(Special thanks to @hey-fangirl-hey for the graphic)
Part 6: The Longest Day
June 6, 1944
A curtain of bone chilling sea water bombards the side of the landing craft, tossing a sheet of icy water onto PFC Christopher Powell and the 119 men huddled together inside. Drenched down to the soles of his socks and weighted down with 70 pounds of wet battle gear, he hugs his rifle to his chest, his eyes clinched shut to keep the stinging salt water of the English Channel from his eyes.
Many men around him have gotten seasick, the remnants of last night’s chow mixing with the water as it swirls around their boots at the bottom of the craft. Beside him, Charlie’s face is pale. Even a veteran Mariner would have trouble keeping a calm stomach on this rocky sea.
There is no conversation, only waiting.
Traces of a storm lingered as they pushed off from the Southern English coast to cross the channel, veiled in darkness in the early morning hours. Dawn is approaching and the light of day begins to reveal their impending danger.
The 94th Infantry Division is just one of 20 American infantries as part of Operation Overlord. Planning of the invasion had begun in December of 1943 but the day has finally arrived. Chris and his infantry waited for weeks in England, participating in vague training missions and watching for weeks as heavy artillery rolled in and the shipyards filled with strange new vessels.
The spray of water slaps the side of Chris’s face again. He looks ahead of him. Sergeant Jack O’Sullivan stands quietly and stoically, gripping his rifle. The landing craft is tossed about like a bucking bronco but if it is bothering the sergeant, Chris cannot tell. Beside him stands First Lieutenant Patrick Thomas. Their leaders have kept them alive with few causalities through this point of the war. Chris thinks of Archie. He finds peace only in knowing Archie would not have to endure the hell that he and Charlie are about to face.
The landing craft drifts past the battle ships and approaches the shore. Around them, salt water is flung into the air as bombs begin to splash into the water like lethal dolphins.
Behind them, a commander shouts for them to get ready.
Lieutenant Thomas immediately speaks up. “We aren’t close enough!” he shouts back.
The plan has collapsed into chaos. The storm was supposed to have cleared out but it is still churning waves as high as five feet. White caps pound the side of the landing craft, pushing it and many others off course.
Then suddenly, it comes to a jarring stop, tossing the men inside into each other. Chris lurches and falls against Charlie who struggles to stay on his feet.
Omaha Beach lies almost 75 yards away but PFC Powell and the others are stuck, perched on top of a sandbar. Shivering in the wet coldness, scared and anxious, they must now trek through the water to the shore. Chris peers up, rising onto his toes, the cliffside coming into view through the low hanging clouds.
Lieutenant Thomas turns and looks back at the commander at the back of the craft. As he turns, Chris catches a glimpse of his blue eyes. For the first time in two years, Chris sees something in Lieutenant Thomas’ gaze that he had never seen before: fear.
“Ready,” Lieutenant Thomas shots. “Over the sides.”
Bullets begin to strike the metal of their craft, ricocheting and causing flickers of bright white light. The men duck their heads, holding on to their helmets and rifles. The front ramp drops and a bomb explodes just yards in front of them. Chris drops back down, the spray of water and sand pelting his helmet and face.
One by one, they are forced to bail over the sides. Some of the men reach the water, others are gunned down as they stand. The sound of bullets tearing through flesh makes a nauseating sound. Tears fill Chris’s eyes as he says a silent prayer. He thinks of home: his mother, brother and sister. He thinks of the woman in the photo in his pocket, now wet and soggy and sticking to the fabric.
“God be with us,” he whispers under his breath. Gripping his rifle, he pulls himself up on the side of the craft, hoisting himself over the side. He lands in the frigid water, up to his chest. He immediately crouches down as he begins to wade towards the shore. Stumbling, he falls forward, his rifle dipping into the water.
“C’mon!” Sergeant O’Sullivan shouts back at the remaining infantry members. “Push!”
Chris glances around and catches sight of Charlie. He vomits into the ocean and is almost too afraid to move.
Wading through the water, men around them begin to fall, never reaching the shore. The danger lurks above from the cliffs. Bursts of gun smoke erupt over their heads in ceaseless waves. Bullets slice the water around Chris as he pushes ahead.
