Carpiquet, France
July 1944

The sun shone brightly over the airfield. The vivid green shades of the trees and grass contrasted greatly with the broken tank and the burnt-out skeletons of hangars and the bloated bodies of soldiers that lay scattered about. It didn't matter where they were from, they all had been dead for so long that the grass was beginning to grow over them.

In a ditch facing the hangars sat a Canadian Bren gunner and his loader. Their uniforms were filthy and ragged after a month of continuous fighting, their faces covered in grime, and their backs bitten raw by fleas and ticks. A single bead of sweat rolled down the gunner's face but he dared not to swipe it away and kept his focus on the airfield before him.

Carpiquet had to be taken. It was in the way of the final objective; Caen. Here in Capriquet was the 12th SS Panzer Division. Raised in the Nazi ideals since they could walk, the 12th were bloodthirsty and ruthless fighters who took no prisoners. The gunner looked to his loader and the other soldier nodded. It was understood that the Canadians would take no prisoners and show no mercy to their enemy. Especially after the atrocities committed in Abbaye d'Ardenne.

The invasion of Normandy had stalled completely. No one could break out and when they did they met fierce resistance from Jerry wherever they went. Every inch of ground was won in blood. Every victory came at a heavy cost. The Canadians had made it to Carpiquet and have fought the Germans here for the past three days. With only a pile of bodies and no ground gained, the soldiers were getting exhausted.

The gunner focused intently on the airfield searching for the familiar grey camouflage of the SS. The loader placed a reassuring hand on the gunner's shoulder. The gunner knew that when the fighting started he could rely on his loader and the other Canadians around them which took away some of his anxiety. 
The reports of numerous rifles and machine-guns sounded through the air. The gunner fired at the grey figures and the loader wordlessly passed the rounds over when needed. A grey soldier appeared within the gunner's view and he shot him down without a second thought.

A mortor slammed into the ground several feet away, causing the gunner and loader to start and falter temporarily. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! The gunner thought. His clothes felt wet and he looked down at himself only to find a dark stain on the crotch of his trousers. The gunner looked away in embarrassment, luckily the loader didn't notice.

The gunner's blood roared in his ears and his heart pounded against his ribcage. He took several deep breaths in an attempt to console himself. By the looks of it, his loader was having the same struggle. Keep calm and keep focused; that's what they have been told before stepping foot in France.

The gunner and loader quickly left their ditch in exchange for another position in order to get better aim at the enemy. A quick glance around revealed fresh corpses of German and Canadian soldiers. Both soldiers felt disheartened when they noticed that the Canadian dead outnumbered the Germans.

A mortor bomb went off to their left; showering them in a hailstorm of dirt. In an instant, the loader gave a shrill scream and fell backwards, holding his face in his hands. Thick, dark blood oozed out from between his fingers, staining his hands red.

The gunner froze yet again and went to the loader's side, forcing his hands away from his face in order to see the wound. The gunner gaped at the sight. The skin on the loader's face and neck was torn to shreds and his uniform was bloodied. The loader writhed and moaned while the gunner called for a medic, a stretcher-bearer, anyone. 

In what felt like an eternity, two stretcher-bearers appeared by his side. "Get your ass back to that gun!" One of them shouted. "We got this." The gunner obeyed silently, feeling numb and quite hallow inside.
Within several minutes, the loader lay prostrate in the dirt. The stretcher-bearers had decided that nothing could be done for him and went to help soldiers that would survive.

By the time the loader breathed his last breathe, gazing into the sky above, the gunner was dead, the fight ended with the Canadians in bitter defeat yet again. All of the dead were left where they had fallen as their living companions fled.

Silence soon reigned supreme over the airfield once more.

2: Caen

CANADIAN NATIONAL TELEGRAM

Mrs. Agnes Cameron=

39468 Minister of National Defense deeply regrets to inform you that B146578 Private Len Harvey Cameron has been officially reported missing in action since July eighth in Normandy, France. When any other information becomes available it will be forwarded as soon as received=

Director of Records
------------------

Caen, France

Late July, 1944

Poor Agnes, I thought. No doubt she'll be getting the news about Lenny by now. He`s been gone long enough. All of us are glad it's not us. That's terrible of me or anyone else to think but it`s true. When someone out here dies or disappears the way Lenny did, we all breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn't ourselves.

Lenny went missing during that time at Carpiquet. I wasn't there to see his final moments with the regiment but the boys who saw him last said that he must have somehow got separated in the confusion and taken by the SS. I can only assume that he`s dead; the SS are too fanatical to know a thing like mercy.

I barely wrote a single word in my notebook for much of early July. I didn't have the time nor the energy to do so. The fighting at Carpiquet airfield had only served to provide us with a monumental body count. We only succeeded a little at first but finally we bashed the hell out of the SS and took the village. I'm convinced we gave Jerry quite the scare. Perhaps the SS can be frightened after all?

I sit in a chair in one of the many ruined buildings of Caen in an attempt to escape the heat but I still find it too hot. It's our uniforms that are part of the problem; they're wool and unsuitable for the heat. 

"Who's the dumb fuck that decided we should be wearing wool?" I hear the familiar voice of Grayson as he enters my decrepit domain with his rifle slung over his shoulder.

I shrug in response. "Dunno."

Grayson had his battle blouse unbuttoned and tugged at his collar in a futile attempt to gain some reprieve from the stifling uniform. "Fine I got a better question: why are you such a fruitcake?"

I glare at him. "Shut up, at least I'm not belly cousins with Warren."

His face broke out into a grin. "Touchy."

"Why are you even here?" I snap. Grayson was a bit of an idiot in my opinion. He was a Clark Gable look-a-like with a so-called "witty" personality that had won the hearts of many English girls. What they saw in him I could never understand. He could act pretty obnoxious at times and it wore on my nerves.

"I was wondering why you've been acting like a hermit lately, everybody misses you." There was a hint of sarcasm in Grayson's voice.

"Pfff yeah right." I scratch at the lice crawling across the back of my neck. "I bet Warren will dance on my grave when I die." I look outside at the rubble filled street, listening intently. "It's quiet."

