. As I stepped up onto the first step, I looked back at them one last time, and saw that my sister had been watching me. When our eyes met, I smiled and whispered, “Goodbye.”

Chapter Five The guns on the shore opened fire at three-hundred yards to go. I saw a round ricochet off the iron in front of Stevie’s hand, where he had braced it in an attempt to steady himself. I saw him quickly withdraw it and I crouched down as far as I could go. Several more clinked against the iron around us and seemed to end with dull, thudding sounds, leaving me to wonder if they had found human torsos. Cutler’s? The lance corporal’s? I wondered, afraid to raise my head to look around and see. Maybe the sergeant major? “Son-of-a-bitch!” I heard Buddy say, making me think he had been hit. “Shit!” Stevie cursed, as another round slammed into the iron beside him. “Stay focused, lads!” said the sergeant major. “Keep your heads down! Stay focused! And wait for the order to disembark!” I suddenly remembered how we had been reassured that the No. 6 Field Company Royal Canadian Engineers would be using Sherman Crabs equipped with flails to clear ten-foot-wide paths ahead of us. Those tanks will have 75-mm. guns, I thought. Hopefully, they’ll focus some fire on those gun emplacements while clearing the paths. I glanced to my right and saw that Cutler was still there, crouching down on his haunches. I looked to my left and saw that Stevie was doing the same. The bullets were coming faster now, wacking against the side of the boat. There are all the other landing craft, I thought. Aim at them! Why pick this one? I cautiously lifted my head and saw that the mortars had started. Gouts of water were rising up to ten-feet out of the sea from the concussion of the underwater explosions. How strong is the bottom of this boat, I wondered. Is it strong enough to withstand one of those explosions? I suddenly imagined myself fighting frantically to

stay afloat in the salty water, with my legs blown off at the kneecaps. I put my head down again in instinct. Hunching forward, I wondered just how long it would be before one of those stray bullets would find me. Was one of them be intended for me? Would one of them have my name on it like the letter tucked away in the breast pocket of my tunic? As advised, each of us had prepared and now carried a letter that would be sent home to our loved ones if something should happen to us. If something did, the letter would be taken from us, along with any other personal effects, and forwarded to the chaplain. The chaplain would ensure that your letter, along with your wallet, wrist watch, and rings - if you possessed any, would be sent home where they would be received by your mother, your father, or your wife. We had written our own letters of death - letters which could be regarded as the beginning of our own obituaries. My thoughts of this letter of departure carried me back to another letter which said ‘goodbye’ : My Dearest David, I am so sorry for not meeting you at the train station, but I could not bring myself to say ‘goodbye’ to you. For me, that would signify saying goodbye to the ‘us’. It would signify saying ‘goodbye’ to the now. And I want so very much to hold on to the now. I want to preserve it just as it is. I want to keep it deep down in my heart where no one or anything can take it away from me. Remember that I will always be with you as you are always in my heart. You have become so much a part of me that it feels as though we have become one. In becoming one, we have become inseparable. Neither this distance or time will matter once we are back in each others’ arms to stay. Be strong. In your most difficult moments, remember the places we have been and the moments we have shared. Think of me and remember that I will be here waiting for you! Yours always, Katherine.

Chapter Six I could remember being a young boy of ten or eleven and being afraid to ascend the basement stairs of our family home. There would always be this authenticated fear that something would reach out at you from under the staircase. In your mind’s eye, you saw the gray

cement floor, the wooden support beams, and your mother’s glass jars of canned peaches which sat on the wooden shelves that your father had built for her underneath the staircase. Yet, you felt something else. Your senses warned you that something was lurking. Something unknown. Indescribable. But it was there - as real as the gray cement, the wooden beams and your mother’s glass jars of canned peaches. Your fear would begin to play games with you. If you turned out the light and stood in the darkness, you would hear the thudding of your heart deep inside your eardrums. I would hear my brother breathing not more than a few feet away. Anticipation. The trick my brother had taught me, was to psyche yourself - to summon as much courage as possible as you waited until that moment of ultimate readiness. It was then that you would draw a deep breath, take that first step forward, and then suddenly ascend the stairs through the blackness. You took them two at a time, as quickly as you could, while recalling each step from memory. Over time, I had acquired an extraordinary degree of courage in completing this nightly ritual. Each night, I had challenged the unknown aggressor and had succeeded. Each night, the aggressor became less and less dangerous and the ascent had become gradually easier. Eventually, the aggressor was no longer real. The beach which lay ahead of us, however, was very real. So were the those pillboxes and turrets with their machine-guns, and so were the incessant rounds of mortar fire which now rained down all around us. I heard a section of chain begin to rattle and instinctively looked up at the ramp. Already, the pins that stopped the chain had been pulled out. Yet, I could see only traces of light filtering through the narrow gaps between the ramp and the sides of the landing craft. I knew we were approaching the shore quickly. As rounds of ammunition continued to ricochet off the sides and platform of the boat, the gouts of water caused by the underwater explosions of mortar fire seemed to become closer. I was wondering if the Germans had changed their trajectory and range in order to zero in on us when I realized that it was more likely that we had entered into their range, like a plane flying into a hailstorm.

In my peripheral vision, I saw the sergeant major shuffle forward from his position behind us. With my head still down and hunching forward, I watched as he wriggled past us and down the narrow, central corridor. He stopped a little more than halfway along the length of the boat and began to voice orders to the men nearest him. I was unable to hear his instructions since his voice was drowned out over the din of the engines and dull thudding of explosions. Within moments it became very clear what his orders were. The men around him began to struggle with pushing the body of another soldier under a bench, cursing in their effort to cram the limbs around and in behind the metal legs. The sergeant major wanted the body out of the way so that the rest of the men would not trip over it when exiting the landing craft. How can this happen?, I wondered. How, within a single moment, can a young man with all his childhood memories and future dreams be reduced to being a nothing more than a mere obstacle to others? How can a single bullet take away his life? Was it fate? Had God decided to take him first? Or was it just chance? Had he just been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time? The rounds of ammunition began to come ever more frequently, wacking against the side of the boat. In my mind’s eye, I visualized them flattening against the heavy iron around us. I lowered my head down as far as I could, a reaction more out of instinct more than fear. To my left, Stevie had tucked his head and left shoulder under the steel plating of the gun-whales. The awful stench of the oil fuel and the vomit which sloshed back and forth along the grates under our boots continued to rise up and challenge us. To fight a growing sense of nausea, I raised my head a little so as to take in a deep breath of air. I glanced to my right past Cutler and saw that Powell stood ashen-faced, staring straight ahead, as though fixed upon a point on a horizon far across a vacant field. Suddenly, I noticed the streak of red along his left cheek. The area began to swell rapidly before my eyes and the red turned from sanguineous to crimson as it began to seep out and trickle down his face. “Get down!” Cutler yelled, reaching over with his free hand and tugging at Powell’s tunic. “Get down here and stay down!” The blood was running freely now, following the lines around the corner of his mouth and forming into ruby globs before dripping off his chin. The beads of sweat which had surfaced on his clammy skin glistened like pearls in the morning mist. I wanted to reach over and wipe them away from the area around his eyes.

“Stay down ... or you’ll both be next!” the sergeant major yelled, suddenly appearing in my vision. I lowered my head back down and watched as the sergeant major pulled Powell down to his knees and began to gingerly dab at the cut on his face with a wad of gauze dripping with sulfanilamide powder. I could hear him whisper words of comfort and reassurance as the blood began to seep through the gauze and trickled between his leathery fingers. This, I thought, is the very man who just moments ago had ordered the body of another man to be stuffed under a metal bench like an old blanket or pair of boots.

Chapter Seven The leadership of the sergeant major carried me back to a cold day in the early December of 1942. It was a time when we were still with the Seaforth Highlanders of Canada - long before transferring over to the 7th Brigade of the 3rd Canadian Infantry Division during the roundup for Operation Overlord. We had been stationed in Aldershot, England for what was termed an indefinite period of time before finally being moved to the front lines of Sicily in the early summer of 1943. Our time in Aldershot had been spent enduring seemingly endless hours of ground maneuvers and tactical and invasion training. The first day there we were assigned Quonset Huts. I was assigned the hut furthest from the latrine. Once inside, I quickly tossed my gear onto the top bunk in the corner at the far end, opposite that of the corporal. My decision to claim this bunk was the result of a tip I had received from a sergeant that the corporal was an early riser and would be early to bed each night and would not tolerate any hullabaloo from the men around him. Being in a bunk near the stove and table at the center of the room meant that everyone used your bed and personal space as a sofa whenever there was a good card game happening. So, the tip had proven to be invaluable in that it guaranteed me many peaceful nights of sleep. As we had grown up together and spent many nights sleeping on the linoleum floors of each other’s bedrooms, Stevie had chosen the bunk below mine. When Cameron Wilkinson had stormed in, we

nearly jumped to attention, thinking he was an officer - but quickly realized that he was just another grunt that donned the same colors and held the same rank us the rest of us. Then Buddy Thompson arrived, and as we all got to know him, we came to realize that it was merely the presence and demeanor of the six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-forty pound Irish-born Canadian prairie boy that made the air stop moving whenever he entered a room. Even officers had been known to pause in conversation and turn in acknowledgment - only to realize that they had just accredited a private. Yet, they still accepted him as though he were of equal rank, calling him over and inviting him to become a part of whatever conversation or card game they had going on at the time. In fact, anyone who was fortunate enough to really get to know Buddy quickly came to realize that he was as humble, compassionate and as likeable as they come. When the portly Jeffrey Cutllridge waddled in and introduced himself in an English accent as Cutler, he took the bottom bed of the bunk beside ours, away from the corporal and at ground level for his frequent starlight trips to the latrine. Although Cutler kept to himself for quite some time, the friendship that he and I would come to share would prove to be imperishable. For all of us, the war had still seemed remote. North Africa, the Far East, and the Pacific were places we had only heard about. Although you had heard stories from men who claimed to have fought their way up the beaches at Dieppe, through the forests of Belgium, and across the hot sands of Libya, you knew that those who had really seen action rarely spoke of it. Those who carried on with ever-changing stories about how they had shot down an enemy aircraft with a Lee Enfield or had machine-gunned an entire unit of Germans while taking a crucial piece of land were most often regarded with skepticism. Corporal Andrew Dunbar was one of those people. Although we had no choice other than to accept him as a sleeping member of our Quonset Hut, he was far from being considered as a friend to any of us. Other than unknowingly serving as a guarantee for my many nights of peaceful sleep, the corporal proved to be of little use to myself or any of the other men under him. It was by the end of our first week as new friends and bunkmates that we had all agreed that the corporal was to be permanently regarded as ‘a no-good lying sack-of-shit with the leadership skills of an incontinent grandmother’. On his first night in our barracks the much-abhorred corporal told us how he was specifically chosen to be the leading NCO of our barracks

because he was the only one that the army saw capable of ‘whipping us into shape’. He had proceeded to tell us how he had served in Africa and how he had been promoted and was up for receiving the Military Cross for his heroic efforts in single-handedly stopping a fleet of 8th Panzer Regiment tanks from destroying the precious fuel reserves of the British in Cyrenaica. We had later learned from a sergeant that the Dunbar had never set foot on African soil and that he had been promoted on English soil to serve as a clerk in a quartermasters store. In truth, the corporal had yet to see a single moment of front line action. While we never confronted him with this little piece of knowledge, we lived with the satisfaction of knowing that he was not respected by anyone of higher rank and that we had some margin in as to how we could respond to his absurd demands and idle threats. Less to say, the corporal quickly became our Quonset mascot, being the target taking the brunt of our endless stream of snide remarks and practical jokes. “Eyes forward!” I heard the sergeant major yell, bringing me back to the now. “Get ready!” We were no more than a hundred yards from the shore when I heard the chains begin to rattle. I looked up as the ramp started to go down. The engines of the landing craft began a metallic scream as they labored to push against the tides. The boat was creating waves of its own that rode up over top of the gunwales and slopped down inside where it carried the engine oil and vomit along the lengths of the iron grates beneath our feet. “Stand by, lads!” the sergeant major bellowed, and I knew that he was readying us for the disembarkment. I pressed my feet against the grates and began to flex my stomach muscles in readiness for the quick up and off that we had repeatedly trained for. The bullets continued to wack against the iron around us and ricochet into other targets. I glanced to my right and saw that Cutler was praying, with his eyes closed tight and his lips whispering the words of the Twenty-third Psalm. The sweat now lay in pools on my face. My fingers were stiff and leaden as they clutched the Lee Enfield. Beseechingly, I looked across the boat. All I saw was each man’s aloneness, and through it, my own. In a matter of moments, we would be stepping off into the unknown. There was no going back. There was only going forward. At this moment, when there was little each man could do for the other,

the waiting was our agony. Please God, I prayed. Please make it now. Make the boat stop now and make the ramp open so we can get out onto that beach where we can find some cover. Please ... make it now! As if in answer to my plea, the boat jarred and a tremulous grating shook its hull as it came to a stop on the gravel floor of the shoreline. I listened to the impatient clanking of the opening ramp and watched as it went the rest of the way down with a loud clatter, and I thought, Here we go! Please God ... please watch over me! Holding my Lee Enfield in my right hand, I pressed the palm of my left hand against Buddy’s back. He pressed the palm of his hand against the back of the man in front of him. “Up two three!” the sergeant major shouted from behind me. “Up two three! Up two three!”

Chapter Eight

As I dropped into the water between Stevie and Cutler, I suddenly knew the fear of complete exposure. Without warning, I was waist deep in the frigid waters of the English Channel. I fought the desire to turn around and crawl back up into the safety of the landing craft as the coldness flooded into my boots and breeches and took my breath away as though I had been hit in the solar plexus. I was all at once aware of the shock that a newborn child must feel when leaving its mother’s womb when first entering this world. “Son-of-a-bitch,” I heard Cutler yell from my right as I fought desperately to move forward through the water. I turned my head in time to see him raise his Lee Enfield above the surface of the crashing waves while fighting to stay afloat under the weight of his packs. I looked past him and saw that Powell, too, was fighting against the incessant waves. The dressing had come away from his face and was dripping salt water as it dangled from his cheek by one strip of adhesive tape. Rounds from German Spandaus and Schmeissers tore into the water as the billows tossed us all from side to side and against one another. I looked over at Stevie and saw him dog-paddling in a losing effort to gain distance toward the shore. I tried once to reach out and pull him toward me, but a stream of bullets sang above my shoulder and pummeled into the landing craft behind us. I tried a second time, this time grasping my already numb fingers around the cloth of his tunic. As I began to pull him toward me, the sergeant major suddenly appeared out of nowhere and yelled into my ear : “Let him go if he’s been hit! Get your ass onto that beach!” The idea of Stevie being hit, already, so soon and so fast, angered me. I pulled him closer and held his head above the water. Relief surged through me when he began to struggle and curse at me to let him go as the weight of our packs suddenly began to pull us backwards. I let go of Stevie and looked around. Men were pouring out of other landing crafts for as far as I could see up and down the length of the beach. A swell washed over me and when it subsided I looked down and saw that the water had turned to a beautiful pink. I watched in awe as the pink darkened to the color of the roses that bloomed in my mother’s garden every Spring. Men had begun to drop and float face down around us, with their packs and entrenching tools bobbing up and below the surface. Others fell onto their backs where they floated face-up in the shifting water and eventually became entangled

over top of one another with their pale fingers gesticulating skyward in silent forfeitures of life. Now only vacant bodies, they lay empty, waiting, for the relentless waves to reach up and consume them in one single swallow. “Keep moving!” I heard the sergeant major yell from somewhere nearby. “Keep your heads down low and move double-time up that beach!” My God, I thought. They’re picking us off like ducks in a pond! We’ll never reach any sort of cover on that beach! “David!” I heard Stevie call out. “David! Come this way!” Where are you? I yelled out in my mind, looking around toward the sound of his voice. I saw nothing but billows of water rising and falling over helmeted heads. Two bodies floated face down, already beginning to sink under the weight of the saturated clothing. A head popped up over top of the two bodies and the eyes on the pallid face squinted at me. It took a moment for me to recognize that it was Stevie. I began to make my way over to him while keeping submerged in the water and letting the billows camouflage me. Please don’t see me moving, I begged in my mind. Please don’t shoot at me! “Keep coming,” I heard Stevie say. I followed the sound of his voice, swallowing mouthfuls of water whenever I raised my head above the surface to take in air. My forehead bumped against something soft. I cautiously broke above the surface and peered ahead of me and saw the blood-stained battle-dress of one of the two bodies just a hand’s length away. “Take cover here!” he called out. “Behind these two ... guys!” He couldn’t say it, I thought, pushing my way through the water between the two corpses and coming to a stop beside him. He couldn’t say ‘dead’. “Keep your head down!” he said, looking into my eyes now that we were face-to-face. “They’ve already shot these two guys to hell! We should be fine here for a bit!” “We’re supposed to be advancing straight up that beach!” I said, shaking my head in disagreement. “The orders were to advance straight up that beach before taking any sort of cover!” He spit out a mouthful of water and looked at me. “Were!” he said. “Things have changed! Take a serious look around you! You want to go running straight up that beach just to get the shit shot out of you ... then go right ahead!” “Where are the others?” I asked, suddenly wondering about

Cutler, Buddy, and the corporal. “Where’s Cutler?” “God only knows,” he said, lowering his head and struggling to keep his rifle above the water. “Probably bought it already!” The two bodies we were using for cover began to move away from us with the push and pull of the waves. With one hand clutching my Lee Enfield, I reached out and grabbed at one of them with the other. As I pulled it back toward us, I heard Stevie curse. In my peripheral vision, I could see that he was struggling to pull the other body back as well. I could hear the rat-tat-tat of the German machine-guns and the dull thudding of bullets as they slammed into other bodies in the water around us. “Hold on to him!” Stevie ordered. “We’ll be picked off without them!” “We can’t stay here!” I yelled, suddenly wondering what had happened to the sergeant major. “They’re sweeping back and forth with those machine-guns ... filling everyone with lead just to make sure that they’re dead!” “Just stay put!” he ordered, as though he held rank over me. “Or you’ll get us both killed!” The gravity and fear in his voice briefly carried me back to a cold winter day in January of 1943. Our unit was on a manoeuver exercise just outside of our camp in Aldershot, England. Bitter cold winds bit through our fatigues and stung our faces as we crawled along on our bellies across the frozen winter landscape while clutching our rifles with the uncooperative fingers of numb hands. With Stevie by my side, I had tried to focus on pretending that it was a race that we were in and that I had bet him that I would be the first to reach the series of objectives. Our first objective was a naturally raised section of terrain which had been modified and equipped with sand in order to resemble a mock beach. Once we reached the sand we were to jump to our feet and run as fast as we could up the manufactured beachhead until we were able to take some sort of cover behind the various obstacles that had been strategically placed across the beach. From there, we were to use the skills and knowledge we had acquired through our training to take control of the two mock machine-gun turrets situated in a bunker at the top of the small bluff. The machine guns would be real. The ammunition would be blanks - dead rounds. “Let’s stick together and cover each other,” Stevie had suggested, concerned that I was inching ahead of him. “Just try and keep by my side,” I had said, while propelling

myself another foot forward with my knees and elbows. “Damn it, David! Slow the hell down!” The moment I felt the sand around my the base of my hands, I pressed the Lee Enfield downward in order to project myself up and onto my feet. I was off and running, with my shoulders hunched and my head down low. I could see other men paralleling me, running up the mock beach in a race to reach the obstacles that would provide the best cover. I had decided on a large piece of concrete jutting out of the sand - most likely intended to represent a section of breakwater wall. As I approached it, I could hear Stevie’s boots thumping into the sand behind me. I threw myself forward and landed on my chest and forearms on the beach surrounding the end of the concrete slab. Stevie landed beside me, the butt of his rifle digging into the sand and his helmet tipping forward over his perspiration-covered forehead. “Let’s just stay together,” he panted, while pushing his helmet back into place and adjusting the straps with one hand. I ignored him as I was already focusing on what my next move would be. From where I lay, I could see the two turrets situated in the bunker. It stood defiantly at the crest of the sandy hill ahead, looking down over the beach around us. The only ways for us to move were in flanking maneuvers to the left or right, or to progress forward straight up the beach and then over top of that hill toward the machine-guns in that bunker. “This is crazy,” Stevie muttered. “Freaken’ crazy.” “It’s supposed to be,” I said, peering around one corner of the concrete slab and watching the machine guns move from left to right in slow, mechanical sweeping motions. “I hate this shit,” he said, looking down at that sand around us. “It’s all over my weapon. I just cleaned the bloody thing last night!” “Stay focused,” I ordered, looking back over my shoulder and noticing that other men were still running up the beach while others had already taken cover behind the various obstacles situated to the left and right of us. I looked forward again and then at Stevie. “Just stay focused. You see that bunker? It’s right there! We can be the first ones to get to it!” “Why would we want to be?” he asked, shaking his head from side to side. “Let some other sucker run up there and take it!” I reassessed the situation by surveying the area around us. To our left, the land sloped abruptly and formed into the hillside no more than one-hundred yards away. To the right, it extended for about

three-hundred yards, gradually losing height along a shallow ridge as it followed the contour of the sandy hillside. I raised myself up on my hands and quickly peered over the concrete slab. I calculated the distance between ourselves and the bunker to be at about four-hundred yards. To advance forward, from the cover of the concrete and straight up the hill, would certainly result in our failing the test - for if it were a real life situation, such a move would result in us being torn to pieces by rapid machine gun fire. “We’re going that way,” I said, pointing to the length of ridge to our right. Stevie looked to the right past me and then to his left. He let out a sigh and looked back down toward the valley behind us. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think we’re screwed!” “It’s obvious that we can’t advance forward....” I said. “Or down there,” Stevie interrupted. “And the cover of this ridge ends too quickly to our left,” I said. “We’d be out in the open with no cover and still directly in front of the bunker if we went that way.” Stevie nodded. “So,” I continued. “That leaves us with one option ... to move laterally to the right. We could belly-crawl along the length of that section of the ridge until we reached that far bend.” “And then what” “And then we hope that we find a better means of cover waiting for us on the other side ... and maybe even a better location from which to assess that bunker.” Stevie lay quietly, contemplating my analysis of the situation. After several moments, he turned to me. “Those were my thoughts exactly. However, we could also stay put right where we are and wait for some of the others to clear that section of ridge.” I shook my head in disagreement and nodded in a gesture toward the bunker and said, “No dice! We’re going! Besides ... it’ll just be a matter of time before the instructors up there decide to come down here on a recon and declare us blown away.” “Uh-uh,” Stevie muttered. “It’s likely that they’ll sit right where they are behind those machine guns and wait for us to be the ones to make the next foolish move.” I thought about Stevie’s words, playing them over in my mind. From every angle that I looked at it, I saw that time would be the most essential factor in our surviving and winning the game. “Look,” I said, facing him. “We’re at the disadvantage here! It’s obvious that

they already know that we’re down here. So ... it’s likely that they know that we’re pinned down.” “And?” “And they’ve most likely assessed our options from our point of view ... our perspective.” “And?” “And ... it’s likely that knowing all of this ... they’ll send a couple of guys down to flank us on each side.” Stevie looked away. He seemed irritated by my suggestions and, at the same time, intimidated by my abilities in leadership. I could sense that he knew that I was far superior in ability to read a battlefield. When he looked at me, I was almost able to anticipate the words that came next. “It just might be possible to get far enough along that section of the ridge,” he said. I nodded. “We advance to the point just beyond that bend. If we see a place offering safer cover or a better vantage point ... we stay there and take cover.” “Okay. Then what?” “If not ... we stay put there, anyhow! That way, if they decide to send a few guys down here to check us out ... they won’t find us! And from there ... we’ll be able to make our way up and around to the back of that bunker!” Stevie nodded and I looked back along the length of the ridge. I gripped the Lee Enfield in my hands, pressed myself flat against the ground, and began to belly-crawl toward the ridge which paralleled the course we had decided to take. “Wait!” I heard Stevie say. “Wait the hell up!” Machine-gun fire opened up from the bunker. The loud cracking of the blank rounds echoed above our heads. As I kept propelling myself forward on my hands and knees, closing the distance between myself and the shallow cover of the ridge, I could not help but imagine what it would be like if those were live rounds. “They’re shooting at us!” Stevie screamed. “They’re going to pronounce us dead!” “It’s not over until it’s over!” I yelled, still propelling myself forward. I was now just a few yards away from the cover of the ridge. “Just keep your head down and move it!” “Screw this!” I heard him say, and suddenly he was up on his feet and running past me.

“Get down!” I yelled. “They’ll get you!” “Dead!” I heard the sergeant’s voice yell from someplace behind us. “Private Steven Nowell! You just committed suicide by means of impatience and stupidity!” “Damn it!” I heard Stevie yell, as he let himself collapse onto the earth ahead of me. “Damn it!” “You’re still alive, McDonald!“ the sergeant yelled. “Proceed as you were!”

Chapter Nine “Get your asses moving!” I heard the sergeant major yell from somewhere to our right and slightly behind us, drawing me back into awareness of the situation around me and violating what could be the last few private moments I would have while alive on this earth. “McDonald! Nowell! Keep advancing forward! You’ll do no bloody good out here!” Just let me make it to the shore, I thought. Don’t let it end here. Don’t let me die out here where I’ll float back out to sea to be lost and they’ll never find me! My poor mother will never know what happened! Nobody will ever get my letter! I raised my head and cautiously peered over the packs and entrenching tool on the corpse that I had been hanging on to. I could see the beach directly ahead of us. I could also see that many other men had done the same as Stevie and I. They had taken cover behind the dead. Their helmeted heads bobbed in and out of the water as they held on to their weapons and the partially submerged bodies. “Anderson! Powell!” the sergeant major bellowed. “All you lads ... get your asses moving up that beach!” “We’ve got to make a go for it,” I said, more to myself than to Stevie. He shook his head. “We’ll die.” “We’ll die if we stay here!” I argued. He nodded in reluctant agreement. “On three,” I said. “We’ll stay behind these two guys and push our way a little further forward until we feel our feet touch the ground. Then we’ll run like hell straight up that beach until we find some sort of cover.” He nodded again. As we propelled ourselves forward, the guns in the turrets began to sweep back toward us, tearing into those who had already found

death and those who were trying to avoid it. We wove our way through a maze of the dead and dying as mortar fire landed around us, violently shaking the earth beneath our thrashing legs and forming enormous gouts of water while claiming more lives. “We’ll never make it!” I heard Stevie yell above the chaos around us. “Never!” Suddenly, the toe of my left boot bit into the earth. I moved the right one forward and it too found the sand and pebbles which stirred beneath the water around me. We made it, I thought. We’re almost on the beach! This is it! “I’ve touched ground!” Stevie yelled. “On three!” I said. “Stay down low and move like hell!” He nodded. “One!” I said, clutching the Lee Enfield with both hands. “Two!” “Two,” Stevie repeated. There was no time to check whether or not I still had the grenades, mortar shells, or even my own ammunition. If any of it had fallen into the water, it was gone. Stevie looked at me with an expression of expectancy on his pallid face. “Three!” I yelled, and pressed the Lee Enfield downward against the corpse in order to project myself upwards. The water poured off me like a bucket being emptied out onto the ground. I pushed the corpse aside and tried to take giant steps forward, with my shoulders hunched and my head down low. I could see that other men along the length of the beach were paralleling us. The men ahead of us were dropping face down into the water and onto the sand up ahead on the beach after being struck by the merciless fists of the machine guns. “Straight ahead!” I yelled to Stevie. “Keep running straight ahead!” Suddenly the ground and water in front of me opened up in a torrent that cascaded up and over my head, slapping my face with icy hands and thousands of tiny fragments of sand and earth. The concussion pushed against the rim of my helmet as it blew me backwards into the water, where I landed amongst the others. Sporadically, the bloody faces of children-turned-men rose up above the surface of the water and with eyes that stared blankly into mine. I wanted to shout, but I didn’t have the air in my lungs. I lay there gasping and struggling to catch my breath but was only able to take in mouthfuls of water as a large wave carried me back out again.