On the beach in front of them, obstacles of wooden stakes, metal tripods and barbed wire jut from the sand. As some men reach the beach, mines explode beneath them, sending a cloud of sand and limbs into the air.
Chris reaches out and shoves Charlie forward as the water recedes under their boots and they make their way to the sand, soaked with crimson. Red water laps at the edge of the shore.
“Go, go, go!” Lieutenant Thomas motions and waves them all of forward.
Chris begins to run with his rifle in front of him. He looks behind him at Charlie trailing in a zombie-like daze. Charlie suddenly drops to his knees staring around him, bewildered and confused.
“Charlie!” Chris turns and screams at him. “Run! Get up and run!”
At the sound of his name Charlie turns and looks at Chris as if hearing the sound from far off place.
Around them the rat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire is the soundtrack to the grim opera on the sand. Chris spins frantically, looking up at the looming cliff. He stutter-steps, pausing briefly as he tries to determine if he should press on.
Instead he turns and runs back with Olympian speed to Charlie. Bullets till up the beach behind each of his frantic steps, sand blasted onto his back and legs.
“Charlie!” Chris shouts at him. He tumbles and rolls towards him, jerking Charlie down so that their bodies lie flat on the sand.
“Chris?” Charlie says still in a daze. The screams and wails of dying men begin to fill the air. Charlie’s eyes begin to focus on Chris, a look of recognition washing over him. Then suddenly they glisten with tears. “I want to go home. I want my mom. I want to go home,” Charlie says his lip trembling.
“You gotta snap out of it!” Chris shouts at him. “You stay here, we die. We’ve got to keep moving Charlie!”
Suddenly the earth erupts just yards away from them. The grenade blast sends men sailing through the air and a shower of wet sand rains down on top of Charlie and Chris. They duck and roll to shield their faces, their rifles pressed into their chests. The screams grow louder.
Chris shifts his helmet on his head, his face caked with grains of sand. He rubs his eyes on the sleeve of his wet jacket and lifts his head barely an inch to look around them.
“On my count, we run, you got it?” He says to Charlie.
Charlie lifts his face, the tracks of tears wetting the grains of sand on his cheek. “Ok,” he says just loud enough for Chris to hear him and nods.
Chris grabs the sleeve of Charlie’s jacket. “One,” he looks up, “two,” he turns his eyes towards the seaway, “three!” He twists the fabric in his hand as he jerks Charlie upwards with him. They clamber to their feet, stumbling before running in a crouched position up the beach.
Chris and Charlie make it to a beach obstacle and kneel down behind it. It provides very little shield from the enemy. The German gunners are shooting down at the men on the beach as if shooting at fish in a barrel.
“Throw off your gear!” Chris hears a few feet in front of them. He looks up to see Sergeant O’Sullivan, a pair of wire cutters in his hand, breaking through the barbed wire linking the obstacles.
Charlie and Chris shrug off their battle gear, leaving it on the sand for the sake of survival. Their bodies already feel lighter and freer to move but they also feel more vulnerable to any bullet aimed their way.
The survivors on the beach either crouch behind obstacles and bodies as they move forward or stay put for the sake of living even one more second. There has been no order to fire weapons yet. The reach of their bullets to the top of the cliff is uncertain and they must save munitions. Machine gun-fire tills the water and sand.
“We have to make it to that bluff,” Sergeant O’Sullivan shouts. Beside him, one of the few officers still remaining, Lieutenant Thomas, runs and drops down beside him, using the obstacle for protection.
“Can you make it?” the Lieutenant asks the Sergeant. He had been adamant that Jack stay behind. The bullet wound in Jack’s thigh was healed but the lingering drag in his step had slowed him. Jack O’Sullivan would not leave his men. He had trained beside them and fought beside them for almost three years and he bristled at the idea of not being with them this morning. He knew the risk. The Lieutenant had implored, even begged him to stay behind.
Jack lifts his eyes to the cliff, looking up towards the heavens. Burst after burst of gunfire sails down to the hundreds coming in waves onto the beach.
He looks into Patrick’s eyes and nods. “Yeah.”