Grayson nods in agreement. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

The thing is, when you've been shelled for a long time, silence becomes unsettling. You'd think silence would be a welcome relief but oftentimes when our chaotic world here goes silent; it means the worst is on its way, rearing its horrid head. I didn't know whether to be happy that things have died down or apprehensive that something bad might happen.

I survey my surroundings, trying to imagine what this building was used for. Probably a shop of some sort but everything here is so torn apart by shells that its difficult to tell sometimes.

This was Caen. This was what us Canucks and Brits have been fighting for these past few weeks. Now we're here and still had to push Jerry out. It hasn't been easy; nothing ever is it seems. To say I was exhausted would have been an understatement, I felt like a walking corpse.

"The Nazis will counter-attack us." Grayson said to no one in particular.

I said nothing, feeling annoyed that he brought such a thing up. I get out a pack of fags and place one between between my lips.

"You got a spare one?" Grayson asks me.

With a huff, I reluctantly hold out the fags to him. "Maybe if you cut down on the smoking, you wouldn't have to bum so many off of me."

Grayson took one and lit it. "It's your own stupid fault for giving them up so easily." I glare at him but his face breaks into a wide grin. 

I stand up and light my cigarette. "I'm surprised you're not sleeping. I would have thought you'd take full advantage of this lull we're in."

Grayson cracked his knuckles. "Nah,I already did that. I woke up an hour ago."

I leave the building and walk out into the street with rifle in my hands. Grayson follows me and we both walk in silence. I came here to be alone but Grayson's arrival made me realize that I shouldn't be wandering too far from the others. There could be snipers. We both head back west where the rest of our regiment is at.
What I find hard to comprehend is the remaining civilian population within the city. Before the Canadians and Brits came into the city, the people of Caen were warned to evacuate because we would be bombing the hell out of the place. Only a few hundred left and now we have thousands of civilian dead on our hands because they chose not to heed any of our warnings.

"It's insane how these people didn't leave." Grayson remarked, as if he knew what I was thinking.

I nod in agreement. "They're very kind to us though."

Grayson grimaced. "I feel bad for them that's all."

You would end up pitying the people you encountered which is natural I suppose. They wanted Hitler and the Nazis gone and so did we. Once you saw the carnage and the way those German bastards treated people, you want to destroy any Nazi you saw.

In short time we had made it back with the others and I immediately picked out a wall to sit on so I could jot down a few words in my journal. With my tiny stub of a pencil (it was broken in half since Hunter stepped on the fucking thing) I managed to scribble a sentence or two:

Things have died down quite a bit but I know this won't persist for much longer. I suppose I should enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts. Thankfully it has presented me with the opportunity to sleep so I don't feel too bad.

Maybe Grayson was right. Maybe I really am a  fruitcake. I admit I have a love for literature and I don't see Clark Gable or Cary Grant whipping out the books or writing their thoughts on paper or reflecting on the beauty of Shakespeare's prose. I made the mistake of admitting I like Shakespeare to Grayson and his cronies so now I was the butt of every one of their jokes.

What was it that Mr. Shakespeare said? This above all else; to thine own self be true? Obviously he didn't consider how difficult that was in the face of men like Grayson.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Some Soldier Slang:
Belly Cousin: A man  who slept with a woman whom a pal had also slept with
Fags: Cigarettes, "smokes"
Jerry: Nickname for German troops, deprived from WW1

3: Loved Ones Dear

From your pictures you're adorable, my dear.
From reports you are lady of the year.
From those in the know these days I've heard,
You`re beautiful to see --
You twinkle like the candles on an anniversary!
From informants you would seem to be immortal --
They have booked the hall of fame and burst its portal --
From ''enchanting'' to ''alluring''; from ''endearing'' to ''enduring,''
But from memory, you`re swell my dear!
-George G. Blackburn, The Guns of  Normandy

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Getting mail from home was a God-send, which was why it was so demoralizing when one received no mail at all. When Sergeant Flynn announced to us that there was mail later that day, we all ran and gathered around him like a gaggle of small children waiting for Saint Nick. Men snatched their packages and letters from home out of Flynn's hands and stalked off with them. I bet that many of them left to go "relieve" themselves. There's no shame to it; we've all done it at one point or another.

Flynn held two letters up to his face (I swear the man needs glasses but he denies that his eyes are bad). "Hartigan, Arthur M!" He shouts.

I raise my hand in a half-assed manner and strode forward to get my mail. Flynn hands me two envelopes and I walk a few paces away before stopping abruptly as I read who the letters are from.

There's one from Mom and Dad and the other one is from Abigail. Wait-- Abigail wrote to me?! Hell must have froze over!

Abigail was this girl I was seeing before I left for basic. She was pretty browned off at me for joining but I told her I had to, otherwise I would have been conscripted or be a Zombie. I asked Mom and Dad to talk to her for me but they had very little success; until now it seemed.

I guess she came round. Forget the reasons why; I just felt incredibly happy that she wanted to talk to me again.

I tore open the envelope and read over Abigail's letter. I couldn't believe it. She wasn't angry with me anymore and actually apologized for her behaviour. I grin like a fool and stuff the letter in my notebook. I feel like skipping like Goldilocks frolicking through the woods to be honest. 

I go on to read the letter from Mom and Dad. They, and my younger siblings, are fine which is all that matters to me. I feel somewhat content now.

--------------

When we moved on deeper into the city in anticipation of a counter-attack, enemy arty began to rain down a few blocks ahead of us. We dug in, set up positions, and waited for the inevitable.

Taylor and Hastings were beside me. Taylor nudges me in the side. "You seem happy. Good news from home?"

I nod curtly. Taylor doesn't annoy me as much as most people. In fact, we seemed to understand each other and bonded over the fact that we both find Grayson an obnoxious prick. Taylor wasn't as handsome as most nor was he as polite as people would like him to be but I found him to be a good guy. 

Hastings was a good guy as well. He was very friendly, out-going, and always had a smile to offer to people. He made most men in this company look ugly but none of us held that against him. As far as I know, him and Taylor are the only ones here that have a horde of kids back home.

Taylor grins. "Oh good."

"How about you guys? How's the wife and kids?"

"Pretty good." Hastings grunts.

Taylor shrugs. "They're alright. They're doing a lot better than me that's for sure!"