“Stay down, McDonald!” I heard the sergeant major shout, and instinctively, I obeyed him. I plunged my face into the water, lifted it again, and instantly felt the salt burn where it singed at the open wounds on my face. I stumbled backwards a few steps and struggled to stay upright as the salt water bit into my cheeks and began to needle into my pupils. I tried to blink and open my eyes but saw nothing but halos of white light rising from the prismatic effects of the tossing water. Within moments, the soft halos divided themselves into thousands upon thousands of white spears. “Sir!” I called out to the sergeant major, and felt some bullets suddenly tug at my packs and a buckle on one of my shoulder straps, causing the strap to tighten against my shoulder. “This way McDonald!” I heard him yell as he grasped me by the arm. He began to pull me along backwards with my head just above the surface of the water. I let my face fall down to one side and water splashed up into my nostrils and bit even more sharply into the open lacerations. When I tried to close my eyes, the pain intensified. When I opened them, the spears of light stabbed into and through them. Without warning, I felt the sergeant major let go of me. “Sir!” I called out, suddenly feeling as though I were an abandoned child. “Sir!” “Come this way!” I heard a voice say from somewhere nearby. “Stevie?” I called out, stretching my arms out in front of me across the surface of the water. “Is that you?” “No!” I heard it say. “Sir?” I called out again. “Where’s the sergeant major?” “Dead!” said the voice in a flat tone. “Dead?” I asked, repeating the word in disbelief. How absurd! He was just right here ... guiding me to safety. “Are you sure?” I asked, feeling tears begin to well in my eyes. “What’s the matter with your eyes?” the voice asked, now closer to me in the water “I can’t see!” I said. “I can’t see a bloody thing!” “Probably just sand in them!” it said, and suddenly I realized it was Cutler. “Here! Lean your head back against the water!” Clutching my Lee Enfield, I laid my head backwards so that the back of my helmet dipped into the water. I felt the tips of his thumb and forefinger peel open the lids of my right eye and then felt the splashing of water against it. In reflex, I recoiled, but was determined

to struggle against the desire to break free and swim away. “Hold still!” he ordered. “This canteen water should be enough to wash the shit out of your eyes!” Oh God ... please don’t let me be blind! Please! I heard the distinct sound of a round thudding into something nearby. “Cutler!” I called out. “Lay still!” he ordered, now moving to the other eye. Several more rounds slammed into the bodies floating in the water around us. “Stevie!” I shouted, feeling the anguish sear through me as though it were a live round. “My god! Stevie!” “Hold still, MacDonald!” Cutler ordered. I stopped struggling and let him finish washing out the other eye. “Feeling any better?” he asked, taking his hands away from my face. I blinked my eyes and fought desperately to open them. The flashing white spears had vanished, and now, between the white halos, I could make out Cutler’s round chubby face. “Cutler!” I said. “This way you dull-witted Canadian!” he said, wrapping a chubby arm under mine and around my back under the water. A round tore through the torso of a nearby floating body, spraying a mist of blood across the surface of the water around us. “We’ve got to find some cover.” “Where’s Stevie?” I asked. “He was right beside me when the blast hit. Where is he?” “Same as the sergeant major!” he said, stopping and turning his head in the water to face me. “I’m sorry, David! By god ... I really am!” “Dead?” I asked. He nodded. “But...!” “He’s gone, David!” he repeated, anticipating my next words. “I’ve got to be sure!” I said, struggling to break free of his grip in order to go back in the direction from which we had come. “I’ve got to make sure!” “David!” he yelled, grabbing hold of one of the straps on my pack. “No!” “I’ve got to see him!” I yelled, struggling to break free. More salt water washed over my eyes and brought back the stabbing needles with it. Yet, with most of the sand gone, I was still able to see. I struggled to look above the rising and falling crests of water, but was

only met by more waves and more bodies. “You don’t want to see him!” he pleaded. “David! Come on! Just come with me!” I was truly terrified for the first time. Back on the landing craft, I was scared. We all were. You would have had to have been crazy not to be. Yet here, in the water, with Stevie and the sergeant major dead, and with bullets hitting everything around us, I was truly terrified. I turned my head and looked through the white halos toward the beach and saw that nobody was left standing between us and the shore-line. Every one was lying either in the water or on the sand. Many lay with their faces down in the water and their backs sticking up as range targets for the turret guns. Others floated on their backs, bobbing in and out of the water with the motion of the waves and from the force of each explosion. The bodies of those on the beach jumped and jerked as the German’s sprayed a few extra rounds into them for good measure. Those still alive cried out in anguish, calling for medics to come to them. Others lay in horror, staring in disbelief at their own limbs which lay just out of reach. “Here,” I heard Cutler whisper, and suddenly realized that he had slowly been dragging me laterally through the water. “This should provide us a little cover.” I felt my pack and the back of my helmet touch against something hard and turned my head to see that we were behind one of the large steel and concrete obstacles that the German’s had situated in the water along the length of the beach. I let myself slide down into a sitting position in the water. “Buddy!” I heard cutler shout. “Over here!” I turned my head to the right and saw the big Prairie boy lumbering through the water toward us. We watched as he dropped into the water and pushed his back up against the cement to my right. “Glad you could make it,” I heard Cutler say from where he sat crouched in the water to my left. Buddy nodded. “We’ll lay low here for a while,” said Cutler. “Just keep your heads down and don’t move!”

Chapter Ten As we sat with our backs against the cold cement of the obstacle, I thought out the words to the next letter I would write. It would not be a letter I would want to write, much less send. For the very first time, in all the letters I had written home, I would be sending a message of loss and destruction and death. As many times as I thought it over, the words formed in my mind as follows: Dear Mr. and Mrs. Nowell, You will have already heard the news by the time that you read these words. The local army chaplain or the police will have contacted you. Either way, I feel as though it should be me who tells you. Stevie will not be coming home. He gave his life in battle today. I will not get into the unnecessary details about how it happened. What I will tell you is that he died fighting bravely, and you both should share that thought as you as you try to comfort each other. Remember that Stevie was a good friend, a brave soldier, and that you both have every reason to be proud of him as a son.

Try to stay strong, and remember that our fate is in hands other than our own. Think happy thoughts and remember the times you all have shared. My thoughts will be with you both. David McDonald. I would fold the letter and slip it inside my tunic pocket where I kept the other, the one I could only pray would never be mailed home to my own parents. When I had the chance, if I had the chance, I would submit to be sent off at in our next turn at mail delivery. I adjusted the strap so that my helmet sat snugly on my head and then reached for my Lee Enfield which I had leaned against the concrete between myself and Cutler. “This just may go down as the longest bloody day in history,” Cutler said from where he sat to my left. I nodded and said a silent curse to the cold water that pooled around our waists. “Damn near as cold as a Prairie winter,” offered Buddy, as though he were reading my mind about my memories of swimming in the cold water of the lakes around Chilliwack. I nodded and looked past him toward where I had last seen Stevie alive. Machine-gun and mortar fire still tore into the water all along the length of the beach. Unexpectedly, men rose up like corpses out of graves and made desperate final attempts at the beach. From where we sat, with our backs to the inland and the turrets, we could see out across the English channel. Every so often, we could hear the dull booming of the guns from our ships, and we whispered quiet pleas for the shells not to fall short upon us. I could still hear Stevie’s voice calling out to me. I could still feel him close by, as though it were he and not Cutler and Buddy in the water beside me. “How long do we stay sat here?” I asked Cutler, in more of an effort to take my mind of Stevie than to take another step forward up that beach. “We have a couple of options,” he said. “One is that we can stay put here and wait out the storm until dark.” “It’s just be a matter of time before they send a group of machine-gunners down to clean up what’s left of us all,” I said, trying not to sound argumentative. Although the three of us held the same rank of private, it was Cutler who had more seniority, experience, and knowledge. It had been more than once that he had demonstrated the

attributes of a true leader, and I respected him for that. “Another option is to just make a run for it,” offered Buddy, leaning forward to peer past myself to look at Cutler. “We just run like hell and hope that we end up being one of the few who make it far enough up the beach to be behind the range of those turrets.” “Too risky,” said Cutler, shaking his head. “Look around us. They’re still cutting our guys to pieces!” “What do you have in mind then?” I asked. Cutler turned and peered around his side of the obstacle and then back at us. “Take a look,” he said, sitting back against the cement. I leaned forward and looked past him to survey the length of the beach. Through the diminishing but still lingering halos, I could see that a series of obstacles similar to the one we were sitting against blocked any entrance to the beach all along where the water met the sand. Except, about one-hundred yards down, there was a section where the obstacles stopped and five-foot poles rose up out of the water and sand. “I see,” I said, raising a hand and pointing. “A possible clearing.” “Uh-uh,” said Cutler. “Teller mines.” I leaned a little further in past him and struggled to center my limited vision on the poles. “Son-of-a-bitch,” I whispered when the mines at the top of the poles came into focus. “Still,” he said, turning to look at the mines and then back at us again. “That still may be our best chance.” “How’s that?” asked Buddy. We were both puzzled by what he meant. There was no way we could make it through that patch of teller mines with all their trip wires concealed within the murkiness of the water. “With these,” said Cutler, toying one of the six hand grenades which hung from the metal clips attached along the front of his shoulder straps. What it was he was planning began to formulate in our minds. “You think they’ll do the job?” I asked, looking down at the straps across the front of my tunic and seeing that the six Type-36 grenades still hung from their metal clips. He nodded and looked back in the direction of the mines and then back at us. “The trick will be to lob them into the water around those teller mines.” I nodded, leaning forward again and focusing as best I could on

the tall poles jutting out of the earth. “You’ll have to throw mine for me,” I said. “I’m afraid my vision still isn’t up to snuff.” “Pass them to me,” I heard cutler say. “I played football and rugby in my senior years of highschool. I’ll get the bloody things on target!” We nodded in agreement and I began by unhooking the first of my six grenades and handing it to him. We watched as he rose up on to one knee, pulled the pin, and then lobbed the grenade as accurately as he could without falling outside of the protection of the obstacle. Upon release, the striking spring must have done it’s job of forcing the striker down where its head is supposed to hit the cartridge cap. Cutler fell back in beside me, pressing his back against the protection of the cement, and we counted off the four-to-five second fuse and heard the grenade exploded just after it must have entered the water, sending as many as eighty pieces of shrapnel into the wooden poles and trip wires that would be running across the surface of the sand. Three of the teller mines went off instantaneously, exploding into brilliant white flashes just like the hydro transformer boxes do during the severe thunderstorms back home in Canada. Only these boxes sent hundreds of pieces of shrapnel outwards at the speed of bullets fired from a high-powered gun or rifle. “Bingo!” yelled Buddy, and Cutler held out his hand for another grenade. “Three down! A dozen and a half to go.” We watched as Cutler repeated the process, this time throwing the grenade a little farther and more to the right. We ducked and waited for the series of explosions to subside and then looked up to see that it had set off four more of the mines. “Again,” said Cutler, and this time Buddy handed him one of his grenades. Cutler pulled the pin, leaned back on one knee, and threw it even farther than he had the other two. It set off two more of the mines. Before he could prepare to throw a fourth, an 80 mm. mortar round tore into the water and sand between several of the teller mines. Instead of creating the usual gout of water and earth, it set off a tremendous chain-reaction of explosions which echoed along the length of the beach until it faded in with the distant shelling and gunfire. “Thanks you assholes!” Cutler shouted in glee to whoever the three Germans were who were operating the mortar from someplace near the bunker up on the beach. “There’s six more! You’ve just

saved my good friends and I a considerable number of hand grenades and a bloody lot of trouble!” The German’s answered with another round which tore into the earth a little further away from us and devastated four more of the deadly mines. “Yippee!” shouted Cutler, the thrill accentuating his English accent. “Stupid blokes they are those Nazis!” “Dumb asses!” added Buddy. “Blowing up their own defenses,” I added in disbelief, and not being able to help but revel in the momentary reason for celebration. “And to think they spared as fifteen grenades!” shouted Cutler, as excited as a child at a movie theater. We waited, anticipating more shelling amongst the teller mines, but none came. Instead, they redirected their aim at the moving targets along the length of the beach. Slowly, our feeling of victory surrendered to the reality of loss as more men fell. We whispered words of anguish for them as they lay writhing in agony in the water and on the sand. We watched helplessly as many struggled to stay alive. We shed unseen tears as they, one by one, cried out their last words, said their last prayers, and took their last breaths. There goes somebody’s son, I thought. And there ... over there ... goes somebody’s brother. And over there ... a boyfriend? And he ... a fiancé? And what of him? Was he a father? No more shall they be those things to any of those who love them ... except in memory. Never again shall they stand before their families ... except in the photographs mothers and fathers will come to wish they had taken more of. Never again shall anyone hear their voices. Those, too, will have vanished into winds only to be heard on a cold morning at a beach at Normandy. “Stevie is out there,” I whispered, believing my words to be barely audible. “Laying face down in that water.” “God rest his soul,” said Buddy. “May he be taken up in God’s arms,” said Cutler. So many lives lost, I thought. So many lives prematurely coming to an end. Suddenly, without warning or any apparent reason, the words of the last letter I had received from Katherine flashed through my mind as clearly as though the white pages with the beautiful handwriting were being held out in front of me. The words spoke of a different kind of death - the inevitable passing of a what we once believed to be an immortal relationship. The killer was not a an

intended or stray bullet; it was the war itself. Time had become the ammunition. We had become the victims :

Dear David, Although I pray that this letter will find you safe and well, I know that it will not bring you happiness. These are not words I thought I would ever find myself writing to you. Yet, they need to be written. Just as this war that you fight has distanced, separated, and changed us, time has become our enemy. Time has taken away the us so much so that now even the distant memories that we once held onto so dearly have been blurred. It has taken us too far from each other, David. It has taken everything away from us. Other than the few photographs that I have of us together, I cannot remember your face. I cannot see your smile, or hear you laughter. I cannot remember what it was like to be touched by you. You are no longer here. Long ago, out of necessity, I learned how to not spend my days paralyzed with fear and anxiety. In the last few months, I have felt more and more relaxed and less and less burdened by it all. Please try to understand. This is not any of your doing. It is not the result of something you did or should have done. Although your choosing to sign up hurt me, I have always understood why. I have never blamed you for it. I have always known that you have been doing what you believe in your heart to be right. Maybe if I should see your face again some day? Maybe if I should hear your laughter? Maybe. God willing, you and I will find solitude. You must keep going, David. Keep believing in the good. Look after yourself and stay well so that you may come back home to your family. They love you and miss you so much. Know that you will always be in my thoughts and prayers.

Katherine.

Chapter Eleven “We’d best stay where we are for a few minutes longer,” I heard Cutler whisper. “Besides ... we’ll need to be rested up as much as possible before making a go at that clearing.” I nodded. His words carried me back to a cold day in the December of 1943. We had been on Italian soil since early July, had marched and fought our way inland through the battles of Sicily and Southern Italy, and were on our way to take Ortona. “The river you’ve crossed today is the Feltrino!” Lieutenant Soames had bellowed out to us. He had turned and pointed to the river which lay in valley ahead of us. “And that down there is the Moro River!” “Big deal,” Buddy had whispered from where he had stood among the rest of us in ‘D-Company’.

“You’ll be crossing the Moro and advancing up the other side and into the town of San Leonardo!” the lieutenant continued. “You can see its outline on that far plateau!” “That’s just bloody wonderful,” Stevie whispered, impatiently shifting back and forth from one foot to the other as he inhaled deeply on a cigarette. “The road you’re all standing on is known as Highway Number Sixteen!” the lieutenant continued. “Under normal circumstances ... a man could simply follow the highway right around that escarpment ... down through the valley and across the Moro ... and then straight up into San Leonardo!” “And?” whispered Stevie. “What? Die?” “However,” the lieutenant continued, placing his fists on his hips as he paced. “Jerry has that highway covered by mortars and is dug-in with machine guns! Furthermore ... he has blown out the bridge that would have taken us across the Moro!” “So?” Stevie whispered, finishing the last of his cigarette and tossing the butt onto the ground. “So,” the lieutenant continued, almost as though he had heard him. “Thanks to a winter’s worth of rain that has raised the level of the river and turned its banks into two feet of mud ... you’ll be facing a rate of advance similar to those of the soldiers crossing the many battlefields of the First World War!” “Wonderful,” whispered Buddy. “What’s wonderful about it is that we can use the conditions of the terrain to surprise the hell out of Jerry! He sure as hell won’t be expecting us to advance through that mess with the intent of heading straight up that goddamn hill and straight into that town!” “Glad to hear it,” mumbled Stevie. “Listen up guys,” said Cutler. “This could be crucial information.” “Now remember boys!” the lieutenant said, raising one hand. “You won’t be going it alone! The engineers will be eventually laying down a Bailey for us to get the heavy artillery over!” “Why eventually?” I whispered. “Any attempts to lay down a Bailey during daylight would bring sniper and shell-fire!” the lieutenant said, as if he had heard my question and was offering an explanation. “So ... we’ll be counting on you lads to cross over that river and make your way up that hill!” “Just what I was hoping to hear,” Buddy whispered to Wilkinson.

“Your job will be to clear that far ridge of the German snipers and mortar teams that are stopping our engineers from building that Bailey bridge!” “We’re dead,” muttered Stevie. “Be quiet,” muttered Corporal Dunbar from where he stood behind us. “Now,” the lieutenant continued. “Patrol reconnaissance has identified three suitable locations in which you lads might cross that river!” We watched as he cleared an area of dirt beside the road with the bottom of his boot. “This is us here!” he explained, using a stick to draw an ‘X’ in the dirt. He then drew a long line passing by the ‘X’. “This here is the river ahead of us! One location in which to cross is way the hell over there to our right ... down at that bend in the coastal road! The second is right ahead of us where the bridge was ... at the axis of the road leading into San Leonardo! The third is about a mile to our left ... where the Moro is more shallow near Villa Rogatti!” “I opt we all just stay right the ‘ell here,” mumbled Buddy. “If that terrain holds the defense potentialities like we saw after crossing the Sangro ... we’re screwed.” “Potentialities?” said Stevie, laughing quietly. “Big word for a private from the Canadian prairie.” “With us farm boys ... everything is big,” bragged Buddy. “Taking that ridge is going to be no easy matter!” the lieutenant bellowed. “But you’re a damned fine group of young soldiers! And I have confidence enough in you all that you’ll do just fine! Just fine!” “Screw you,” Stevie cursed in a hushed whisper. “Tomorrow,” the lieutenant had said in a solemn voice. “Sometime tomorrow you’ll receive your orders! As for tonight ... I advise that you lads spend it resting up!” “All rested up?” I heard Cutler ask, bringing me back to the present. I looked at him and nodded. “So what do you guys think?” Buddy asked from my right. Clutching my Lee Enfield, I leaned forward and peered past Cutler to inspect the destruction that the grenades and mortar fire had made of the field of teller mines. Through the white halos, I could see large splinters of wood and torn strands of barbed wire bobbing up and down as the water rose and fell around the remaining poles. After a few moments, I was able to make out what seemed to be a

meandering but clear path through the floating debris. “We just might be able to make it through there,” said Cutler, as though he were reading my mind. “And then straight up the beach along the other side of that wall.” I nodded and studied what appeared to be about a meter-and-a-half high cement wall which ran vertically up the beach from where it met with the water on the far side of the field of teller mines. “Okay,” said Buddy, hunching forward and hoisting the larger of his two packs higher up his back. He used his free hand to adjust the strap of his helmet and then nodded his face toward us. “I’m ready.” “We stay down under the water,” said Cutler. “Against the bottom. You guys stay directly behind me. Follow my path as best you can. Okay?” We nodded. “We’ll have to stay down on our bellies all the way,” he added. “Especially as the water shallows toward the beach.” We nodded again. “Once we’re close enough ... we’ll make a go of it.” Exactly what I had told Stevie, I thought. And now he is dead. “Ready?” Cutler asked. We nodded and watched as he lowered himself down and disappeared into the coldness. I lowered myself down behind him and began to crawl along like a crab, using the Lee Enfield as though it were a two-handed oar. Each movement stirred pebbles and sand up into my face, clouding the already murky water. I kept my eyes shut tight to avoid the tiny granules of sand from getting in. Cutler’s boots ground and kicked in front of me, churning even more silt and mud up into my face. The salt water burned at the corners of my eyes, threatening to seep in and permanently blind me. Cutler steered us right, then left, then right again. Then straight ahead for quite a distance, all the time with me following him in utter blackness. When we finally stopped, I was too afraid to move, but wanted to raise my head up and peer out across the surface of the water in order to see how far we had made it. Then I felt Cutler tug at my arm, and I knew that it was time to make a go at it. Within a matter of moments, we would have to rise up out of the water and run the short but tremendous distance to the cover of the wall. I began the usual count to three and then pushed myself upward, causing the water to pour down off me. When I opened my eyes, I found that I was alone. I

turned and looked around me and saw that Cutler was several yards away, already struggling his way toward the sand. Buddy was taking a longer route, running much further to the right of us. I turned toward Cutler and fought desperately to make my legs carry me into a run, but my water-logged pants weighed me down, reducing my efforts to mere steps. Please don’t see us, I pleaded. Please don’t see us and shoot us! “This way!” I heard Cutler shout from where he was someplace to my right and ahead of me. “Yes,” I mumbled, feeling myself begin to panic. “Yes. I’m coming.” “This way!” he shouted again, and I commanded myself to summon what little strength I had left to get my legs going. I knew that I had to order my legs to move or they might not, and I would die. I was certain of it. Death had become a very vivid and recent fact. I closed my eyes and pushed every ounce of what was left in me down into my legs, pleading with them to obey the signals to move. I felt my right leg move forward and then the left, and then the right again and then my left. Tears ran down my face as my thighs broke through the surface and when I opened my eyes I found myself running fast enough that I was closing the gap between myself and Cutler, where he sat crouched in his determination to wait for me - with the water pooling around his ankles and entirely exposed to the chance of enemy fire. I stumbled up along side of him and we dropped down onto our bellies. In all our exhaustion, we crawled the last few yards to the opposite side of the concrete wall and collapsed onto our sides. “Bloody ‘ell!” I heard him wheeze in his English accent as we lay there gasping. “Wasn’t that a bloody memorable little trip worth telling the grand-kids about some day?” I nodded from where I lay, sucking in great mouthfuls of air, and wondered if I would live long enough to have children - let alone grandchildren. “Son-of-a-bitch,” yelled Buddy, suddenly appearing out of nowhere and crashing down onto the sand beside us. “Got my bearings mixed up and nearly ended up in Paris!” Cutler looked away and mumbled a few words of typical British grumbling. Buddy whistled noisy inhalations as he struggled to catch his breath. Mortar and machine-gun fire still tore up the beach and tormented what was left of our men on the other side of the wall. I closed my stinging eyes and in the darkness heard my two friends

whisper short but sincere prayers of thanks.

Chapter Twelve

Being behind the cover of that cement wall reminded me of fighting in the streets of Ortona, Italy back in the December of 1943. I had been in one of the two small sections of men from the Seaforth Highlander’s ‘D’ Company who were working their way up a narrow street leading toward a large square on Via Cavour. As trained, we were staying pressed close against the walls of the buildings as we leapfrogged past one another, from entrance to entrance, in a single-file line. Once inside the partial safety of a blown-out building, we would wait our turn to clear the enemy from a building on the opposite side of the street. I was third in line in the leading section. My battledress was soiled with mud and had been stained with the blood of other men. The wool collar of my tunic was damp with sweat. I had looked and seen that Cutler was signaling for me to leapfrog forward ahead of him. I had hesitated a moment and then leaned out from the doorway to peer past him. The street seemed empty. I inhaled deeply and then made a quick dash past him. As the men behind us covered me in case of sniper fire, I ran the twenty yards in a crouched position and ducked into the next doorway. The rest of the men in my section quickly followed after and took refuge with myself inside the entrance of the destroyed shop. After several long moments, I cautiously peered out and around the exterior wall of the entrance and down the narrow street from where we had come. The second section was still positioned inside the entrance of the adjoining building. A Three Rivers Regiment tank was turning around at the opening into Piazza S. Francesco. I watched as the operator moved the machine with extreme care, daring his way between the mines that would have inevitably been placed within the rubble and that would be just inches away from the churning and grinding treads at any given time. An Edmonton antitank platoon was progressing up the street just ahead of the tank. I turned My attention back up toward the square and saw the entrance to the Piazza Municipali, with one corner of the Town Hall showing at the opening. Rifle and mortar fire echoed throughout the street from a battle in the square. The crew of the Edmonton anti-tank gun platoon were now setting up just outside the entrance where we had taken cover. The platoon had been working with the men of ‘D’ Company by using the armor-piercing shells of a six-pounder to blast holes into the second

and third story housing and stone and brick shops situated along both sides of the street. Once a hole had been made, they would switch to high-explosive shells and fire them directly into the building until the enemy retreated or had been killed. We would then immediately storm the buildings and clear them out. I was crouched down behind Cutler who had positioned himself behind the sergeant major. Stevie and Buddy had positioned themselves behind me. Wilkinson was directly to my right with Corporal Dunbar tailing him, waiting for further orders from the sergeant major. We waited and watched as the antitank platoon prepared to fire an armor-piercing shell from the six-pounder into the ground floor entrance of a section of three-story row housing situated directly across the street from where we stood. A blond haired man of about twenty loaded a shell into the anti-tank gun, and although we cupped our free hands over our ears, the explosion was momentarily deafening. Pieces of brick and twisted metal landed in the street as a column of dust rose upward and then began to settle. We watched with ringing ears as a darker-haired man prepared load a high-explosive shell into the breech of the gun. A dazed German soldier suddenly appeared in the blown-out entrance across the street. We watched as he stumbled over the rubble, and chuckled when his dusty black boots slipped on the irregular angles of broken concrete. We followed the sergeant major as he began to make his way forward through the entrance and out into the debris-strewn street. I was the first to notice that the staggering German held a hand grenade in his right hand. I raised My Lee Enfield and fired a .303 round into the center of his chest. The man collapsed to onto ground. The grenade exploded, sending torn flesh and fragments of facial bone into a mist above him. My God! I thought, as I worked the bolt action. “Fire!” yelled the blond-haired man. The darker haired man fired the antitank gun. The sergeant major ordered the anti-tank gun crew to hold fire and for us to take the building. “Get going!” the corporal yelled, but the men in my section were already scurrying across the street toward the entrance of the blown-apart building. Machine-gun fire suddenly rang out from up above us, and we dodged the rounds as they chipped away at the pavement around our running feet. The men in the second section covered us by returning fire from where they waited in the entrance of

the adjoining building. As we stormed into the blasted-out entrance of the three-story building, I saw Cutler fire his rifle at the silhouette of an advancing German soldier. The silhouette began to stagger toward us. Cutler worked the bolt action and fired again. The silhouette was now close enough that I could see the ashen face and blond hair under the pudding-shaped helmet. Cutler raised his rifle and fired a third time. The round hit point blank, tearing away flesh and skin as it entered the orbital bone just under the one blue eye. The German’s head whipped backwards as his body collapsed to the floor. I scanned the corridor leading to the staircase leading to the upper floors. I could not determine whether or not there were anymore soldiers due to the amount of dust from the debris. I signaled to the others that I was going to wait a moment before attempting to ascend the staircase leading to the second floor. Dunbar narrowed his eyes and frowned at me, but as usual, was too terrified to lead us up those stairs himself. Wilkinson took position across from me. Stevie fell in beside him. Cutler and Buddy were to my left. Outside, the Three Rivers Regiment tank had made its way up the narrow street. The driver had expertly negotiated the five-crew T-146567 Sherman over the rubble and debris as the commander had manned the 50-inch machine-gun. Several rounds from a what I recognized to sound like a MP-40 machine-pistol suddenly ricocheted off the hull of the tank. The commander looked up and spotted two German soldiers peering out the third floor window of the building that our section was in. He ordered the gunner to put a round into the window. The loader-operator loaded a 75 mm round as the gunner traversed the turret and elevated the gun. The tank recoiled as the round blasted out a section of wall beside the window. Dust clouded the heavy pieces of falling cement and metal that crashed down onto the narrow street just outside from where we stood. The men in the second section began to cross the street toward the building, crouching as they made their way over the pieces of rubble and around the slow moving tank. One of them took a fatal round from a 7.9 mm rifle from a second floor window. We watched as another ducked behind the moving tank for cover and began a frantic struggle with the bolt mechanism of his rifle. The tank commander covered him by providing returning fire with the 50-inch machine-gun. The commander stopped and turned in time to see a

round tear through the soldier’s left hand and enter his shoulder. His screams of agony were muffled by the grinding and churning of the tank’s treads. Gunfire echoed throughout the street as the soldier dropped his rifle and stared at the void where three fingers had been. Using his right hand, he picked one of the mangled fingers up off the ground and began the vain operation of trying to put it back where it belonged. His hands trembled, causing him to drop the finger. In horror, he watched as it roll under the grinding treads and disappeared as the tank shook and rattled toward him in its continuous turn. The men in my section began to quietly ascend the staircase which led to the second floor. Three steps up, we heard the scuffle of boots against the hardwood flooring above us. I reached for one of the grenades which hung from the straps across my tunic, pulled the pin, and tossed it up into the room where we figured the movement had come from. We counted silently to ourselves as we waited for the blast. A bright white flash momentarily lit the room and shook the staircase beneath our feet. With my ears ringing, I stormed up the rest of the stairs and into the closest room with Cutler and Stevie right behind me. We stepped over a limbless torso and immediately opened fire on the two soldiers who stood near the window. Wilkinson and Buddy stormed the adjacent room, and that is where Wilkinson met his death in a hail of machine-gun fire. “Penny for your thoughts?” asked Cutler, bringing me back to the present. I shook my head. “I was just thinking back to when we were with the Seaforths back in Ortona.” They both nodded and then sat quietly for a few moments as the vivid memories of that battle flashed through their minds. “If you ask me,” said Buddy. “I think we would have been a hell of a lot better to stay with that group than to switch over to the Rifles like we did!” “They needed men here,” Cutler reminded him. “That’s why we signed up and that’s why we’re here.” “And look where it’s got us!” he bitched. “Should have stayed with the Seaforth Highlanders!” “The Seaforths are a good bunch,” agreed Cutler. “But these here are a good men, too! Couldn’t find a better bunch! And we were bloody lucky that they agreed to keep the four of us together when we did switch over ... much less assigning us to the same unit!”

