Definition Of A Hero

The Dreadful Beach

June 6th, 1944 6:30am

Normandy, France

Sure, they'd been prepared for it, sure, they had practiced this back in May, but this was different, this was real. For one, the weather had been much nicer back in May, and Commander Eisenhower had planned on it holding up for the attack on the 4th, but that never happened. It was thought they'd cancel, no, not an operation of this magnitude, instead, here they were. The sky was bleak with heavy overcast, limiting the Allied air support; it was on their shoulders now. Alfred glanced up, shuddering slightly as the moment drew nearer. He ran a hand through the small tuft of blonde hair that peeked out of his helmet before adjusting his glasses, before giving up on de-fogging them and tucking them away in his pocket. It hadn't really dawned on him yet the severity of the situation.

When he had enlisted in the army, he thought it'd be something of glory and triumph, that he'd fight a few French and German soldiers before coming home to parades in his honor. As it turned out, it was far from it, he wasn't as keen on being the hero he had so long aspired to be, as much as he hated to think so, no single man in this army was a hero. Rather, they all were heroes, collectively.

All thinking was thrown to a hault as bodies were blown into the air as the boat beside them, being hit directly with a large artillery shell, A single boat with several rifleman and ammunition led the dogged three remaining boats, of Company D. There was about 20 seconds before the ramp would drop. No time for thinking. Suddenly, another shell hit the lead boat, those who weren't killed on impact tried to swim to the beach, while grabbing for the weapons.

"We're about to land." The Commander said, his eyes glazed over, was it fear? Or was it simply the knowing that he was speaking to the men in which many of them would never see the light of day again come the next morning. A man once full of humor and wit in his younger days had since been erased, replaced with a stiff, no-nonsense man of apathy, as if he were made of stone. "We'll have to be smart, and we'll have to be quick. Be strong for your country, live for your country, and if you do not make it, remember, you laid down your life a valiant man, a hero, for sake of protecting our liberty.

Hero. ..

The word seemed so hollow now.

"Ten seconds!"

The ramp dropped, it truly began. The bombings. The bullets. The horror. Man after man flung himself over the side, and the ones who'd manage to survive that far began to swim, soon reaching the beach if they hadn't been killed. The moment his feet could touch, Alfred ran, heart already pounding. Men he'd known since childhood, completely obliterated by bullets and shrapnel before they had even gotten out of the boat. The ones in front completely blown away in seconds by heavy machine gun fire. He'd only been out of the water a few seconds, and he was already splattered with blood. The ground shook at another explosion that was far too close to comfort. He stared into the eyes of young men, just like himself, before gunning them down without another word. Men he didn't even know. It hurt, knowing they were just like him, some even his age, all men with lives and families, some with wives or a nice girl who would soon be one, some with young children, some, like him, who hadn't even gotten to experience that part of life yet. It ached, but there was the one, stone-cold fact that seemed to make it okay in the moment: it was either him, or them. Kill, or be killed. Heroes didn't give up like frightened children. Then again, his comic book heroes didn't mercilessly kill others either. But that was fiction, not the life of the soldier. The army owned him, he was to follow his commands, that was all.

The camp was like a small city, with bunkers and passages all around. Then there was the bodies, bodies everywhere, from both sides of the war, piling up by the second. Bodies of his friends, of his enemies, of strangers. Dismembered limbs just flying by; The sand hand taken a sickly red hue in many places and so many brave men bled out. It seemed as if he'd been running for hours, when in reality, he'd just managed to make it about ten yards. A barrage of bullets rained down on them as they trudged forward.

Mines exploded as the line began crawl through the barbed wire, as if through a rabbit hole. Rain poured mercilessly down upon them along with sniper fire. That's when he saw it. Upon clearing the barbed wire, Alfred glanced over his shoulder, almost as if to see if he was the only one left. Sure, it was preposterous, but he felt so alone. That's when he saw him, young, blonde, and almost identical to himself, the ground shook once more as a mine went off from behind, causing both of them to stumble and fall to the ground.

"You there!" He hollered over the horrendous, ceaseless gunfire. The young man, now beside him, glanced up, both crawling forward, waiting for a moment where they could stand up and resume running. "W-what's your name?"

"M-atthew." The terrified look-alike replied as he was helped up by his somewhat taller counterpart.

"Alfred." He said. "Stay close to me. We'll get out of this, I promise." He offered a momentary smile before firing off the remains of his magazine at the German soldiers on the hill. He'd lost track of time for sure, it hadn't even come close to an hour, yet it felt like an eternity. More running, more explosions, more blood-curdling cries of his countryman's final moments. But he remained by his younger counterpart, determined to get out of it alive, together.

More shrapnel. More bullets. Matthew fell to the ground, clutching his leg, what remained of it. Tendons were hanging as the bone of his left leg had been blown to bits. "Go on!" He cried to his newfound companion. "I can't go anymore…YOU CAN STILL MAKE IT ALFRED! GO!"

But the older blonde would have none of it; wordlessly he hoisted Matthew onto his free shoulder, resuming fire as he carried double the weight, trying to maintain his speed. To his relief, Air support had managed to cause some casualties on the hills, it wasn't enough to quell the brutality, but maybe he had a chance after all!

More explosions erupted all around from both sides. All he could see was fire and flame, that's when it hit him, something hot pierced his chest, in a millisecond, he was on the ground. Everything seemed to move slower, as if time was slowing itself, just for him, he glanced over at Matthew, who knelt over him in horror, screaming something, but nothing seemed to come out, all was silent. No explosions, no gunfire, no voices. The only sound was the beating of his heart, slower and slower. Alfred gritted his teeth. No! he had to make sure his new friend was alright! He was going to fulfill his promise. Two infantry men from the British enforcements ran to his side and looked him over, another young man with prominent eyebrows met his eyes sadly, shaking his head. Both he and Alfred knew nothing could be done in time.

"Help…him." Alfred sputtered, glancing over at his younger look alike. The blonde man only nodded, having his companion cover him as he hoisted Matthew up, before running to duck in a bunker. The second soldier glanced over, ready to join them. He turned around, yanking one of the dog tags free of the dying man before hurriedly rejoining the others.

"Let me see those." The Englishman said, glancing at the name. "Alfred F. Jones…sacrificed his life, to help another."

"A hero." Matthew quietly coughed, taking the tag in his trembling hands.

The word was not forgotten, when they told his parents of his ill fate, they regarded him greatly for his deeds, from that day forward, Corporal Jones was always known as a something greater than any comic book could ever illustrate- a true, American hero.