I smirk. "I think everyone in Canada is doing better than us!"

Hastings shushes me. "Their arty has stopped. They'll be on their way."

I check my rifle last minute to make sure I'm ready. Taylor and Hastings mirror me.

We wait in anticipation. My heart and our breathing seemed incredibly loud. In the distance I hear nothing but the enemy is on his way; we all can sense it.

Bullets hit the rubble close to me, causing my heart to jump up to my throat. I try to see where the shooting is coming from and spot a grey figure shoot through an open area. Our side's bullets followed closely behind.

A few men got hit but we kept on firing back at the Germans. A grenade lands near my feet and Hastings snatches it and tosses it back with a great heave of his arm.

Something wet hits the side of my face in droplets. It took me a moment to realize that Hastings was hit in the throat. I watch in horror as his throat rips open and he tumbles sideways, blood spouting out of his mouth. A gurgling noise emits from his throat.

I tore my eyes away while Taylor and I switch places. Taylor looks over Hastings in helplessness. "John," Taylor wheezes. "John!"

"Taylor!" I shout. I don't know why I shout. "He's gone."

I turn my focus to the fight before me, feeling dread set in. Poor Hastings. Another good man gone and a father and husband no less. It appears that only the good die young.

Taylor joins me and yells in my ear. "I got his letters and things in my pocket. He had a pair of baby booties on him."

I barely hear my friend over the pounding in my ears. I feel adrenaline course though my veins and I feel overwhelmed by it. I feel like I might be sick. I almost feel like I might soil myself or throw up. I desperately hope that neither will happen.

The Germans are beaten eventually and us Canucks move forward, pursuing our fleeing enemy.

"Those fuckers better run back to Berlin!" Taylor seethes in rage.

I scramble to collect my thoughts. I find it so odd how one moment we were filled with a strange sense of happiness and longing from receiving mail from home and the next moment we are filled with hatred and rage as we snap at our enemy's tail.

By the time we halt, I am exhausted and Taylor looks angry as ever. I go over to him and try to console me.

"Taylor." I say softly and grab his arm.

"Get off me." He warns. 

When I don't budge he flashes me a furious look but the ire in his face soon fades and he ends up looking deflated.

"I got Hastings' things," He says to the air around him. "I should send them to his family as soon as I can."

"Good idea."

Taylor looks at me. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't lose my composure like that."

"No, it's okay I understand." I didn't know Hastings as well as Taylor did but seeing the hurt in Taylor's face cuts me deeply.

The sense of relief I had felt earlier this day has been replaced by more bitter emotions as we leave our dead behind and watch our wounded being taken away. None of the SS that lay around the rubble were alive, as none would allow themselves to be taken prisoner.

I adjust my helmet and press forward with the others.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Some Soldier Slang:
Arty: Artillery
Browned Off: Angry, "pissed off"
Zombie: Canadian slang, refers to soldiers who were conscripted into the Canadian army for home defense who could volunteer for overseas service if they wished. These soldiers were looked down upon and a third of those who did not volunteer for overseas duty were French Canadian.

4: Our Allies

"Only the dead have seen the end of war." -Plato
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

That evening we stop our advance and end up encountering a small group of British soldiers. While our officers talk to their officers, Taylor, Flynn, a few others and myself go over and socialize with our allies.
I approach one British soldier and shake his hand. "The name's Hartigan."

"McKinley." He replies. "Where you from?"

I swear McKinley has the thickest eyebrows I have ever seen on a man. They seem to dominant his face; even his bright blue eyes which would have been attractive if one's attention wasn't drawn away from them.

"St. John, New Brunswick." I say, feeling proud of my city. "You?"

"Liverpool." 

"How are things on your end?" I ask.

"Jerry's been stubborn, but I think we're close to getting him flushed out of France." McKinley shrugs. "From what I hear, you lads are having a tough time as well."

I nod. "Could be worse I guess."

McKinley's eyebrows shoot up. "Could be worse?" He snorts. "An optimistic bastard you are!"

I laugh and McKinely joins in. 

Taylor comes over with a huge grin on his face. "Wow Hartigan you're actually making people laugh."

"Go to hell."

McKinley tries to stifle his laughter but fails miserably. Taylor looks offended. "Telling your friends to go to hell? That's not very nice Hartigan, what would your dear old mother say?"

"She isn't here." I shoot back. "And she isn't old."

Taylor exchanges glances with McKinley. "You see what I must deal with everyday?"

McKinley puts his hands up. "Now mate, don't get me involved in your lover's quarrel!"

This time Taylor looks appalled but it's for real. "Lover's quarrel? What do you take me and Hartigan for?"

"He was joking."

"Well in that case, I forgot to ask for your name."

McKinley smiles and shakes hands with Taylor. "McKinley."

"Taylor."

We spoke with McKinely for a few more minutes before the group of officers dispersed and beckoned their men to follow them. I wave goodbye to McKinely and tell him to keep in touch. 

We move on. Canadians going one way, British going another. We move with much caution, always on the lookout for snipers. 

An NCO is shot and dies after our medics see to him. We learn fairly quickly where the shot came from; a bell tower. Flynn points at me and another soldier called Wright. "You boys go take that bloody sniper out."

We obey and head over to the bell tower. The church it belonged to was typical of French Gothic architecture. I had no doubt in my mind that it was once a magnificent looking building before the war.
I put my finger to my lips as we enter the church. I take light steps so my boots barely make a sound. Wright copies me. I look around and see a staircase that must lead up to the bell tower.

I point to the staircase and Wright nods. He hurries up the stairs first, his Sten gun at the ready, and I follow closely behind. We make our way up a winding staircase  where the air is thick and stifling from the summer heat. A step creaks under my foot and we press ourselves against the wall so we cannot be seen from above.

Wright and I wait for a few breathless moments until I risk a glance up the stairwell. There's no one there. I look to Wright, flashing him a worried look. Does he know we're here now? I want to ask. Wright seems to understand and shrugs.

We continued up the stairs. The landing where the bells were once located was only a few steps up from us. Wright stopped and looked back at me. I nod to reassure him.

With that, we both charge up the remaining stairs and stop at the top of the bell tower, guns blazing. The sniper drops dead with a thump on the floor.