I nodded in agreement. I wanted to remind them about Stevie and about how brave he had been all along. I wanted to talk to them about him. I needed to hear them tell me that maybe he hadn’t been killed and that maybe he had just been injured. “What now?” asked Buddy, obviously wanting to change the subject. “Take a look,” said Cutler, gesturing me to a twelve-inch wide opening of broken cement in the wall. I hesitated a few moments and then rose up onto one knee and peered through the gap. Here and there the sand had been burned black and the barbed wire had been torn apart and shredded by the sheer force of the explosions from the mortar fire. I looked along the length of the beach toward where we had originally been advancing and saw that I had miscalculated the number of dead in the water because half of them were now making feeble attempts to dog-paddle forward. I watched as an Engineer crawled up onto the beach on his hands and knees and slid a bangalore torpedo into a mass of barbed wire. He struck the end of it and began a hasty retreat back toward the water, where a machine-gun round tore through the back of his head. The bangalore went off and sent a gout of sand and fragments of barbed wire into the air. Poor bastard, I thought. He bought it trying to clear a path for tanks that’ll probably will never even make it onto the sand! “What do you see?” Cutler asked, now up in a crouched position beside me. “It’s a mess out there,” I said. “And I don’t see any way of getting up that beach without....” “Let me take a look,” he said, positioning himself to peer through the gap. After several long moments, he leaned back and looked at the both of us. “Sort of a no man’s land out there.” “Say what?” asked Buddy, now rising up to his knees and pouring the sand out of the barrel of his rifle. “No man’s land,” I said, looking at him and then at Cutler. “What the hell’s that?” asked Buddy, his eyes darting back and forth between us as his face contorted into a quizzical expression. “It’s a phrase used by guys back in the last war,” explained Cutler. “It was the stretch of land that lay between the German and Allied trenches.” “Oh,” said Buddy, as though he understood, but obviously still struggling to comprehend why it was referred to as ‘no man’s land’.

“It’s the section of land that neither side had absolute possession over,” I explained. “While it was the imaginary line that divided each side ... neither side occupied it. So ... neither side could claim it. So they called it ‘no man’s land’.” “So,” said Buddy, pivoting on one knee as he spoke to us. “That out there is our ‘no man’s land’ out there?” We nodded. “Well,” he said, looking back and forth between us. “They can fucken have it.” Cutler and I broke out in a chorus of laughter. Buddy, realizing that he had said something humorous, decided to add to it. “Screw ‘em!” he said. “If it means that much to ‘em ... they can have it! It’s all shot to hell now anyhow!” I fell backwards against the cement wall in laughter. Cutler let himself fall along side of me, with one hand clutching his rifle and the other fanned out across his belly as we roared hysterically. Buddy stared at us in disbelief. “Wouldn’t be able to grow a strand of wheat out there anyhow,” he added, sending us even deeper into our fit of laughter. When we looked up, we saw that Buddy was laughing along with us. His big frame shook as he laughed out loud, and this caused us to laugh even harder. As the shelling and gunfire continued on the opposite side of that wall, the three of us released as much pain and frustration and anger as the moment would allow.

Chapter Thirteen The release of pent up emotions reminded me of December 25, 1943. While fighting the battle to take Ortona, we had been brought back a few hundred yards from the front lines and into the battered Church of Santa Maria di Constantinopoli where we were served, what was to be the last for many of us, Christmas dinner. I had looked around at the other soldiers seated at the make-shift tables. They spoke loudly and laughed heartily as greetings were exchanged and jokes were shared. Plates clattered as they were filled and emptied of food. Steel coffee mugs rattled as they were brought together in cheer. Yet, the constant shelling and the firing of rifles could be heard from less than a few hundred yards away. I chewed each mouthful slowly so as to savor every flavor. I had forgotten what roast pork with apple sauce tasted like. Mashed potatoes with gravy. Pudding. Mince pie. Each experience had become a faded memory from the distant past. When I looked around and studied the partially-destroyed wall to my left., the drawn, pain-filled eyes of Christ stared back at me from a portrait oil painting. They carried a message of disappointment. Grief. Sorrow. As I raised another spoonful of food to my mouth, the tears which had formed at the corners of my eyes began to escape and mingle with blood and earth upon my face. They rolled down the mud crevices on my cheeks and met at the corners of my mouth, where they tasted wet and salty. My lips began to quiver and my hands began to tremble. I shuddered and tucked them under the pits of my arms and began to rock back and forth on the metal chair upon which I sat. The overwhelming mixture of pent up emotions began to pour out of me in uncontrollable, heaving sobs. The anguish of all that I had witnessed and experienced tore at my heart so that my chest ached with each breath that I took. When finally exhausted, I looked back at Christ through watery eyes. The eyes had been watching me. Sadly, they could do little to comfort me. They could offer little assurance that all that had been lost was not in vain. They could offer no answers. They could only ask why? Why must you children of

mine destroy one another and all that is intended to be good? “We’ve got to make a go of it somehow,” said Cutler, snapping me back to the present. I sat up and gripped the Lee Enfield with sweaty palms. “What do you have in mind?” asked Buddy. “Well,” said Cutler, rising up onto one knee. “The way I see it is that we’d be bloody fools to cross over and try to make a go of it on that side of the wall.” We nodded. “So,” he continued, fanning his hand in gesture toward the opposite end of the wall. “We stay on this side and make our way straight up that away.” “And from there?” asked Buddy, craning his head to study the beginning of the steep embankment where the wall and beach ended. “The road connecting from Courseulles-sur-Mer and La Riviere should be just on the other side of that embankment,” said Cutler. “If my memory of the briefing serves me right ... it parallels the beach.” “What’s between that embankment and the road?” I asked, now looking along the ridge of the embankment. “God only knows,” he answered. “Grass? Another wall? Farmyards? More Germans?” I looked back at him and then back up at the ridge. “I don’t know,” said Buddy. “My gut tells me that we should stay put and....” “I say we may a go of it,” I interrupted, looking back at Cutler. “We want to be well off this beach and far enough inland to dig ourselves in before nightfall.” Cutler nodded. “How do we even know that any of the others have made it in that far?” asked Buddy. “You guys saw how bad it is out there!” “There’s the Eighth Brigade to our left,” said Cutler. “They may have had a better go of it than our guys.” “And from what I heard,” I added. “The Sixty-Ninth British Brigade was to be landing to our right.” Cutler nodded. “And don’t forget that there’s the Second Canadian Armoured Brigade that’ll be working to find a way up that beach! “How the hell are they going to get their tanks up that beach?” asked Buddy. “It’s a bloody mess out there and they’ll never make it

through all those obstacles and mortar fire!” “I just saw an engineer buy it out there,” I added. “They’ll make it through,” pushed Cutler. “The fact that they’ll be trying is evidence enough that we need to keep doing the same.” I nodded. After several quiet moments, Buddy nodded in agreement and turned to look in the direction where the wall met with the foot of the steep embankment. “You’re right. Maybe we should make a go of it now before they start sending some of those mortars over this way.” “We could get to the end of that wall in a matter of a few minutes,” I said, shifting the weight of the packs on my back by pulling at the straps. When I glanced back and forth between the two of them, I still expected to see Stevie’s face looking back at me. “Once we’re there ... we’ll be in a better vantage point to assess the area and to plan our next move.” Cutler nodded. “We should move fast.” Buddy and I nodded. “Keep a ten yard distance between us?” I proposed. “Yes,” agreed Cutler. “In case of mortar fire.” “How the hell do we know that we won’t be running our way right into a nest of German machine-gunners?” asked Buddy. “Even if we do,” said Cutler, adjusting his shoulder straps in preparation to make a move. “Our chances will still be a bloody lot better by making a go of it from this side of the wall!” “And our orders are to move inland as far as possible,” I added. “That ridge may be the side door that those Germans have forgotten to cover.” “Okay?” Cutler asked Buddy, looking into his eyes. Buddy nodded. “I’ll cover from the rear.” Cutler and I looked at each other and smiled. “I’m ready,” I said. “I’ll take the lead,” said Cutler, crouching down into a ready position against the wall. I fell in behind him and watched as Buddy took his position behind me. Cutler looked back at me and I gave him the nod. He took off into a quick run, holding his rifle at the ready and staying hunched down low behind the cover of the wall. I silently counted of ten one-thousands and then took of behind him, trying best to keep my helmet and packs down as low as I could while straining to maintain his speed. I did not need to look back to be able to visualize Buddy

lumbering along behind me with his rifle at the ready to provide us cover fire. Cutler stopped a little more than half the distance along the wall and dropped down into the crouched position. Buddy and I did the same in unison and froze, straining our ears for any sounds as we stared at him for an indication of what was to come next. The white halos had diminished significantly and my eyesight had nearly returned to normal. The sharp pains caused by the sand and salt, however, were still vividly fresh in my memory. After several long moments, I focused as best I could on what lay ahead. The cool winds off the water behind us swept at the blades of grass visible along the top of the ridge. Just beyond that, an aged orchard tree danced slowly back and forth with each movement of the breeze. Behind it, a shingled rooftop peered out over a mass of wild shrubs. A small bird, frightened and unable to find solitude from the constant shelling and gunfire, flew from the rooftop to the orchard tree with its wings beating furiously amongst the knotted and decaying limbs. Finally, it came to rest and perched on a thin branch, where it angled its head to peer down at us. Do they know of our fate? I wondered. Do they have souls? Does a heaven or hell await them? Cutler was waving his hand in a forward motion, indicating that it was safe to continue our advance along the length of the wall. I rose up and broke into a quick run, staying low and trying to keep his pace, all the time nervously aware of the possibility of my helmet or packs being exposed and seen over the top of the wall. As we continued on, the sand beneath us gave way to firmer soil, and our boots splashed rain and sea water out of shallow depressions. Within moments, we were running across the rich soil and forage which paralleled the wall as it met with the slope of the embankment. Cutler dropped down amongst the weeds and grasses. I dropped down along beside him. We lay their gasping, with sweaty hands clutching our rifles and our elbows and knees digging into French soil. Buddy dropped down to my right, cursing away the fear we had endured during that short but seemingly eternal run. “So far so good,” said Cutler, craning his head to scan the height of the embankment in front of us. I followed where he was looking and saw the ridge was about six yards up from the point where we lay. “Looks as though straight up is our best bet,” he said. I looked to my right past Buddy and then nodded in agreement. “Not too steep of a climb either.”

“If it holds us,” said Buddy, and we watched as he crawled a few feet forward and slammed the butt of his Lee Enfield into the embankment. Apart from the few handfuls of dirt which slid down around our hands, the soil held firm. “I’ll go up first,” he offered, it sounding more like a question than a statement. Cutler nodded. “And take a look what’s up over that ridge,” Buddy added. “If it looks to be clear ... I’ll give you two the signal to join me.” “Okay,” said Cutler. We watched as he ambled his way up the side of the embankment, using his rifle as an entrenching tool to pull himself forward and upward.

Chapter Fourteen From where we lay, peering over the crest of the ridge, the French landscape looked the same as any English countryside. To our right was the rooftop we could see from down below. It turned out to belong to a dilapidated shed which sat a little ways from the corner of a seemingly abandoned house. The once pruned bushes had been left to grow wild and now smothered the foundation and threatened to envelop the fir siding. The lone fruit tree looked to be a cherry tree, most likely beyond its years of giving. A long gravel drive ran from the house and shed to what we agreed must be the road that connected Courseulles to La Riviere. A narrow band of evenly-spaced cherry trees paralleled the length of the drive and arched around to follow the road toward Courseulles. To our left was an orchard of fruit trees - apple, according to Cutler. Beyond the orchard was another cement wall, its presence strikingly cold and invasive against the picturesque farmyard. It had been placed down amongst the fresh and grassy colors of early summer, and its greyness and confining nature was as intrusive as the people who had put it there. Unwanted, I thought. Not one of you are wanted here. “See that?” asked Cutler, pointing to the arched cement roof of a heavily fortified bunker just beyond the wall.

We nodded and listened helplessly as the guns continued to work away in long continuous blasts, followed by brief intermissions when the gunners paused to let the barrels cool down or to reload. We knew that almost every round would be tearing into the what would be left of our guys. “You think many have made it far enough up that beach to find cover?” asked Buddy, looking past me and at Cutler. Cutler didn’t answer. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for being on this side of the wall while Stevie lay back there in the water with all the dead floating around him. “Who will bury the dead?” I asked out loud, and suddenly felt embarrassed because I had publicized my concerns, my fears, and vulnerability. “They’ll have guys assigned to do that,” said Buddy. “And if they don’t ... we’ll go back and bury him ourselves,” said Cutler, looking into my eyes. “I bloody well promise you that!” Buddy nodded. I wanted to cry. “I say we move around the far side of that house,” said Cutler, dissipating the moment of awkwardness. “That house may be full of Jerries!” said Buddy, always the hesitant one. Cutler nodded. “One of us should check it out.” “I’ll do it,” I said, wanting an opportunity to be alone for a bit and at the same time be engaged enough in something to have my attention pulled away from that blood bath of a beach and Stevie. Buddy nodded. Cutler looked in the direction of the house and then back at me. “I’d check out that shed first,” he said. “After you clear it you’ll be able to use it as adequate cover to get a visual on that house.” I nodded and pulled myself up over the ridge and lay prone on the damp grass. Buddy handed my rifle up to me. The six two-inch mortar shells for the mortar team and at least half of my rounds of .303 ammunition had been lost back there in the water. I still had about two-hundred and twenty-five rounds of ammunition, four hand-grenades, and what we’d been taught was the soldier’s best friend - my Lee Enfield. Patches of sand were caked on the stock and barrel, and I wondered if some had worked its way into the chamber and around the striker spring. Best not to worry about that right now, I told myself. Just keep your eyes and ears open and get yourself

over to that shed. I began the laborious journey of inching myself forward, little by little, across the grass. My breeches, still heavy wet with water, clung to my thighs. There was one cracked and cobwebbed window on the side of the shed closest to me. A scythe stood where it had been leaned and left up against the wall. A wheel barrow with faded and peeling paint lay on its side in the damp grass just a few feet away. Absolutely no movement, I thought, as I neared the shed. I lined myself up along side of the fir planks and burrowed myself as far into the tall grass and creeping weeds as I could. After a few moments, I looked back over my shoulder at Cutler and Buddy. Cutler nodded, his bubbly face and helmet peering over the top of the ridge. Buddy was smiling his big goofy prairie smile. I held my breath and listened as intensely as I could. For a few brief moments I thought that the dull thudding of the mortar fire was coming closer, but quickly came to realize that it was the sound of the blood pounding through my ears. Nothing, I thought. I looked around myself and at the exposed corner of the house that sat directly ahead of me, and then cautiously rose up onto me feet, all the time keeping myself pressed close against the wall. I inched myself along the wall of the shed until I was beside the window. Years of human neglect and solar cruelty had turned the four tiny panes of glass to a bone white. I strained my eyes to see through the opaqueness and the thin sheet of cobwebbing and into the dark interior. After a few seconds, my eyes began to adjust to the difference in light and an inside wall furnished with shovels, rakes, and garden tools began to take shape. When I was certain that there was no movement inside, I moved past the window and continued along the length of the wall until I reached the end, where I crouched down and peered around the corner at the old house. It stared back at me through empty side windows. The bushes had smothered the stone foundation and had grown up around the balcony. The back door appeared to be closed. I waited, remaining completely still, and anticipating some sort of movement from within or around the old home. The suspense carried me back to another time in the December of 1943. It was the day after the Christmas dinner in the partially destroyed Church of Santa Maria di Constantinopoli. A handful of German soldiers had been holed up in a three-story building at the entrance to Piazza Plebiscita, and had been firing arbitrarily upon

whomever they desired. From our position within the ruins of a building situated across and slightly down the street, we watched as a screaming woman walked into the square. “Signore! Renda loro l’arresto!” she screamed out. “Signore! Renda loro l’arresto!” Although we wanted to send someone out to coax her in toward us, we knew better than to try. A shot rang out and the woman fell. Her black hair fanned out across the cobblestones and the yellow of her frayed summer dress began to turn red across the front of her chest. “What was it she was yelling?” I asked a radio operator who was fluent in Italian. “She was pleading to God to make it stop,” he said. “For us to stop fighting.” We continued to watch as an Edmonton antitank platoon dragged a six-pounder antitank gun past us up the street. The three men were shot and killed instantly. The six-pounder rolled a few feet backwards and came to a stop against the curb closest to us, with their blood trickling around the rubber tires and continuing along the crevices between the cobblestones of the street. “It is more than likely that those Jerries are very well prepared to stay right where they are,” said the radio operator. “How’s that?” I asked, watching the long, narrow river of blood slowly snake its way toward us. “They’ll have corned beef. Cigarettes. Everything.” “Corned beef and cigarettes won’t do them a bloody bit of good once we decide to take that building!” said Buddy. “They prepare each room with rows of ammunition,” said the operator. “Clips for their Mauser rifles. Clips for their Schmeisser submachine guns. Stick grenades. You name it. And they have each room stocked so that when they have to fall back from one room to the next ... all the supplies and munitions they’ll need will be there waiting for them.” “Smart bastards,” I said. The radio operator shook his head. “Uh-uh! Meticulous.” A Three Rivers tank appeared at the opposite end of the street and began a slow steady advance toward us. We watched in anticipation as it lumbered past us and around the antitank gun, the three dead crewmen, and toward the silenced woman in the square. When it reached the large pile of rubble strewn out across the square

just beyond the woman, the tank slowed to a steady crawl. The tracks clawed and chewed into the masonry and bands of steel as the mammoth machine inched forward. “That Sherman should do the job,” said Cutler. The radio operator nodded, and our anticipation turned to horror as we watched a German, leaning his torso out a third-story window, hurl a sticky bomb down at the tank. The greasy tar did its job, adhering the explosive charge to the hood of the rear-engine compartment. The explosion tore open the compartment and set the tank on fire. The hatch opened, and the commander was shot as he tried to scramble out. The gunner pushed the dying body up and out of the open hatch in a frantic effort to get out behind him, and in his panic took no notice to how it bounced off the fender skirt and onto the stony ground. His callousness earned him a 7.9 mm. round through the top of his head, causing his torso to whip backwards across the turret, where he convulsed in spasms for the few seconds that it took for his nervous system to die out. The remaining three could be heard screaming shouts of desperation and agonizing cries as the flames quickly consumed them. “My god,” said the radio operator. “Bloody Nazis!” yelled Buddy. “May the angels carry their souls up to Heaven,” said Cutler. “Advance!” we heard the sergeant major yell from somewhere behind us.

Chapter Fifteen “....advance?”

I turned to see who it was that was talking to me. Cutler was calling out to me in a loud whisper. “Is it safe to advance?” I indicated that I could detect no movement within or around the house by pointing to it and then slicing my hand laterally through the air. Cutler nodded and pulled himself up over the ridge and then ran in a crouched position all the way across the stretch of grass to where he took position behind me against the wall. We watched as Buddy did the same, pulling himself up over the ridge and running like hell to the cover of the wall. We sat in crouched positions in the grass, three long now, one behind the other. “What do you think?” asked Cutler. I peered back over my shoulder at him as I spoke. “I think that it would be best if we could get past that house by keeping as far away from it as possible.” He nodded in agreement. “I have a very strong feeling about it,” I continued. “There may be Germans on the inside.” “Okay,” he said, as Buddy craned his head to listen to us. “What do you have in mind?” “We should head back the other way,” I said, pivoting on my heels and pointing behind us. “Head straight for the cover of that orchard along that cement wall.” “Okay,” he said, clutching his Lee Enfield as he looked over his shoulder and then back at me. “Should we go one-at-a-time? Or all together?” “Make a go at it together,” I said. “But fan out and take positions at about ten yards apart once we get there.” “You’d make a bloody good corporal, MacDonald,” he said, and smiled. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you had hooks on your sleeve before they send you back home to mama.” “They can shove their hooks up where the sun don’t shine,” I said. “The army wants to do something for me? Give Stevie an honorable burial and send me the hell home!” “See,” said Cutler. “You even sound like a bloody corporal!” Buddy laughed. “Sure as shit ... he’ll be going home wearing stripes!” “I’ll be happy just to make it off this continent in one piece as a private,” I said to Cutler. “Besides ... it’s you who should be given the chance at corporal.”

“Well,” he said. “If any of us are going to ever be promoted ... we’ve got to make it off this orchard in one piece.” “On three,” I said, it sounding more like a question than a statement. He nodded. “Balls,” said Buddy. “Here we go again.” We turned in our crouched positions and began the count. “One,” started Cutler, crouching in front of me. “Two,” continued Buddy, from where he readied himself in front of Cutler. “Three,” I said, and we were off, running as fast and as low as we could, with sweaty palms clutching our rifles and the weight of our packs pounding against our backs. After covering two-thirds of the distance. Buddy fanned off to my right with his big farmer legs shooting awkwardly out in front of him, nearly causing him to slip on the wet grass more than twice. Cutler fanned out to my left with his short, stocky legs pumping like pistons. Just as we approached the first staggered row of trees, a shot rang out from somewhere to our right. “Son-of-a-bitch!” I heard Buddy scream, and saw him tumble forward in amongst the section of trees he had been heading for. For a moment I thought he had been hit, but realized that his ability to curse was a positive sign. “Down!” yelled Cutler, as he dove into a tall patch of grass bordering the orchard. I made a running leap over a decomposed stump, nearly lost my footing as my boots hit the grass, and rolled in amongst the section of tress which I had been running toward. The three of us lay prone in our individual positions, trying to catch our breath as quietly as possible, and just listening to the sounds around us. Nothing. Except for the intermittent shelling and rattle of the machine guns that continued to tear up the beach on the other side of the wall to the left of us. “Everyone intact?” I heard Cutler call out after several long moments. “Over here!” I called back over my shoulder in his direction. “Straight ahead of you!” “Son-of-a-bitch!” I heard Buddy curse again. “Son-of-a-bitch!” “Fall back to me if you can!” I called out to Buddy.

Cutler came running up in a crouched position from behind and fell in beside me, sharing what little cover the slightly raised section of earth and surrounding trees provided. We watched as Buddy back-stepped his way through the orchard, with his rifle at the ready, while using the trees nearest him as cover. He dropped down beside us and wiped the sweat away from his eyes with a soiled sleeve. “Son-of-a-bitch!” he yelled. “Bastard shot a round through something on me!” Cutler and I raised ourselves up to look, expecting to see blood from a superficial wound. “Lucky bugger, you!” yelled Cutler. “A bloody horseshoe up your ass there is!” “What?” asked Buddy, his panic quickly turning to anger at the jovial expression on Cutler’s face. “Bloody bullet went through your pack!” laughed Cutler. “Missed you by a pubic hair!” “Son-of-a-bitch!” yelled Buddy. “Probably ruined my mess kit! Or my diary!” Well that’s what you’ll get for keeping a diary,” said Cutler. “Against army regulations, chap!” “To hell with the army!” he yelled. “I damn near just got shot!” “Where’d that shot come from?” I asked, my eyes scanning the distance between and past the trees. “Some place near the road I think,” said Cutler. “Well he was a bloody good shot!” yelled Buddy, as though we were all still spread out thirty yards apart. “Lucky for you,” said Cutler. “Not good enough!” “Heads up,” I whispered. “There’s something moving ahead ... one o’clock.” As we readied our rifles and adjusted our helmets so as to see what lay ahead of us, another shot rang out, tearing a section of skin and flesh away from a nearby tree. “Son-of-a-bitch,” whispered Buddy, as Cutler worked the bolt action on his rifle. Two figures appeared, grey and hunched, running in crouched positions in an intentional advance toward us. I leveled my rifle across the slope of earth in front of me and pressed my cheek firmly against the stock. Take a deep breath, I told myself. Stay calm and just line the line the back-sight with the foresight. With my left hand cupped under the stock and my finger on the trigger, I took aim.

