The Shores of Death
By CrazyForGod
28-year-old United States Army Soldier 1st Lieutenant Gregory Dobson was wet, cold, and ready to die. He was standing on the deck of a Navy issue troop carrier, grasping the side rail for balance, as the craft churned across the choppy waters of the Bay of Biscay. It was a small and dismal boat. Dobson's platoon, consisting mostly of drafted Privates he had been assigned to train for 0309 infantry, was huddled together with everyone getting as close as they could to each other's warmth on the crowded, freezing, wet, slippery, metal deck of the boat.
Dobson looked up from his boots and at the light bulb posted onto the high metal wall of the roofless troop carrier. It still shined red. Good. His doom must be at least another 5 minutes away. He relaxed a bit. From the Navy frigate "Georgia mark II", it looked as if the foggy morning shores of Normandy, France would be but a 10-minute trip before it would be time to disembark from the troop carrier and snipe as many Nazi soldiers as he could before he got blown to pieces by long-range artillery. So far it had been 20 minutes. An uneasy feeling passed over the platoon leader; it could be any time now that the light bulb would turn yellow, and then suddenly green, and then the front gate of the craft would swing open, revealing Dobson and his platoon of infantrymen to the Nazi beach defense.
Dobson looked back down at his boots and lowered the butt of his M1 Garand rifle to the ground, holding it by the barrel. He did not want to look at the light bulb again, fearing that it might be yellow. The minutes were passing like hours, making Dobson uneasier and uneasier. He thought about a lot of things, like back to the time when he had just been promoted to 1st Lieutenant. How he excited he was to finally be in charge of his own infantry platoon and to be able to guide them through actual enemy territory, in just a few months! He recalled his fellow officer Ryan Hazel's words "Don't be eager to go to war" and wished that he had taken them to heart. As Dobson went through more and more war simulations, he found himself dreading the upcoming date in which he would take his men into real Nazi military territory and fight a battle that he would later call "The Battle at the Shores of Death".
The front end of the boat suddenly lurched upward, sending the soldiers slipping and staggering backwards into those behind them. Then, just as suddenly, the boat's front end slammed back down onto the ocean surface, raining salt water down on top of everybody. All this motion was too much for Private Donald Matthews, whom was a drafted 19-year-old Catholic boy standing in line in front of Dobson, and he vomited onto the cramped, now smelly, deck of the carrier. Everyone pushed and shoved against each other, struggling to get as far away from the pile as they could. Matthews, still coughing, traced his finger across his chest, making cross-symbols. Dobson didn't move a bit from where he was. He only looked at Matthews and smiled. "The poor kid." Dobson thought. The platoon commander understood that Matthews was very much against fighting, let alone war. But even though Matthews was drafted into service, he didn't speak a word about it. Matthews never managed well aboard the "Georgia mark II"; he often got sick eating the Navy food and went for nights without sleep, because with the ship's rocking kept him awake. But Matthews never complained once and faithfully obeyed every order he was given.
Dobson patted Matthews on the shoulder, took another quick glance at the light bulb, (which still showed red) and then looked over at some other infantrymen he had come to know. At the very front of the boat stood Private Walter Chump, who had also been drafted. He was 21-years-old, very brawny, and not particularly bright. Reading his file, Dobson learned that Chump had skipped college and lived with his parents for 3 years before he was drafted into service. Dobson often wondered how people like Chump managed to get into the Army so easily while Dobson had to work very hard to get into the position that he was currently in.
To Dobson's right was a tall, young, dark-skinned Private named Michel-Raymond Berry. He was extremely bright and could have taken a 4-year college term and become an Officer in the Army, had he chosen to. After getting into a conversation with Berry, Dobson learned that Berry had not been drafted into service but had joined the Army willingly. He did not take the 4-year college term because he knew that he would be needed in the Armed Forces immediately. Berry was not eager to go to war, but eager to help end it.