Patrick nods slowly looking back at Charlie, Chris and the handful of men that remain. He led more than 100 at the start of the morning. He leads less than a dozen now.
Time suddenly stands still for them all. If they can make it to the bluff, their chance for survival increases exponentially. It is almost 100 yards away, the length of a football field, but looking in front of them, it feels as though they have miles to run.
Jack looks back at PFC Christopher Powell. Their eyes silently connect.
If it weren’t for Jack, Chris might not be alive even now. He had saved him at Annecy, putting himself in immediate danger to protect Chris. If it weren’t for Jack, Chris would not have received the level of training at Fort Lee that has kept him alive. If it weren’t for Jack, Chris Powell would not know he has a son.
Days after their night out at the Anchor Pub in London, Sergeant O’Sullivan found himself with another opportunity to have a chat with the PFC.
Chris was at the American base, watching as a delivery of jeeps rolled in. The number of armored vehicles and ammunition shipments had tripled it seemed in the last few days.
Chris had found a quieter place to sit down after enjoying his afternoon chow. He had a brand new pencil to write home with and he had grabbed three sheets of paper for each letter: one for his mother, one for his sister and brother, and one for MC. Chris had jotted down a few updates and words of encouragement to his family and had begun the letter to MC.
May 12, 1944
Dearest MC,
Jack, shunning the cane he was advised to walk with, moved slowly around the base but spotted PFC Powell sitting near the fence line on a tree stump, pencil and paper in hand.
With a hiccup in his gate, the Sergeant approached.
“’Ey, Powell,” Jack said. Chris looked up at him.
“Serg?” He said with a half-smile.
“Look, uh, there’s something that I’ve been wanting to talk to you about and…with everything on the horizon, I don’t think it can wait anymore,” Jack said. Chris watched the normally unshakeable Sully shift from side to side and lick his lips uncomfortably.
“Okay,” Chris replied slowly, his eyes suddenly full of apprehension. “What is it?”
Sully exhaled. “I got word from the Missus,” Jack said. Chris blinked waiting for him to continue. The pencil in his hand is pressed to the paper but has not moved. “It’s about MC.”
“MC?” Chris’s voice rose with concern. He shook his head as he spoke. “What about her? What’s wrong? Is she okay?” The rush of words was like a tornado, swirling from Chris’s lips faster than he could speak them.
“Yeah, she’s…she’s fine, she’s actually been living with Lizzie,” Jack said and cleared his throat. Chris gave a puzzled look before his eyes searched Jack’s face.
“What’s going on?” Chris asked fearfully.
“MC moved in with Lizzie because she needed a place to say and help with…the baby,” Jack continued. Wrinkle lines form at the corners of his eyes as he watches Chris’s reaction. “Your baby.”
Chris did not move. If it weren’t for the occasional flutter of his eyelashes, Jack would have believed he had stopped breathing as well. Slowly, Chris’s mouth fell open. The pencil in his hand dropped down against the paper before rolling off of it and onto the ground.
“Wh-….” His eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What?”
Was this a joke? Jack O’Sullivan was however not the type to pull a prank and Chris knew it.
Jack nodded his head. “MC had a baby. A boy,” Jack said slowly. “He was conceived the night you were with her.” Jack stuck his tongue in his cheek, waiting. His heart rate had accelerated. It was not an easy thing to tell Chris, but he knew he could not keep MC’s secret any longer, for both their sakes.
Chris suddenly shook his head. “No, no,” he said adamantly. “No. MC would have told me something like that. I’ve been writing to her for two years and she never ever once said she was pregnant. There’s no way.”
“It’s true Chris,” Jack said and PFC Powell shook his head no again, before Jack puts his hands up. “I’m serious, this is the truth.”
Chris froze, mouth open, blinking silently as he stared past Sully and into nothingness in front of him. He was disoriented, his world spinning but suddenly something came into focus: the letters. There was a long time when she wrote that she said very little about what was happening to her. She had been vague in the happenings of her life.
MC was a good girl. She loved him, or at least that’s what she wrote. If she had given birth to a child, she wouldn’t lie about who the father was. Still, shock had taken ahold of Chris.