Wright stands over the corpse and nudges it with his toe. He's dead.

The sniper was a young boy just as I was expecting him to be. He bore markings of the 12th SS on his grey uniform which was now stained with blood. The boys eyes stared at us unblinking.

"You wanna search for a souvenir?" Wright asks me. I shake my head. I did my fair share of looting shortly after D-Day.

Wright goes through the boy's pockets and finds a knife. It is a fine looking blade that clearly belonged to the Hitler Youth. Finding the knife garners a smile from my companion and he pockets the knife without a word.

"Let's go, we're done here." He says.

We quickly go down the stairs and out of the church and join our platoon once more. We press on through the city until the sun vanished beneath the horizon.

Tonight our platoon is in yet another church. There are some civilians nearby who were kind enough to give us some candles so we won't be in the dark. I gratefully set my gear down next to Taylor's and lie next to him. 

"Going to sleep already?" Taylor asks.

"I'm too tired to do much else." I yawn and wipe some sweat off my brow.

"Well move over a bit; you stink."

"You're one to talk." I scoff. "In fact I often stand up-wind of you so I don't catch a whiff of your over-powering odor."

"You're an asshole Hartigan." Taylor shoots.

"I try my best." I counter.

Taylor's voice drops to a whisper. "Not as much as Grayson!"

I stifle my laughter and turn over. I allow myself to drift into a weary and dreamless sleep.

-----------

The next morning, I join Taylor, Wright, Fylnn and Grayson for a cold breakfast of Compo rations (type E the cans say) and awful tasting coffee. The only good thing I find about type E rations is that we all get a pack of cigarettes, chocolate, soap, matches and latrine paper out of it.

Composite ration packs come in several types ranging from A to E and supplies enough tinned food for 14 men. Every few days we get a different type so we never really know what we're going to get. The extra items in our ration box are pretty useful and provide some sort of solace so I can't complain too much.

It's enough food for us to carry round for a few days. On some occasions we'll get the same box for several days in a row so our diet really doesn't change too much. That's when all the griping and general bitching happens.

"Coffee tastes like shit this morning." Grayson grumbles.

"No shit Sherlock." Flynn grumbles back.

I smirk into my canteen. 

"I see you smiling Hartigan." Grayson snaps.

"I'm sorry Grayson but Sarge got you pretty good on that one."

Grayson glares at me but says nothing. Flynn just looks like he won a gold medal at the Olympics.
I shake my head and take out my notebook and jot down a few lines. Everyone around me here knows I keep a journal on me so they don't question the black notebook's presence. As far as I know, Grayson is really the only one who thinks it unmanly of me to write the way I do.

We're just about out of Caen now. Yesterday we met up with some British troops. They're a friendly bunch of people but they must be tired of all these foreign countries using their homeland as a base. If they are, they sure as hell don't show it. 

I put my pencil and notebook away and resume drinking my coffee. Flynn pipes up. "I hope you're not writing anything insulting about us in there." It takes me a moment to realize he's joking.

"Oh no sarge, don't you worry. Everybody here is portrayed as the perfect group of angels."

Wright snorts. "You're so full of shit."

5: A Close Shave With Death

"I wish I had a good description of fear."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

My ears were ringing and my breath comes in ragged gasps as I try to figure what just happened. I was lying on the ground on a pile of rubble, the brick digging into my back. My uniform was dusty and filthy more then ever and I couldn't move for several moments.

So why was I on the ground? I think I hear someone shouting. Am I wounded? Is that why I can't move?
I was having breakfast with the boys then we went forward through the city to attack the Germans. Next thing I knew, an arty shell landed near me and I was thrown though the air like a rag doll.

I raise a hand and feel my torso for any wounds. There's nothing there and no blood appears on my hand. From what I can see, everything is where it's supposed to be. I breathe a small sigh of relief.

But I'm sore all over. Groaning I manage to get up and crouch down. I survey my surroundings and realize very quickly that I am caught in the crossfire of a very ferocious fight between my platoon and some Germans. There's a dead body of a Canadian several feet away from me but I can`t see his face and I don't bother checking to see who it is.

Frantically, I move behind the cover of a wall and try to find a familiar face. I see Flynn and make a mad dash towards him. He gives me a bewildered look. "Jesus  Christ Hartigan we all thought you were dead!"

"What happened?!"

"You were with Wright, Grayson, and Taylor when an artillery shell went off nearby. It threw all of you through the air. You weren't moving so we assumed it killed you instantly."

I feel panic slowly ebbing its way into my mind. "What happened to the others?"

Flynn grimaces. "Wright's dead but Grayson and Taylor got out all right with a few bruises. It's a miracle that not all of you were killed."

First Lenny, then Hastings, and now Wright was dead too. Wright probably didn't even know what hit him and that sounds like the best way to die out here. No pain, no nothing. Just alive the one moment then dead the next. It makes me wonder why people at home have to romanticize war. There's nothing romantic about a boy my age being blown to bits by an artillery shell.

In anger and outrage I aim my rifle to the German lines and fire at any flash of gunfire I see in hopes that I might hit them. Several bullets hit the wall next to us and we instinctively reel back.

"What a bunch of assholes." I curse.

Flynn nods. "I can think of better words to describe them."

I take a grenade and lobe it over to their side once I pull the pin out. I hope they don't throw it back but luckily for me it explodes before they have the chance. When no soldier emerges from the explosion, I can only assume that whoever is there is dead or wounded.

"I think you got him." Flynn pants.

Good. I think to myself.

The fight rages on for a few hours more and by the time both sides quit I feel jumpy and ready to go into action again although I simultaneously feel a little tired. Flynn pats me on the back says "good job Hartigan" then moves on.

I see Taylor and Grayson standing together and go to them. "Who else did we lose?" I say quietly since I don't want the others to hear my question. 

Grayson, for once, is not his usual cocky and arrogant self. He looks deflated with his shoulders slumped.

"We lost Wright, Collins, Fox, Bishop, Burton, O'Neil, Silvera, and Harper from our platoon and about five other replacements. About a dozen guys are wounded rather severely but it's no one we three know personally."

I don't know everyone that had died this day or all the wounded (Grayson was right about that) but I still feel awful. None of us say anything for quite awhile. We stare at our feet as if our army issue boots are the most fascinating thing we have ever seen.

