George

I was one of five Sappers, on board a Landing Craft (LCA), we were part of a forward company responsible for the removal of beachhead hazards, breaching of sea walls, clearing minefields and the like. There was a total of twenty aboard the LCA, which became a stinking, puke-ridden sewer, long before reaching its designated landing point. Before this campaign, most of the guys had done little more than paddle a boat in the local park.

As we approached the beachhead, the craft began to lurch violently, as it crested the waves of the racing tide, and the bile now lapping our boots, offered little in the way of distraction. The noise was horrendous, and terrifying, unlike anything we'd experienced during training, and as we drew closer to the enemy defences it reached an overwhelming crescendo. Huge plumes of water were erupting all around us as the shells targeting the craft exploded in the surf. You could hear the repeated ricochets of the automatic weapons strafing the craft, pinging from the bow ramp or singing as they scraped the outer walls.

Finally, the LCA ground into the beach, and came to a Shuddering halt. I took one last look across the LCA, toward my mate Bill Scaasi, and found him staring right back at me, and he still had the composure to give me one last wink before the bow ramp was lowered, exposing our company to the full wrath of the strafing. The bullets ripped through the company where they stood, and half were either dead or dying before the ramp had hit the water.

I don't know how or why, but I was one of the lucky ones, who managed to make it off the craft and into the relative freedom of the surf, if there is such a place. Dead bodies bobbed in the tide, like rag dolls. In the mayhem, I felt completely disassociated from the horror around me, it was like an irrational dream. I stood, watching the bullet trails in slow motion as they whirled in the surf around me. My life must have been charmed, it appeared that nothing could hit me.

Suddenly, it seemed as if my body had a mind of its own, as it began making its way through the surf and up the beach, without any instruction from me. Amazingly, I was somehow heading directly toward the beach defences, with my explosive pack still safely strapped to my back. My body continued to relentlessly weave its way through countless corpses, working its way toward a set of black X shaped girders, sunk in a titanic block of concrete.

I was almost into the shelter of the defences, when my foot landed on the lid of an unfortunate's helmet. Trying desperately not to fall, my body plunged into the surf, and the side of my head grazed the concrete block. The impact knocked me senseless, if I wasn't in control of my limbs before, this was far worse as nothing responded to my wishes.

As I lay there, face down in the water another sapper's open-eyed face stared back at me. The face belonged to the decapitated owner of the helmet, that I'd slipped upon, and his decapitated head was still strapped intightly. It was a strange disassociation I guess, but what now appears strange is that it wasn't that alarming, and I remember thinking to myself.

'Those jammy Jerry bastards have got two heads for the price of one.'

Face of Fate

For what seemed an eternity the unfortunate face and I drifted back and forth to the ebb and flow of the tide, the weight of my pack buoying me a foot or so from the seabed. As I gazed at the sand adjacent to the face, it began to slowly distort, and resolved into the happy smiling face of an Old Man. I've got to say that even in my disassociation, when the old man spoke it was amazing, his voice was exceptionally clear, and we could have been sat next to each other on a park bench.

Old Man

'Ha, I am glad to see you are not an impatient man George, no point in trying to rush from fate.

Fate, there is no escaping it you know, always remember this in difficult times George.

Everything comes to those who wait!

In your case young man, your patience has brought the Gardener to your aid, and fortunately it's not your fate to die here in this salty grave.

You are yet to perform unaccountable brave deeds and have a full and contented life to live with your wife and family, who are awaiting your homecoming.'

The Old Man's words left me confused and echoed in my thoughts.

'My wife and family are waiting for me!'

Once again, his voice entered my mind answering my thoughts, as they were shaping.

'Yes, my son, they await you in your future life, your survival is essential to their existence.'

The very thought of a possible future with a family filled my mind with infinite joy. With a genuine compassion the old man began gently brushing my brow and spoke to me again.

'Come on son it's time to go, old Joshua will help you pass back into the world in which you belong.

Stuck here halfway between life and death is no place for you my boy.'

My mind disappeared into a world of darkness, leaving me with one lasting memory of this strange ethereal experience, the sight of the Old Man emerging from the sand. He formed before my eyes, grain by grain as the salty sands coalesced, giving him a physical structure. In one graceful movement he slid his arms under my torso, lifting me effortlessly from the seabed toward the surface. My last conscious thoughts were of the rolling surf splashing against my cheeks as the darkness arrived, folding itself around me like a cloak.

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