Berry noticed the platoon leader looking at him. Berry looked back and smiled. "Semper Fi." He said. "Shut up, Private." Dobson replied and started starring at the front gate of the boat. Both soldiers were talking in the standard "Enlisted man interacting with Officer" language and both soldiers understood exactly what the other was saying. In English, Berry had said, "You're a good leader and we're all with you." Dobson had replied, "Appreciate it. Shut up."
The platoon leader looked at and thought about every other soldier in the boat. He had trained each one of them to do something very simple and yet very complicated; kill. How hard it was going to be for the people in Dobson's platoon to take aim at a Nazi's head and then pull the trigger, he didn't know. He had given several lectures, back at Fort Logan H. Roots, about how emotion during a combat situation can make a soldier less effective, but Dobson really had no idea how much good the lectures did his platoon. He was worried. He was not so much worried that his entire platoon would be killed; he had given plenty of lectures about that and thought that his platoon had gotten the general idea that they would be 'dying for their country'. Dobson was rather worried that his entire platoon would have to kill.
A sudden thought struck Dobson; a horrifying thought; Dobson would have to kill. Dobson felt his knees almost give way, on the deck of the boat. He lost sense of what was going on around him. He could no longer feel the boat rocking, or feel the waves splashing on top of him. "I have been ordered to kill.I have been ordered to end men's lives today"
A scratchy voice on the troop carrier's on-deck radio jolted Dobson back to reality. "Attention soldiers! This is the Georgia mark II. You're craft is now approximately 50 yards away from the 'shallow water point' where you shall disembark, along with Wave Bravo troop carriers. All troop carrier personal, open the ground compartment and extract the IRB!"
Dobson felt weary. He felt wearier than he had ever felt before in his entire life. It seemed as if he could just fall asleep, right where he was standing, and wake up back in the United States, on top of his warm bed inside his bachelor officer's barracks.
"Order's sir?" asked Donald Matthews, who, as Dobson noticed, had been staring at him for quite some time. Slightly embarrassed, Dobson sucked in his gut and yelled, "You heard the Georgia mark II; open that ground compartment and pull out that rubber duck immediately!"
"Yes sir!" came the response from his platoon. Dobson looked up at the light bulb, which was only going to be red for about 30 seconds longer. He continued to stare at it. He would not look away. Dobson was a leader and he was at war; he would not let the fear of dying and definitely not let the fear of killing, stop him from carrying out this mission.
Dobson looked back at his platoon, which he was glad to see, had pulled up from the ground compartment a fully inflated rubber boat. They all stood right next to it, ready to push it into the water when the gate opened. All the infantrymen looked at Dobson intensely, as if expecting him say something. Dobson only nodded approvingly, remembering that the platoon had always had trouble pulling out the rubber boat during the simulations. He stood next to the boat as well and grasped his M1 rifle tightly in his hands.
The voice on the on-deck radio said "Bravo Carrier 3! 10 seconds to disembark! I repeat, 10 seconds to disembark!" Everyone stood tense. Dobson looked at everybody's face. Matthews was making rapid cross symbols across his chest and mouthing words. Chump was cocking his head this way and that way, seeming quite confused. Berry was staring with a dark, determined expression, at the front gate. The boat suddenly slowed down and everyone leaned forward. The light bulb turned yellow. This was it. An ear-splitting boom rang out from an unknown direction. The light bulb turned green and the gate swung open.
RAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT
The boat was immediately bombarded with incoming bullets. They made
black indents on the wall of the boat and ricocheted off the metal
deck. The platoon pushed the rubber boat forward, trying to get it
into the ocean water. Matthews, who was standing in front of Dobson,
was knocked backward by a bullet that threw his helmet off. The
soldier across from Dobson, on the other side of the inflatable, was
shot in arm. He cried out in pain, as blood streamed from the wound.
"Move it, platoon, MOVE IT!" Dobson screamed. Most of the soldiers at
the front of the boat were shot as soon as the gate opened. Their
blood-soaked bodies were riddled with machine gun fire from the Nazi
beach-post.
Matthews was then shot in the head. The inflatable was hit and it let
out a whine as the air drained from it. The whole troop carrier was
shaking from bullet impacts. Dobson's instinct made him drop the
inflatable and jump through the front gate into the water, with his
rifle held above his head.
