Neptune's Landing (winner of WSU writing contest)

A moment of silence passes over the boat—a hush that washes over us like the calm before a storm. My fear is palpable, releasing with my breath and tearing away in the strong, easterly winds.

The men in my company are ghostlike in the spraying gales, holding to their carbines as though these are their last moments and these weapons hold the secret to salvation. They will carry them along the gray mists of the world beyond and to paradise.

It is a safe assumption.

The boat shifts with the raging swells and each man braces against the man next to him. We are sitting like sardines packed into a tin can, knees knocking with each roll of the boat, shoulders squeezed tight, leaving no room for arm movement. Conditions all made worse by the wind and the raging sea.

The boy next to me reaches for his pocket, pulls out a single, broken cigarette. He stares at it, perplexed, perhaps thinking the same thing I am thinking, how the devil is he going to light it?

He turns to me, noticing my gaze. He gives me a small half-grin. “I was hoping to have a last one,” he says.

I turn my head away, unable to face the truth of his words. There is no ‘last one’.

‘It’s now or never,’ they had said. ‘We’ve waited too long already.’

I could have waited longer. I could have waited forever. I was so brave in the beginning, so eager to push forward and take action. Now, what am I? I am a cowardly boy, regretting every moment of my heroism.

“I’m so proud of you,” my mother had said. Her smile flashed before my eyes as the boat lurched. I knew then that she was being a hero as well, putting on a smile and a brave face for my sake. But inside, she was breaking. I could see her heart shattering as I waved goodbye, see the gleam of tears as she wiped them away.

Will I let her down today?

These thoughts are whirling in my head as we come to realize we are off point. The winds had blown us too far to the west, and the bombers were forced to stop. That is the silence from the air—whisperings of the planes as they fly overhead, clinging to their loads for the sake of those below.

Aren’t we all going to die anyway? I have already come to grips with the reality of the situation; my own mortality sneaking up on me as I sit huddled in the Higgins boat. It traps me inside with these other mortal men, about to become familiar with the origins of life. It is a bond we now share but don’t dare talk about.

The shore comes into view. It is dark and appears desolate enough, but I know better. There are men there, stalking in the shadows, waiting for us. Omaha is a vicious predator, waiting for its willing prey to throw itself into its gaping jaw.

Another spray of water pushes against us; carbines tilting, swaying with the winds, desperate hands clinging to the only chance of life we have left. And then the boat stops, forcing us forward, and we would have fallen to our knees had there been enough room. A sudden stop at 9 knots is more force than I expected. I press my hand against an unknown shoulder and look up.

The shoreline was still some distance away and I know we have run aground—some hidden sandbar, impossible to avoid. Fifty meters to run before taking eighty kilometers of enemy infested beach… seems impossible.

The bow ramp releases and the pressure of bodies floods the cold ocean like a broken vein.

‘It’s now or never,’ they had said.

My time has come. I race ahead with the rest, my carbine carrying me along into the grey mists.