| General Fiction posted August 23, 2023 |
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When you know you will die
Lucky 7th
by jim vecchio
Dear God, you know me. Sarge, they call me. Yes, They made me a sergeant. A noncommissioned officer. You know all about me, how I never wanted to be any kind of a leader, and how I ended up here to answer my country’s call. There is little hope anyone will remember us or our sacrifice, but I wanted to jot this down on these scraps so others might remember. Please, my God, do not let them burn these papers. I know you know all about us. This is so we won’t be forgotten.
We hit Omaha Beach in August, 1944, the 7th Armored Division. We were attached to the U.S. Third Army. Those who survived The Beach were driven to Nogent-le-Rotra. Under attack, Chatres fell on August 18. We crossed the Seine and advanced to liberate Dreux and Melun. We were to advance to Chateau Thierre. Something happened in between.
My head rumbled like a congo dance was going on inside me. Three other Americans were with me. Where we were, you know, Lord. I still don’t know. It doesn’t look like I’ll find out. Please let someone remember us.
The ground was, still is, cold and dirty. Our hands and feet were bound, but they loose our hands at ration time so they won't have to spoon-feed us their garbage. That makes it easier to crush the ants, spiders, scorpions, and other visitors.
The Americans didn’t know me. All I knew of them were the nicknames I imagined for them. One of them had Indian-like features, so I thought of him as PowWow, The Indian Boy. Boy, because he must’ve been nineteen. One had a congenial smile and a soft-spoken tongue, with lot of muscle. It must have taken them some doing to capture him. To me, he was Jackhammer. One wore spectacles and was the tiniest soldier I had ever known, so I thought of him as Tiny. You know my heart, dear God, I wasn’t laughing. I thanked you for their company, for humans to share this captivity.
I didn’t even know, and still don’t know, who “they” are. They appear in the darkness, face covered, and never speak.
They came first for PowWow. Maybe because he was the youngest. Indians don’t cry. I could only imagine what they did after they took him. Like a prize trophy, they shortly dumped his body in front of us. It was plain to see they had broken his arms and legs before the real torture began.
They then carried out his body, where, only you know, God. Tiny then turned to me and said, “I feel they are coming for me soon. Have you made your peace with God?”
“I’m speaking with him every minute now.”
“Then let me give you a Blessing. Dear God, remember this man. He’s a good soul, only doing what his country asked. Please have mercy on him in Heaven.”
Tiny then remarked, “My father was a minister. “ He began to cry, then continued, “Please don’t think less of me. Even Jesus cried. John 11:38.” Before he could say any more, they came and dragged him away. How far away, I do not know. All I heard was that agonizing scream. I know, God, that you heard it, too. Your face did shine upon his broken and bloody face. That slit in his throat. That innocent death, did it remind you of The Cross?
Jackhammer had his usual smile and casual demeaner when they came for him. They made one mistake. Jackhammer had slowly undone the cords on his feet. As soon as they once more undid his hands, he slammed his fist into one of them, knocking him over, while he grabbed the other by the throat, slowly strangling him. The job was almost done when the one he had decked rose, stuck a pistol into his mouth and exploded his head. Remember him, dear God, I will always remember him as a peaceful, gentle soul.
Dear God, I wish I knew the date. I believe it’s still 1944. I don’t know where I am, perhaps a hidden cave in France. I don’t know who my murderers will be. Please, God, give me courage to face them, as did my friends.
I’m scared, God. Everyone has to die, but you know , Lord, how terrified I am of it. You spared not your Son. If I must die, please lend me the courage and confidence He had.
Please don’t let men forget what happened here.
Please let these notes be
Dear God contest entry
Dear God, you know me. Sarge, they call me. Yes, They made me a sergeant. A noncommissioned officer. You know all about me, how I never wanted to be any kind of a leader, and how I ended up here to answer my country’s call. There is little hope anyone will remember us or our sacrifice, but I wanted to jot this down on these scraps so others might remember. Please, my God, do not let them burn these papers. I know you know all about us. This is so we won’t be forgotten.
We hit Omaha Beach in August, 1944, the 7th Armored Division. We were attached to the U.S. Third Army. Those who survived The Beach were driven to Nogent-le-Rotra. Under attack, Chatres fell on August 18. We crossed the Seine and advanced to liberate Dreux and Melun. We were to advance to Chateau Thierre. Something happened in between.
My head rumbled like a congo dance was going on inside me. Three other Americans were with me. Where we were, you know, Lord. I still don’t know. It doesn’t look like I’ll find out. Please let someone remember us.
The ground was, still is, cold and dirty. Our hands and feet were bound, but they loose our hands at ration time so they won't have to spoon-feed us their garbage. That makes it easier to crush the ants, spiders, scorpions, and other visitors.
The Americans didn’t know me. All I knew of them were the nicknames I imagined for them. One of them had Indian-like features, so I thought of him as PowWow, The Indian Boy. Boy, because he must’ve been nineteen. One had a congenial smile and a soft-spoken tongue, with lot of muscle. It must have taken them some doing to capture him. To me, he was Jackhammer. One wore spectacles and was the tiniest soldier I had ever known, so I thought of him as Tiny. You know my heart, dear God, I wasn’t laughing. I thanked you for their company, for humans to share this captivity.
I didn’t even know, and still don’t know, who “they” are. They appear in the darkness, face covered, and never speak.
They came first for PowWow. Maybe because he was the youngest. Indians don’t cry. I could only imagine what they did after they took him. Like a prize trophy, they shortly dumped his body in front of us. It was plain to see they had broken his arms and legs before the real torture began.
They then carried out his body, where, only you know, God. Tiny then turned to me and said, “I feel they are coming for me soon. Have you made your peace with God?”
“I’m speaking with him every minute now.”
“Then let me give you a Blessing. Dear God, remember this man. He’s a good soul, only doing what his country asked. Please have mercy on him in Heaven.”
Tiny then remarked, “My father was a minister. “ He began to cry, then continued, “Please don’t think less of me. Even Jesus cried. John 11:38.” Before he could say any more, they came and dragged him away. How far away, I do not know. All I heard was that agonizing scream. I know, God, that you heard it, too. Your face did shine upon his broken and bloody face. That slit in his throat. That innocent death, did it remind you of The Cross?
Jackhammer had his usual smile and casual demeaner when they came for him. They made one mistake. Jackhammer had slowly undone the cords on his feet. As soon as they once more undid his hands, he slammed his fist into one of them, knocking him over, while he grabbed the other by the throat, slowly strangling him. The job was almost done when the one he had decked rose, stuck a pistol into his mouth and exploded his head. Remember him, dear God, I will always remember him as a peaceful, gentle soul.
Dear God, I wish I knew the date. I believe it’s still 1944. I don’t know where I am, perhaps a hidden cave in France. I don’t know who my murderers will be. Please, God, give me courage to face them, as did my friends.
I’m scared, God. Everyone has to die, but you know , Lord, how terrified I am of it. You spared not your Son. If I must die, please lend me the courage and confidence He had.
Please don’t let men forget what happened here.
Please let these notes be
Some never made it back home. We cannot forget their sacrifice for us!
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