The water was deeper than anticipated, as Dobson learned, noticing
that his whole body was underwater and he could not feel the bottom.
The troop carrier had obviously not come in close enough. "Darn it!"
Dobson thought. "So far, nearly everyone in my platoon is dead and now
the survivors have to swim who-knows-how-far to shore!"
Dobson poked his head above water. The entire sky was thick with
smoke. Troop carriers to his left and his right, along the shoreline,
were flaming red with thick, towering smog. Many other soldiers were
swimming for their lives as well. Most of them were being shot in the
water or hurled high into the air by artillery shells exploding in a
gigantic splash on top of the water surface. The beach was about 30
yards ahead of Dobson. Rusty, metal tank traps lined the shore and
further up the beach were tangled messes of barbed-wire fences. Dobson
could barely make out, against the black horizon beyond the beach, the
gray, steel towers where the Nazis were firing from.
Careful to keep his rifle above water, Dobson ducked his head down
underwater and began kicking towards shore. "At least the tide is
coming in." He thought. From underwater, he could see tracers
impacting the surface and then drifting downwards towards the ocean
floor in a cluster of bubbles. Sticking his head above the water for a
short breath of air, he could only hear a never ending RAT TAT TAT TAT
TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT
At last, Dobson felt his foot kick the sandy bottom of the ocean
floor. He stood up and wadded as fast as he could towards the beach.
His body was cold, soaked, and exhausted from the swim, but he was
energized by the thought that if he stayed still to rest, he would be
shot. Looking behind him, he saw several other soldiers from his
platoon, dripping with seawater, running as fast as they could to the
beach. A wave knocked the weary body of Dobson flat on his face. He
crawled along the shallow water and squeezed between the tank traps.
Finally he was lying on the wet sand of Omaha Beach.
Dobson got up as fast as he could and ducked behind a mound of sand,
wheezing for breath. Bullets whizzed above his head and pelted the
mound, kicking sand into the air. Dobson took a quick chug from his
canteen, laid his gun aside and brought his standard issue binoculars
hanging around his neck, to his eyes. He scanned, above the mound, at
the towers in the distance. It appeared that the towers lined the
shore in both directions and were connected by high steel walls. At
the base of the wall there appeared to be a system of trenches, which
was exactly as it was in the training simulations. If the simulations
were accurate, Dobson guessed that from the trenches, one could get
through an accessible port that led inside the wall.
Chump, Berry, and 5 other soldiers that Dobson didn't recognize,
joined him at the mound.
"What are you guys doing here? Where's your platoon commander?" Dobson
yelled at the soldiers he didn't know.
"Dead, sir." One of them yelled back, over the ear-splitting noise of
the Nazi gunfire. An artillery shell whistled down to the ground and
exploded 10 feet from the group's right, creating a large crater. The
soldiers were rained with sand and dust.
"Well then you better do exactly what you're told to do!" Dobson
yelled. "You are now under my command! You are no longer following the
original plan of whoever your platoon commander was!"
The unknown soldier kept nodding his head as Dobson went on.
"You will now adapt to my plan of attack! Well, what are you waiting
for! Turn that stupid safety on your rifle off, pour that seawater out
of your gun barrel, and shoot those darn Nazis, already!"
The soldier immediately obeyed. They rested their gun barrels on the
top of the mound and began to aim.
Dobson looked over at Chump, remembering something. "Are you afraid to
kill, Private Chump?" He asked. Chump looked over at him with his
usual, puzzled expression on his face.
"No sir." He said.
Dobson wasn't expecting him to be afraid. He then considered Berry.
"What about you, Private Berry? Are you hesitant to forever end a
man's life on this earth?"
"No sir." Berry said, still aiming through his rifles sights. "It's
just. I can't see the enemy, sir!"
Dobson looked through his binoculars, again. Even though he could see
the flashing yellow of the machine guns firing from the distant
towers, he could not make out where the Nazis were, through the thick
smoke.