Flynn comes by. "Get some rest." He tells us.

Since misery loves company we three sit together on the steps of an old hotel. Grayson proceeds to chain smoke while I stare at the ground and Taylor alternates between staring off into the distance and gazing at a photo of his wife and kids.

I usually pick on Grayson for his awful smoking habits but I today I don't feel like it. I'm in too much shock to put forward the effort.

No one admits it but we are all devastated. Today we didn't lose as many men as we usually do but the constant tooth and nail fighting we've endured throughout this campaign has even the toughest soldier feeling shaken.

Taylor looks at me. "We thought you were dead with Wright."

"Well I fucking made it.'' I say bitterly. I know now that the corpse I saw was none other then Wright himself.

Taylor frowns and goes back to staring at nothing in particular.

Physically, I am tired from constant action and a poor diet. Mentally, I am close to having a break down and that worries me. I'm no coward or weakling.

I glance at a Taylor and suddenly realize that he is the only friend I have left. Lenny and Wright were the other two remaining friends. With them dead and gone, all I have left is Taylor. This revelation worries me.

I look to the sky. I just want to go home, I think. Is that too much to ask?

Grayson starts hacking, startling me out of my train of thoughts. ''You okay there?''

Grayson nods as his coughing dies down. ''I'll be fine.''

Oh will you? I sneer internally. I feel shocked at my own wickedness. I shouldn't be acting superior to Grayson. However, seeing someone who has tormented you for a long time crack gives you a sick sense of pleasure.

''I'm tired of this bullshit.'' I say.

''Ditto.'' Grayson replies.

Taylor nods and puts his photograph away. He looks at me. ''This war will only stop once Hitler and his Nazis are destroyed.''

''That could take a long time.'' Grayson grunts.

Taylor shakes his head and seems hesitant to speak. ''We have to keep at it.''

I cast Taylor a look of disbelief. ''Why?!''

He seems to be choosing his next words carefully. ''We have to because there are people depending on us. We have to believe that our cause will win it out. This war is being fought for something; I have to believe that.''

When neither Grayson or I say anything, my friend gives a frustrated sigh. ''Look around you!'' He suddenly bursts out. ''Look at the French people. Do you not see how their children have to live? When I look at them all I can see is my own wife and children and I sure as hell wouldn't want them to live this kind of life.''

Taylor was really upset now. ''I have to tell myself I am here for those people. The Germans took everything from them and we're the ones who are pushing the Nazis back.''

His voice drops down to a whisper. ''I have to believe this will all amount to something in the end. I have to believe this won't be all for naught.''

We lock eyes and it almost seems like Taylor is trying to tell me something in his expression but I can't pick it out so I look away.

I don't know how to feel about his words. Will this all be worth it in the end? I do not know and I don't want to find out.

Now does that make me a coward?

6: Bad Omens

"....Those battles were not fought by alert, well-rested, well-fed, healthy men, but by men suffering exhaustion, from heat and dysentery and the neverending itching induced by lice and fleas, from never being allowed to stretch out and get a night's sleep, and from continuously living with grinding tension arising from the irrepressible dread of being blown to pieces or being left mangled or crippled." 
--George E. Blackburn, The Guns of Normandy

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Early August 1944

I'm sick. I don't want to be but I am. It's the blasted sand fleas and lice, they're everywhere, biting everyone and spreading disease. The fact that we haven't bathed or live in a clean environment doesn't help matters either.

It's dysentery I got. Bloody shit I can deal with but the abdominal pain is enough to have me doubled over and wanting to shoot myself.

It drains all the energy out of you too. During and after the disease you're exhausted because you've been near to dehydration and are left feeling less vigorous then before. Taylor had recently gotten over the dysentery and was walking around sluggishly, eyes dull. No doubt if he had a proper rest he would feel better by the end of the day, but the constant digging in and moving about in the summer heat gives no such relief.

Did I mention how awful I feel? There had been so many cases of dysentery that the MO is no longer accepting cases at the regimental aid post.

"This whole damn army is sick with it," Grayson grumbles to me. "How do they expect us to fight when we're in such horrid shape?"

"I don't know." I reply. "But it seems that they don't realize whats going on down here."

So I'm stuck with the dysentery while lice and fleas inhabit every nook and cranny of my uniform, while we get shelled and shot at, and the sun glares down on us. Lovely, just lovely.

We were to break through to Falaise after the Americans finally broke through their bridgehead in the West. We weren't being told much about Falaise which gave rise to many shit-house rumours about what we were actually doing. To put it simply and from what I discern from all the rabble was that we and the Brits were to push through to Falaise and surround the German Army, cutting them off in a "pocket" or "gap".

We were able to meet some Americans during when they advanced but it was a short lived interaction. The most time I ever spent with a Yankee was in London. Very obnoxious and cocky bastards they are but they seem decent once you got only one or two of them as company.

Anyway, we're all gearing up to go to Falaise. Our artillery has left their positions to move closer to the Germans; we saw their convey pass us today. We also been digging trenches alongside armoured bulldozers. It's about damn time we had those things. They get the job done faster.

Taylor had been quiet for most of the day. I assumed it was because he wasn't feeling too good and left him be. But being raised in a household that taught me to be sensitive to other people's needs, I decided I should go talk to him to make sure Taylor was okay.

I find him under a grove of trees and sit next to him. "How's it going?"

He shrugs. "Feeling a little better."

I smile. "Good to hear."

We sit in comfortable silence for awhile. I glance over at Taylor and study his face. He neglects to remember how observant I am as I see an array of emotions pass over his face as he stares off into the distance.

I cock an eyebrow at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong man."

I snort. "You lie."

He gives me a venomous look. "Don't act like my wife please."

I lean back away from him, feeling stung. "I was just asking Taylor. You've been acting pretty mopey."

Taylor's face softens and he looks. "I'm sorry. I just been thinking."

"Thinking about what?" I pressed. I probably sound very annoying to Taylor.

"I just-I just got a bad feeling about all of this." He confesses. "Like something bad is going to happen to me." Taylor pauses as his eyes take on a fearful look. "Arty I think I'm going to die. I really don't think I will make it out of Falaise alive!"