Beads of sweat had formed above my brow and now threatened to roll down into my eyes. Just center in on his chest. Cutler fired from my left, the blast echoing over our heads and through the orchard. One of the running figures dropped, his knees buckling beneath him as he tumbled face-forward into a growth of tall grass. The other looked back as he continued past the wounded one, his mind obviously questioning the validity of continuing the attack on his own. Big mistake, my mind whispered. And I shifted the barrel slightly so that the still advancing figure was clearly within my sites. I pulled back on the trigger and instantly felt the kick of the stock against my face and shoulder as the rifle recoiled. The advancing figure did a three-quarter spin and fell backwards onto the earth, his 7.9 mm. rifle skidding across the damp grass beside him. Got him! My mind screamed, more in relief than celebration. I worked the bolt action, lifting and pulling it back to eject the spent casing, and then flipping it up and forward to bring another round up into the chamber. Line the sites, I told myself again. Buddy fired, his round kicking up dirt just inches away from the wounded one. Try for a head shot, I told myself, unable to believe my own callousness but feeling it justified in having endured that beach. I brought the writhing figure into my sites, but lost him as he moved his head back in behind the tall grass. Take him out fast, I thought as I brought the writhing torso into my sites. Cutler fired, and the man’s head whipped backwards and the pudding-shaped helmet rolled out onto the grass where it lay like a turtle on its back. “Done!” said Buddy from my right. We maintained our positions, straining our eyes for any further signs of movement amongst the trees. The machine-guns continued to rattle away on the other side of the wall. Will they ever stop? I wondered. Will they ever run out of bullets? “We should try to advance forward a little at a time,” said Cutler after a few minutes. “Try to make our way to the other side of that road. “Okay,” I said, and we pushed our selves up and took off running in crouched positions until we were close enough to adequate cover to drop back down again. We burrowed ourselves down into the grass behind the shallow ridge of earth and saw that we were now only about

ten yards away from the closest of the two dead soldiers. He looked young enough to still only be a boy. The blood trickled down from his blond hair and dripped into the grass around him as the already glazed eyes stared vacantly ahead. I looked past him and in amongst the trees. “What’s that?” asked Buddy. “Where?” I asked, and then saw it as quickly as I had spoken. Something was moving behind the base of the trees about twenty yards away. I leveled my lee Enfield and prepared to line the sites. Still one in the chamber, I reminded myself. Just have to line up the sites and squeeze the trigger. “It’s a cat!” Buddy yelled above the intermittent rattle of the machine-guns. “It’s a bloody cat!” As long as it took for me to comprehend what he had said, the image of a small black and white cat entered into my sites. It stared back at me, watching us. “Bloody ‘ell,” laughed Cutler. “What’s a bloody cat doing the ‘ell out here?” “Probably belonged to whoever lived in that house,” I said. “You’re probably right,” said Cutler. “Hey cat!” yelled Buddy. “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” “I’m sure he does,” I said, still watching the cat through my sites. “Those Germans were probably feeding him.” “Then shoot him!” laughed Buddy. “He’s a German cat!” “He’s not a bloody German!” said Cutler. “He’s French!” “Well let’s just hope he’s a partisan ,” I said. “Le cat!” Buddy shouted. “Le cat!” “Kitty! Kitty!” I called. The cat looked at us with an expression of indignance. “Come on!” I continued. “Kitty!” To our surprise, the cat rose up onto all fours and began a cautious advance toward us. “Come on!” I continued. “Come on little kitty!” The cat paused for a moment as it passed by each of the two dead German soldiers, looking and sniffing around them, before continuing its journey toward us. “Silly cat!” said Buddy. “Come on!” I continued. The cat walked the last twenty paces toward me and turned sideways and arched its back in a plea for me to pet him as he stepped

gingerly in between my arms and rifle. “Daft beggar,” said Cutler. I pulled the cat close in under my chin and felt it purring as it pressed up against me. “Imagine that,” said Buddy. “Right here! Right in the middle of a war! Right on a battlefield! A cat!” “Those Germans were feeding him well,” I said, feeling the fullness of the cat’s belly as I cupped my hand around it. “Not anymore!” said Buddy, and I suddenly felt a pang of guilt. “What’s your name little guy?” asked Cutler, reaching over to tickle the cat between the ears. “Call him bullet!” said Cutler. “No,” said Buddy. “Call him Jerry!” “Jerry?” I asked. “Sure!” said Buddy. “Jerry for the cat who defected from the Germans!” “Call him something French!” insisted Cutler, shaking his head in disagreement. “How about Norman?” I asked them, first looking at Buddy and then at Cutler. “Norman for the cat who survived the occupation and invasion of Normandy!” They nodded their heads in agreement. “Well,” I said. “I guess we’ve given him a name ... so now I guess he’s ours!” “Say what?” asked Buddy. “We’ve got to take him with us,” I said. “He’s made it this far! He deserves to be looked after!” “You can’t be serious,” laughed Buddy. “It’s against army regulations to obtain any pets, livestock, or husbandry for purposes other than consumption!” “We may get a little hungry from time to time,” I said. “But we’re not as barbaric as the Nazis!” “I say that the cat comes with us!” said Cutler, as though he held rank over us. “We’ll find him a safer place once we’re a little further inland!” I opened the top few buttons of my tunic and eased Norman back feet-first down in between the layers of clothing, and then fastened the buttons so that only his head was exposed. Having the cat look up at me with gratitude in its eyes carried my thoughts back to December 27, 1943. The Seaforth Highlanders had

secured Dead Horse Square and the rest of Ortona was only a day from being taken. The remaining Germans had been pushed back toward the north west corner of the town. Those who remained behind were dead. After the fighting finished, four of us were sitting tight in a partially-destroyed building just across the street from the hospital and a destroyed school. We watched as over a hundred civilians filtered out onto the streets after having taken refuge in a huge basement complex of the hospital during the three days of shelling and gunfire. “Do you hear that?” Cutler had asked me from where he had been kneeling down beside me in front of the window. “Yes,” I had answered, assuming that he was referring to the grateful cries of relief coming from the civilians as they were being escorted from the hospital and down the streets toward safety. “They seem happy to be out.” “No,” he said, craning his head to one side so as to listen. “Something else.” “What?” asked Buddy, from where he crouched down behind us. “It sounds like a voice calling out,” explained Cutler. “A faint voice.” “You’re hearing things,” said Corporal Dunbar. We ignored him. “Where do you think it’s coming from?” I asked, and suddenly a small group of Seaforths began to cross the street from the hospital and make their way toward the destroyed school. “There,” said Cutler. Our guys hear it, too!” We watched as the small group of soldiers crowded around a pile of rubble . “Shovels!” a corporal yelled out above the men’s exclamations and shouts of delight to one another. “Run and get some shovels!” We watched as the others ran off to fetch tools for digging. “What’s going on down there?” Cutler yelled out the window. “Currie-Smith!” one of them yelled back up to him as he ran across the street. “It’s Currie-Smith! He’s alive!” “Let’s go help!” I said, and within moments the four of us were bounding down the wooden stair case and toward the entrance that faced out onto the street. We bolted out across the roadway and over to the corporal, who was kneeling down near the rubble and offering words of encouragement and comfort to the man trapped underneath. “Corporal! Where do you need us?” Cutler called out as we

gathered around behind him. Having long ago unofficially surrendered any authority he may have had to Cutler, Dunbar lagged lethargically behind with an expression of indifference over who asked the questions and who gave the orders. “Shovels are on the way!” said the corporal, looking up at us and then rising to his feet. He eyed the infamously incompetent Corporal Dunbar and then turned back to Cutler. “Let’s start pulling off some of these slabs of debris until they get here!” We leaned our rifles against a section of the wall and began the backbreaking labor -of carefully lifting the heavy slabs and tossing them off to one side. Over the next few minutes, several other men joined in, working frantically with us to free Currie-Smith from what would likely have ended up being his tentative grave. Soon, the weight of the large concrete slabs and bricks that had been wedged around and overtop of him like a small tomb had been removed. We had come to discover that it was the way that the large slabs had fallen into a triangular formation around his head that had enabled him the ability to survive. We watched as two men gently raised him from the rubble and placed him on a stretcher. Unable to speak, more so from the overwhelming feeling of having been saved than a dry and dusty larynx, Currie-smith was carried off to never have to fight again. “Lucky beggar!” Cutler had said.

Chapter Sixteen “We’ve got to keep moving forward!” Cutler said above the rattle of the machine guns. “Get across that road and inland as far as possible!” “Ready when you are,” I said, lightly patting my chest where the cat was and then gripping my Lee Enfield. “We’ll move forward thirty yards at a time!” he said. I nodded. “Should we spread apart?” asked Buddy, from where he lay to my right. Cutler nodded in agreement. “Keep about twenty yards apart!” Buddy and I nodded and prepared to press ourselves up onto our feet and run. “One!” started Cutler. “Two!” “Three!” I finished, and we were up and running, staying crouched down as low as possible and zigzagging as we spread apart. Buddy dove down in behind a section of decomposed fencing at about twenty-five yards to my right and slightly ahead of me. Cutler furrowed himself down behind another slightly raised section of earth. Norman and I positioned ourselves behind a small cluster of orchard trees about twenty yards to his right. The three of us lay in our chosen positions, catching our breath and scanning the area ahead of us for any signs of movement. The road was now about a hundred yards away. “Here that?” asked Cutler, nodding his ahead in the direction of the road. I craned my head and listened. “Yeah,” I said, as the unmistakable sound of the Maybach engine and the churning and squealing treads of a fifty-six ton Tiger Tank filled my ears. “Sounds as though it’s coming from the west!” Cutler nodded. We looked at Buddy. The three of us knew what one other was thinking - to stay put and avoid being spotted. There would be no chance against the 88-mm gun or the two MG 34 machine-guns. “Here it comes!” yelled Cutler. “Heads down!”

We buried our faces into the crooks of our arms and listened, anticipating the tank to go roaring past us on its way to Courseulles. Instead, it slowed and then grinded to a halt on the road directly ahead of us. “Son-of-a-bitch!” cursed Buddy. “Just stay down and keep still!” ordered Cutler. “What if it heads this way?” asked Buddy. Cutler did not answer. The tank began a slow but purposeful turn, pivoting on the exact spot that it had stopped, until it was facing in our direction. Then we heard the driver grind it into low gear and let out the clutch. “Son-of-a-bitch!” Buddy cursed again. “It is coming our way!” “Just stay down!” Buddy ordered again. “No firing! No grenades! Just stay still!” “Son-of-a-bitch,” said Buddy, as the three of us lay with our faces pressed down into the crooks of our arms while listening to the sounds of the approaching tank. I visualized the tank bullying its way toward us, pulverizing the once peaceful orchard in its intent to tear everything, including us, to pieces with the high-caliber machine-guns. And then I thought of our tanks, stuck down there in the water and on that beach. And in my mind, I saw the six two-inch mortar shells that I had been carrying now shifting back and forth in the sand as the dead floated above them in the water. What I would do to have a mortar team here right now! I thought. Or even to just have a mortar and a few shells! “They’re stopping!” yelled Buddy. I raised my head slightly and peered between my forearm and the rim of my helmet. The tank was now about one-hundred and fifty yards away, sitting and idling noisily, just at the edge of the orchard. “What now?” asked Buddy. “Shut up!” Cutler yelled in a hoarse whisper. “Stay the hell down!” The commander’s hatch popped open without warning and fell back against the turret with a clatter. We watched in amazement as the driver and commander climbed out and hopped down onto the grass, unzipped their flies, and began to urinate on separate trees. I glanced over at Cutler and saw that he was scowling at Buddy to keep quiet. I looked over at Buddy and saw that he was doing everything he could not to laugh out loud. I could hear his thoughts as clearly in my mind as though he were yelling them out for me to

hear: Look at those stupid Jerries ... stopping right there to take a piss break and they don’t even know we’re here! I slowly moved my rifle so that it was at the ready, stretched out across the grass in front of me. “Glaubt besser!” the driver said to the commander as they urinated. “Ja!” said the commander. “Tone wie geben wir ihnen Holle!” Said the driver. The commander nodded. I could shoot them both right now, I thought, looking down the length of the barrel of my Lee Enfield. Just fire ... quickly work the bolt ... and then fire again! Done! That fast! “Hast!” said the commander, zipping up his fly and stepping back from the tree. “Wir haben Zu erhalten, gehend zu erhalten!” Killing these two would just draw attention, I told myself. Then there’d still be the other three to deal with. The gunner ... the loader ... and the radio-operator. A five-man crew just like our Shermans! The commander climbed up onto the tread and looked back at his driver. “Kegel an!” “Kommen!” said the driver, zipping up his pants and turning away from the tree. “Ich komme!” We watched as they both climbed back down inside the tank, the driver pulling the latch down behind them. We listened as he shifted the tank into gear and waited as he turned the massive machine around and began to manoeuver it back toward the road. “Okay!” Buddy yelled out with nervous laughter in his voice. “That was a little too close for comfort!” “Hold onto that cat, McDonald!” said Cutler. “It bloody well is one ‘ell of a good luck charm!” As the three of us broke out in laughter, I remembered being on leave with Stevie, Cutler, and Buddy in the early January of 1944. Cutler was taking us to a restaurant in San Vito Chietino. He had somehow come to know an Italian girl by the name of Monika Urbani who, after a few days of courting, invited him to attend their family restaurant.. Being the friend that he was, Cutler had asked if it would be okay to bring along three friends who were weary and hungry after so many days of fighting to rid their most beautiful town of the horrid Nazis. Of course, the girl had agreed that it would be most unacceptable for him not to bring his three friends along, and politely insisted that he do so. After all, we had spent endless months of

marching for hours on end, redundant exercise drills, and training maneuvers in the bitter cold of winter and the sweltering heat of summer. We had spent agonizing hours carrying out Combined Operations that had been to prepare us for the big day that we would go into battle. We had carried out, over and over, every move, every decision, and every order that had been designed to prepare us for the day that they would first go face-to-face with death. Then, we found ourselves facing death for days on end. They had been days that began and ended in undescribable horrific and terrifying incidents of death. This day, however, had not been one of them. It was a Saturday. There was no marching. There were no orders. No maneuvers. No battles in the streets of Ortona. No Corporal Dunbar - just the sheer pleasure of a knowing that we were free to enjoy the first day of a ten-day pass. The coastal road which led from Ortona to San Vito Chietino was both winding and scenic, filled with the salty smell of the Adriatic Sea and visions of typical Italian countryside. Gentle winds caressed the long blades of green grass that bordered the farmer’s fields and the sun warmed the soil beneath them. “My arms and legs still ache from all that fighting,” Buddy complained from where he sat behind me in the tiny car. “We’ve earned these ten days,” said Cutler, looking at Buddy in the reflection of the rear view mirror. “We’ll all be able to relax and have a nice warm meal at this place.” “What do they serve at this restaurant?” I asked. “Pastas. Fish. Fancy wines!” said Cutler, shifting gears to slow the car for a sharp bend in the road. “You name it ... they’ll have it at this family restaurant!” “My god!” said Stevie, leaning forward between the two bucket seats and facing me. “Wine? I can taste it already!” “And you must promise to be a gentleman!” Cutler said to Buddy more so than to Stevie or I. “Must be on your best behavior!” Buddy laughed and leaned forward in his seat to speak. “Don’t be so nervous. We won’t embarrass you!” “No swearing!” said Cutler, looking back at Buddy through his reflection in the mirror. “No rude jokes!” “No jokes?” asked Buddy, sitting back in the seat and sarcastically showing an expression worn by a pouting child. “And no staring at their tits across the table!” added Cutler. “Their ?” asked Buddy, suddenly leaning forward in his seat again. “You mean there’s more than one of her?”

“She has two sisters,” said Cutler, smiling as though we had just discovered a long-planned secret he had been saving up as a last minute surprise. “Two sisters?” I asked, turning my head to look at him. “Two very beautiful sisters,” he said. “Eighteen and nineteen.” Buddy fell backwards into his seat and whistled. “Two sisters! That makes one for each of us!” Cutler nodded. “But just remember! You’ve got to be at your best all evening!” “Oh don’t you worry,” said Buddy. “I’ll be at my best all night!” “Bloody ‘ell!” yelled Cutler as he shifted gears again. “I bloody well mean it! These girls were raised by a nice Italian family with old-fashioned values! So you’d best just plan on keeping that prairie pecker of yours in your pants!” Stevie and I laughed out loud. Buddy played the pouting expression at Cutler again. Cutler suddenly began to downshift through the gears and pulled the car off to the side of the coastal road. “What’s up?” I asked him, thinking he was about to have it out with Buddy. “All that beer back at that pub,” he said, working the chrome door handle and clambering out onto the road. “Gotta piss!” We watched as he ran around the back of the tiny car toward the ditch at the side of the road, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate. Just then, a sedan rounded the corner and slowed to a crawl as it passed us, with the mother and father bearing expressions of disgust while their three very attractive daughters giggled uncontrollably in the back seat. “Bloody ‘ell!” yelled Cutler, stopping mid-stream and then nearly catching himself in his trousers as he struggled with the zipper. “Bloody ‘ell!” “What’s wrong?” I asked leaning across the front seats. “What’s the matter? It’s just some family that got a chuckle.” “Not just any family!” screamed Cutler. “Son-of-a-bitch!” Buddy cursed as the three of us came to realize that it had been the Urbani sisters who were chuckling in the back seat behind the appalled parents. “Well,” I said. “We certainly can’t show our faces there now. We might as just well turn around and head back to that pub!” “Bloody ‘ell,” Cutler cursed again, gunning the engine and then

turning the car into a tight U-turn. “Bloody ‘ell!”

Chapter Seventeen “We can make it to those trees from here,” said Cutler. “It’ll be risky ... but we got to do it if we’re going to get across that road!” “Shall we go one at a time?” asked Buddy. Cutler shook his head. “Uh-uh. Too much of a chance of one of us being seen that way!” “Having three men crossing that open section of grass separately means three times the chance of one of us being spotted,” I added. “We should all go at the same time,” said Cutler, looking past me at Buddy. “That way it’ll only one chance of us being spotted.” Buddy nodded his understanding. But how do we know what’s on that road?” asked Buddy. “Or on the other side of it?” “We don’t,” said Cutler. “But we soon will.” “Where will we go from there?” asked Buddy. “I mean ... we need to find a unit to join up with.” “He’s right,” I said to Cutler. “We can’t be running around out here by ourselves and expect to survive the day!” Cutler nodded. “We need to get into a position where we can reassess our situation and maybe wait for the first sign of allied troops moving inland.” “See that rooftop on the opposite side of road?” I asked him. “Looks like a barn or something,” said Cutler. “Think we should head for there once we’ve crossed the road?” I asked him.

He nodded. “We could get ourselves over to those trees and assess that road there,” I said. “When it’s clear ... we’ll cross over to that barn.” “What if it’s occupied?” asked Buddy. “What if there are Germans in it?” “That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” said Cutler, scanning the length of the road and then focusing on the cluster of trees. “One thing is for certain ... we’ve got to keep moving forward. It’ll just be a matter of time before they start combing the area for guys like us who’ve somehow managed to get around that beach!” “But won’t they search that barn, too?” asked Buddy, looking around nervously. “Most likely,” said Cutler. “But hopefully by then enough time will have passed that we will have already linked up with another unit and have moved much further inland.” Buddy nodded. Norman shifted inside of my tunic and meowed. “Probably hungry,” said Cutler. “Once we’re in that barn we’ll give him some of our rations.” I smiled. The sound of a an engine and churning tires grew in the distance. We craned our heads to look ahead and down the length of from which the sound was coming. Within moments, a smaller armored vehicle bearing the iron cross traveled the length of road ahead of us at an incredible speed. “What the hell was that?” asked Buddy,. “A Panzerspahwagen Puma,” said Cutler. “Unmistakable. Eight tires. A powerful engine. Heavy armor. And a 50 mm. Gun!” “Well let’s just hope it keeps on going!” I said, feeling Norman squirm. “We’ve got to get to the cover of that barn. It’s just a matter of time before another vehicle passes ... and we’re too close to that road now not to be spotted!” Cutler looked toward the road and then back at me. “On three and it’s to those trees?” Buddy and I nodded in agreement. “One,” Cutler started, pressing himself up into a sprinter’s position. “Two....” “....and three!” I yelled, and once again the three of us were up and running in zigzag formation, wondering when a shot was going to ring out and take off the back of one of our heads. The shell fire on

the beach behind us now seemed louder than before. Norman bounced up and down inside my tunic, digging into the material with his claws as he hung on for dear life. “Down!” yelled Cutler, just as we neared the trees. Instinctively, we threw ourselves forward and landed in amongst the tall grass around them, myself taking the impact on my side so as not to hurt Norman. Seconds later, another vehicle roared past us on the road which now lay only yards ahead of us. How did I not hear that? I asked myself. How did they not see us? We crawled the remaining few yards forward and nestled down amongst the trees. “That was an even closer than those two pissing Germans!” said Buddy. “It’s going to get a ‘ell of a lot riskier as we move further and further inland!” said Cutler, raising his head and peering up and down the length of the road. “We’ve got to get ourselves hooked up with another unit,” I said. “As soon as possible.” “Let’s just focus on getting ourselves over to that barn first!” said Cutler. I raised my head up and peered across the width of the road toward the barn. It stood tall and broad, still strong enough to boast its many years of survival. Yet, the tall boards had been washed to a dull gray by years of merciless European weather and were missing hundreds of the circular knuckles of wood that made for knotholes. There were no doors and only one small loft window on the side facing the road. Desirent ardemment La France De phase had been painted across the weathered boards. “What does that mean?” I asked Cutler. “Long live France,” he said, reading the words. “It about preserving France’s freedom.” “Well,” I said. “I guess that’s what we’re here for!” Cutler looked up and down the length of road again and then turned to us. “Now looks to be about as good a time as any!” “Okay,” I said, pressing the palms of my hands down against my Lee Enfield in preparation to push myself upwards and forward. Norman squirmed inside my tunic. “Get set,” said Cutler, already up on one knee and with his rifle at the ready. “And ... go!”

We were up on our feet and scrambling across the open road, all the time very aware that we could be spotted from either direction and at the same time not knowing whether we were running directly into enemy hands. Once across the road, we cleared the ditch and made our way to the tall grasses paralleling the stone foundation. “Son-of-a-bitch,” cursed Buddy from where he lay beside me with the long, green blades of grass rising up around us. “This certainly isn’t my idea of how one should tour the French countryside.” “For king and country,” Cutler said in a hushed voice and I struggled to stifle my laughter. Buddy looked at us and shook his head. “For king and country? For king and country we three shall die.” “Not if I can bloody well help it,” said Cutler. “This is just another fight,” I told Buddy. “Just like Ortona. Same enemy. Same idea. Only this time it’s France were protecting instead of Italy.” “You hear that?” Cutler asked before raising a finger to his lips to silence us. I shook my head. Buddy shrugged his broad prairie shoulders. Cutler looked past us and down the length of the road. I could hear the squealing treads of another armored vehicle approaching. “Tank?” I asked him. He shook his head in disagreement. “Uh-uh. More likely an S.P.W..” “S.P.W.?” asked Buddy. “What the hell’s that?” “Schutzenpanzerwagen,” explained Cutler. “Well,” said Buddy. “I’d like to shootzen the hell out of it!” “An infantry armored vehicle?” I asked Cutler. He nodded. “We need to get inside that barn. If it is one the two machine-gunners on it will spot us for sure!” “Son-of-a-bitch!” cursed Buddy, turning himself toward us and readying himself to move. “Let’s move fast,” said Cutler, turning and leading the way, with me following behind him and Buddy pounding along behind me. We turned right around the first corner and covered almost the entire length of the barn in about five seconds. We could hear the Schutzenpanzerwagen getting closer every moment and I could visualize it rumbling past us on the road, with the two machine-gunners spotting us and quickly swivelling their weapons

around with all intent to kill us. It would not be a nice death, I thought. The two high-caliber machine-guns would tear us to pieces and we would be left here to die in this grass beside this barn, watching one another twist and thrash away our last few agonizing moments of life. “In here!” yelled Cutler, foolishly but desperately disappearing into an opening in the wall. I followed after him with Norman bouncing up and down inside my tunic and not knowing what to expect. Buddy fell in behind me. We heard the Schutzenpanzerwagen rumble past the barn and continue on its way down the road. Cutler and I surveyed the interior of the enormous barn from behind a row of hay bails while Buddy watched the vehicle from where he stood at the door behind us. Even as a kid, I had always been surprised at how much bigger barns actually were on the inside than they appeared to be from the outside. “Seems to be just us in here,” said Cutler. “That makes three,” whispered Buddy, turning to face us. “Three close calls in a row.” “Let’s go up,” said Cutler, pointing to the wooden ladder that led up to the hay loft. “There’s a window up there to keep watch from and we’ll be at an advantage with the height.” Buddy and I followed after him, slinging our rifles over our shoulders and cautiously stepping our way up the rungs of the wooden ladder. A few birds flew out of the small window, beating there wings in surprise and panic. Cutler peered over the top and then pulled himself up and over. We followed after him, rolling onto the soft hay that had been long ago spread out across the floor of the loft. We lay on our backs and stared up at the vaulted ceiling above us, savoring the much-earned right and need for rest. The guns continued to boom in the distance. “Bloody well feels good,” whispered Cutler after several moments. “I’ll say,” said Buddy, his big prairie boy body spread out across the floor as though he were one of the dead laying down there on that beach. I let Norman out of my tunic and we watched as he looked around before taking a few steps forward and then finally making his way toward Cutler. “Cute little beggar,” Cutler whispered as Norman rubbed up against him. “He’s hungry,” I said. “We ought to feed him.”

“You hungry little guy?” Cutler asked Norman as he tickled him under the chin. I rolled over beside Buddy. “Undo my pack and get a ration pack out of there.” I felt him undo the straps and fumble around inside. “Let’s see,” he said. “One girly magazine! Two bottles of beer! And a box of rubbers! But no ration packs!” Cutler laughed as he tickled Norman under the chin. I twisted myself around. “Never mind! I’ll get it!” “Hold still!” said Buddy. “I’ve got it!” “You sure you want to feed this poor innocent cat that dreadful army food?” asked Cutler. “Hasn’t he gone through enough?” “It’s better than being fed by Germans!” said Buddy, waving a ration pack in front of my face. “Can’t argue with that,” said Cutler. Buddy opened up the pack and withdrew the small tin of chicken and bacon meat spread. He opened it with his Swiss army knife and then set it out on the floor in front of Norman. We watched as the small cat walked over to the tin, sniffed around, and then began to devour the contents. “I always thought that stuff smelled and tasted like pet food,” said Cutler. “Starving,” said Buddy, petting the back of his head as he ate. “Okay! Who wants the brown biscuits and who gets the sugar candy?” “Let’s divide it three ways,” said Cutler. “We’ve got our own packs ... but dividing them between the three of us will make it all last longer.” We watched Buddy break the two brown biscuits into three equal pieces. He then unwrapped the roll of candies and then handed a section to each of us. The four of us ate silently, listening to the constant shelling and now sporadic gunfire down on the beach while watching Norman eat. We lay here and eat, I thought as I chewed on a dry and flavorless piece of biscuit. While men are still dying down there! Looking around at my two friends and at Norman carried me back to a memory of picnicking on one of the warm afternoons during those same ten days of leave in the early January of 1944. There were the four of us. Cutler had chosen the location, a grassy knoll on the perimeter of an olive orchard just outside of Ortona. Buddy had somehow managed to swindle and bring three bottles of rich red wine. Stevie and I

brought the four loaves of French bread and the sandwich meats given to us by a grateful baker who was located on one of the few untouched streets in the northern section of the ruined town. We had spread three army-issue blankets out across the grass and placed our feast in the center for easy access. The glorious afternoon was spent nibbling pastrami and Genoa salami and sipping the Veneto straight out of the green bottles. Birds sang as they danced from branch to branch in the trees around us and a family of rabbits appeared every so often to nipple at the offerings of lush earth. For us, for those few peaceful hours, it seemed as though there had never been any war at all. No words about the battle were spoken. No references were made to those who perished. Instead, we shared memories of better times. Buddy told stories of what it had been like to grow up on a farm on the Canadian Prairie. Cutler spoke of his childhood in Sussex, England. Stevie and I shared our boyhood and teenage adventures from growing up in the small town we called home back in Chilliwack, British Columbia. Each of us revealed when we lost our virginity and then boasted about experiences that we alleged to have followed after. For those few hours, we were able to escape what the war had done to us. It had stolen our boyhood and transformed us into men. It had taken us away from our families and girlfriends. It had made us witness, and cause, death. For those few hours, we were allowed to be like teenaged boys again.

Chapter Eighteen Cutler was perched by the window, looking out at the road and at the field we had crossed. “Well lads,” he said. “What do we do from here?” “I say we just stay put,” said Buddy, rising up onto one elbow. “We’ll have to keep moving inland sooner or later,” I said. “We’ve been fulfilling our objectives,” nodded Cutler. “We’ve survived that beach. We’ve made it as close to the La Riviere-Courseulles Road as possible. In fact ... we’ve crossed it. And now we’ve dug ourselves in to the best of our ability by taking position in this barn.” “And from here?” asked Buddy. “We’ll carry out the rest of our orders,” said Cutler. “Which is to clear those pillboxes and turrets,” said Buddy. “And if you think I’m going back....” “It’d be suicide,” said Cutler. “Remember that if our unit made it past that beach it was to regroup and await orders from the sergeant

major to advance further inland where we would attempt seize the Carpiquet airfield west of Caen.” “The sergeant major is dead,” I said quietly. “It’d have to be someone else of higher rank than us.” “What if we don’t meet up with anyone superior enough to give those orders?” asked Buddy. “We can’t just keep waiting here.” “I know that,” said Cutler. “I’d sure as hell like to,” said Buddy. “Just remember,” said Cutler. “Part of our objective was to form a link between the two British forces to our left and right?” “Yes,” I said. “But by the looks of that beach I doubt if too many will make it through. And those that do may end up a hell of a lot further to the right and left of us than we think!” “Then we may just have to go it on our own,” said Cutler. “That could prove to be suicide as well,” I said. “But we’ve got to do something. Just sitting here for too long will likely result in our being captured and taken prisoner or found by our own men and accused of cowardice.” “I’d rather be taken as prisoner,” said Buddy. Cutler and I nodded our agreement. “I say we move now,” I said. “We’ve been here long enough already. We could end up waiting half the day for another unit to appear and cross that road ... just to have it miss us by a half mile to the east or west of us! But we’re bound to meet up with other forces sooner or later if we’re moving inland.” Cutler reached into the front right pocket of his tunic and withdrew his copy of a map of the area. We watched as he spread it out across the floor between us. “Courseulles is just a little over one mile to the east of us,” he said, placing an index finger over the coastal port town. “And the Carpiquet airfield?” I asked, shifting myself around to have a better view of the map. “About ten and a half miles if we follow a straight path directly from this location,” he said. Buddy whistled. “That’s a hell of a walk!” “Especially across occupied territory,” I said. “What are we facing?” “It looks as though there’ll be at least two main roads that we’ll have to cross over,” said Cutler, using his index finger as a pointer. “And then a third if we plan to stay on this side of Caen. Then there’ll

be another two roads and a set of railroad tracks just before we reach the airfield! But first we’ll have to cross over the Seulles River just ahead of us here. And then the Mue River where it bends a little ways north of the airfield.” “The Mue seems to run northeast and then north for quite a distance,” I said, positioning myself in beside him. “Yes,” he said, nodding his head. “We may even be able to follow the Mue for quite a bit of the way in.” “That’s nuts!” said Buddy. “We’ll never make it through all of that in one piece!” “Well,” said Cutler, folding up the map. “Our orders were to advance inland. And besides ... like MacDonald says ... we’re bound to meet up with guys from either the Sixty-Ninth Brigade or the Eighth Canadian who will have made it past that beach and also be moving inland.” “Well let’s get going then,” I said. “Before the Germans decide to burn this barn down.” “Think they’d do that?” asked Buddy. “They’d just as soon scorch this barn with us right in it,” Cutler agreed. “And we wouldn’t stand a chance!” “Why?” asked Buddy. “They could make use of these buildings themselves.” “They’d burn every building down so that if any of our guys make it as far inland as we have they’ll will have no place to hold up in.” “Son-of-a-bitch,” whispered Buddy. “We’ll most likely end up facing a lot of resistance out there,” I said. “Well It’d be a ‘ell of a lot better way to go than being burned up in here,” said Cutler. We both looked at Buddy. After a few moments, he rose to his feet, tightened the shoulder straps of his larger back, and then picked up his rifle. “Well,” he said. “If we’re going to go then let’s go now!” Cutler and I stood up and adjusted our packs, secured our helmets, and slung our rifles over our shoulders. Buddy scooped Norman up in his big prairie hands and gently stuffed him butt-first down through the opening at the top of his tunic. “I’ve taken a liking to the little guy,” he said. “He can ride with me for a little while.” Cutler and I smiled as Norman popped his head up and through the small opening above the top button. “He likes you,” I said.