Another shell exploded nearby, sending flak whizzing past the heads of
Dobson's new platoon.
"We have to get closer!" He yelled, knowing that they would have to go
all they way to the base of the wall, into the trench. "Stay low and
run!"
Dobson ran out from behind the mound and bolted as fast as he could up
the beach. He didn't know if he'd find another sand mound or anything
to hide behind while he made his way to the trench. He looked behind
him. His platoon was keeping up well but was looking at him with
worried, doubtful expressions. Tracers impacted the sand at Dobson's
right and Dobson's left. He didn't know if the Nazis were firing at
him or someone else. He only ran as fast as he could, keeping his head
as low as possible. Eventually, Dobson came to a high, thick barbed-
wire fence. There he stopped and lay prone, gasping. Berry came up on
his left. The other soldiers aligned on Dobson's right.
"Where's Chump?" Dobson yelled. Berry looked around, wildly. Then his
face fell.
Dobson rolled his eyes and said, "Cover me while I cut through this
barbed-wire!"
He took out from his uniform pocket, which was beginning to dry, a ka-
bar knife. He looked over at the other soldiers. They were not
covering him.
"What the heck did I just say, soldier?" Dobson yelled. The soldiers
were helping each other unwind a cord wrapped around what appeared to
be a satchel charge.
"With all due respect, sir, our platoon commander would have us blow
through the barbed wire, during simulations, rather than sit in one
place and wait for someone else to cut through it."
Dobson rolled his eyes again and looked through his binoculars. He
could clearly see the towers now but, from the way the towers were
fortified, he would not be able to get a clear gunshot at the Nazis
operating the 50-Caliber gun turrets in the towers, not even from the
ahead trenches. They would have to get through the trenches and hope
that they would lead to inside the enemy compound.
An explosion of sand and dust boomed at Dobson's right. He thought it
was another artillery shell but, when he looked over, he saw that the
other solders had made a nice gap in the barbed-wire fence with their
satchel charge.
"Let's move, platoon!" He yelled, getting on his feet and running
through the gap. He looked behind him. Only one of the new soldiers
were following him. The rest of his platoon, including Berry, lay dead
and gushing out blood, on the ground, apparently shot by Nazi fire.
Dobson tore his face away from the corpse and ran for the cover of the
upcoming trench. He dove down into it and landed hard on his belly.
The wind knocked out of him, Dobson stayed where he was. He set his
gun down beside him and looked around. Ahead the trench branched to a
T in both directions. Crawling this way and that were other soldiers
that were blessed enough to have made it this far up the beach. Taking
a long drink from his canteen. Dobson looked behind him at the only
platoon member he had left.
"What's your name, son?" He asked.
"2nd. Lieutenant Leo Poet, sir." Came the reply.
"How come you're still alive?" Dobson asked, half being serious, half
being sarcastic. Poet thought for a moment and then said,
"I've been following you, sir. I did not participate in using the
satchel charge and have obeyed every order you have given me." He
paused. "If I die, don't blame yourself, sir; I fully realize that I
am a warrior and a I am at war."
Dobson appreciated Poet's words.
"Are you afraid to kill?" Dobson asked, getting up off his belly, into
a crouching position.
"I am. afraid to ambush, but I am not afraid to kill a man on his
guard." came Poet's response.
Dobson moved slowly and cautiously along the trench and turned right
at the T, with Poet following behind. Dobson held his rifle at ready,
against his shoulder, prepared to fire at any Nazi that might be
around the next corner of the trench. He looked up at the wall. The
Nazi 50-Caliber guns were still firing at the shoreline, sending
bullets flying high over Dobson's head, but most of the soldiers had
already made it to the trench, as Dobson discovered when he rounded
the corner. The soldiers had discovered a door in the side of the wall
and were getting in formation so that as soon as they opened it, they
would be able to get a clear shot at any Nazi guard on the other side.
Dobson aligned himself at an angle of the door's right side and held
his rifle ready. A soldier standing against the wall, on the left side
of the door looked at the group, nodded, reached over, and swung the
door open.
