FuryofthePeople

As the C-47 approached the coast, I cringed in anticipation. This was it, the big day. A red light shone in the cabin, and we stood, attaching our hooks to the static line. I looked down and out the window, seeing the navy firing on the Japanese coast, small craft emerging from the larger landing ships, inbound to the shore. My brother was in one of them, he would face more hell than I would. Landing on the beaches was a more daunting task that I would encounter, as had been seen all through the war. We flew inland, and immediately began to take fire. The crimson tracers arced up into the sky, probing their way towards the aircraft. The sound

Inhale, count to three, exhale. Inhale, count to three, exhale....calm down, I told myself.  The piercing echoes of the explosion rung in my ears. Help me, help me, oh good god in heaven, someone help me! The unbearable pain of fire seemed seems to envelop my being.  It burns! Help me, God...someone?...help me!       "Szymon! Szymon! Good God, he's screwed up! Arno! Get a stretcher!"        My voice seems buried in the din of battle, death, and fear:  Brothers, help me! Brothers?        "Careful, lift him up! Izaak, grab his feet. Careful!"        "He's coming to!"        My eyes, they feel like needles. It's so bright!        "Szymon!

Eleven Men, Brave souls, shot dead in that wood. Battery overrun, sheltered by the town. Betrayed. Fascist soldiers storm the village. Taken prisoner. Lined up in the forest. The crack of Rifle Fire. Blood spilled on Belgian soil. Eleven Men, Brave souls, shot dead in that wood.

He stands On the bow of his whaler Rod in hand An old mariner Pushing 70. The smell of salt and fish surrounds him. The slowly expanding hemorrhage on his arm pops out In sheer contrast to his skin Darkened by decades in the sun. A box lays at his feet Laden with trout and cod. A scar stretches across his forehead One of the few remnants of his army service. The line is taut Another catch. So he stands there On his whaler in St. Helena sound An old mariner My grandfather Pushing 70.

In Bristol, from a cafe on Main Street I can see the rush of people, passing by the windows. There are Vietnam vets clad in sleeveless camouflage jackets saluting the mounted Cobra Gunship. In Bristol, from a cafe on Main Street I can see the old cinema, vacant all these years still advertising Back to the Future. In Bristol, from a cafe on Main Street I can see a child weeping over a dropped ice cream cone, and the teen who caused it to fall, laughing. In Bristol, not everything is forgotten. Dear Bristol, dear antique shop owner, overpricing everything worth interest. That’s what I think of Bristol: quaint, old, someone writi

When Mannheim awoke, he was in a cell, with two bitter-looking guards posted at the door. He looked out the small barred window only to see an armada of ships. ‘I have to get back to our lines,’ Mannheim thought. Waiting for it to become dark, Mannheim made his move. He very carefully pried up a floorboard, a nail protruding from one end. He snuck up behind one of the guards, the only one awake, pushing his arm through the bars, the board in it. He put his other arm over the guard’s mouth, and he swung the board, the nail striking the man’s neck, hitting his windpipe. The man struggled as blood filled his lungs, but

Immermann was convulsing as blood gushed in between the cracks in Mannheim and Huber’s hands as they applied pressure to the wound. Mannheim finally managed to tie a gauze bandage around Immermann’s chest, stopping the bleeding. “Bail out!” Mannheim yelled. The crew crawled out of the hatch in the floor of the tank, Immermann and Huber going out first, then Deutscher, and then Mannheim. Crawling down the hill, away from the road, they emerged from under the tank, crawling down the road, adjacent to the column. They soon managed to make it back to a medical vehicle. Immermann was laid down on a stretcher and taken bac