Cutler walked over and tickled the cat between the ears. “All ready, Norman?” “We’ve got to find him a safe place,” I said. “There’s got to be a place someplace between her and Carpiquet.” “We’ll find him something,” said Cutler, preparing himself to descend the steps of the wooden ladder. “A nice little farm house or something.” The image of a comfortable French farmhouse flashed through my mind and carried me back to that same January of 1944. Villas painted in vivid pastel colors of pink, blue, and yellow crowded the shoreline along the Adriatic beach. We had stretched ourselves out on an ideal spot along the thirty miles of firm, shimmering sand. In times of peace, the place would be swarmed with vacationing families, but now the summer villas served to billet the allied troops who had been withdrawn from the front lines for ten days of much-earned and needed rest. On the terraces of the villas and on the beaches itself, the men had nothing more urgent to do than to sprawl out under the warmth of the sun and watch the scenery. “Look there,” Cutler had said, pointing toward where the water met with the sand. “Three lovely ladies.” Stevie and I looked to where he was pointing and saw the three dark-haired girls prancing around, their blossoming figures tucked neatly inside the conservative bathing suits. “There’s only three,” said Cutler. “Guess Buddy will have to wait for seconds!” “That’s what you think,” said Buddy, leaning back on one elbow and puffing on his cigarette. “Once they see what this big prairie boy has for them ... all three of them will be fighting to have a piece of it!” Stevie and I laughed. “Bet you couldn’t even get one,” Cutler said, challenging Buddy to rise to the occasion. “One?” said Buddy, sitting up and flicking the nearly finished cigarette off into the sand. “That’s too easy!” We heard the girls giggle and when we glanced in their direction we saw that they had been watching us. “Here’s your chance,” Cutler said to Buddy. “Let’s see you prowl on over there and snag yourself one of those little beauties!” “Shall we make a bet of it?” Buddy asked, looking around at the three of us. “Sure,” said Cutler. “What do you say boys? A quid each?”

“What will he have to do?” I asked. “At least kiss her,” said Cutler. “I say he ought to do a hell of a lot more than kiss her if it’s gonna cost us three quid,” said Stevie. “Like make out with her!” “Make out with her?” said Cutler. “That would be worth fifteen quid to see!” “Then that would be five quid from each of you,” said Buddy, rising to his feet. “He’s serious,” said Cutler. “I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t around to hear it!” “Just be prepared to put your money where your mouth is,” said Buddy, and he was off, walking a straight line toward where the girls stood frolicking in the sand. “Bloody ‘ell,” said Cutler. “He’s bull-shitting us ,” said Stevie. “Let’s watch,” I said, and the three of us settled down on our towels and acted as casual as possible, all the time glancing back and forth between the three girls and the approaching prairie boy. “There he goes,” I said, and we watched as Buddy walked up to the three giggling, flirtatious girls and began to converse with them. After a few minutes of shared conversation and laughter with the three of them, he seemed to narrow in on the prettiest one, leaning in closer and smiling the whole time. Twice, he raised a big clumsy farm hand and caressed her long dark hair. Minutes later, they were walking off together, away from the other girls, with her leading him by the hand. “Bloody ‘ell!” said Cutler. “I don’t believe it!” I said. “They’re actually going off someplace together!” said Stevie. “That lucky bugger!” “We’ve got to follow and watch,” said Cutler. “Yes,” agreed Stevie. “We want to be sure that he doesn’t trick us!” “Don’t want them going off for an ice-cream together and having him coming back with all sorts of made-up stories,” said Cutler. I smiled and the three of us were up and nonchalantly making our way over to where the two of them had disappeared over a ridge of sand just a few minutes before. We started by making our way inland for a little ways, hoping to pass enough time and distance that the other two girls would assume that we had headed off to someplace else. When we felt that we were somewhat out of sight, we turned

back in the direction that we had seen Buddy and his new-found acquaintance walking in. We made our way across the sand and continued on until we came across a second ridge. “If they’re making out,” said Cutler, hurrying along ahead of us. “They’ll be over where that ridge meets with those bushes!” “You ought to slow up a little,” I said. “Or you’ll be likely to step right on them!” Cutler stopped dead in his tracks and then stumbled two steps backwards with the palm of his hand covering his mouth. “What is it?” I asked. “Sssshh!” he hissed, raising a finger to his lips in a plea for us to be quiet as he crouched down onto all fours. “What?” whispered Stevie. “What is it?” Cutler motioned for us to get down with him and then pointed over the crest of the ridge. Stevie and I crawled on our hands and knees until we were along side of him. When we looked over the ridge, we had to raise our own hands to our mouths to stifle the laughter. There, in the sand about twenty yards ahead of us, lay Buddy and the girl entangled in a passionate embrace. “I don’t believe it,” I whispered. “He’s actually doing it. He’s actually making out with her.” They seemed to stop for a moment as the girl whispered something into Buddy’s ear, but then continued on again. “I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t here to see it,” said Stevie. “That lucky bugger.” “Never bloody mind that,” cursed Cutler. “We’ve just lost us five quid each!” “Wait,” I said. “I’ve got a plan that’ll make it all worth while.” “And what the bloody ‘ell would be worth losing fifteen quid over?” asked Cutler, his brows furrowed in anger, more so from the fact that it was Buddy who was with the girl and not himself than actually having lost the bet. “Look there,” I said, motioning to the two sets of sandals that lay in the sand just a few yards ahead of us. Cutler’s frown relaxed and smiles beamed from their faces as they began to comprehend what it was I was suggesting. “I love it,” said Stevie, still enjoying the show while Cutler and I breathed a sigh of relief over the fact that the two of them remained entirely oblivious to our presence. “That farm boy is going to work for that fifteen quid,” whispered

Cutler. “By walking all the way back to the villa in the hot sand with bare feet!” “We’ll need a long stick or something,” I said. “Something long enough to reach from here.” Stevie ambled off toward the nearby bushes and returned several moments later with as long branch off a mulberry bush. “This do?” he asked, crawling back into his position between us and continuing to enjoy the show. “Perfect,” I said, taking it from him. I shifted my way around to the other side of Cutler and then stretched the stick out in front of myself, extending my arm as far as it would reach. Stevie and Cutler snickered from where they now lay in the sand just to my left. “Get ‘em,” whispered Cutler. “Get the bloke’s sandals.” I did better than that by hooking both sets of sandals on the first try. I lifted them ever-so-slightly off the sand and then began the slow and tedious task of reeling them in toward us. They were still locked in their passionate embrace and entirely oblivious to my thievery. “Hurry the ‘ell up,” whispered Cutler. I pulled the stick back the last few feet and peeled the two sets of sandals away from the hooked end. “Got ‘em,” I said, dropping the stick where it was and turning in preparation to hightail it out of there. Stevie and Buddy were right by my side, the three of us running in crouched positions and then finally rising up into a full-breadth run when we felt it was safe to do so. “Bloody ‘ell!” yelled Cutler, feeling that it was safe for us to let out the pent up laughter. “I can hardly wait to see the looks on their bloody faces!” “Maybe we shouldn’t hang around,” I said. “I’m not so sure I want to be here to take the brunt of it when he comes marching over that hill with full intentions of wringing the neck of the buggers who stole their sandals!” “Right you are,” said Cutler. “Let’s get dressed and head off for some ale. We’ll hear all about it later when we pay up the fifteen quid!” We carried the two sets of sandals back to the villa, quickly changed into our uniforms, and then headed off to a local pub. After a few hours of having consumed the several rounds of beer and shots of grappas purchased for us by fortunate locals, we stumbled our way back to the villa where we walked squarely into Buddy as we came through the door.

“Where’d you guys disappear to?” he asked, making his way over to the sofa and stretching his tall frame out along the length of it. “Oh,” I said, nonchalantly. “Us?” “Went for a few,” said Cutler. “That’s all.” “I suppose you drank away my fifteen quid,” said Buddy, eyeing us speculatively from where he lay. “Not at all,” I said. “We didn’t have to pay for a single round.” “So let’s have it then,” said Buddy, rising up into the sitting position. “You’ll get it,” said Stevie. “ ”Yeah. So keep your shoes on!” said Cutler, and the three of us broke out into uncontrollable laughter. Buddy sat up and looked at looked at us with a confused expression across his face. The three of us stumbled into one another in unsuppressed laughter. “Say,” he said after a few moments. “Those other two girls were quite some put out!” “Put out?” I asked. “About what?” “That you three just took off and left them there like that,” said Buddy. “The shorter one thought Stevie to be rather cute. The other one liked you.” “Well that still would have left one of us hanging,” said Cutler, confused as to why Buddy had made no mention of the missing bathing suits. “Oh no,” continued Buddy. “They were all prepared to pick up another gal just for you. Some pretty little English-Italian number!” “A little English-Italian number?” asked Cutler. “Yes,” said Buddy. Supposed to have been even prettier than the other three!” “Even prettier?” asked Cutler, realizing that in concentrating all of our effort into duping the big farm boy, we had overlooked an opportunity for what we had only been able to dream about for what seemed a lifetime. “Yes,” said Buddy. “And they were looking for an evening of picnicking, drinking, and romance. It’s too bad you three ran off so quickly. Could have been quite the evening!” “Well call them!” exclaimed Cutler. “See if you can set something up for tomorrow!” “No can do,” said Buddy. “They were WAAF’s on a three-day leave. This was their last day!”

“Bloody ‘ell!” yelled Cutler. “Bloody bloody ‘ell!”

Chapter Nineteen “Let’s just follow as straight a line as possible,” Cutler said as we peered out the door through which we had entered. “We’ll follow the length of fences ... hedgerows ... anything that’ll provide us adequate cover!” “Works for me,” I said, looking north toward the road we had crossed over and then south at the farm field which lay stretched out from the front of the barn. “There should be ample cover for us all the way across that field.” “I sure hope so,” said Buddy, his broad frame looming behind us as he looked out across the fields. “We’ve made it this far and sure as hell don’t want to buy it crossing some bugger’s farm!” “The trick will be to move at a steady but cautious pace,” said Cutler. “No leapfrogging and we’ll need to minimize our running as we get further inland!” I nodded. “We want to just blend in as much as possible without making

any unnecessary movements that’ll draw attention,” he added. “Are you kidding?” asked Buddy. “Those Jerries have eyes like eagles!” “And they’ll be on the lookout,” said Cutler. “After having been signaled about the invasion down there on that beach ... they’ll have orders to be on the look out for any soldiers who may have been fortunate enough to breach their defenses and make it inland.” “Wonderful,” said Buddy. “Just wonderful!” “We’ll be okay,” I said. “We’ve got Norman!” Cutler smiled. “You ready?” he asked us. I nodded. Buddy frowned and grumbled a few words of explicit protest. “Okay,” said Cutler. “I’ll lead?” I nodded again. “You follow behind me at about five yards,” he said, and then turned to Buddy. “You do the same behind him. Okay?” Buddy nodded. “I’ll have you both covered.” “You always do,” I said. Cutler gave Buddy a pat on the shoulder and then took off ahead of us, following the length of the rest of the barn and then cutting off to the left toward a long row of trees. I counted off five one-thousands and then took off myself, leaving Buddy standing in the doorway as I made my way along the length of the wall and then followed Cutler’s path toward the trees. I could see him crouched down between two apple trees just a little ways ahead of me. I looked over my shoulder and saw that Buddy had begun the run. When I looked forward again, Cutler was up and running. I followed after him, maintaining the five yard distance while zigzagging between the randomly-spaced trees. When Cutler neared the last few trees, he crouched down and signaled me to fall along beside him. I signaled Buddy to maintain his distance in order to cover our rear and then closed the five yard gap between myself and Cutler. “See that?” he asked me as I crouched down beside him at the fringe of the section of trees. I looked out across the vast farm yard which lay ahead of us. Large square patches of rich soil were bordered by more narrow rows of neglected and rotting forage where vegetables once grew. Wide expanses of unkept grass paralleled them, reaching out to touch latticed grapevines and more rows of orchard trees. “Yes,” I said, pointing to the area just to the left of the orchard. “We ought to head

for that stone wall and follow it until we get to that shed.” “Exactly what I was thinking,” said Cutler. “Ready?” I nodded. “Okay,” he said, and he was up and running across the open grass. After the five second count, I was up and following after him, and then Buddy was up and following after me, the three of us crossing the open field in crouched positions and with our rifles at the ready. When we reached the three-foot high stone wall, we crouched down as low as we could and scrambled our way along the length of it, all the time maintaining the five yard distance from one another. The grass was still damp and slippery from the morning dew, causing us to nearly lose our footing more than once. At the halfway point, Cutler stopped and crouched down against the wall. Buddy and I did the same. The rounded and weather-worn stones felt cold through the material against my shoulder. I could see that Cutler was watching the area ahead of us and I was wondering what it was he thought he saw or heard when a flock of white birds resting in a cluster of nearby trees suddenly exploded into flight and disappeared amongst the various trees situated on the opposite side of the farmyard. Cutler rose back up and continued on again. We followed after, keeping the same distance and our heads and packs down as low as we could while running the remaining length of the wall. When he reached the end, Cutler darted across the short but open stretch of grass between the wall and the dilapidated shed. He crouched down and pressed his left shoulder against the rotting boards. I did the same, falling in behind him and smearing the shoulder of my tunic and the outer thigh of my trousers against the moss and mildew that covered the boards like a spreading cancer. Buddy held his position at the fence for a few moments, surveying the stretch of land and the farmhouse that lay ahead of us, and then crossed the stretch of grass and fell in behind me. “What do you think?” I asked Cutler. “Safe to move past that house?” “I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” he said. “Got a real bad feeling about it.” “Well we can’t stay hidden behind this piece-of-a-shit shed all day,” said Buddy. “We’ve got to keep moving.” Norman poked his head out over the top button of buddy’s tunic and meowed. Cutler leaned to his left and peered around his corner of the

shed. After a few moments, he turned back to face us with an expression of demur. “Just my hunches,” he said. “But it’s too bloody quiet or something.” I thought about what he had just said and then stared straight ahead across the field we had just traversed as I focused all of my energy into hearing any sounds that would indicate any sort of activity throughout the farmyard or from within the house. After several seconds of concentrated listening, I turned to Buddy and said, “He could be right. It does seem unusually quiet.” “The French have long abandoned or been removed from these homes,” said Buddy. “I doubt that there’s anyone around anymore.” “Except the Germans,” said Cutler. “And these farmhouses make perfect observation posts. Don’t think for a moment that they wouldn’t be occupying them if even just for that very reason.” “It’s a fifty-fifty chance this farmhouse could have Germans in it,” I said, thinking out loud. “And I can’t see any other route that would take us around it ... other than backtracking to that road and following it to the next farm,” said Cutler. “Our only way of getting past it from here would be to go directly through the cluster of trees and the gate over to the west of us ... or through that other cluster of trees that border the house on Buddy’s side.” “I think we’d be too much in the open and vulnerable passing through an open gate,” I said. “If we’re going to make a go of it ... I opt for the trees against the house.” “My thoughts exactly,” agreed Cutler. “Better cover.” Norman meowed again. “All at once?” I asked Cutler. He nodded. “All at once. A straight line for the row of trees just on the other side of Buddy. Once we’re there ... we should be able to make a straight run to that cluster of trees that parallel the house. But it’ll be quite a bit of distance to cover.” “But then we’ll be tucked in close enough to the house to be out of open view from the windows,” I added. “And close enough to hear whether or not there is any activity going on inside.” He nodded. “Okay,” said Buddy. “Then let’s get going.” We turned to face the corner closest to Buddy and then rose up into standing positions, readying ourselves like Olympic runners before a hundred-meter race. I peered around Buddy’s packs and

broad shoulders and saw the small row of trees about seventy-five yards ahead of us and slightly off to the left, waving there branches in invitation for us to come to them. The cluster of trees that Cutler had been talking about stood just where I had remembered them to be, about another two-hundred and twenty-five yards past the first row of trees. They, too, stood quietly and waited for us to come to them, while all the time reaching out and brushing the side of the house with their long, finger-like branches. Other than the other cluster of trees situated on the opposite side of the yard near the gate, almost three-hundred yards of open land lay between ourselves and the farmhouse. A dangerous run, I thought. God ... please let Cutler be wrong just this once! I felt Cutler pat me on the back and I did the same to Buddy, signaling the send off - as we had been trained to do in preparation for disembarking infantry landing crafts during beach invasions. Buddy took off like an elk, his big legs splaying out in front of him as he manoeuvered his six-foot-four frame in zigzag formation. Cutler and I followed close behind, staying low and watching the farmhouse as we made our way toward the small row of trees. Once there, the three of us pressed ourselves down as low as we could in the lush earth between them and waited before attempting the next run. Laying there with my Lee Enfield stretched out through the grass in front of me, I looked out across the vast expanse of country around us and was suddenly reminded of our experience of another farmhouse from the early morning of May 23, 1944. Having taken Ortona in December, we had advanced west toward the Tyrrhenian Sea and were about to cross the Hitler Line at Aquino. We had the Loyal Edmonton Regiment to support us, as well as the Princess Patricias, two squadrons of the North Irish Horse, and a troop of four self-propelled anti-tank guns from the 90th Anti-tank Battery. The operation involved two phases. The first was to secure the line of the Aquino-Pontecorvo road. The second phase was to advance beyond the road to a series of low hills which lay north of Pontecorvo. The land beyond the road was undulating and dotted with ancient farmhouses and orchards. On any afternoon during peacetime, the scene would be one of farmers happily tending to their crops and orchard trees under the warmth of afternoon sunshine while livestock roamed lazily over the grassy knolls and drank from the clear stream. That morning, however, had not been during peacetime. The ground had shook and loud explosions had echoed throughout the

valley as tank and mortar fire tore the earth up around us. Our section had almost reached our first objective, and were in the middle of the enemy fire that rained down upon the road and the gullies paralleling it, when we decided to head for a small farmhouse situated about two-hundred yards straight ahead and slightly off to the left. Quite a few of us made it to the house. The rest of us were forced to take cover in a series of German-made trenches we came to discover just to the east of the house. We threw ourselves down into them and peered up over the ridges of soil in hopes of seeing our tanks progressing forward. Instead, we saw them being torn to pieces by the German anti-tank guns. Instead of advancing forward, they sat burning. As orange flames flicked outward like the forked tongues of angry dragons, large plumes of black smoke billowed upward from their dying hulks. Their crews struggled desperately to escape through the narrow hatches and scramble down to safety, but were quickly torn to pieces by German machine-gun fire. When a group of the Loyal Edmonton Regiment in a nearby trench decided to destroy two abandoned 8.1-cm German mortars by dropping hand grenades down into the barrels, they drew the attention of some of the enemy tanks in our direction. One of our men, Trevor Wiliams from Courtney, British Columbia, saw an opportunity to move from the trench we were in toward the house, but was thrown several feet through the air by the sheer force of a round of exploding shell-fire. We watched, unable to help, as his blood ejaculated in long jets out onto the earth around him. Trepidation began to set in when we turned and saw that the tanks had begun to advance closer and were positioning their turrets in preparation of destroying the house with their armor-piercing shells. Men ran out of the house, scrambling to find some other means of cover. Those in the trenches, fearing the advancing treads, began to pull themselves up and out in order to make a run for it, but were killed as the tanks fired several rounds into the earth around them. I had turned and looked up just in time to see that a Panzer was only feet way and about to cross over top of the trench that we were all laying in. I tried to yell warning out to Stevie, Cutler, and Buddy, but my shouts were muted by the deafening squealing and grinding of the churning treads. I lay on my back and watched in horror as the dark hull loomed over top of me. The motor roared thunderously and the treads ground their teeth outward into the air above me, searching for either earth or flesh to bite into. The sky darkened as the hull passed over on a diagonal angle, but relief

quickly swept over me as the treads grabbed hold of the opposite side of the trench and began to pull the machine forward onto solid ground. Once again, we had been spared a heinous death in order to live through and witness another day of dying.

Chapter Twenty “That house looks to be empty,” said Buddy, crouched down behind one of the trees to the left of me. “Hard to tell,” said Cutler, concealing himself behind another tree, just ahead and slightly to the right of us. He glanced back over his left shoulder at me. “What do you think?”

“Well,” I said, turning to look at Buddy and then back to Cutler. “I certainly wouldn’t want to be the one to go up and knock on the door!” Buddy snickered. Cutler nodded. “I’ve still got a bad feeling about it.” “You might be right. There may be Germans in that house,” I continued. “I think we ought to stick to our idea of heading for the cover of those trees on this side of the house.” “As quickly as possible,” added Buddy. “No running,” said Cutler, shaking his head in disagreement. “We stay down low and move slowly from here on in. If there are any Jerries holed up in that house and we go running across that section of yard ... we’re bound to be seen.” I nodded in agreement. “Belly crawl?” Cutler nodded again. “And then find some means of cover that’ll get us past that house and off this bloody farmyard.” “I’m sure that we’ll see another route out of here once we’re in a better vantage point,” I said. “There may be long row of bushes or a hedgerow or something on the other side of those trees.” “Well,” said Buddy, patting the front of his tunic where the outline of Norman’s little body showed. “We’re ready.” “Let’s all go at once,” Cutler said, first looking at buddy and then at me. “No point in creating three different chances for ourselves to be seen.” “Okay,” said Buddy, shifting Norman a little higher up inside his tunic so that he would not press the weight of his massive torso against the cat when he lay down on the ground. “All ready.” We lowered ourselves down onto the grass and dirt and began the laborious task of using our elbows and knees to propel ourselves forward. With our rifles clutched in the grip of our hands out in front of us, we were ready for any sign of action. I could feel the dampness of the morning dew against the sides of my hands and through the stained patches around my knees. We had covered little more than twenty yards distance when I noticed something move past one of the three windows at the back of the house. “Wait,” I whispered, deadlocking my movement in the mud. My words paralyzed Cutler and Buddy. “What?” Buddy asked from where he lay to my left. “I just saw movement in that window,” I said.

“Which one?” asked Cutler. “The one above that porch.” “Movement?” asked Buddy. “You sure?” I nodded. “Someone passed by that window.” “Think they saw us?” asked Buddy. “If I saw him,” I said. “There’s a good chance he saw us.” “Son-of-a-bitch,” muttered Buddy. “Should we fall back to those trees?” I asked Cutler. He shook his head. “I say we stay still. Maybe they saw us ... maybe they didn’t. Let’s just stay the ‘ell still and watch that house for a few minutes to see what happens before deciding on a move in either direction.” We pressed ourselves down into the grass and dirt as far as we could go and watched the two back windows of the old farmhouse house. As we lay there, waiting, more images of the battlefield of may 23, 1944 flashed through my mind. We had stood behind a burned out tank and stared at the bodies of the dead Seaforth Highlanders scattered along the length of the Pontecorvo-Aquino road. Many of the wounded cried out in pain as they waited for stretcher-bearers to come to them. Others tried to make their way back on their own, painfully dragging themselves along while the enemy continued to send mortar and shell-fire into the ground around them. Destroyed tanks were everywhere. In one section of field alone, fifteen of the North Irish Horse tanks sat burning. The bright orange flames rose up and out of the opened hatches and tall plumes of black smoke billowed skyward. We watched in horror as three German tanks suddenly appeared through a cloud of dust and smoke and opened their cannons and machine-guns up on a ditch full of Seaforth Highlanders. Those who tried to flee the ditch were cut to pieces by machine-gun fire and then pulled under the gnashing teeth of the ever-grinding treads. We watched as a wounded major survived by playing dead. He laid completely still, face down in the mud, as the murderous tanks passed by him with only inches to spare. Seeing a an opportunity to fall back, we had ducked down and ran as fast as we could toward the road, leaping over the dead and wondering all the time when a spray of machine-gun fire would tear through us. As I ran past a crumpled figure on the ground, I saw a hand reach out to me. I stopped and turned around. “Please,” came a muffled cry from the mutilated mouth. “Please help me.” I could see that the man’s eyes had been scalded inside their sockets. As he reached out

toward me in a desperate plea, black pieces of burned flesh dangled from the bones of his fingers. “He’s as good as dead!” Buddy had said. “We’ve got to help him!” I had insisted. “It would be inhumane to leave him like this!” “There’s a whole field full of them!” he argued. “Look! They’re scattered all the way down the road!” “You!” came a shouting voice from behind us. We turned and saw that it was a British major of the North Irish Horse yelling at us. “You four men! We need stretcher-bearers ... now!” Cutler, Buddy, and Stevie and I all looked at one another in disbelief. “But we’re soldiers,” whispered Stevie. “Not medics.” “Check that tank there for a stretcher,” the major bellowed. “And then get that man off the ground and over to that barn!” “The barn, sir?” asked Cutler, turning and looking at the tall wooden structure that sat in the field on the opposite side of the road from which we had crossed. “Yes!” the major explained. “It’s being used as a field hospital! Let’s go! Bloody ‘ell! On the double!” “Yes sir!” we yelled, and were off running toward the burned out tank that the major had pointed to. We climbed up over the treads onto the armored-plating, being careful not to burn our hands on the hot iron. “I don’t see any stretcher in here,” said Buddy, looking down through the commander’s hatch. “And if there was ... it’s a burnt mess.” Stevie and I climbed up beside him and looked in. Two charred bodies lay on the floor of the compartment. “You’re right,” I said. “Not much chance of anything surviving the heat that was in there!” We jumped down and ran to the next tank, where Cutler was already headed. The mortar and shell-fire continued to erupt the earth around us, throwing spouts of dirt up into the air and leaving large, gaping holes in their wake. Buddy and Stevie watched as Cutler and I quickly climbed up onto the armor-plating and looked down through the hatch. “Bingo!” Cutler yelled out above the loud explosions. “There’s one in here!” We watched as he disappeared down inside the compartment. Moments later the handles and olive cloth of one end of a stretcher

appeared. Buddy scrambled up the side and helped me take the stretcher from Cutler so that he could climb back out. We jumped down and then the four of us ran back to where the dying man lay. “Too bloody late!” the British major yelled from where he crouched down beside another writhing body. “He died! But this one’s still got a chance!” Buddy and I laid the stretcher down along the length of the man. I took position at the feet and felt what I first thought to be water seeping through the knees of my battledress. It was not until I looked down that I saw the pool of blood fanning out around my knees and the toes of my boots. “He’s bleeding very badly!” I yelled out. “It’s an artery!” said Cutler. “His femoral artery!” “We’ve got to clamp it bloody fast!” I said, looking around in a vain attempt to find something. “Son-of-a-bitch!” said Buddy, looking around behind himself. “Nothing! Where the hell are the medics?” “Either dead or working in that barn!” the major growled from where he stooped over another man several feet away. “One of you use your fingers to clamp it while two more of you scoop and carry!” We all looked at one another. “Son-of-a-bitch,” Buddy whispered. I reached down and took hold of the man’s pant cuff and tore one long stripe up the length of his leg. “There,” said Cutler, pointing to the three-inch opening along the inner thigh. “That’s it!” I moved my hand toward the tear in anticipation of knowing what I had to do next. “Can’t we just tourniquet it?” asked Stevie. Cutler shook his head. “Uh-uh. Cut is too high up on the leg!” “Can’t we give him some morphine?” I asked. The major tossed a glass vile on the ground beside me. “Break off the end and jab it in the other leg!” he ordered. “Get that artery clamped!” I broke the end of the glass vile and jabbed the tip through the cloth around the other leg. The man tightened in a spasm of pain for a few brief moments and then subsided into a surreal calmness. “Now!” said Cutler. I used the tips of my fingers of my left hand to separate the tear a little more and then slid the index and middle fingers of my right hand inside. The warm blood surged around them and down across the

back of my hand as I felt around inside. At first, it all seemed too foreign to make any distinction; just warm, pulsating flesh. What am I feeling for? My mind reeled as I reached further up inside the leg. What does an artery feel like? Then, I felt it. The tips of my fingers brushed across it. Rubbery, my mind said. Grabbing hold of one section between the tips of my fingers, I pulled it downwards from where it had retracted. Blood jetted out across the back of my hand and down the inner sleeve of my tunic. More mortar and shell-fire fell down around us, shaking the earth violently and almost causing me to lose my grip. Once I had it near the opening, I used the fingers of my left hand to hold it there, and then quickly repositioned the two fingers of my right hand to act as an invasive clamp. “By god,” said Cutler, looking down at where the blood had stopped jetting out around my fingers “You’ve got it!” “Get him going!” the major yelled. “He’s still got a fair chance thanks to you boys!” Cutler rolled him on to one side and Stevie quickly slid the stretcher underneath. Then, Cutler and Buddy scooped him up and began to cover the distance toward the barn across the road while I ran along beside with my fingers still clamping the artery. Stevie followed along behind, carrying our rifles. Once inside, we handed him over to some field medics. Only then did we realize how busy the inside of that barn was with incredible suffering and human compassion. The Medical Officer of the North Irish Horse worked with others in desperate attempts to stop bleeding, preserve limbs, and to save lives. One corner of the barn had been designated as a battalion headquarters. Maps, signals, and anxious officers made up for a beehive of activity as the shells continued to fall all around us just outside. “You two lads!” a lieutenant yelled, pointing to Stevie and Buddy. “Take that stretcher there and go back for another!” They nodded. “You two!” the lieutenant said, motioning to myself and Cutler. “Stay here and help the medics!” We watched Stevie and Buddy disappear through the barn doors and then turned to begin what turned out to be several hours of clamping more arteries, dressing wounds, and witnessing the last words of the dying. We had lost count of the number of men Stevie and Buddy had brought in, but had whispered thankful prayers each time that they reappeared at the entrance of that door.