Dobson almost pulled the trigger, while aiming at the doorway, before
he noticed that what he thought was a Nazi on the other side was just
a stack of rusty barrels. The room inside was dark and dimly lighted
by red, overhead lamps. Dobson, with the rest of the soldiers behind
him, slowly stepped into the room. It was a small square room
containing only the rusty barrels and a staircase leading upward to a
closed door. Suddenly the room filed with light as the door at the top
of the stairs, swung open. A figure in a black coat ran down the
stairs. By instinct, Dobson aimed at the figure's head and fired his
rifle. The figure's head spurted out a blast of blood and he tumbled
limply down the stairs. Dobson froze. He looked at the crumpled heap,
at the bottom of the stairs, of the first man in his life that he had
killed.
"Keep moving, soldiers!" came a voice from behind Dobson. Dobson
looked up from the Nazi's body. It would not be the last man he would
kill. He slowly stepped to the foot of the stairs, keeping his sights
on the open doorway. It led out on top of the wall.
The other soldiers came up beside Dobson. Poet carefully took out from
his uniform pocket, a hand grenade, pulled out the pin, and tossed it
through the open doorway, up the stairs. A few seconds later, the
entire room shook as a tremendous explosion boomed at the top of the
stairs. Dobson and the soldiers ran quickly up the stairs and looked
around. The wall led, in both directions, to the towers where the 50-
Caliber guns were still firing. Stepping around the gap in the top of
wall that the grenade had made, Dobson and Poet ran over to a doorway
leading into one of the towers. Poet pulled out the pin of another of
his grenades and tossed it through the doorway. They both backed up.
The entire tower burst apart in a gigantic fireball, reddening the
faces of the two soldiers with the heat blast.
Dobson looked at what was beyond the wall, on the other side. A level
elevation of sand contained a bunch of small steel houses, tents, and
sandbag barriers, which were all scattered about, resembling an
infantryman's barracks. Behind the houses, Dobson could see the
artillery guns. He walked quickly, off the wall and to the side of one
the houses. Poet followed, but was then shot in the stomach by an
unseen Nazi sniper hiding behind a pile of sandbags, next to one of
the artillery. Poet screamed out in pain. Dobson quickly backed up,
took a hold of Poet's leg and dragged his screaming body behind the
backside of the house.
"2nd Lieutenant Poet, stop screaming!" Dobson yelled. He ripped off
the sleeve of Dobson's own uniform and attempted to stop the blood
from flowing out of Poet's stomach. But Poet had already lost way too
much blood. In a matter of seconds, he was dead.
Dobson was completely frozen solid. He didn't move single muscle of
his body, not even his eyelids. He just stood there, over the corpse
of 2nd Lieutenant Leo Poet. Almost everything in the mission had gone
wrong. First the troop carriers didn't come in far enough and, as a
result, most of the soldiers were killed in the water. Then, when they
finally got to shore, the enemy was way out-of-range and, as a result,
most of the soldiers were killed in attempt to get closer.
"Wir haben hostiles erhalten!" Dobson heard a voice shout from the
other side of the house. "Sie haben den seawall gebrochen!"
Dobson shook with anger. He grasped his rifle tighter than ever
before. In what seemed like slow motion, he spun around the corner of
the house, brought his rifle's sights to his eyes and fired at that
darn Nazi sniper. He missed completely. The Nazi reacted and dove his
body behind the pile of sandbags. The artillery gun to the Nazi's
right let out a BOOM as if fired a shell. Dobson looked behind him, at
the other side of the wall. At the shore, troop carriers from Wave
Charlie were coming in and dropping off their troops. A second
artillery shell shot out from the large guns, ahead of Dobson. The
shells began bombarding the soldiers attempting to advance up the
beachhead. Dobson was going to tear those artillery guns apart, piece-
by-piece.
Something hit the ground at Dobson's feet. A grenade! Dobson kicked it
toward where the Nazi sniper was and he ran back around to backside of
the house. The grenade detonated. The artillery guns fired and fired.