“How can you be sure?” Chris asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Lizzie said in her last couple of letters that MC hadn’t wanted to tell you because she didn’t want to add to your worries while you were away. Lizzie said she was just scared is all and trying to protect you. But Lizzie thought it best that you know and she wrote me finally to tell me,” Jack said. With a grunt, he bent down onto one knee beside Chris, wincing slightly from the pain in his thigh. They all had their secrets it seemed. Jack had never written to let Lizzie know he had been shot. It would have sent her into a frenzy.
“When did she tell you?” Chris breathed out.
“I got a letter when we were in France,” Jack hesitated. “In November,” he says and licks his teeth. “Look, Powell, I wasn’t sure if we were going to make it out of there and…I thought the same thing MC did. That telling you then would only worry you more. I…was just trying to find the right time to break it to you and that never seemed to be. I’m sorry….”
Chris nodded. “It’s alright,” he said distantly.
Resting his forearm, across his knee, Jack looked at Chris, eye to eye. “Your boy’s name is William. He’s almost a year and a half old now, Chris,” Jack explained.
Chris’s face remained slack, his mouth still open. His body did not move, not even with a rising and falling of his chest. He was not breathing. The color was gone from his face. He snapped his mouth shut before looking at Jack. He gulped and opened his mouth again to speak, letting out a deep sigh. He took broken and shaky inhales and suddenly his body jerked.
“Why would she have kept this from me? All this time?” He squinted as he posed the question to Jack.
“I think she thought she was protecting you,” Jack said patiently answering the question again. “That’s…a heavy thing to send in a letter. Especially after only knowing each other for a short amount of time. But listen, Chris, you are a father now,” Jack said and puts his hand on his shoulder, he shook him slightly, jarring him back to reality. “You have a son. I don’t know all of the details, but if MC is staying with Lizzie then she probably doesn’t have anyone else. She’s scared and she’s going to need you. Do you hear me? That girl needs you. Your son needs you. So, when we make it out of this mess, you go home and you do right by her? You hear? You have responsibilities when you get home. You be a man to her and a father to your boy.”
Deep frown lines formed in Chris’s forehead. “I would never abandon her…them” he corrected, meeting Jack’s gaze again.
Sully gave a small smirk. “Didn’t think you would,” he nodded. “Well uh…I’m going to leave you to it but…if you need somebody who’s been there….” Sully said and tossed his head. Chris nodded before Sully slapped him on the shoulder. He braced himself on Chris as he pushed himself up to standing. He turned and headed back towards the officer’s tent before looking back at Chris.
The young private was staring at something only he could see. Jack finally took a deep breath and walked away.
Stupefied, Chris sat in silence for several minutes. Finally he looked down at the paper in his lap. He reached out for the pencil on the ground and wrote out a single line. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He stared at the paper for a long time before tossing it in the trash. He could not send that letter to her. He could not find the right words to tell her he knew. She wanted to protect him and if it weren’t for Lizzie and Jack, he still would never have known.
As Chris wrestled with the news from home and what to write MC, their infantry was called together for a special meeting that night. They would begin training and working with the Navy on a special mission. The something big was coming.
Unsure of what to tell her and facing what he thought was certain doom, PFC Powell determined he would not send a letter to MC inquiring about his child until he felt he had the right words in his heart and was certain he would be returning to them soon.
Locking eyes with Jack on the beach, he feels in this moment, it was the right choice.
The Lieutenant motions his fingers towards the bluff, throwing his head in the direction they must go. Chris swallows anxiety and nods his head.
He looks to Charlie, “We got to run. Take cover behind whatever you can find.”
Charlie grips his rifle, his face and knuckles ashen and nods.
Lieutenant Thomas rises from behind the metal tripod and his body spasms violently as the blistering slug buries itself in his shoulder. His rifle drops to the sand as he grabs at his shoulder. Another bullet strikes near his hip and he falls to the ground, groaning in deep agony.
“Lieutenant!” Sergeant O’Sullivan shouts and scrambles towards him.
With a blood-curdling growl, Lieutenant Thomas shouts at him. “Keep going! Go on!”