Chapter Twenty One Laying prone in the mud, I pointed my Lee Enfield forward over the ridge. I checked and saw that the back-sight of the Lee Enfield was set at three-hundred yards. With my right arm resting on the extra ammo packs and my left wrist twisted through the strap to grip the barrel, I pulled the rifle closer into the crook of my shoulder. With my right hand on the stock and index finger on the trigger, I took aim. Must be over two-hundred yards to that farmhouse, I thought. As I adjusted the back sight and flipped it up, the beads of sweat that had formed above my brow threatened to roll down and sting my eyes. I chose the window through which I had seen the movement and then squinted so as to line the back-sight with the foresight. Within moments, a gray silhouette with the familiar pudding-shaped helmet appeared behind the pane of glass. I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Safety catch on! I moved the thumb of my right hand to push the catch forward. I should use a tracer round to see where I’m hitting, anyhow, I thought. Grasping the bolt handle, I lifted and pulled it back toward my face. A live round ejected and adhered to the mud. “To hell with it,” I whispered, cursing the Canadian government for sending its soldiers into battle with World War One bolt-action rifles. I reached into my ammo pack and withdrew a .303 round. After checking the rim for the tracer mark, I slipped it into the breech while holding down the next round in the magazine. Then I lifted the bolt, slid it forward, and slammed it back down into place. After refocusing my aim on the window I had been watching, I waited. The gray silhouette reappeared after a few moments. I squeezed the trigger, and saw the round make one solid line between myself and the window, where it sent shards of glass falling downward onto the steps of the wooden staircase and into the grass that paralleled the wall. The silhouette was gone. “Got him,” said Buddy. “Good shot,” said Cutler.

Suddenly, we heard the dull thudding of mortar fire from the cluster of trees which stood closer to the farmhouse. I worked quickly to lift and slide the bolt back. The spent tracer round landed in the mud beside the live one. I snapped the bolt down and then lifted it and pushed it forward before slamming it back down into place again. The earth shook with a jelly softness beneath me as explosions began to pulse, seemingly above and all around us. A wave of hot air blasted against the right side of my body, showering me with mud and pulling at my steel hat, tugging at the leather straps and causing them to burn against the skin under my chin. I gasped for air and worked quickly to clear the mud away from my face. We’ve got to shoot into those trees, I thought, and suddenly realized that neither Cutler or Buddy were firing. A looked to my right at Cutler. “Bloody well jammed!” he growled, as he fumbled with shaky fingers to clear mud and debris away from the bolt slide on his rifle. I glanced to my left and saw Buddy, just a few feet away, laying in the fetal position. His big body trembled as he wept. His rifle lay between us, partially submerged in the wet earth. Norman lay dead just a few yards to his left. My god, I thought. Norman! I looked into Buddy’s eyes for a few brief moments and then swore under my breath as I looked away to shift my focus back on to my rifle. Why? I asked as the tears began to water around the lids of my eyes. An innocent animal. A cat. Why? I wiped the tears away from my eyes and tried to focus along the length of the rifle. Two German soldiers had stepped out from the trees and had begun a steady advance toward us. I quickly lined the back-sight with the foresight and chose one of the quickly advancing soldiers. I squeezed the trigger and felt the wooden stock slam against my shoulder. The man fell to the ground. Momentarily abandoning my aim, I worked the bolt to eject the spent round and to load a live one into the breech. I could see that the second soldier was now much closer - almost upon us. Over the next four seconds of my life, I slid the bolt forward and down into place, wiped the sweat and more tears away from my eyes with the back of a shaky hand, and took aim. In my sights, I could see that the figure was now only about forty yards away and was kneeling down and in the firing position. I heard no sound but saw the muzzle flash from the barrel of his Mauser. Like an anaesthetic, the anticipation of being hit paralyzed me. I expected to feel the round burn through my flesh and tear pieces of bone away from my shoulder or face. Yet, no

burning came. Just a warm dampness. The figure was up and running again, quickly closing the gap between us. Instinctively, I pulled back on the trigger and watched as he spun around backwards before collapsing onto the ground. “Got the bastard!” said Cutler. I slowly raised my left hand and used the tips of my fingers to dab at the side of my face. My cheek and jaw felt sticky. Slowly, I lowered my arm and looked at my fingers. They were masked with blood. My God! I thought. This is it. I’ve been hit! I looked around in disbelief, wondering why there was no pain or loss of consciousness or any of the things I’d heard and witnessed to be a part of dying. Suddenly, a third helmeted figure appeared, crouched down and ready to fire a round at us. In my peripheral vision, I saw Cutler quickly work the bolt action of his rifle, take aim, and fire. The German fell backwards and his legs kicked spasmodically against the earth for a few brief seconds. Then, everything around us seemed to become quiet. I looked to my right and saw tears running down Cutler’s pudgy little face. I followed his eyes to my left and saw the blood ejaculating in long jets out of a small hole at the top of Buddy’s head. It landed in the soil between us, splattering across the stock of his rifle and onto the sleeve of my tunic. I watched in disbelief as the life emptied out of him and his eyes became more and more vacant. God has taken so many, I thought as tears clouded my eyes. Now he has taken the big Saskatchewan Prairie farm boy that Cutler and I had grown to love as though he were a brother.

Chapter Twenty Two We buried Buddy in the grass under the swaying branches of a large apple tree and marked his grave with a makeshift cross. A brief prayer was said, asking that he be forgiven for his wrongdoings and be allowed into heaven. We then said our individual goodbyes and lay a handful of wild flowers across the mound of freshly dug and packed earth. Cutler wrote the location of the grave down in his little black booklet and I tucked his dog-tags inside the right breast pocket of my tunic. My god, I thought. I don’t even have Stevie’s dog-tags! No one

took them! Nobody took the sergeant major’s either! More tears clouded my eyes as images of them flashed through my mind. I could see their names on the thin, flat metal rectangles that were now awash with sand and the spilled blood of men as they shifted back and forth with each movement of the ebbing water. All those men who tried to take that beach, I thought. Each has taken his last breath. “Wasted lives. Wasted effort,” I said, not realizing that my words were audible. “How’s that?” Cutler asked from where he now sat with his back against the opposite side of the apple tree and smoking a cigarette. His hands, like mine, were still dirty and stained with soil from having dug the grave. “Wasted lives,” I said again. “We’re soldiers,” he said, after exhaling a mouthful of cigarette smoke. “It’s to be expected.” “We’re all like lambs sent to their slaughter,” I said quietly. “We are fighting for an important cause.” “How valiant a cause to die for,” I said. “Was that beach worth Stevie’s life? Or the sergeant major’s? Or the lives of all those men out there?” “Buddy. Stevie. The sergeant major. They all died doing what was necessary and what they believed to be right!” “But if all of this is for what is right ... the why do those who are good die?” “Is one man’s life any more valuable or important than another’s?” he asked. “We have all killed many of them ... and many of us have been and will be killed.” I looked back in the direction from which we had come and saw the lifeless bodies of those whose lives we had just taken. “They had mothers and fathers, too,” said Cutler. “They, too, were the brothers of sisters and the boyfriends of girlfriends. Some were even husbands to wives.” I nodded. I did not feel the loss to be equal or justifiable, but I understood. Their blood is just as red as ours. A meadowlark cried out as a strong, cool breeze swept across the open farmyards all around us, moving the blades of grass in a hushed whisper during an intermittence of the dull booming of the distant guns. “We need to keep going,” Cutler said, rising up onto his feet and using the sole of his boot to stamp the cigarette out against an

exposed section of root of the tree. I nodded and thought, Just the two of us now. How many more ridges, fences, and farmhouses will it take before there is only one ... and then none? We buried Norman in a separate grave at the base of another apple tree. Then, we divided what was left of Buddy’s .303 ammunition and hand grenades between ourselves, tucking the cartridges of ammunition into our pouches and fastening the hand grenades to the metal clips on our shoulder straps. We helped hoist each other’s packs onto our backs, fastened and adjusted the straps, and then took one last look at Buddy’s grave. “So long, mate,” said Cutler. “You were a fine friend and a brave soldier.” “Amen,” I said. “Hold on to this,” Cutler said, as we turned and began to walk away. I took the wallet-size photograph from his hand and held it between my fingers. The sepia eyes of an attractive girl smiled at me. Buddy’s girlfriend, my mind told me. Another letter to be written. I placed her picture in my tunic pocket, along with his dog-tags. As we continued to walk, I was able to imagine them together in life. The image of them reminded me of another time and another woman. As though she was with me right at that very moment, I could see her sitting there, just as she had been when I had first seen her back on that sunny day in the May of 1944. I had stared at her in wonder, lost in the mere presence of her as she sat quietly on the stone steps, no more than twenty yards away. Each gentle breeze had given cause for her raven hair to caress and tease the youthful features of her face, and the afternoon sun had accentuated the lime green of her eyes. I had been sitting with my back against a stone wall and letting the sun warm my thoughts. Oh, how I would like to be close to her, I could remember thinking to myself. To feel her face close to mine. To take in the fragrance of her. To be wanted and needed by her.... I could remember closing my eyes and then opening them to find that she had been watching me. Her expression had been one of aloneness. I smiled, showing white teeth behind a dirtied and tired face. She raised her right hand and slowly wiped a strand of hair away from her eyes with the tips of her fingers. Another breeze blew it back to

where it was, causing her to smile, and we looked into each other for seemingly endless moments. “You are not Americano?” she finally asked, breaking the silence as she stood up and moved much closer to where I sat. “No,” I said, watching as she sat down on a section of the steps just a few feet away. “I am Canadian.” “I have heard much of Can-aada,” she offered. “What have you heard?” I asked, sitting up and leaning forward so as to savor the accent of her voice. “I have heard much good. That Can-ade-eans are peaceful peoples. That they are loving and gentle.” I smiled. “This is true?” she asked. I watched her eyes wander down to the blood upon my hands. Are these the hands of a gentle man? I silently asked myself. “You are hurt!” she said. Just yesterday, these were the hands of a boy, I thought. The earth-stained and calloused hands, hardened with the dried soil and the blood of other men, seemed foreign. I looked back at her and shook my head. “No ... I have not been injured.” Thunder echoed throughout the valley below. I looked up and saw that the sky had begun to cloud over. I could sense that she was studying me. I could feel the lime green eyes staring through me. “You say you have not been injured,” she finally said. “But ... you have been hurt.” I looked away, feeling an unanticipated uneasiness. The sun had suddenly become veiled by the enveloping clouds and the square darkened. “I know of this pain I see in you,” she offered. I felt a wave of anger begin to rise up within myself. The agitation had come from the awareness of my own vulnerability to the truth in her words, rather than from the words themselves. While the words were those of compassion, they affected me deeply. I suddenly felt exposed to this stranger. This woman. It was as though she had been watching me for much longer than those few minutes. It was as though she had been following me all along, aware of the fear and pain I had been carrying within myself through every miserable experience I had endured in this country she called home. I could remember feeling the tears begin to well at the corners of my eyes. Tears for Wilkinson. Tears for all those who we had

witnessed die. Tears for all of the guys who I could now only remember as pale, bloated, upturned faces. No! I screamed out inside my mind. I swallowed hard in my struggle not to break down and cry in front of her. At that moment, an image flashed through my mind - that of my father’s eyes and the warmth of his smile. My stomach tightened and I became momentarily haunted by the insidious fear of being weak in his eyes. I am supposed to act like a soldier! A man! I looked up at the girl through watery eyes and fought desperately to hold back the tears, but they began to spill out and roll freely and publicly down my face. In response, she stood up and walked over to me. In her effort to comfort me, she sat down by my side and began to tenderly wipe each tear away, while letting her fingers gently trace the features of my face. I looked away in shame. “No,” she whispered. “It is okay to weep.” I looked down in shame. Using her hands to lift the hair at the back of her neck, she unfastened the clasp of the silver necklace that she had been wearing. She turned the palm of my right hand upward and gingerly lowered the medallion into it, letting the chain rest between our fingers. I looked down and saw the crucifixion of Christ. The finely detailed face was expressionless. Yet, it said everything I thought and felt. Pain. Sadness. Loss. Loyalty. Love. Honor. Her voice whispered to me. “You are strong ...I believe. You are a strong man ... with much love inside. You care deeply for others.” I nodded. “Like Jesus ... you give of yourself for others.” At that moment, I turned and looked into her eyes - no longer feeling ashamed or afraid for her to see my tears. A gentle breeze had moved her hair as she held my hand.

Chapter Twenty Three “Think we ought to take some time to check out that house?” I asked Cutler, as we slowly followed the length of a hedgerow. “I think so,” he said, walking ahead of me. “Think we ought to check out that mortar first and see if it’s worth bringing along?” I asked, gesturing to the cluster of trees near the house. “Maybe there are a few mortar bombs there as well!” “Bloody right,” said Cutler, walking along beside me. “Could have ourselves some fun with one of those!” We approached the cluster of trees with our rifles at the ready. As we neared the closest tree, I could see the base plate and the 80-mm. barrel. We made our way between the trees and knelt down to inspect it. “Seems to be in good shape,” he said. “Barrel’s not bent.” “And look,” I said, pointing to a small rectangular wooden crate that sat on the other side of a tree just a few feet away. “Mortar bombs.” “We’re in business,” he said, already unscrewing the knob in order to remove the barrel from the base plate. “How about I carry one half and you carry the other?” I nodded. “And we’ll each pack some of those bombs where ever we can.” I helped him make room in his pack and then slid one end of the barrel in through the narrow opening I had created. I slid the mounting in beside it and then stuffed one of the three-inch mortar bombs down beside them so that it rested against cloth. We strapped two more bombs to the hand grenade clips on the front of his tunic. Then, he helped me slide the base plate under the straps that crossed

the front of my tunic. “Just like a plate of bullet-proof armor,” he said, adjusting the straps so that they did not pull to tightly across my shoulders. He stuffed two mortar bombs into the little space there was available in my pack. “There,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “A good mortar and five bombs!” “All ready?” I asked, bending down to pick up my rifle. “As ready as I’ve been since they dumped us off into that water back there on that bloody beach!” he said, bending down to scoop his own rifle up off the ground. “Bloody ‘ell,” he said, rising up and looking toward the house. “You smell that?” I looked around and sniffed at the air. The fragrance of cooking food filled my nostrils. “Uh-uh,” I said, nodding my head. “Smells like pasta sauce or something.” “Those Germans were probably cooking something,” he said. “Right when we came along.” “Let’s go check the house out,” I said. “Maybe there’s something in there that we can take along with us.” Cutler led the way up the staircase to the small porch, carefully placing his boots with each step so as not to step on any shards of glass. Following behind him, I looked up and listened for any noise from where the window had been. Nothing, I thought. Just the smell of the food cooking. Once he was on the top step, Cutler leaned over and peered through the opening of the window. “Nothing,” he whispered to me. “Think we ought to make sure?” I asked, knowing very well that if there had been any more Germans in there that they would have come running out during all that gunfire. Yet, as we both knew from past experiences, the Germans were notorious for sitting and waiting silently for the enemy to come to them. Besides, I thought. Some more of them could have approached and entered the house from the front when we were off behind that hedgerow burying Buddy. It’s unlikely ... but you never know! Cutler nodded and indicated that I should hunker down against the wall on one side of the door frame. I did and watched as he unclipped one of the grenades from his shoulder straps, pulled the pin, and then leaned back and tossed it in through the opening of the window. He squatted down on the opposite side of the door frame and held his helmet down on his head as we counted of the seconds. The house seemed to shake from the blast. Dust billowed out through the opening of the window and hovered in the air above us.

“Now,” he said, and he was up on his feet and already positioning himself to kick open the door. I remained crouched down near the door jam with my Lee Enfield at the ready should there be any Germans waiting on the other side. Cutler’s boot slammed into the wood directly beside the glass knob. The force sent the door spinning inwards and crashing onto the floor. Long, narrow splinters of wood and one of the old, rusty hinges fell onto the porch between us. I fired a round, aiming at nothing in particular, and saw it tear through the stucco on the other side of the kitchen. Cutler crept in ahead of me and braced his back against the wall. I stepped in beside him and looked around the room. The smell from the blast of the grenade hung heavily in the air. The German I had shot through the window lay dead in a pool of blood on the hardwood floor. A metal pot sat on an old wood stove. The reddish brown sauce that the Germans had been cooking bubbled out over the top and had adhered itself to the iron elements in messy globs. Cutler slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked the Schmeisser submachine-gun up from the floor beside the dead German. He found three clips of 9-mm. ammunition on the dead body and stuffed them in behind the belt around his waist. Then, we continued to search the rest of the farmhouse, clearing both levels to make sure that no more Germans were hiding in any of the rooms or closets. Once we were satisfied that we were the only two in there, we returned to the kitchen and looked at the pot of bubbling pasta sauce. “Looks good,” I said. “Bloody waste!” said Cutler. “Waste?” I asked. “Why’s that?” “Can’t eat it,” he said, reaching out and sliding the pot off the hot element and onto a cooler part of the stove. “There’s the slight chance that those Germans could have laced it with something once they knew that we were outside there in that yard.” “You’re right,” I said, staring at the contents in the pot. “Let’s look around,” he said, setting the submachine-gun down on the counter. “We’ll check these cupboards for any other food that would be safe to take along with us.” “There’s got to be something,” I said, stepping over the dead German and walking over to the pantry. “Those guys certainly weren’t cooking with nothing!” I opened the pantry door and saw a tin of pork and beans and two tins of crushed tomatoes on one shelf and three clusters of garlic on another. A glass container half filled

with biscuits and cookies sat on the top shelf. “Look here,” said Cutler, holding up a tin of sardines and a bottle of red wine. “Jackpot!” “Wonderful,” I said, pulling the can of beans and the two cans of crushed tomatoes out of the pantry and showing them to Cutler. “There are cookies and biscuits, too. But we’d better leave those.” “Bravo,” he said, setting the bottle of wine down on the counter. “Let’s pack this stuff into our packs and we’ll have it for a little something to eat later.” As we took turns packing the food into the last bit of space left in each other’s packs, the aroma of the half-cooked pasta carried me back to another sunny afternoon in the May of 1944. I had been following along behind her as she led me down a narrow and winding cobble-stone street which exited the town square. She had suddenly turned and begun to walk backwards in a toe-to-heel fashion so that she could look into my eyes as she spoke. “La mia madre adore voi,” she had said. “Gli ricorderete del mio padre.” “I got ‘father’ out of that,” I had said, smiling as I followed along behind her. “Si,” she laughed, looking at me through her lime green eyes. “My mother will adore you. You will remind her of my father when he was young.” I smiled and an imaginary photograph of what her father must have looked like flashed through my mind. “Come,” she said, waiting for me to catch up and walk beside her. She had extended her arm in offering her hand to me. “My mother is looking very forward to meeting you. I have told her all about us.” “Okay?” I said, letting her take my hand in hers. “Venuto rapidamente!” she shouted, pulling me along by the hand as she skipped ahead of me again. After several steps, she stopped, turned around again, and stood on the tips of her toes to give me a kiss. Her long ebony hair water-falled down around her shoulders as she let her head fall back to laugh skywards. “Come! We will be much late!” “Yes,” I said. “Sento l’odore degli spaghetti!” she said, pulling me by the hand as she turned to face forward again. “I got spaghetti out of that one,” I smiled, still holding on to her

hand. “Si,” she beamed at me. “Spaghetti! My mother is making her spaghetti.” “Si,” I said, following along behind her. “Venuto!” she shouted, turning back around and tugging my hand in a gesture for me to quicken the pace. “Fretta, David!” I contemplated her words as she pulled me along. “Hurry! Right?” “Si,” she giggled out loud. “Hurry!” “Yes,” I said, following after her. “I mean ... si!” “Madre!” she yelled as we approached an open door. “Madre! Siamo qui!” “Che cosa è esso, Angelica?!” a voice said, and a middle-aged woman wearing a red apron over a pale blue dress appeared in the doorway. The woman looked at me for several moments and then turned to her daughter. “Madre Mary! ll vostro padre! Venticinque anni fa!” Angelica turned to me and spoke. “She said you are my father twenty-five years ago.” I nodded and smiled at the woman who was visibly moved by the resemblance between myself and the man she obviously so dearly missed. “Please tell her that I do not mean to upset her.” I said to Angelica. She giggled and turned to her mother. “Ha detto che non desidera danneggiarlo.” The woman looked at me and smiled. “È gentile e preoccuparsi come il vostro padre era,” she said. Angelica turned to me. “She said that you are polite and caring just like my father was!” I looked back at the woman and saw tears in her eyes. It was not a Canadian soldier standing at her step as much as it was her husband on some warm afternoon twenty-five years earlier. “Tell her I love her daughter very much,” I said. She turned top her mother immediately, without any hesitancy, and spoke. “Lo desidera dirvi che lo ami molto!” The mother, still looking into my eyes, nodded. “È degno di voi. Il vostro padre sarebbe fiero di un tal figlio.” Tears filled Angelica’s lime green eyes as she looked at me. “What is it?” I asked her. “Have I upset your mother?” “No,” she said, shaking her head. “She said you are worthy of

me ... and that my father would approve of you as though you were his own son.” “But she has just met me,” I said, looking back and forth between them. “She knows nothing of me.” “She can tell that you are a good man,” she said. “And she sees the happiness that you bring me. And for her ... that is what matters more than anything else.” I nodded my understanding. “Venuto,” her mother said, reaching out and taking my hand. “Mangi!” “Come,” Angelica said, taking my other hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Mother says it is time to eat.”

Chapter Twenty Four We tucked the bottle of wine into the last bit of space inside his pack and then made a vow to each other to eat merrily and drink it in cheer if we lived to see nightfall. Cutler conducted one last search of the farmhouse for anything that might prove to be useful while I stood smoking a cigarette and looking out through a top floor bedroom window. I had already surveyed the stretch of land that lay ahead of us and planned out the best possible route for us to take, and now had other thoughts in my mind, when he entered the room. “Not much of anything too useful for a soldier,” he said. “Looks

as though the family that owned this place took what meant anything to them and the rest probably ended up in the hands of the Germans.” I reached inside my pocket for the package of cigarettes and offered him one. He took it and used mine to lite his own. I dropped the pack back inside my pocket and then turned back to the window. “I know we’ve already been over it,” I said, now looking out the window again. “But a part of me feels as though we should stay put and wait. It almost seems as though we’re going away from the fighting instead of toward it.” “We’re following the orders we were given,” he said. “The primary objective was to get across that beach. If we could take out this pillboxes and shit ... fine! But we couldn’t! The only thing that’ll take them out is the heavy artillery ... and they’re probably getting ready to do that right now!” I nodded and looked away. “Remember,” he said, blowing out a mouthful of smoke. “We’re to make our way to the Carpiquet Airfield. Sitting around down there on that bloody beach until we got our heads blown off would have been senseless! The goal for the Third Canadian Division was to take Caen before nightfall and I bloody well doubt that’s going to happen! But at least what we’re doing here is securing some sort of a path for the rest of ‘em to follow inland!” I nodded in agreement. “Just would like to actually see some of them following up behind us. How far inland should we go by ourselves? We can’t possibly take the airfield on our own ... let alone even make it that far!” He nodded and then took another drag on the cigarette. “How about we head just a little further inland,” he said. “Hopefully we’ll spot some guys from the Sixty-Ninth or the Eighth Canadian within the next little while. I’m sure that there’ll be others who’ll have made it through!” I nodded. “So tell me,” he said, stepping closer to the window and looking out. “I know you well enough to know that you’ve been thinking about a ‘ell of a lot more than that while you’ve been standing here! What’s on your mind?” “See how this yard ends at that road?” I asked him. “Yes,” he said through a halo of smoke. “Not much of a road is it?” “Not as busy as the one we crossed to get onto this farm,” I said.

“Hardly any traffic. In fact ... I haven’t seen a single vehicle pass by.” “Probably just an access route to these farmhouses.” I took a quick drag on the cigarette before continuing. “I’m thinking that we could cross that road and follow that hedgerow along the other side until we reach that barn there.” “Makes sense,” he said, and took another drag from his cigarette. I took one last drag from my own and nodded while letting the smoke trail out of my nostrils. “But I think we ought to fire one of those mortar rounds into it to make sure there aren’t any Germans holed up inside!” “We could stop where that cluster of trees is halfway along on the other side of that hedgerow,” he said, nodding in agreement. “They should provide us with enough cover to quickly set up the mortar and fire a bomb through this side of that barn.” “Okay,” I said, and dropped what was left of my cigarette onto the hardwood floor and then squished it out with the heel of my boot. “Let’s go then.” Cutler extinguished his cigarette with the heel of his boot and we made our way down the wooden steps with the bulk of our packs brushing the walls of the narrow staircase and our helmets scraping against the angled ceiling. Once on the main floor, we made our way out the front door and across the yard toward a small cluster of bushes. We watched both lengths of the road for a few minutes before sprinting across it and into the field that we had been observing from the second-story window. From there, we crossed through a stretch of knee-high grass, running as fast and as low down as we could, until we reached cover on the opposite side of the hedgerow. From there, we walked in crouched positions so as to keep our packs and helmets down behind the leaves and twisting branches. As I maintained the five-yard distance between Cutler and myself, I could not help but think about how odd it felt not to have Buddy following close behind. Instead, I thought, he lays in the ground back there in that farmyard. Cutler stopped at the cluster of trees we had decided upon and waited for me to close the gap. “You can see the upper half of that barn over the top of this hedgerow,” he said. I looked up over the bushes and saw the tall vertical boards of the north and east sides of the broad structure. A small loft window faced the direction from which we had come, and above that a rusted weather vane in the shape of a rooster sat perched on the angled roof.