I freeze completely. It takes me a moment to speak. "You're just exhausted Taylor," I reason. "The tension's getting to you. On top of that everyone's been sick and hasn't sleep much. It's probably nothing."

"I don't know." Taylor twiddles his thumbs nervously.

I put a reassuring hand on the back of his neck and rub the tense muscle there. "Cheer up. Maybe we'll get some mail from home!"

Taylor gave me a sheepish look. "I hope to God you're right."

........................

Once night fall comes and covers the world in its shroud, I jump into my slit trench to try to catch some shut eye.

I mull over Taylor's paranoia as he sits sleeping next to me. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. I had heard stories from my father when he was in the Great War. He told me that some soldiers knew when they were going to die. He recounted many instances when close friends told his platoon that they would not survive the day and ended up being right. 

I can't help but wonder how that can be. How can a person know they are going to die when they are not sick with a terminal illness or face-to-face with the circumstances that could cause their death? It was a mystery to me. Personally I have never experienced this premonition and I hope that I never will.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Some Solider Slang:
MO: Medical Officer
Shit-House Rumours: Wildly exaggerated pieces of intelligence passed by word-of-mouth due to lack of actual credible information

7: The Mouth of Hell

Falaise, France

Falaise is a nightmare; the fifth circle of Hell. Bodies lay strewn amongst the broken buildings and tanks, wounded men screamed in horrible agony, and soldiers ran about, shouting to one another.

My ears ring terribly from the clatter of machine guns, shots of rifles and the boom of mortars and artillery.

Flynn was hit and falls face first into the grass.

I lost sight of Taylor. Dear God, where is he?! Taylor!

Veterans and replacements alike fall before my very eyes only to lie still and say nothing more.

Blood runs down the side of my face. I have a cut around my temple but I don't know what it is from.

My breathing comes in desperate, ragged gasps. My chest hurts, my entire body aches. Forget that I'm sick, that matters very little right now.

I run to Flynn and check on him. He's alive but in a monumental amount of pain. He urges me to leave him so I don't get hit. I obey without a word and run off, selfishly concerned for my own safety.

Everything is confusing. It takes my mind awhile to process what is happening since it is so overwhelming. All I can do is fire my rifle blindly towards the German side and hope that I hit my target.

It goes on for hours or what feels like hours.

Eventually it gradually gets quiet. Then silence takes over. An unstable calm settles. The Germans are subdued for now.

I still can't find Taylor. Flynn gets carried away by medics while Grayson looks on with a blank stare. He looks like a statue.

Our uniforms are covered in dust, we all look like walking statues.

I can't fathom what has happened.

8: Bitter Loss

"I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn
For an old-time step, and the glad return,
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here.
Think of him still as the same. I say,
He is not dead—he is just away.” 
-James Whitcomb Riley, He Is Not Dead

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

I stare down at Taylor. Or should I say I was staring at the shell that Taylor's soul once occupied? I'm having a hard time accepting that he's gone as I look down at his battered corpse; his pale eyes stare back up at me.

Taylor lies on the grass around Falaise, his chest bloodied, his skin pasty white, his lips blue, and his body sprawled out and twisted in the final agony of death. I came across his body while searching the Canadian dead for dog tags.

I should cry; it's a natural reaction to death but nothing comes. My eyes water a little but nothing more. Perhaps I'm too numb to feel anything anymore and deep down it worries me somewhat. Am I too desensitized for human emotion? Have I broke?

Maybe I'm just in shock right now and tears will come later. That's what I want to tell myself.

I hear boots crunching behind me. I don't bother to see who it is.

"Hartigan?" I hear Grayson say softly, as if he doesn't want to provoke me.

"Yeah?" I choke. My voice sounds hoarse like I've been shouting.

''We gotta go." I squeeze my eyes shut in a futile attempt to block everything out. This is wrong, I think. I should be the one in the dirt, not Taylor.

"Must we? Can't we bury him?"

"We don't have time. I'm sorry."

I glance at Taylor one last time, retrieving his personal items and dog tags, before turning and walking a few paces behind Grayson. My lip quivers and my entire body seems to tremble with the sobs I wouldn't dare let free.

Grayson stops and walks back to me. I turn my face away in shame but he forces me to look at him. "Listen to me Hartigan, you have to pull yourself together because now is not the time to falter. You have time to properly mourn Taylor later but not now."

I say nothing as what Grayson has said angers me somewhat.

"That doesn't mean you forget Taylor," Grayson continues. "Neither are you disrespecting his memory. You just can't let this get to you because you can't afford to. You understand?"

I nod. He does have a point.

Grayson gives me a playful slap on the face then continues walking. I follow closely behind.

I walk blindly forward staring at the ground ahead of me. If it weren't for Grayson I probably would have wandered off somewhere and get myself killed; I'm in such a haze I'm a danger to myself.

I wonder when Taylor met his end. I imagine bullets tearing his body apart before he crumples to the earth, mouth hanging open and eyes staring wide to the heavens.

"Grayson did you see Taylor fall?" I croak.

He glances at me over his shoulder, a grimace plain on his face. "Yes."

I stare at the back of his head, mentally willing him to say more.

Grayson huffs. "You want to know what happened don't you? Why?"

"I don't know," I say. "I just want to know. Maybe I'm better off not knowing."

Grayson looks over his shoulder again then turns around and walks right up to me. "You want to know what happened? Fine I'll tell you. You listening?"

I nod.

"Taylor ended being in that open field there because he was running for cover. He realized he had blundered and got up to move elsewhere. But he distracted the Nazis from some other boys and they got him before he could make it." Grayson gives me a sympathetic look. "He died quickly Hartigan."

"How can you know?"

"He got it straight through the heart."

Grayson squeezes my arm in a comforting manner and continues walking while I follow sheepishly behind. 

I try to think of the events that have led us here today but it seems my mind refuses to conjure the memories up. Then again, why do I think of it so much?

Grayson starts to sing softly under his breath and it takes me a moment to realize he's singing "White Cliffs of Dover". I remember hearing the same song in the pubs around England and in the base we were stationed at. I wonder how he has the energy to sing.