There is reservation in Jack’s eyes, he doesn’t want to leave anyone behind but trying to carry the Lieutenant to safety would surely spell death for them both trying to reach the bluff.
“Go!” The Lieutenant shouts again.
Jack nods, tearing his eyes away from him and looking ahead. He winces as he stands, bending his knees to stoop as he runs with a ducked head. Charlie and Chris roll from behind the obstacle and follow, spreading out to keep the bullets from focusing on the trio.
They trek around bodies lying in pools of maroon and stop every few feet to drop to the ground and shield themselves. Gun shots jet over their heads as they head towards safety. Charlie steps to the left and then freezes.
He hears a click and looks down.
Chris is a few feet to his right, Jack paces ahead of him. Chris glances to the side and sees that Charlie is petrified, frozen like a block of ice.
“Chris….” He says, his face twisting in terror. He looks down below his foot.
“Charlie!” Chris shouts and lunges towards him. As he does, a force grabs the collar of his jacket as Jack yanks him backwards and away from his friend.
The mine under Charlie’s foot detonates and in a blinding flash, he is gone. Shrapnel and sand fly towards Chris and Jack as they fall to the ground. Jack’s body crashes down on top of Chris’s as he feels a searing heat, pierce the flesh of his neck. Chris looks up into Jack’s vacant eyes as the sergeant clutches at his throat.
Another explosion shakes the ground beside Chris. There is a moment of total numbness then excruciating pain. Chris looks up at Jack whose eyes close slowly before everything around PFC Powell fades into blackness.
***
There was no outrage or sweeping sense of Patriotism as on the day of the Pearl Harbor attack.
There was not a panic or rush to buy up food or canned goods at the grocery stores. The American people did not fear an attack was imminent on their places of work, worship or even their homes.
On June 6, 1944, while thousands of young men perished on French shores, American’s started the day as any other. But by the afternoon, stores had closed, workers were sent home and the sanctuaries at countless churches were full.
Released from work early at the alterations shop, MC had gone to a special mass and lit candles for Chris and Jack.
As she walked back to the apartment, where Lizzie was waiting with the boys, she passed newsstands and paper boys heralding the latest news from the front: The Allies had invaded German territory.
Lizzie made a light supper but she and MC picked at their plates in silence.
As the boys played on the floor together, William crawling on the floor behind Daniel and giggling happily, Lizzie and MC huddled by the radio in the corner of the apartment listening to the President Roosevelt’s address that night.
“My fellow Americans: Last night, when I spoke with you about the fall of Rome, I knew at that moment that troops of the United States and our allies were crossing the Channel in another and greater operation. It has come to pass with success thus far.
And so, in this poignant hour, I ask you to join with me in prayer:
Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our Nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization, and to set free a suffering humanity.
Lead them straight and true; give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith.
They will need Thy blessings. Their road will be long and hard. For the enemy is strong. He may hurl back our forces. Success may not come with rushing speed, but we shall return again and again; and we know that by Thy grace, and by the righteousness of our cause, our sons will triumph.
They will be sore tried, by night and by day, without rest-until the victory is won. The darkness will be rent by noise and flame. Men’s souls will be shaken with the violences of war.
For these men are lately drawn from the ways of peace. They fight not for the lust of conquest. They fight to end conquest. They fight to liberate. They fight to let justice arise, and tolerance and good will among all Thy people. They yearn but for the end of battle, for their return to the haven of home.
As Lizzie listened, her eyes brimmed with tears. She and MC dropped to their knees of the floor, holding hands as they prayed along with the president for Chris and Jack’s safe return. Lizzie clutched MC’s hands tightly in her own before jumping up and grabbing her rosary beads. She returned to the floor, clasping their hands around the beads as they continued to pray.
With Thy blessing, we shall prevail over the unholy forces of our enemy. Help us to conquer the apostles of greed and racial arrogancies. Lead us to the saving of our country, and with our sister Nations into a world unity that will spell a sure peace a peace invulnerable to the schemings of unworthy men. And a peace that will let all of men live in freedom, reaping the just rewards of their honest toil.
Thy will be done, Almighty God.
Amen.”