It shifted back and forth between southeast and southwest with each passing breeze carried inland from the water. “We can set it up right here on this grass,” said Cutler. “And then fire one through the section of wall just on this side of that loft window.” I nodded and began to wiggle the base plate out through the opening between the straps near my left arm. Cutler helped me manoeuver it the rest of the way out and then set it on the grass between us. I crawled in around behind him, unfastened the clips of his pack, and slid the barrel out of the narrow space we had created for it. I laid it and the one bomb he had in his pack down on the grass. We fastened the knob into the hollow in the baseplate to secure the barrel, attached the adjustable mounting with the two extendable legs, and then secured the unit in tripod fashion on the patch of grass between us. We unhooked both of the bombs from the clips on the front of his tunic and set them down on the grass beside the other one. I watched as Cutler turned the mounting screws to adjust the elevation. “There,” he said, looking back and forth between the three-inch opening at the end of the barrel and the north side of the barn. “That ought to do it!” “This will make one hell of a racket going through,” I said, picking up one of the three mortar bombs and holding it out to him. He nodded and smiled. “That it will bloke. You ready?” “Ready.” ”Cover your ears!” Still kneeling down in the grass, I lowered my torso to one side and covered my ears as Cutler dropped the bomb down through the opening of the barrel. It hit the striker stud and the propellant cartridge was ignited instantaneously, barely leaving Cutler enough time to bring the palms of his hands up to his ears. The dull but loud thud was paralleled by a brief tremor through the ground beneath us and a blast of air above us. With our hands still cupped over our ears, we watched. The striker situated inside the nose ignited the explosive charge of the bomb the instant it came in contact with the wood, causing a vicious explosion as it blasted its way through the wall, tearing away long, jagged sections of board and sending hundreds of tiny splinters floating outward through the air. “Bingo!” said Cutler. “Bloody well right on target!” As the commotion died down, we heard the voices. German

voices shouting in both surprise and anger. We could not see them, but we could hear them. “Was war das?” yelled one. “Auf diese Weise!” shouted another. “Beginnen Sie oben den Tiger!” yelled a third. “Bloody ‘ell,” whispered Cutler. “What?” I asked trying to see what was going on over the hedgerow while not rising up to high on my feet. “What is going on?” “We’ve just found ourselves a Tiger Tank crew!” he said, turning to face me momentarily and then looking back toward the barn. “That bloody kraut just said ‘Tiger’.” The word hit me as though I had been that wall being struck by the mortar bomb. Tiger ! Then the engine came to life. Its powerful admonitions pierced through the ancient boards of the barn and reverberated inside our eardrums. “Quick!” said Cutler, knowing what was to come. “I’ll work the mortar! You grab that machine-gun!” While he fumbled with the mortar, I reached over and grabbed the submachine-gun from where he had laid it down in the grass and then leaned forward and pulled the three clips of ammunition from his belt and stuffed them in behind my own. I backed myself up against the hedgerow for cover and watched as Cutler detached the adjustable mount and then moved the rest of the unit so that the base plate rested firmly against the footing of the closest tree. “That Tiger will be coming this way!” he said above the rattle of the engine and the squealing of the treads from inside the barn. “And we bloody well better pray that it heads directly past this hedgerow because....” Suddenly, the north end of the barn opened up as though there had been a door there. The long boards spiraled outwards and tumbled to the sides as the massive machine broke through with the deadly 88-mm. gun leading the way. “Give me the other two bombs in your pack!” Cutler hissed, leaning toward me. I turned around so that he could have access to my pack and felt his every movement as he anxiously tore at the straps and fumbled around inside. “There!” he said, setting the two bombs down on the grass beside the other two. “It’s stopped moving!” I said, leaning my head to one side and listening.

“It’ll start moving again! And when it does ... we wait for it to get beside us!” I nodded. “You keep watch and let me know when it’s almost on us!” he said. I moved about ten paces away and hunkered down in against the branches and foliage. The engine became increasingly louder as the machine began to move again, slowly lumbering its way across the stretch of grass between the end of the barn and the narrow road from which we had crossed. “They’re heading for that road!” Cutler called out above the clamor of the engine. “They probably think that the mortar bomb was fired from the other side of that road!” I nodded and watched through the small gaps in the foliage, waiting for the tank to enter my field of vision. “Once they’re parallel with us,” Cutler called out. “I’ll fire another mortar round through this small opening here in front of me! Hopefully it’ll take out the one tread!” Why? I wondered. Why not just let it pass by and keep on going? “If we don’t take that crew out while we’ve got the chance they’ll come back around to find us,” he said, as though I had voiced the question out loud. “And then we’ll be at the disadvantage!” “Then what?” I called back to him. “Once the tread is disabled ... we’ll rush it!” Rush it? I thought, my mind reeling for other options. Has he lost his marbles? “They’ll be swinging that gun around to where we are!” he continued. “And no matter where we run to ... the machine-gunners will get us!” I nodded. “Getting up onto the back of that tank will be the only chance we’ll have! The gun won’t be able to get us and the machine-gunners won’t be able to see us!” “Then what?” I asked, peering through the small slits in the foliage. “We open the hatch and drop a few grenades in! Or we wait for them to come out and then get ‘em!” “You sure it’ll work?” I asked, turning to look at him. “If it doesn’t,” he said, reaching over and picking one of the two

mortar bombs up of the grass. “We’ll be the first to know! You just keep watch and let me know when it’s nearly in front of me!” “Right,” I said, and peered back through the slits between the branches. I could see the front left corner of the tank now. “It’s getting close!” I called out, raising my voice dangerously high so that Cutler would be able to hear me above the noise of the motor. “It’s almost about to pass you!” “Tell me exactly when the bloody thing is right in front of me!” he called, leaning over and angling the barrel of the mortar so that it was almost parallel with the ground. I nodded and looked back through the slits. I could now see almost the entire front half of the monstrous tank as it prepared to pass by him About ten yards to go, I thought. Cutler will have only one chance to take out that tread! I quickly glanced at the mortar, back at the tank, at the mortar, and then back at the tank again, all in a concentrated effort to judge the trajectory and timing. “Now!” I yelled as the tank began to parallel itself with the section of branches directly in front of Cutler. I heard the sound of metal against metal as Cutler dropped the bomb down into the three-inch barrel and then the familiar dull but loud thud as the striker stud ignited the propellant cartridge. A brief tremor traveled through the ground between us as the bomb shot through opening of the hedgerow and slammed into the side of the tank. The loud explosion echoed across the farmyard and down both lengths of the road as a bright flash of white and orange billowed up around the side of the tank. “Direct hit!” I yelled, as the tank rolled to a stop. I switched the submachine-gun to automatic and then began the laborious work of pushing my way through the intertwining leaves and branches of the hedgerow. As I broke through the other side, I could see that the tank was trying to move forward again, but had already rolled half way off the one destroyed tread. Cutler broke through to my right and we began a low crouched run toward the back end of the machine as it lurched and struggled like a maimed animal. “Watch out!” Cutler yelled out to me, and I saw that the turret had begun to turn, bringing the barrel of the gun around toward us. We ducked to one side and quickly moved in against the back of the hull. We were just about to reach up and grab hold of the small metal stirrups when the turret stopped turning. “Watch it!” said Cutler, and I looked up in time to see the

commander’s hatch began to rise. We ducked down out of site, using the back of the machine as a shield by sitting with our backs against the cold iron. “Wohin sind sie gegangen?” we heard the commander say. “He’s coming out,” whispered Cutler. I rose up in a half-quarter turn and fired a quick burst of ammunition into the commander’s chest. He spun around and fell sideways across the turret and rolled off onto the ground. His field glasses bounced off the iron and landed on the ground beside him. “Sigfried ist geschlagen worden!” we heard a voice shout from down inside the tank. “Hast! Erhalten Sie sie!” yelled another. I looked over at Cutler and saw that he had removed a grenade from one of the straps across his tunic and was now climbing up onto the back of the tank. I climbed up with him and watched as he pulled the pin and dropped the grenade down through the commander’s hatch. We laid ourselves down flat against the iron and waited for the blast. A white flash paralleled the explosion and dark smoke billowed out of the hatch. I quickly reached down and removed one of my own from the straps across my chest, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the hatch. Another explosion was followed by more smoke. With my ears ringing, I rose up onto my knees and sprayed the inside of the compartment with submachine-gun fire. “Okay!” said Cutler, after I released the trigger. “Done!” I nodded and leaned forward to look down through the hatch, but quickly turned away from the site of detached limbs and mutilated flesh. Cutler leaned forward and peered in through hatch and then turned to me with an expression of remorse. I climbed down from the tank and stood on the ground. That’s for Stevie! I thought, feeling my eyes began to fill with tears. I fought desperately to hold them back but could not. My hands shook from the adrenalin and anxiety of the last few moments, and no matter how hard I tried to steady them, they would not stop. Everything had begun to surge forward to the front of my mind as though it were being carried by a tidal wave. All the hurt and anger of losing Stevie on that beach, of watching Buddy die in that farmyard, and of having to forfeit the last few years of my life soared through me as distinctly as the tears that were now rolling down my face. I turned to the tank commander who lay dead on the ground and saw his ashen face

through watery eyes. As I tried to bring the face into focus, Cutler’s words came back to me - They had mothers and fathers, too. They were the brothers of sisters and the boyfriends of girlfriends. Some were even husbands to wives. As much as I wanted to kick him in, to take out all my anger on him by hurting him even more, I realized that I could not. I had already taken as much away from him as any man ever could. “Look here,” said Cutler, kneeling down beside the dead commander. “A photograph.” I accepted it as he handed it to me and immediately saw the blonde hair of the young woman who would never hold this man in her arms again. This beautiful young woman, I thought. If they were married ... we have just made her a widow. As I studied the pretty features of her youthful face, I thought about how it could have just as easily been myself who had lost this brief but consequential battle, and how it could have just as easily been my photograph of Angelica being held in the hands of this now dead German soldier. I closed my eyes for a few brief moments and I could see her as clearly as though we were still sitting together on the blanket we had spread out across the grass between the olive trees. Her mother had prepared us a lunch of freshly baked bread, pastrami and cheeses, and grapes with a bottle of wine. “What will become of us?” she had asked, sitting with the calves of her legs tucked comfortably beneath herself as she spoke. Each breath of the afternoon breeze brought strands of her ebony hair around to tease and caress the softness of her face. “What will come of us after these few days are over and I am sent back to the front?” I had asked in return. “I will wait for you,” she said. “If that is what you want.” “I do.” “I will wait for your letters to come,” she said, while moving closer to me and positioning herself in such a way so as to lean back against me. “And I will wait for you to come back to me.” “I will come back to you,” I said, resting my chin in the softness of the hair at the top of her head. “I will write every chance I get and I will come to you as soon as I can.” “To stay?” she asked, tilting her face to one side. “Possibly. If it is allowed.” “And what if it isn’t?” she asked me without looking at me. “Then I will marry you,” I said, teasing her with the idea but being

genuinely serious about it at the same time. “Marry me?” she asked, tilting her head upwards so as to look into my eyes. “You are joking with me?” “No,” I said. “I will marry you and make you my wife. Then nothing will be able to stop us from being together.” “Is that what you really want?” “More than anything I can imagine.” “And we will have children?” she asked, lowering her gaze to the lushness of the fields around us. “Yes,” I said. “Children. A house full of beautiful children with your dark hair and pretty eyes.” “And your handsome smile,” she added. “Hopefully not if they’re girls,” I said. “Then your heart,” she said. “Then they’ll have your heart.” “My heart is already taken,” I said. “By you.” She turned her head and looked at me with an expression of intense curiosity. “You are being silly. I mean that....” “I know what you meant,” I said, sitting her up in front of me and turning so that we faced each other. “I am more serious about this than I have ever been about anything else in all of my life.” Tears began to form at the corners of the lime green eyes. “I love you, Angelica. And I want to spend the rest of my days with you.” “I love you, too,” she said. “I will wait for you, David. I will wait for you and I will always be true to you.”

Chapter Twenty Five “Let’s go,” said Cutler, bringing me back to the present. “We’ve got to get out of here in case there are more that may have heard all the commotion and are heading this way!” I nodded and then knelt down and placed the photograph on the chest of the dead German. May she be close to your heart forever, I said, now feeling a slight pang of guilt for being the one who still held a chance of living long enough to see the woman I loved again. “Just like I told you,” Cutler said to me as I stood up. “We’re all the same. Same blood. Same fears. Same desire to live.” I looked back down at the face of the dead soldier and suddenly wondered what his family must be like. Does his father own a service station some place back in Germany? Did his mother always put a

note in the lunches that she packed for him before sending him off to school each morning? Did his sister cry for him when they said their ‘goodbyes’ at a train station in Berlin? “Let’s go,” said Cutler, already taking a few steps toward the direction of the barn. I turned and followed after him, with my Lee Enfield slung over my shoulder and holding the Schmeisser at the ready. The three full clips of ammunition were still in behind my belt. “I doubt there’ll be any more of ‘em in there,” said Cutler. “They’d have come out after that tank,” I said in agreement. “Let’s see if there’s anything in there,” he said. “You never know what we might find. Grenades. Maps. Who knows what else.” I followed close behind him as we crept up beside the large opening in the destroyed wall. Cutler peered in through a gap between two broken boards and surveyed the interior of the barn. After a few moments, he turned to look at me and whispered. “Looks to be clear.” I followed him in, the both of us walking in crouched positions, with our heads down and our packs and helmets serving as shields. We made our way to one wall and stopped in the shadows. “Seems to just be a bunch of farm equipment,” he said. “Not much of anything else.” I let my eyes scan the interior of the large building. The large double doors at the entrance on the opposite end of the barn had been closed. Daylight shone in through the slits between the tall vertical boards that ran from the foundation to the thirty-foot ceiling. Nothing but soil lay across the floor. The tread marks from the now deceased tank remained as evidence of its having been there. The farm implements which hung from the hooks along the walls were cloaked in thick layers of dust and enormous spider webs. The metal blades of the scythes were still dirty and stained with grass and the iron hooks of the rakes had begun the slow but inevitable transition into rust. “Looks as though this place has long been abandoned,” I said. “Just like that house.” “The only people we’re likely to come across between here and the Carpiquet airfield are German,” said Cutler. “What do you think?” I asked him. “Keep moving inland?” He nodded. “If we keep moving inland we’ll avoid any Germans who may be traveling along that road between Courseulles or La

Riviere. If we can make our way a little further inland, we’re bound to run into some of our own guys. There’ll be paratroopers who’ll have been dropped further inland and will have already begun to secure positions. And once they get those tanks across that beach it’ll take no time for them to cover the distance we’ll have traveled. I doubt it’ll be much longer before we’ll either run into troops positioned ahead of us or units closing the gap behind us.” “What about that mortar?” I asked him. “There are still three bombs left.” “Bloody right,” he said, nodding. “Let’s bring it along for good measure.” We walked back out and across the stretch of field where the tank sat and then through the gap in the hedgerow. The mortar, baseplate, and the three bombs lay in the grass where we had left them. This time, we decided to carry the mortar already assembled and ready for use. After hooking two of the bombs to the grenade hooks on the front of my shoulder straps and hooking the third to one of his, we hoisted the mortar up with one hand each and carried it between us. With the opening of the barrel facing forward and the mounting and base already in place, we would be able to drop the unit down between us and be ready to fire off a round within a moments notice. Should we need to abandon the unit in order to avoid or return enemy fire, our ability to move would not be hindered by the extra weight and bulk of the pieces. “Let’s stay on this side of the hedgerow and follow it the rest of the way,” said Cutler. “Hopefully it’ll provide us cover for the rest of the length of this farm.” “There’s got to be a farmhouse further up ahead,” I said. “And then another road.” “It’ll be empty,” he said, nodding. “And if there’s a road ... we’ll have to decide on a place to hightail it to again before trying to cross it.” “That road will be patrolled,” I said. “Just like the last one.” “Most likely. The Germans have probably been patrolling all the roads between here and Caen all day and night.” “Wonderful.” “And now they’ll be upping the patrols as they move more troops and the heavy stuff toward that beach to hold what little footing they’ll have left.” We stopped talking as we passed the length of the barn and kept

our heads down as we continued to parallel the hedgerow. We could now see the vastness of open field which lay ahead and to the right of us, and we realized that we were now on an entirely different farm separate from that with the barn. The hedgerow served as a property boundary. Two aged trees stood between ourselves and the other side of the field. Their gnarled branches rustled with each movement of the morning breeze. A wooden plow and yoke sat abandoned in the tall grass between them. A dilapidated shed sat a little ways off to the left. Its one door dangled from a single hinge and the knotted wood had long ago been faded by years of rain and intense summer heat. Long vines of ivy had crept up out of the grass and taken hold of the siding, gripping the boards like fingers and enveloping the frame around the one sun-bleached window. A white, two-story farmhouse stood about a hundred yards further on. A large barn, similar to the one we had just investigated, was situated about fifty yards behind it. “Looks pretty quiet,” I said. Cutler turned to me and began to talk, but his words were silenced by the sudden growling of the engine of a German Focke Wulf 190. We looked up in time to see the fighter shoot over top of our heads at an altitude of no more than five-hundred feet. Then came a British Hawker Typhoon, trailing close behind the Focke Wulf. “It’s a dogfight!” Cutler yelled above the drone of the powerful engines as the two aircraft soared off into a steep banking climb. We dropped the mortar down onto the grass between us and watched as the pilot of the Typhoon carried the powerful aircraft through a series of maneuvers in order to keep on the tail of the Focke Wulf. We used our hands to shield our eyes from the glare of the sun as we watched the Typhoon follow the Focke Wulf upwards in a long, turning climb that took them to about two-thousand feet. The Focke Wulf slipped off into an Immelman turn just as a surge of tracer fire sprayed out from the wings of the Typhoon. The Typhoon side-slipped to the right in a partial loop and then a half roll before falling in behind the Focke Wulf again. The British fighter followed the Luftwaffe pilot through a series of twists and turns which brought them both back down toward us. “Here they come!” yelled Cutler. “And bloody fast!” The two aircraft passed overhead of us at an incredible speed, and as the Typhoon shot by, the pilot seemed to notice us for the first time. Then, almost as if he were grandstanding for his newly discovered audience, he kicked the Typhoon into a series of rolls and

spins that positioned the aircraft directly under the now vulnerable Focke Wulf. Although the German pilot tried to slip his aircraft into an evasive sideslip, the pilot of the Typhoon maneuvered directly behind him. The chase continued almost halfway back across the farm before the pilot of the Typhoon opened up the four 20-mm. cannons, sending at least a hundred rounds of armor-piercing ammunition into the tail wings and fuselage of the Focke Wulf. A thick plume of black smoke began to trail out of the Focke Wulf as it rose into another steep climb. “He was just toying with him like a cat does with a mouse!” yelled Cutler. “And now he’s completed the kill!” We watched as the Focke Wulf rose to about fifteen-hundred feet, stalled, and slipped backwards toward the earth, falling in a series of horizontal spins before slipping nose-down for the duration of its descent. We saw the pilot bail out at about five-hundred feet and watched as the aircraft, followed by the long plume of smoke, smashed into the earth between the barn and the farmhouse with such force that it shook the ground beneath our feet and shattered three of the windows on the farmhouse. A large billow of orange flame shrouded by black smoke mushroomed up past the height of the barn. “His chute hasn’t opened!” yelled Cutler, and I looked over in time to see the falling body with its flailing arms and legs crash through the roof of the barn. “Son-of-a-bitch,” I whispered, and saw that the Typhoon had circled around and was now heading back toward us. “Hope he knows we’re on his side!” I said to Cutler. “He knows!” Cutler said as the aircraft neared us. The pilot dipped the right wing in a victory salute as he soared over top of us, and we cheered our acknowledgment to his triumph. “That’s where I’d rather be!” yelled Cutler as we watched the fighter wing off into the horizon. “Up there in one of those glorious machines rather than down here in all this shit!” “Think he’ll make reference to having seen us here?” I asked. “Hard to say. I know that they’re supposed to document everything related to flight and combat. He may make reference to the fact that the fight was witnessed by two ground soldiers as support to it having been a fair and clean kill.” I nodded my understanding and looked back to where the plane was now circling out over the water along the shoreline. Watching it in flight carried my thoughts back a month to a warm spring morning

in early May. Stevie, Buddy, Cutler and myself had long since transferred over from the Seaforth Highlanders to the 3rd Canadian Infantry Division. It had been a Sunday morning and a day off from the endless hours of invasion and combat maneuvers along the south coast of England. We had been stretched out on our backs across in a grassy field just outside of Bournemouth and studying the cloud formations in the sky when we noticed four aircraft flying in what they termed four-finger formation. “Looks like a vic from number eleven,” Cutler had said from where he lay to my left. “Out on defensive patrol.” “What are they?” Buddy asked from where he lay on the other side of Cutler. “Spitfires,” said Cutler. “Spitfires?” Stevie asked from where he lay to my right. “Yes,” said Cutler. “The fighters they used back in the summer of nineteen-forty.” “They used those against the Germans?” asked Buddy. Cutler nodded. “Those and Hurricanes.” “Hurricanes?” asked Stevie. “Hawker Hurricanes,” said Cutler. “What’d they fly against?” asked Buddy. “ME109s,” said Cutler. “ME109s?” asked Stevie. ‘What the hell are they?” “German fighters,” I answered for Cutler. Cutler nodded. “The best single-seat fighter that Germany had at the time. But the Spitfire flew circles around it.” “What are the Germans flying now?” asked Buddy. “Focke Wulfs,” I said. “Fuck what?” asked Stevie, and the three of us broke out in a brief chorus of laughter. “Focke Wulfs,” I said, after the chuckling subsided. “Sort of like the German Fokker!” “Did you just call me a German fucker?” asked Stevie, pretending to rise up in anger. We broke out in laughter again, with Buddy leaning over top of us and calling Stevie a little fokker. Then we had heard it . Machine-gun fire. “Holy shit!” yelled Stevie as we all rose up into sitting positions and shielded our eyes to look out across the English Channel. “A dogfight!” yelled Cutler. “Them Spitfires have found

themselves a pack of roaming Wulfs!” “Well I’ll be,” said Buddy. “A real live dogfight.” We watched as the four Spitfires rolled and sideslipped and looped in between and around the three Focke Wulfs, cheering them on whenever one of them was able to fire a spurt of .303 machine-gun fire into a Focke Wulf and holding our breath in despair whenever one found itself trapped in the line of fire of the German cannons. Yet, the old Spitfires out- maneuvered the deadly Wulfs. Within minutes, the three badly damaged Focke Wulfs had turned in retreat and were limping back across the channel, and the four Spitfires were heading back toward their airfield with little more than their hopes for an uneventful flight lost. “Good show,” said Buddy. “Incredible,” said Stevie. And then we saw it. A long plume of thick black smoke began to trail along behind one of the Spitfires. “It must have been hit and the others are escorting it back,” said Cutler. “But why would it start smoking just now?” asked Buddy, now standing and watching the aircraft. “Could be that it was overheating,” said Cutler. “Or that oil was slowly spreading out across the block.” “Think he’ll make it back?” asked Stevie, now rising up onto his feet to watch. Just then, a small ball of orange fire appeared at the base of the long plume of smoke. Within moments, the flames began to lengthen, flicking out and around the fuselage and the base of the wings like the tongue of a viper. “He’s had it,” said Cutler, as the two of us rose up onto our feet and stood in between Stevie and Buddy. “It looks as though it’s going to explode at any moment,” said Stevie. “It won’t,” said Cutler. “But the oil pressure is bleeding out and it’s quickly losing its power.” “She’ll go down,” I added. “And it’ll be getting bloody hot in that cabin right about now,” said Cutler. Then we saw the canopy slide back and we watched as the pilot push himself upward and partially out of the cockpit. “What’s he doing?” asked Stevie.

“Fastening his parachute,” explained Cutler. “They use it as a seat cushion during the flight. If they need to use it ... they rise up like he is and quickly pull the straps up over their shoulders and then fasten them.” “There he goes,” I said, and we all held our breath as the pilot pushed himself off the closest wing and fell backwards through the air and away from the burning aircraft. A few moments later, we saw the white silk of the parachute billow up into a mushroom above him, slowing his fall to a calm descent. “Bravo,” said Cutler. “He’s made it.” Moments later the one-hundred and forty-nine kilogram Spitfire slammed into the earth and exploded into a large mushroom of fire and smoke.

Chapter Twenty Six “Get down,” I heard Cutler say in a hushed whisper. “Germans.” “Where?” I found myself beginning to ask, but out of instinct I

was already moving downward to take cover behind a section of foliage. “Over near that house,” he said from where he sat crouched down beside me. I looked through a small gap in the foliage and saw a group of German soldiers standing between the house and the burning Focke Wulf. “The crash must have brought them running,” I said. “Probably from someplace further down the road.” Cutler nodded in agreement. “They could even have been watching the same dogfight but cheering for their own guy.” “What’ll we do?” I asked. “Wait for them to leave?” “Could be a long wait. Especially if there’ll be more of them coming. But I think we ought to sit tight for a little bit anyhow.” I looked over in the direction where we had been standing. The mortar stood on its base and the mounting out in open view. “What if they see that mortar?” Cutler looked over at it and cursed. “Bloody ‘ell!” “They’ll see it for sure if they look over this way,” I said. “And they’ll come over to investigate.” “Bloody ‘ell!” he said again. “Well?” I asked, peering through the foliage and seeing that the group of German soldiers had fanned out into a wide circle around the burning plane. “Well,” he said. “We’ve got two options. One is that we leave the bloody thing right where it is and get ourselves back on the other side of this hedgerow and then cut through that barn to get across the next road.” “And the second?” “We take a chance at grabbing it ... getting it from out in the open before they look over and see it.” “I opt for the second,” I said. “That mortar has saved our asses once already today.” “I’m know. I’m not so sure I’d be willing to give it up just quite yet either.” “Okay,” I said, looking back through the foliage again. “Should one of us keep watch and signal when it’s clear for the other to jump out and grab it?” Cutler nodded. “You’re already there, bloke. You keep watch. I’ll get it.” Just like Cutler, I thought. Always offering to be the one to stick

his neck out before anyone else! “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it next time.” “Let’s just hope there aren’t too bloody many more next times,” he said. “I’ve bloody well had about enough for one day!” I smiled and nodded. He positioned himself in readiness to spring into action upon my instruction. I peered through the foliage again and saw that three of the seven Germans were standing on the far side of the wreckage and facing in our direction. “Wait a bit,” I said to him. “Gotta wait until some of them are facing the other way.” He nodded. Still looking through the foliage, I watched as two of the three turned away in discussion. One was pointing upwards into the sky as though he were retelling the accounts of the battle. The others still had their backs to us. Then, the third one turned and all seven of them were looking in the opposite direction. If he’s telling the accounts of the battle as accurately as I would be ... it’ll be just a matter of seconds before he shows them how the two aircraft made their way around and over this way, I thought. It’s got to be now! “Go!” I said to Cutler. “Go now!” I kept my eyes fixed on the group of soldiers through the gap in the foliage as Cutler bounded out toward mortar. Just as I sensed that he was about to grab hold of it, the German telling the story began to carry the focus of the other six around with a gesturing sweep of his hand. I could almost imagine his words as though they would be in English : ....then the British followed him over that away ... staying right on his tail and.... “Blick! Britisch!” I heard one of them yell. “Dort!” “Cutler!” I called out, turning in time to see him scrambling back toward me while dragging the mortar along behind himself. “They’ve seen you!” “Bloody ‘ell!” he grumbled as he neared me. “Come on, bloke! Grab hold!” “Schnell! Hast!” we heard one of them yell as I used my free hand to grab hold of one of the legs on the mounting and hoist it up into a run along side Cutler. “Sie erhalten weg!” we heard another yell as we made our way toward the break in the hedgerow. “Quick!” said Cutler, breathing heavily as he steered us toward the opening. “We’ve got to get through here and find some sort of

cover!” “Not the barn!” I said, ducking in through the opening behind him and pushing my way through with the mortar slung between us. “That’ll be the first place they’ll check!” he panted. “And the second will be that tank!” I added as it came back into view when we broke through the other side. “Over there!” he said, pointing along the length of the hedgerow that paralleled the opposite side of the barn. “If we head in the direction we had originally intended to travel ... we may have a chance! There’s a strong possibility that they’ll think that we’ll have retreated back across the road and not know that we’ve actually gone the other way!” I nodded and we turned back toward the barn, quickly crossing the stretch of open field between the destroyed tank and barn. “Wohin gingen sie?” we heard one of them say as they approached the opposite side of the hedgerow behind us. “Ich kann nicht sagen!” said another, and we could hear them running. “This way,” whispered Cutler, steering us around the corner of the barn and along the length of hedgerow. “If we can find an opening in this one and break through ... we might have a chance of finding some sort of cover.” We scrambled along, side-by-side with the mortar slung between us, covering the length of the hedgerow and nearly tripping in the depressions and ruts more than once. “There,” said Cutler, nodding toward a small opening between the leaves and small branches as we neared the end of the barn. “In there.” This time, seeing I was on the side closest to the hedgerow, it was me who led the way through, holding on to the mortar behind me and using the Schmeisser to clear our way through. Once through and on the other side, we paused for a few moments in order to take a quick survey of what lay around us. A narrow row of orchard trees paralleled a long, rectangular garden just ahead of us. To the left was a large cluster, almost forest-like, of larger and more closely spaced trees. To our right was a small, single-story house. The yellow painted was pitted and flaking and the back kitchen window was cracked. “Head for the trees?” I asked him. He nodded. “There may be more of ‘em inside or out front of

that house.” Still carrying the mortar between us, we ran across the stretch of open grass with our heads down low and our backs hunched until we were well in amongst the amass of trees. “Blick!” we heard one of the Germans shout, now entering onto the farm from which we had just come. “Ein Tiger!” “They’ve found the tank,” Cutler whispered, and we dropped the mortar and knelt down in the grass between a cluster of trees. “Welche Weise gingen sie?” we heard another shout as we listened. “Vermutlich so!” we heard the first one say. “Spalte oben! Sie drei gehen so. Wir überprüfen dort!” “Bloody ‘ell,” whispered Cutler. “I wish I knew more German.” “What do you think is happening?” I whispered, turning to look at Cutler. “I have a feeling they’re splitting up,” he said. “Half are probably coming this way and the rest will probably head the other way to check that road.” “They’ll find that opening in this hedgerow just like they found the one in the other,” I said. “I know.” “Any ideas?” Cutler sat quietly, spending a few precious moments thinking before finally speaking. “If you’re right and they come through that opening there ... we’ll be at the advantage as far as taking them out with that Schmeisser and a grenade or two.” “And when the others hear the gunfire and come running?” “We’ll trick them to that opening and then fire a mortar through it!” “Brilliant,’ I said, and actually meant it even though the tone of my voice must have sounded slightly sarcastic. “Just try and pick up on some of the German from the first group if and when they near that opening. If we can repeat it when the others come ... we may pass as sounding German and lure them in. ” I nodded. “Unten hier!” we heard one of them say from the other side of the hedgerow. Here goes, I thought, turning around to face the opening that we had crossed through in the hedgerow. I released the nearly empty magazine from the bottom of the Schmeisser and then pulled one of

the three full ones out from behind my belt. Thirty-two rounds, I thought, reading the engraved numbers on the side of it. A hell of a lot better than a Lee Enfield! I locked the magazine into place and gripped the Schmeisser with both hands. In my peripheral vision, I could see that Cutler had already readied himself with a grenade. “In durchgehendem hier!” we heard the same one say. “They’ve found the opening,” whispered Cutler. Within moments, three German soldiers dressed in gray fatigues and black leathers had pushed their way through the opening and into the yard. We used the few moments that it took them to study the yard before noticing us to our advantage. As Cutler leaned back to toss the grenade, I squeezed the trigger on the Schmeisser, sending all thirty-two rounds of 9-mm. ammunition into the mass of their lean but massive bodies. The grenade landed just as the magazine emptied and exploded in a bright flash just in front of them, sending as many as eighty pieces of shrapnel into their already writhing and falling bodies. “Okay,” Cutler said as the three soldiers lay convulsing on the ground. “Let’s get ready with that mortar!” We quickly detached the mounting and then turned the mortar around and backed the baseplate up against a tree like Cutler had when he fired a round into the treads of the Tiger. Once we were satisfied with the trajectory and angle of the barrel, we unfastened the two bombs from the grenade clips on my shoulder strap and readied them to be dropped down the barrel. “Es war hier!” we heard a voice say, and then the sound of men running filled our ears. “Unten hier!” Cutler yelled in a faked German accent. “Unten hier!” “Durch hier!” the same voice yelled. Within moments, we could hear them pushing their way through the opening in the hedgerow. “Now,” said Cutler. “Now.” I picked up one of the mortar bombs and dropped it down through the opening of the barrel. The dull but loud thud shook the earth beneath us and within a fraction of a section the entire section of barn just opposite the opening in the hedgerow disintegrated into splinters and minute pieces of wood. Cries of agony followed the loud explosion, competing with the ringing in our ears and piercing us with pangs of remorse.