"Soldiers! Get over here and give me some fire support." Dobson
yelled. A group of soldiers who were still securing the wall towers
ran over to Dobson's aid. Dobson reached down for Poet's body, took
out a grenade from one of the uniform pockets, pulled out the pin and
tossed it around the corner. A fiery explosion rose high into the air,
above the house. Dobson spun around the corner, ready to fire at any
other Nazi that stood in his way. It appeared that Dobson had tossed
his grenade directly towards one of the artillery guns, which now
smoked with fire. "Good." Dobson mumbled.
The Nazi sniper, who was still alive, peeked up again above the
sandbags, and took a shot at Dobson. Dobson felt something hit his
left shoulder with such force that he was knocked backward onto the
ground. He cried out as blood streamed from where the bullet had hit,
and stained his uniform. He grasped the wound. Where were those other
soldiers? Dobson looked over and saw their bodies laying limply about
the ground, obviously shot by Nazi forces hiding in the barracks area.
Dobson felt faint. He was losing a lot of blood. This was it. He was
going to die. His first platoon had died, his second platoon had died,
and even his fire support had died. Now he was going to die, right
there, upon the ground of enemy territory.
Everything in his mind and in his sight seemed to be blended together.
He thought about his career as an Officer and what a life-changing
experience it had been, as he watched soldiers on his right and on his
left run by and fire at Nazis. He thought about all the people in the
Army that he had led in combat and that he would see them again, soon.
Sound coming through his ears was quiet and distorted. The last thing
Dobson remembered seeing was a figure, an Army soldier or a Nazi,
standing over his body. The last thing Dobson remembered hearing was
something like "Let's get you to the medical tent." After that,
Dobson's mind was engulfed by darkness.
The next day, Dobson was wide-awake. With a bandage around his left
shoulder, he was helping Army field medics search the beachhead for
any soldiers that had been wounded and were still alive, from the day
before. Dobson had heard, after he awoke from unconsciousness, that
troops from Wave Charlie had brought along with them M1/M9s (Shoulder-
mounted rocket launchers) and had secured the barracks area without
much difficulty. Normandy Beach was successfully captured. United
States Army Soldier 1st Lieutenant Gregory Dobson had killed a total
of one Nazi and had almost been killed himself. He was a participant
in the battle of June 6th, 1944, or, what Dobson called, "The Battle
at the Shores of Death."
By CrazyForGod
28-year-old United States Army Soldier 1st Lieutenant Gregory Dobson was wet, cold, and ready to die. He was standing on the deck of a Navy issue troop carrier, grasping the side rail for balance, as the craft churned across the choppy waters of the Bay of Biscay. It was a small and dismal boat. Dobson's platoon, consisting mostly of drafted Privates he had been assigned to train for 0309 infantry, was huddled together with everyone getting as close as they could to each other's warmth on the crowded, freezing, wet, slippery, metal deck of the boat.
Dobson looked up from his boots and at the light bulb posted onto the high metal wall of the roofless troop carrier. It still shined red. Good. His doom must be at least another 5 minutes away. He relaxed a bit. From the Navy frigate "Georgia mark II", it looked as if the foggy morning shores of Normandy, France would be but a 10-minute trip before it would be time to disembark from the troop carrier and snipe as many Nazi soldiers as he could before he got blown to pieces by long-range artillery. So far it had been 20 minutes. An uneasy feeling passed over the platoon leader; it could be any time now that the light bulb would turn yellow, and then suddenly green, and then the front gate of the craft would swing open, revealing Dobson and his platoon of infantrymen to the Nazi beach defense.
Dobson looked back down at his boots and lowered the butt of his M1 Garand rifle to the ground, holding it by the barrel. He did not want to look at the light bulb again, fearing that it might be yellow. The minutes were passing like hours, making Dobson uneasier and uneasier. He thought about a lot of things, like back to the time when he had just been promoted to 1st Lieutenant. How he excited he was to finally be in charge of his own infantry platoon and to be able to guide them through actual enemy territory, in just a few months! He recalled his fellow officer Ryan Hazel's words "Don't be eager to go to war" and wished that he had taken them to heart. As Dobson went through more and more war simulations, he found himself dreading the upcoming date in which he would take his men into real Nazi military territory and fight a battle that he would later call "The Battle at the Shores of Death".