Grayson and I regroup with the others and all us soldiers seem too shocked to do much until an officer snaps us out of our revere. 

The Nazis leave us be for a while so we take the opportunity to eat. I sit silently next to Grayson while he and the others speak in hushed tones. I realize Grayson is the only one I got, as much as he annoys me. Despite his grievances I know now he's a reliable friend to have.

Taylor's dead. I don't want it to be true but it is. I had lost so many friends, brothers really, to this war but none were so close as Taylor. I guess I have to suck it up and soldier on.

I ignore the pains in my abdomen to stare at the words I wrote. I feel angry; angry enough to lash out violently if provoked. Taylor was a good man, he had more to live for than I did.

I leave the group momentarily to relive myself at the latrine then return to Grayson giving me a wary glance. I give him a weak half smile and he turns away.

Once I've eaten the sparse rations and dug in with Grayson, I take a look at Taylor's things while Grayson looks on. There's a picture of Taylor's wife and kids, letters and postcards tied neatly into a small bundle, and a few drawings that were drawn by small children. Lastly, there's Taylor's wedding band and a silver necklace with St. Christopher on it.

"We ought to write to Taylor's family." Grayson whispers. By "we" he clearly means I'm the one to do it.

On one of the letters from Taylor's wife has an address from New Brunswick so I copy it down into my notebook for later. I huff. "Dear God, I don't even know what I would say to her."

Grayson says nothing, leaving me to find the answer myself.

9: The Letter

August 12th, 1944

Dear Mrs. Taylor,

I don't know if Patrick ever mentioned me since he told us that he wasn't in the habit of writing about the people he's come to know in England and France. My name is Arthur Hartigan and I'm from New Brunswick like yourself but up St. John way.

Patrick was a fine man and you couldn't have hoped for a better soldier then him. I remember quite fondly how he would always try to raise our spirits, loudly declaring that us bogtrotters must stick together. I'm never one to talk much but Patrick seemed to understand that and stuck by me no matter what.

I wasn't with Patrick before he died; I had lost sight of him in the confusion of battle but the medics in the company told us that he did not suffer. He death was quick and painless. 

I could go on and tell you that you're husband died for his country and did his duty splendidly well but you know that already. 

Everyone who knew Patrick will surely miss him . We shall miss his assurance and calm composure. However, we know there is a place missing at your table and we all give you our deepest sympathies and condolences.

Sincerely yours,

Arthur Hartigan

----------------------

I stare down at my writing, wondering if what I wrote is good enough. I tried to be as sympathetic as possible without sounding too formal, too graphic or too phony. I get up and wait for a column of tanks to pass before I cross the street to find Grayson.

Grayson's sitting on the steps of a shop, speaking to an elderly civilian man so I wait politely until the two are done talking. They both look to me and only Grayson gives me a curt nod. "Hey Hartigan."

I hold up the letter and hand it to him. "I'm writing to Taylor's wife but I don't know if what I wrote is good enough."

Grayson's eyes scan over the letter. After several minutes of his eyes scanning back and forth across the page, he hands the letter back to me. "Sounds good to me." Grayson shrugs. "You're the man of letters here Hartigan, not me."

Gee thanks. I think to myself. I wish Flynn was here. He would know how to reassure me on such matters; he was the only other person besides Taylor who could do that. I could talk to Captain Scottoline (Scott for short) since he is the only officer in this man's army that I can withstand but a part of me decides against it.

With a heavy heart, I tuck the letter in my pocket for safe-keeping until I can send it.

10: Waiting For Your Reply

"I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is hell."
-William Tecumseh Sherman

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

2 weeks later

Praise Jesus the curse of dysentery has lifted! For me anyway. I'm relieved I didn't lose my life to such a petty matter. Others haven't been so fortunate.

There are still others who are going through the worst of the illness (mostly replacements who are new arrivals) and are constantly cursing under their breath when they tramp off to do their business. If I didn't know any better I would laugh at them.

The heat persists in France which encourages fleas and ticks to infest our clothes and positions. Since Taylor's death and Flynn's evacuation, Grayson and I have stuck together since we really don't have anyone else. Other veterans have their friends and we don't want to get too close to a replacement.

I wonder if Mrs. Taylor will write back. It seems likely but the posties take their sweet time getting the mail to us boys at the front so I'll probably end up waiting for a while longer.

Grayson snapping at a replacement forces me out my thoughts. I glance over at Grayson who stands several feet away. My friend looks extremely angry and the replacement simply looks fearful. I watch the scene play out, feeling indifferent. It's funny how at the beginning of the war, I would have defended someone who was being bullied even if I didn't know them. But now I just don't care and neither do I have the energy to do anything.

Giving one last snappy remark to the replacement, Grayson stalks towards me, shoulders hunched in anger, cigarette firmly planted between his lips. He looks so ridiculous I can't help but think of Herbie and laugh.

"The hell you laughin at Hartigan?" He snarls.

I break out into a fit of laughter. "You look hilarious when you're angry!"

He scowls at me which makes me laugh even harder. Slowly, his face breaks out into a broad grin and his booming laugh fills the air alongside mine.

It feels like it has been years since I last laughed at something and I mean genuine laughter. Not forced laughter that accompanies a morbid joke.

After a while we fall silent, grinning like a bunch of fools at each other. "Who did I remind you of?" Grayson asks me, frowning at his cigarette lying on the ground. "Goddammit I dropped it."

I snicker. "I was thinking of Herbie."

"I look nothing like him!" My friend protests. 

"That may be so," I say. "But it's the first thing that came to mind. Besides, why were you taking a bite out of that replacement?"

Grayson snorted. "It's not important. He kept whining about how much he missed home back in P.E.I. and so I told him to suck it up 'cause all of us here got a family and talking about it, let alone hearing about it, is painful enough. I told him to go bother Morrison."

I inwardly laugh at the plight of Morrison. "Well, better him than you as they say eh?"

Grayson chuckles. "Morrison was in Ortona Hartigan; he can handle that kid."

Morrison was considered to be the toughest Sergeant in our unit, next to Flynn of course. He had been in Italy the previous year and fought the Italians and Germans. Grayson, Taylor, Wright and I had learned a lot from Morrison and had a lot to be grateful for because of him. You could say he was a bit of a father figure.