“Bloody ‘ell!” yelled Cutler. “Drop that other mortar now!” I picked the second mortar up off the ground and dropped it down into the barrel. Again, the dull thud shook the ground beneath us. This time, Cutler had lowered the trajectory of the barrel so that the round tore through the opening of the hedgerow at waist level. The bomb tore through the foliage and exploded against the base of the barn, killing the German soldiers instantly. The cries of agony had stopped, but the persistent ringing continued in our ears. Without speaking, we sat back on the grass amongst the trees and waited, straining our ears to listen for any other voices or sounds of movement. After a few long minutes, my thoughts began to drift back to another day in early May. We had been relieved from duty for the day and were laying around on sunning chairs and sipping tea just outside of our barracks when the mail call arrived. We all jumped up and encircled the postal corporal like wolves competing for a piece of hunted prey. When the corporal finally called my name, I stepped forward and eagerly took the two letters in my hand. I sauntered off and found a quiet and private place to read them. The first one had been from my parents. My mother had written me telling about how my father’s arthritis had been acting up and that business at the service station had been slow, but they were thankful for each day that they had. She had told me how much they missed me and wanted me back home before closing with her usual ‘we love you’ and ‘please try to be careful’ . The second letter was from Angelica. It was the one that carried the faint scent of perfume and the one that mattered the most. It was the one that I reread at least a dozen times before folding it back into the envelope and tucking it away in my chest inside the Quonset hut. These were the words she had written : Dear David, I said a prayer for you at the church today ... as I have done every day since we were last together. I asked that you are being watched over and that you are being looked after. Mother keeps trying to teach me more and more about cooking and housekeeping, but I cannot keep my mind of anything else but you. I can see that this upsets her from time to time, but I know that she understands. Deep down, she sees my father and her all over

again. I sense in your last few letters that you are having to be very secretive about what it is you write to me. They must be watching closely. Mother and I laughed over what you wrote in your last letter the part that read ‘here I am in the place that they moved us to after we had finished what they had us doing in the place that we were at. I cannot tell you where it is they will have us going after we are done what it is they have us doing here except that I am certain that we will not to be doing anything at the place that they had us at before - nor at the place we were before that’. It took a while for me to explain the humor in it to mother, but once she understood it she thought it was very funny. David, there is something that I need to share with you. I have been thinking and thinking about your asking me to come to Canada with you and I know that you are still waiting for my answer. I know in my heart that I want more than anything else to be with you. I know that you are the one who I am meant to be with. Yet it is still so very hard for me to even think about leaving Italy, let alone leaving my poor mother behind. So please continue to be patient with me. Okay? I know that you will be. You are as sweet and gentle as I remember my father to be. No matter what, we will be together when this is all over. I promise you that. No matter where, we will be together and I will have my answer for you the next time that we are. I love you more with each breath I take and am waiting for you to come back to me. Your little Italian love, Forever, Angelica.

Chapter Twenty Seven “You ready to get going?” Cutler asked me, ending my few moments of visiting the past. I nodded and pushed myself up on to my feet. Cutler froze in movement and craned his head toward the road we had crossed over much earlier. “You hear that?” he asked me. I strained my ears but could only hear the intermittent firing and booming of the guns down on the beach. “Uh-uh,” I said, shaking my head. “What is it you hear?” “If I’m not mistaken, bloke ... it’s Sherman tanks!” “Sherman?” I asked. “How can you tell?” “Their diesel engines,” he said. “They have a distinct sound that is unique from the German Panthers or Tigers!” Maybe those Sherman crabs and Duplex Drive tanks were able to do their job of clearing a path up that beach after all, I thought. If that’s the case ... there’ll be infantry following along with them! “Maybe we’ll be meeting up with some of our own guys before this day is over after all,” said Cutler. “We could fall back a ways in order to link up with them,” I said. “We’d be able to reorganize and brief them on what we’ve discovered this far inland.” He stood quietly in deep thought for a few moments before talking. “Or we could hold and secure this position. I mean ... we’ve fought like ‘ell to get this far ... so why not keep it?” I broke out into muffled laughter. Cutler looked at me with a slightly annoyed and quizzical expression. “Something I said?” “It’s just the picture it creates in my mind,” I explained. “Imagine the expressions on the faces of the commanders when they cross that road in their glorious tanks with the idea in their heads of being the first ones to have reached it ... only to discover that two measly little privates have already made it this far inland to secure it!” Cutler smiled. “Bloody ‘ell. You’re right!” “I don’t know if we’ll be pinned with a medal or thrown into the stockade,” I said, breaking out into more laughter. “I’ll tell you what they’ll do,” said Cutler, laughing along with me. “They’ll promote you to corporal!” “No,” I said, feeling and wanting my voice to change to a more serious tone. “I keep telling you Cutler ... it’s you who deserves to be

made up to corporal ... at least lance corporal, anyways.” “And I keep telling you how I feel about those bloody commissioned officers and how they can shove their bloody corporal stripes all the way up their royal asses!” We both burst out in stifled laughter again. As we calmed ourselves down, I could not help but keep smiling to myself. Just like Cutler, I thought. Too stubborn and too humble at the same time to admit that he would make a good leader. In fact ... he already is a leader. He has been to all of us since day one. “What do you say we use that barn as a point from which to secure this position” he asked me, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. I slung my own rifle over one shoulder, picked up the Schmeisser, and then turned to study the barn for a few moments. “It’s as good a spot as any.” “We’ll be able to monitor any movement along that road from up there,” he said, gesturing toward the upper section of the barn where the loft would be. “The height will also give us a vantage point from which to see the rest of the surrounding farmland.” “Sounds good. Take that mortar up there with us?” “We’ve only one bomb left,” he said, patting the palm of his hand on the small bomb which hung from the strap across his chest. “But it’s better than none.” We hoisted the mortar up between us and headed back toward the opening we had come through in the hedgerow. We had to step around and over the three shot-up bodies that lay sprawled out in deformed positions across the grass in order to get to the opening. Once inside, we began to push our way through, carrying the mortar between us as Cutler led the way. “Bloody ‘ell,” he whispered, as we broke through the other side. “I think it’s fair to say that those two mortar bombs did the job.” Pieces of human flesh and tiny fragments of bone were embedded within what was left of the broken sections of wood that ran vertically up the side of that section of the barn. A severed leg and arm lay against the stone foundation. A few feet away, one of the torsos lay headless and bleeding out into the lush green grass. We side-stepped around the mess, lifting the mortar up over top of one of the bodies, and began to make our way back to where we came from, following the length of the wall. After reaching the end and deciding that it was safe to round the corner, we made our way through the section of wall damaged by the tank and found ourselves

inside the barn for the second time. We set the mortar down on the dirt floor and opened up the far doors just enough to allow a little daylight in so that we would be better able to see where the ladder to the loft was situated. “There,” said Cutler. “Over there near those bails of hay.” We worked our way up the tall ladder, with cutler leading the way and me following from below and taking most of the weight of the mortar. The steps were aged and loose, and it felt as though our boots would break through at any moment. Once he was up over top, Cutler turned around and pulled the mortar up after him. I hoisted myself up over the top and stood beside him. We walked around slowly, surveying the interior of the loft. It ran the length of the barn, from front to back, and was about twenty feet wide. A few more farming implements lay here and there. A large coil of rope hung from a hook on one post and a leather harness with metal stirrups hung from a larger hook on another. Two sacks of grain lay against the wall at the far corner just under the small glass window that overlooked the entrance to the front of the barn. At the opposite end was the blown out section of wall that our first mortar had made. Shards of glass from the broken window and splinters of wood lay spread out across the loft floor. A rectangular chest sat in the corner closest to the window. “This’ll make for a reasonable vantage point,” said Cutler, as we made our way over to the hole in the wall. He took a few more steps forward and peered out. “We’ve got this to watch through for any movement along that road and to spot our guys when they start to cross it. And we’ve got that window down there to watch for any patrolling or advancing Germans.” “Sounds good,” I said, and leaned forward to peer out through the opening. The tank sat down below with thin trails of smoke still drifting up out of the hatch on the turret. “That tank might catch someone’s attention.” “Hopefully it’ll be our guys who spot it before another group of Germans do!” he said, and then turned away from the window. “I’m going to go set that mortar up in front of that other window.” I nodded and watched as he walked away. When my eyes wandered back to the area around me, I noticed the rectangular chest again. I walked over, set the Schmeisser down on the floor, and knelt down in front of it. The lid opened reluctantly, gripping the corners in a struggle to keep the contents secret. I brushed some cobwebs

aside and let the open lid rest against the wall behind it. An olive colored tunic, matching pants, and a brown leather cross-strap and holster sat on the bottom. I took the cloth of the wool tunic in my hands and studied the shoulder crest. The insignia was of an Allied infantry battalion from the First World War. The two swords and the wreath of twelve leaves bordered the numbers four-zero-three. I refolded the tunic the way I had found it and set it back in with the pants and holster. Beside them was a copy of the bible. I held it in my hands and flipped through the pages of French translations of scripture. Holding the bible carried me back to earlier that very morning. I had been having trouble sleeping and was tossing and turning in my bunk on board the Prince Henry. I noticed another private crawl out of his bunk and kneel down on the floor and begin to pray. Within a minute, other soldiers had risen up out of apparent sleep and had begun to do the same. The murmuring of questions and pleas to God could be heard throughout the cramped sleeping quarters as each man struggled to deal with his fears and feelings of doubt. Then, a sergeant came down the companionway and looked uncertainly at the men. “Alright!” he said, after waiting several long moments to allow the men time to finish. He played a flashlight around the room. “I’m glad to see that you fellows are thinking the right way!” The room was quiet. He stepped over a few of them who were sprawled out in sleeping gear along the narrow floor and flipped a switch on the wall. A single bulb winked to life, filling the tightly cramped and musty quarters with a dim yellow light and casting our shadows between the steel ribs and girders of the bulkheads. “Hey sarge,” said one man out of the silence. “Is it light yet?” “Not yet,” the sergeant said. “In about an hour-and-a-half.” “How’s the weather?” asked another man. “Pretty cloudy,” answered the sergeant. “But not bad.” “Will we still get air support?” came another voice from amongst the bunks. “They say we will,” the sergeant answered. “The cloud is high enough that they’ll be able to see the beach.” “How long until we go?” asked another. “I’d say a half hour,” said the sergeant. “Breakfast will be in five minutes. Eat a good meal whether you’re hungry or not. It may be a

long time before you get hot grub again!” After eating, we were ordered up on deck. It was not yet daylight, but the sky was beginning to turn, entering the first stage of the transition from night to dawn. The low clouds were breaking apart and the gray sea around us was littered with the enormous gray ships. “Water bottles full?” I heard our sergeant major asking the men around me. “Rations okay? Any questions about your objectives? Any....” A vic of Spitfires sang overhead, drowning out the words of the sergeant major “Look!” yelled one of the privates standing along the railing. We all turned in time to see the bleary stream of gunfire with tracer rounds arc across the sky ahead of us. It hung just below the clouds for a few brief moments and then faded. The sound was too far away too be heard. We could hear the bombers high above, much higher than the Spitfires and Typhoons. We noticed more gunfire arc out from the shore and looked over in time to see a Typhoon cut directly through the path of fire and then disappear in a ball of orange vapor. As the ship idled closer to land, we were ordered to begin the descent down into the landing craft and assault boats. With all the weight of our packs, entrenching tools, and weapons and ammunition, we gripped the net ladders with clenched fingers. “Here we go,” Cutler had said to me when we stepped down into our landing craft. “There’s no bloody turning back now!” We all looked around at one another and saw the expressions of anxiety and despair on our faces. Cutler was right. There was no turning back.

Chapter Twenty Eight

“Germans!” Cutler shouted in a hoarse whisper from where he stood by the window at the opposite end of the loft. I turned and made my way over to him. “How many?” I asked. “Four,” he whispered. “Saw them heading this way past that house way over there across that road and then they disappeared in behind that shed.” “Infantry?” “Looked like a sniper,” he said. “And a mortar team of three.” “Think they know we’re in here?” “It’s possible,” he said, nodding his head. “They probably heard all that machine-gun and mortar fire and decided to head over this way and investigate. It’ll be just a matter of minutes before they’re here.” “They’ll see that tank and the dead Germans along the side of this barn,” I said. “And they’ll torch it with us in here.” “We need to get down out of this barn and hightail it to the other side of that road we crossed,” he said, already taking a few steps toward the ladder. “Once we’re across that road we can dig in and take cover. Maybe we’ll be able to hold them back from there.” “Let’s move then,” I said. We left the mortar where it sat near the window and descended the flight of stairs, ran across the interior of the barn and out into the field where the tank sat, and began to run the distance from the barn to

the road. Suddenly, the shouts of German voices came from somewhere behind us. “Auf diese Weise!” one shouted. “Dort!” shouted another, and I turned in time to see two advancing figures come into view at the northwest corner of the barn. They were silhouetted by the light which shone through the trees around them. “Quick!” yelled Cutler. “Take cover!” After having taken only a few steps toward the hedgerow, I heard a shot ring out. I looked back and saw that Cutler had dropped to the ground and was writhing in pain and screaming out in agony with his hands clenched tightly over his abdomen. His rifle lay in the grass a few feet away. Cutler! my mind reeled. Get up! “Erhalten Sie ihn!!” I heard one of them say. I turned and dropped down onto my knees in the grass and brought my Lee Enfield up to take aim. One of the figures darted through my line of site and I squeezed the trigger, firing too late and missing him as he disappeared into the shadows behind another cluster of trees. Cutler has stopped screaming, I thought, suddenly realizing how quiet he had become. I struggled to work the bolt action of my rifle but found that it would not move. Jammed! I’ve got to take cover! I never saw the other two Germans take position and fire the mortar, but I heard it. I had risen up onto my feet and had taken only a few steps toward the cover of the hedgerow when there was a loud roar from behind me and a blast against my legs and the small of my back that felt like a gigantic punch. The force sent me rolling forward, doubled over, and sprawling out across the grass. As I lay there, with my ears ringing and a sharp pain singing through my left leg, I heard the four Germans run through the stretch of grass between Cutler and myself. Please don’t let them shoot us! I pleaded. God ... please don’t let them shoot us! I closed my eyes and listened. I listened in disbelief as the sound of their boots continued on and disappeared toward the road in the distance. I was too afraid to call out to Cutler to see whether or not he was still alive. I knew better than to make any noise. I just lay there, paralyzed in fear, and stared straight up into the sky. The clouds had begun to break apart and dissipate here and there. Yet,

for the most part, the sky still looked as though it could empty out on us at any moment. I could see a few birds flying in what seemed to be endless and senseless circles, and as I watched them make their loops like the Spitfire and Typhoon, the handwritten words of a distant letter seeped into the forefront of my mind : Dear Mom and Dad, I hope that this letter finds you and sister all well. How are things going? How’s the service station going , dad? Maybe you can take me on once I’m back. It would just be long enough for me to get my feet on the ground and figure something out. Who knows, maybe I can still learn the business? How about you mom? How have you been doing? Are you still volunteering at the Red Cross downtown? And what about you little sister? Any boyfriends yet? If so, you tell them to treat you well or big brother will be dealing with them once he gets back home! I am not allowed to tell you where I am or what has been happening, but I can tell you that I am okay and doing well. Actually, I am doing better than well. I have met the most wonderful girl in the world and have fallen deeply in love with her. Her name is Angelica. She lives with her mother in a small village near the west coast of Italy. Although her father passed away a few years ago, her mother has come to accept me as though I were family. Don’t worry though, mother. No one will ever replace you. Angelica and I plan to marry as soon as the war is over. She is still thinking about the idea of coming to Canada with me, but is finding it difficult, as this is her country and mine is a world away. She has promised me that she will think about moving to Canada with me and said that she will give me her answer the next time that she sees me. I know that you both will approve of her and that you all will become very fond of her. Mother, you will really like her. She comes from an old fashioned family with traditional values. She was raised by the bible and she and her mother attend mass every Sunday morning. As you have probably already guessed, she is Roman Catholic. I hope that will be okay for you. Well, I should sign off for now. Remember that I will be thinking about the three of you. I love you all very much and miss you.

Love, David. p.s.

Mom, thanks for the goodies you sent in the last package.

Chapter Twenty Nine “By god!” I heard Cutler say from where he lay in the grass about ten yards to my left. “Now I know what a bloody gunshot wound feels like!”

“Cutler!” I yelled out. “You’re alive!” “Yes!” he called back to me. “And the pain from this bloody hole through my belly tells me so!” “How is it?” I asked him, realizing that for some reason my own pain had begun to subside. “Besides the obvious fact that it hurts?” “Like someone is poking a hot iron inside of you,” he grunted. Poor Cutler, I thought, wishing I could do something for him. But what could I do? I couldn’t move! Besides ... I had no medical training. I had no dressings. Nothing! “But don’t you worry,” said Cutler, obviously having seen the expression of concern on my face. “We English are a bloody tough lot! I’m not....” “Wait,” I said, interrupting him and turning my head and looking across the field toward the direction from which we had come. “Do you hear that?” Cutler lifted his head and stared past me as though expecting to see what it was I was hearing. After a few moments, he smiled. “Those are our tanks,” he said. “Sherman Tanks. I bloody well told you so! Some must have made it past that beach!” “That means that there most likely will be infantry with them!” I said, beginning to feel the excitement of surviving. “And medics!” Then we heard a brief crackle of gunfire. Then another followed by a third. They’ve got those four Germans, I thought. The sound of the tanks continued, announcing their every gradual movement that brought them closer and closer to us. Slowly but surely, I thought. They’re going to cross that road and enter this field. And then they’ll see us and we’ll be saved! “Looks as though we just might make it out of here after all,” said Cutler. “We’ll make it!” I said to him. “You’re bloody right we will!” “I’ll miss you, Cutler,” I said, suddenly feeling the need to cry but telling myself that I wouldn’t. “You’ve been one ‘ell of a soldier, MacDonald,” he said, turning his head to look into my eyes with an intensity I had never seen in him before. “And one ‘ell of a bloody good friend. If I had to go through it all again ... I’d sure as ‘ell pick you to be by my side!” “Thank you,” I said, looking away so that he would not see my face in case I did start to cry. “Thank you.”

A few moments of silence hung between us. “You remember to write when you’re back home,” I said, turning my head to face him. “Just address the letters to the front lines ... I’m sure I’ll still be there!” “What do you mean?” he asked, looking at me with a puzzled expression. “You’ll be heading home as well!” “How’s that?” I asked, staring back at him. The war is not over, I thought. In fact this day is not even over. This here is only a sprain. They’ll have me back at the front within a week! “That bloody leg is your ticket out of here,” he said, and all of a sudden that familiar English grin formed across his pudgy little face. “Can’t do much on a busted leg, bloke!” I raised my head to look down the length of my body and saw that my left leg was twisted in a funny sort of way. It’s broken, I thought, still staring at it in disbelief. Of all the moments I had spent being certain that this day would end with me being shot, I ended up with only a fractured leg. But why is there no pain anymore? There should be more pain! “Hold still,” a voice came from my right, and suddenly the face of a medic appeared in front of me. Then another crouched down near my fractured leg. Several infantry soldiers ran past us and began to encircle the barn. “Careful with him,” Cutler called out to the medics working on me as two other medics circled around him and crouched down to inspect the bleeding from his abdomen. “He’s got one ‘ell of a break there!” The two medics crouched over top of me had already begun to cut the cloth down along the length of my pants so that they could have a closer look at my leg. I looked over at Cutler and saw that the two medics crouched over him had already cut away the straps to his pack, opened up his tunic and shirt, and were now beginning to pack the bleeding wound. Without warning, I felt a sharp jab in the meat of my right thigh, and within moments, the overwhelming ascendancy of morphine swept over me as it surged through my veins. But it doesn’t hurt anymore, I wanted to tell them, but then realized that I had probably been going into shock and that, without the morphine, the pain would have proven to be unbearable when they straightened my leg in order to transfer me. The medic who had injected the morphine leaned over top of me and scribbled something on my forehead with some sort of marker. I looked over at Cutler and saw that they had already moved him onto a stretcher. One medic stood over top of

him, hooking the glass bottle to the vertical intravenous post, while the other wrapped field bandages around the gauze and dressings that had been packed over the wound. I knew that it would be just a matter of minutes before they would scoop him up and carry him away. Even though common sense told me that we would end up in the same field hospital or at least in separate hospitals within close proximity of one another, a sense of apprehension told me that we may never see one another again. “Goodbye, Jeffrey,” I said, calling him by his true name for the first time since that fateful morning when we had first met back in the early December of 1942. “Take care, MacDonald,” he said, as the two medics grabbed hold of separate ends of his stretcher and scooped him up off the ground. He was off, being carried away, past my feet and across the grassy field toward the small country road. It has all come to an end so quickly, I thought, as the medics continued to work on me. We have all gone through so much together ... only to have been separated so suddenly.

Chapter Thirty I had come to think that it was the last time I would ever see Cutler again. I had come to believe that those last few words that he had spoken to me were the last I would ever hear him say again. I kept thinking that he must have succumbed to the stomach wound or that the ambulance he was in had struck a German mine while traveling down the road. Although I had asked about him more than once, none of the nurses who watched over me seemed to have any knowledge of him. I was told that they had buried Stevie in one of the grave sites assigned to the British soldiers who had fallen on what they were now clearly referring to as D-Day. Now I lay in a bed in a hospital in Caen, and it has been almost two weeks since that fateful day. My leg is well on into the process of healing, and I have been told that the army surgeons had done a spectacular job of setting it and removing the small pieces of shrapnel from my thighs and lower back. Over and over again, I have been told just how like I have been. At first, I had answered in silent contempt. Lucky? I have lost all of my friends. Stevie. Buddy. Maybe even Cutler. And the sergeant major - who was like a father to us all. How could they say that I was lucky? Did they endure what I endured? Did they

see what I have seen? Did they lose what I have lost? Yet, as each day passed and I was able to witness yet another sunrise and sunset, I came to realize just how fortunate I really was. Yesterday, while laying in bed and looking out through the window, I heard a very familiar voice in the hallway just outside the door to my room. Could it be? I had wondered, and then saw him enter into the room. “I would have brought that bottle of wine,” he had said as he walked over to my bed. “But they took the bloody thing from me when I was admitted to the hospital!” “Cutler,” I had whispered, looking up at him in disbelief. “I thought you were dead!” “That’s a terrible way to be greeted!” he said, and the familiar smile crossed his pudgy little face. “I see they let you keep the leg.” “Yes,” I said. “They did a fine job of saving it for me.” “They patched up this hole in my belly,” he said. “The nurses at the hospital that I was stayed up in told me that I was bloody lucky that no major organs had been damaged by the bullet!” “Did you get to keep it as a souvenir?” I asked him. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “They bloody well kept that like they did the bottle of wine!” We both laughed, and then a few moments of silence passed between us. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “I had to find you,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside me. “To tell you the news.” “News?” “You’re being discharged from service!” “I am?” I said, looking at him in disbelief. “Yes,” he said nodding his head. “Just got word this morning. Like I said ... that leg is your ticket home!” “But Cutler ... what about you?” “Well,’ he said. “The bloody bastards have made me up to corporal is what they’ve done. And I’ll be sitting out the rest of the war safely tucked behind a desk someplace back in England!” “Good show!” I said to him. “Good show, Cutler!” Another moment of silence passed between us. He reached out and took my hand and held it. He was quiet as he held it. Then he gave it a bit of a squeeze before letting go. “Looks as though we’ve both made it,” he said. “I guess we’re the

lucky ones.” “I’ll miss you, Cutler.” “I’ll miss you too,” he said, looking away for a few moments. “I’ll write,” I said. “As often as possible.” “You’d bloody well better!” he said, looking back at me. I reached for his hand and squeezed it one last time as he started to stand up. “Thank you,” I had said to him. “Thank you ... for everything you have done.”

Today is Sunday. It is a little past noon. I managed to catch a few hours of sleep this morning and awoke with an appetite. “Come,” said Angelica, sitting beside me on the edge of the bed. “Eat some more soup.” “Have I told you that I love you yet this morning?” I asked her. “Only three times,” she said, smiling as she held the spoon up for me. “Now come ... eat more soup. And maybe later we can go for a short walk in the garden. The doctor says that it should be okay for you to do that.” I took the spoonful of warm soup and let it sit in my mouth for a moment so that I could savor the flavors. “Thank you,” I said to her as she readied another. “For what?” she asked, in her Italian accent. “Soup?” “No,” I said, turning my head to face her. “For being so good to me.” “Just eat,” she said. “You will need to get all your strength back if you are going to take me all the way to Canada and marry me.” “I love you, Angelica,” I said, looking into the lime green of her eyes. “I love you so very much!” “Just eat ... you silly soldier.” I took another spoonful and lay back against my pillow. On Monday, the padre had stopped by and retrieved the two letters I had written to the families of Stevie and Buddy. One day next week, I have been told, I might be able to go and visit Stevie’s grave. This war has taken so much, I thought. So much of all of us. But soon ... I will be home. I will be back home with my family and my bride-to-be.