"Oh God!" He thought, digging his fingers into the sand. "How could this have happened?"
Joe never believed anything like this could happen to him. Even though Sarge said that he should expect to get shot, that half of them wouldn’t be coming back. He didn’t believe it when he saw the explosions from the boat, not when he saw everyone around him going down during the assault on Normandy, not even when the grenade went off next to him, and not even when he felt his foot explode in agony. Joe thought he was impervious, protected by something, his faith, his importance to those he loved.
Yet now, as he lie on the shores of France, a country he’d only read about, bleeding on the wet sand, he knew how gullible he had been.
"I gotta hide!" He screamed to no one in particular.
He looked around, but he could barely see. Dirt and smoke filled the air, screams, explosions, the shriek of bullets filled his ears, the ground itself was hot from the war above it. Still, all Joe knew was his leg was ruined, possibly gone. He hadn’t the courage to look down at it. He was too scared to actually see it. As though not looking left the possibility that it might be alright. It just hurt so much!
He grabbed his weapon in his right hand, and dragged himself across the beach with his left, until, at length, he found something of substance. He still couldn’t see through tears, smoke, sand and blood, but whatever it was, it was wet, warm, reasonably solid. This last, at the moment, was all he cared about. He grabbed ahold, and began to slide this shield over him.
"Stop . . . what are you doing?"
He looked up, choking in fear, "omigod, it’s a German," he looked in horror into what was left of the face of another American soldier. "Sorry, I . . ."
"Help me." The soldier replied.
At one time, Joe thought, this guy might have been handsome. But now, as he looked more closely, Joe saw that the man who he was using as a shield was horribly wounded. His face was torn away on one side, exposing the cheek bone and nasal cavity, his eye completely gone. His shoulder was blown off, and part of his breast and collar bone were exposed. Sand had packed itself into the gaping hole, slowing the bleeding.
"I’m not a medic." Joe gasped.
The soldiers eyes rolled back in his head for a second, "your name, just tell me your name . . ."
"Joe." He replied quickly. Then, he made to roll the soldier off of him.
"Don’t," he said quickly, "it’s alright."
Joe shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. Did this guy just volunteer to be his shield?
"We’ve got to get out of here. Find some cover."
The soldier gagged, spitting blood. "I’ll cover you, Joe." He tried to smile, but didn’t have enough tissue left. "It’s okay, just, don’t leave me here alone . . . please."
"Okay . . ." Joe whispered, pulling the soldier close to him. He was ashamed. How could he be such a coward? Still, his fear far outstripped any such noble emotions, and it was obvious that this soldier was a goner.
A machine gun stitched the wet beach beside them, flinging wet gouts of sand into the air. Joe pulled the soldier tight against him. The soldier’s mouth was next to Joe’s ear now, he whispered in. "Joe, I don’t have a letter."
"Letter?" Joe was shaking.
"You know, a letter . . ." he choked, "just in case." He laughed painfully. "I never thought this would ever happen to me, you know."
Joe clenched his eyes shut. He did know. He didn’t have one either. If he died there, his wife would never know how much he loved her. Joe had never been the kind for such emotional crap. His baby boy would never know what his favorite color was, or what food he liked. All he could say was,
"I know."
Bullets snapped and whanged all around them, Joe felt impacts near his feet and legs. The wounded man winced and groaned.
"Oh God! You’re hit again!" Joe shouted.
"It’s okay," he wept, "there’s no time for that now."
"But . . ."
"Shut up!" He swallowed a mouthful of blood. "Just . . . listen."
Again, Joe tried to roll out from under the soldier.
"Stop it!" The soldier cried. His teeth dug into Joe’s uniform, breaking his dog chain. He head butted Joe, splitting Joe’s lip. "You’ve got to listen to me . . . please!"
"Shut up! I think I can get us to a medic . . ." Another round, impacting near their heads.
The soldier put a bloody three fingered hand over Joe’s mouth. "Man, I begging you, don’t leave me here! Don’t you think I know what happening? You think I’m so stupid not to know I’m dying? I gotta . . . last a few more minutes. That’s why I stuffed sand in the hole . . . in my side."
Joe relaxed his muscles. How could he argue with that?
"I’m your cover, I don’t care, but you owe me."
"Owe you?" Joe was confused.
"You’ve got to live. You’ve got to listen to me, before it’s all over, Joe. You’ve got to be my letter home."
"Look . . ."
"Shut up . . . shut up and . . . listen. You be my letter and I’ll be your shield."
Joe nodded.
"My name is Steve Walker, I’m from Colorado Springs. I have a wife . . . she’s pregnant." The soldier gasped for breath.
Joe fought his tears. He never cried, crying was for women or cowards. Then, he looked into Steve’s one eye and wondered just who was the coward here. He pulled the soldier to his ear once again, so that he could hear him over the bombs and bullets.
"She’s so pretty, Joe, so small. She used to look at me with those eyes . . ."
"What else?" Joe whispered.
"She likes to wear pants." He laughed. "But she has to shop at the kids section to find something that fits. I first saw her in science class, eleventh grade. She was writing a paper, and I thought, how delicate. Just sitting there, so into her work, all alone, no friends. She was like a rose petal, Joe. She needed me . . ." He began to cough.
A grenade exploded nearby, sand raining down on them.
"What do you want me to tell her?"
"Tell her . . . tell her that I should have told her . . .should have shown her. I should have written her poetry, sang her songs, bought her candy every day of her life. Tell her that I never spoke, never said how much . . . I loved her because . . . I was too stupid. I never found the words to say what I felt. Tell her I’m sorry, I never thought I’d die." Bullets whizzed by another striking the Soldier again, but now, he failed to even react to it. He was little more than dead weight upon Joe’s chest.
"What else?" He slapped the soldiers face to rouse him.
"Daddy?" He said through a blood encrusted mouth. "Daddy, I’m sorry. It hurt so bad, please, dad, are you there?"
"It’s me, Joe. We’re in France, remember?"
"Joe?"
"Joe, remember?"
"Y-yeah. Y-you got kids Joe?"
"A boy." Joe wept.
"That’s what we were hoping for, but not now. I want . . . a girl. Someone who doesn’t have to be afraid of . . . this. Someone who doesn’t have to worry about . . . writing . . ."
Joe sobbed openly, like a baby, unable to hold it in. More bullets rang out. A mechine gun, somewhere close. Joe pulled the soldier closer.
"Dad, don’t cry, dad! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!"
"Quit it!" Joe screamed. "I’m not your dad! Do you here me? Shut up!!" He shook the soldier, but there was no longer any life within his ruined body. "Oh dear God! Somebody help me!" Joe screamed, holding the soldier tight against him.
"Ain’t anybody out there!? Can’t somebody hear me?" He screamed. "Doesn’t anybody care?" Joe was alone now, only a corpse for a friend in a land of hot flying death. He slammed his eyes shut and clenched his shield with all his strength.
After an eternity of screaming bullets, mortar shells exploding, dirt flying, smoke choking, machines growling around him, finally, all he heard was the ocean. He crawled out from under the bullet ridden corpse of Private Steve Walker. He looked at his foot, which had gone completely numb. The boot was in pieces, leather, rubber and grenade shrapnel embedded and fused with the skin. The toes were still there, although they pointed in five different directions.
Joe just sighed and looked at the soldier. Beside the corpse, glistening in the sun like silver in a chest, were two dog tags. Joe took them, clenched them in his fist.
"Thank you, Steve Walker. Your letter’s in
the mail."