Most of us felt he should be promoted; we're more willing to follow him than any officer any day. As much as we trust him, I've only come to realize now how little any us know about him. All I know is that he's from Nova Scotia and ended up in New Brunswick to work for his uncle in his fishing business. None of us have any idea if he has a wife, any children, siblings, parents, nothing. That uncle is the only relative we know of. But I suppose none of that is important out here. 

I allow a curt laugh. "Good 'ol Morrison. If only Canada could get an entire army of men like him then I reckon this war would be over quickly."

"Speak of the devil! Here comes Morrison now!" Grayson exclaims. "Jesus Christ man you got the 'look'."

The Sergeant gives Grayson the stink eye. "So does everyone here Private; it's called 'a lack of sleep' and 'extreme fatigue'. I thought you of all people would know that."

Grayson appears to be unfazed by Morrison's snarky attitude and dares to grin at him in a taunting manner. "Well, aren't we a little hostile this fine summer day?"

The Sarge gives glares at Grayson, shutting him up in an instant. Morrison then turns his attention to me. "How do you put up with this jackass?"

"I ask myself the same question." I reply.

Grayson gaps at me. "Excuse you! You're the mopy poet here Hartigan. You and your flowery prose."

"I'm not a poet you moron." I snap.

Morrison puts a hand up in surrender. "Alright I'm leaving you lovebirds alone since you obviously have some issues to work out."

As the Sergeant leaves us and joins another pair of boys from our outfit, my companion has a look of disbelief on his face. "Can you believe that guy?!"

"Yes I can actually." I say.

11: Fraternization

Grayson elbows me and points to a French woman we see leaning on a lamp post across the street. He gives me a devious smile. "Hartigan there's one of those French whores that everyone talks about. You interested in spending the evening with a lovely mademoiselle?"

"I don't know." I say. 

"Oh come on. I'm certain she has a friend that would be willing." Grayson persists.

"That she-wolf will rob us both of our money. Is it really worth it?"

"Don't be a queer boy Hartigan!" Grayson taunts.

"Fine." I snap. "You want to go with her, then do it. Why are you letting me stop you?"

"Things are better in pairs." Grayson blurts.

"Then you can have her friend join you." 

Grayson shakes his head in disbelief and leaves my side to cross the street. I see him disappear with the woman and I walk away to a memorial that stands a few feet from me. Morrison is sitting at the foot of it, reading a battered copy of Maple Leaf.

I ogle the magazine. "Where the hell did you get that?"

Morrison gives me a coy smile. "I've had it tucked away for awhile. It's an old issue from last month."

"Who cares how old it is? At least it's something to read!"

Morrison laughs curtly and hands me the magazine. "I'm surprised you didn't join Grayson there."

"The last thing I want to do is join Grayson in some orgy." I scoff.

"I couldn't agree with you more."

I sit down next to Morrison and flip through the pages of the magazine. It's all old news about the war and what's going on at home but it's nice to have something that gives us some kind of connection to the world.

"Oh my!" I exclaim. "The Canadians and British have taken Caen! The Nazis don't stand a chance now!" 

Morrison smirks. "We'll give them a good licking!"

My smile soon fades as I look around the town square. "The French seem friendly enough."

"They are but they seem unwilling to really do anything to improve their situation," Morrison remarked. "But I suppose they see no point in trying to rebuild while the war is on."

"The things they sell are damn expensive though." I grumble. It seemed like the longer the war went on the higher prices in things went up. A man could lose all his money trying to buy things from the French or from people back in England. The arrival of the Yanks didn't help matters either. The Yankees are paid higher wages than everyone else so they can afford to spend more which prompted every French and English merchant or whore to bleed more money from the rest of us saps.

Morrison nodded in understanding. "It wasn't like that in Italy. There this one lady there and her family who would sell their vegetables and cow milk to any soldier willing to buy. But they never tried to steal your money from you by being dishonest."

"This war is making millionaires out of the poor it seems." There's no point in me lying about it; I'm bitter about all the profiteering that this war has spawned. Everyone is making a killing off of the killing of young men and everyone at home is having a gay old time. People in Canada act like this war is some big party!

While Morrison and I were ranting about prices and who's profiting off of what, we both failed to notice the little girl that approached us. 

She was wearing a knee-length floral dress with shiny black shoes, white socks, and her hair was tied back into a blue bow. In her hands she held a bouquet of dethorned roses. I could only guess where she would have gotten such flowers from.

Morrison smiles the best he could. "Bonjour." 

The little girl hands each of us a rose and was about to run away when Morrison gestured for her to stay put. 

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I got a chocolate bar in my pocket." He said. He promptly took out the said chocolate bar and handed it to the child. She muttered 'merci' then ran off.

"You'd think we were monsters by the way they act around us." I commented.

"Don't take it personally Harty," Morrison said, using the rare nickname that I haven't heard since Taylor and Hastings died. "Children are always weary of strangers, especially strangers with weapons."

"I guess the posters don't help them." There were posters produced by the Allied war effort which featured a picture of either a Canuck, Brit, or ANZAC soldier with the words "This man is your friend, he fights for freedom!" plastered on it.

"No I guess not."

We both sit in comfortable silence for a moment or two until Morrison produces a deck of cards from his pocket. "Wanna play poker?"

I stare in disbelief. "What the hell? How much stuff do you have tucked away in your pockets?"

"Nothing that you need to know about."

I cock an eyebrow at Morrison. ''Nothing I need to know about? What are you hiding there? Porn?''

Morrison laughs. ''Ha! I wish! But no, you nosy bastard, what I keep on my person is my business.''

"Okay, okay, I get the message." I raise my hands in surrender then point to the deck of cards in the Sergeant's hands. "How about a game of craps?"

Morrison agrees. After a lengthy session, he grins widely and slams his cards on the marble steps beneath us. "You've been beat!" He proclaimed, smiling like a child on Christmas morning.

I shake my head in disbelief. "Have you ever been defeated in this game?"

The sarge stops and looks up to the sky, obviously trying to recall a time when some lucky soul beat him at a game of craps. He suddenly turns his head towards me. "Nope. Never."

"Damn you Sergeant Morrison. Damn you."

Morrison simply laughs at this.​