The following morning, Lizzie dressed and left MC at the apartment with the children as she headed to the base. She sought answers from the administrators there. Was the 94th part of the invasion? Were there lives lost? Any word on Sergeant O’Sullivan or PFC Powell?
Beseeching them for answers, Lizzie left with an unsatisfactory and uneasy feeling. They had provided her very little details, saying the information was sensitive and classified. As she headed to her car she felt in her heart she was being lied to but why? She wondered if was for the sake of her own protection.
***
The July 4th holiday was always a time for jubilant celebration in the states.
During a period of war, there was no greater holiday to celebrate the nation’s birth and the pursuit of freedom. Red, white and blue streamers were everywhere through the state of Virginia.
Fort Lee hosted an event for the families of soldiers but Lizzie and MC had no interest in going.
MC did not want to return to the place that had terminated her employment because of the child she carried. It seemed hypocritical; an event to celebrate family when they had turned their back on her impending family. Lizzie wanted no further reminders of Jack’s absence. Every time she saw a soldier in uniform and stepped foot on base, she was struck by a desire to see him and to hold him again; a desire that for so long had gone unfulfilled.
Each time she had visited the base to pick up Jack’s salary, she had checked in with the mail office. No letters came from Sergeant O’Sullivan or PFC Powell for MC. Nothing had come since May.
July 4th came and went without celebration in Mrs. O’Sullivan’s apartment.
A little more than a week later, the afternoon of July 15th was a gray, dreary day.
It was rare during the summer months to have a solid day of rain, but the storm clouds had rolled over Prince George that morning and had no intention of blowing away.
Rain fell at time in sheets, buckets pouring over the windows of their little apartment. The rain never lightened beyond a heavy drizzle.
They had intended to take the boys to the park that Saturday afternoon and let them play. They were rambunctious and full of energy and the weekends served as a time to let the children be children.
Plans for the park were cancelled and Lizzie and MC are seated on the floor, making structures with wooden building blocks with the boys.
The buzzer at the door rings.
Lizzie lifts her head from her attempt to make a skyscraper, giving a questioning glance at MC. Was she expecting a visitor?
MC hopped up from the floor, smoothing her dress before unlatching the door.
On the other side of the threshold, a young man stands in a brown, military-styled uniform and hat, but he is far too young to be a soldier. His face is stoic and in his hand, he holds an envelope.
MC looks at the emblem on his hat: Western Union.
Wordlessly she lifts her fingertips to her lips. Her eyes fill with tears. This is not for her. There would be no one to know to notify her at Lizzie’s apartment and she is of no familial relationship to her PFC.
She lets out a gasp as she looks at the young man. His brown eyes are empty. He has done this hundreds of times, but since the invasion, he and the telegram deliverers of Western Union have been working from sun up to sun down.
MC knows who this delivery is for. She feels a tightening in her chest. If this was Jack’s fate, then what of Chris’s?
“Mrs. O’Sullivan?” the young man asks.
MC shakes her head no as tears roll down her cheeks. She looks back at Lizzie, her eyes wide.
Sitting crossed legged on the floor, Lizzie is still as soon as she sees MC’s face. Her face falls.
“MC?” She whispers. “Who is it?”
MC bites into her trembling lip, and sniffles, unable to control the grief she feels for her friend. She opens the door wider, revealing the young man in the hall. Lizzie rises to her feet. She does not feel the steps she takes. She feels herself moving outside of her own body.
Daniel and William continue to build with their blocks on the floor, but Daniel stops when he sees MC’s face. She looks into the face of the little boy with Jack’s eyes before looking back at Lizzie.
Lizzie stands in the doorway, her eyes moving from MC to the young man.
He lifts the telegram to her. “Mrs. O’Sullivan, I’m very sorry or your loss,” he says holding the telegram towards her.
Lizzie’s body begins to shake, her chest heaves and the guttural cry that escapes her mouth scares the boys. William begins to cry as another wail erupts from her body. It rings through the halls of the entire apartment building.
Her knees are weak and she feels faint. MC catches her, wrapping her arms around her before she hits the floor.
“Jack!” Lizzie screams as sobs possess her. “Jack!” she screams over and over.