The front end of the boat suddenly lurched upward, sending the soldiers slipping and staggering backwards into those behind them. Then, just as suddenly, the boat's front end slammed back down onto the ocean surface, raining salt water down on top of everybody. All this motion was too much for Private Donald Matthews, whom was a drafted 19-year-old Catholic boy standing in line in front of Dobson, and he vomited onto the cramped, now smelly, deck of the carrier. Everyone pushed and shoved against each other, struggling to get as far away from the pile as they could. Matthews, still coughing, traced his finger across his chest, making cross-symbols. Dobson didn't move a bit from where he was. He only looked at Matthews and smiled. "The poor kid." Dobson thought. The platoon commander understood that Matthews was very much against fighting, let alone war. But even though Matthews was drafted into service, he didn't speak a word about it. Matthews never managed well aboard the "Georgia mark II"; he often got sick eating the Navy food and went for nights without sleep, because with the ship's rocking kept him awake. But Matthews never complained once and faithfully obeyed every order he was given.
Dobson patted Matthews on the shoulder, took another quick glance at the light bulb, (which still showed red) and then looked over at some other infantrymen he had come to know. At the very front of the boat stood Private Walter Chump, who had also been drafted. He was 21-years-old, very brawny, and not particularly bright. Reading his file, Dobson learned that Chump had skipped college and lived with his parents for 3 years before he was drafted into service. Dobson often wondered how people like Chump managed to get into the Army so easily while Dobson had to work very hard to get into the position that he was currently in.
To Dobson's right was a tall, young, dark-skinned Private named Michel-Raymond Berry. He was extremely bright and could have taken a 4-year college term and become an Officer in the Army, had he chosen to. After getting into a conversation with Berry, Dobson learned that Berry had not been drafted into service but had joined the Army willingly. He did not take the 4-year college term because he knew that he would be needed in the Armed Forces immediately. Berry was not eager to go to war, but eager to help end it.
Berry noticed the platoon leader looking at him. Berry looked back and smiled. "Semper Fi." He said. "Shut up, Private." Dobson replied and started starring at the front gate of the boat. Both soldiers were talking in the standard "Enlisted man interacting with Officer" language and both soldiers understood exactly what the other was saying. In English, Berry had said, "You're a good leader and we're all with you." Dobson had replied, "Appreciate it. Shut up."
The platoon leader looked at and thought about every other soldier in the boat. He had trained each one of them to do something very simple and yet very complicated; kill. How hard it was going to be for the people in Dobson's platoon to take aim at a Nazi's head and then pull the trigger, he didn't know. He had given several lectures, back at Fort Logan H. Roots, about how emotion during a combat situation can make a soldier less effective, but Dobson really had no idea how much good the lectures did his platoon. He was worried. He was not so much worried that his entire platoon would be killed; he had given plenty of lectures about that and thought that his platoon had gotten the general idea that they would be 'dying for their country'. Dobson was rather worried that his entire platoon would have to kill.
A sudden thought struck Dobson; a horrifying thought; Dobson would have to kill. Dobson felt his knees almost give way, on the deck of the boat. He lost sense of what was going on around him. He could no longer feel the boat rocking, or feel the waves splashing on top of him. "I have been ordered to kill.I have been ordered to end men's lives today"
A scratchy voice on the troop carrier's on-deck radio jolted Dobson back to reality. "Attention soldiers! This is the Georgia mark II. You're craft is now approximately 50 yards away from the 'shallow water point' where you shall disembark, along with Wave Bravo troop carriers. All troop carrier personal, open the ground compartment and extract the IRB!"
Dobson felt weary. He felt wearier than he had ever felt before in his entire life. It seemed as if he could just fall asleep, right where he was standing, and wake up back in the United States, on top of his warm bed inside his bachelor officer's barracks.
"Order's sir?" asked Donald Matthews, who, as Dobson noticed, had been staring at him for quite some time. Slightly embarrassed, Dobson sucked in his gut and yelled, "You heard the Georgia mark II; open that ground compartment and pull out that rubber duck immediately!"
"Yes sir!" came the response from his platoon. Dobson looked up at the light bulb, which was only going to be red for about 30 seconds longer. He continued to stare at it. He would not look away. Dobson was a leader and he was at war; he would not let the fear of dying and definitely not let the fear of killing, stop him from carrying out this mission.
Dobson looked back at his platoon, which he was glad to see, had pulled up from the ground compartment a fully inflated rubber boat. They all stood right next to it, ready to push it into the water when the gate opened. All the infantrymen looked at Dobson intensely, as if expecting him say something. Dobson only nodded approvingly, remembering that the platoon had always had trouble pulling out the rubber boat during the simulations. He stood next to the boat as well and grasped his M1 rifle tightly in his hands.
The voice on the on-deck radio said "Bravo Carrier 3! 10 seconds to disembark! I repeat, 10 seconds to disembark!" Everyone stood tense. Dobson looked at everybody's face. Matthews was making rapid cross symbols across his chest and mouthing words. Chump was cocking his head this way and that way, seeming quite confused. Berry was staring with a dark, determined expression, at the front gate. The boat suddenly slowed down and everyone leaned forward. The light bulb turned yellow. This was it. An ear-splitting boom rang out from an unknown direction. The light bulb turned green and the gate swung open.
RAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT
The boat was immediately bombarded with incoming bullets. They made
black indents on the wall of the boat and ricocheted off the metal
deck. The platoon pushed the rubber boat forward, trying to get it
into the ocean water. Matthews, who was standing in front of Dobson,
was knocked backward by a bullet that threw his helmet off. The
soldier across from Dobson, on the other side of the inflatable, was
shot in arm. He cried out in pain, as blood streamed from the wound.
"Move it, platoon, MOVE IT!" Dobson screamed. Most of the soldiers at
the front of the boat were shot as soon as the gate opened. Their
blood-soaked bodies were riddled with machine gun fire from the Nazi
beach-post.
Matthews was then shot in the head. The inflatable was hit and it let
out a whine as the air drained from it. The whole troop carrier was
shaking from bullet impacts. Dobson's instinct made him drop the
inflatable and jump through the front gate into the water, with his
rifle held above his head.
The water was deeper than anticipated, as Dobson learned, noticing
that his whole body was underwater and he could not feel the bottom.
The troop carrier had obviously not come in close enough. "Darn it!"
Dobson thought. "So far, nearly everyone in my platoon is dead and now
the survivors have to swim who-knows-how-far to shore!"
Dobson poked his head above water. The entire sky was thick with
smoke. Troop carriers to his left and his right, along the shoreline,
were flaming red with thick, towering smog. Many other soldiers were
swimming for their lives as well. Most of them were being shot in the
water or hurled high into the air by artillery shells exploding in a
gigantic splash on top of the water surface. The beach was about 30
yards ahead of Dobson. Rusty, metal tank traps lined the shore and
further up the beach were tangled messes of barbed-wire fences. Dobson
could barely make out, against the black horizon beyond the beach, the
gray, steel towers where the Nazis were firing from.
Careful to keep his rifle above water, Dobson ducked his head down
underwater and began kicking towards shore. "At least the tide is
coming in." He thought. From underwater, he could see tracers
impacting the surface and then drifting downwards towards the ocean
floor in a cluster of bubbles. Sticking his head above the water for a
short breath of air, he could only hear a never ending RAT TAT TAT TAT
TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT
At last, Dobson felt his foot kick the sandy bottom of the ocean
floor. He stood up and wadded as fast as he could towards the beach.
His body was cold, soaked, and exhausted from the swim, but he was
energized by the thought that if he stayed still to rest, he would be
shot. Looking behind him, he saw several other soldiers from his
platoon, dripping with seawater, running as fast as they could to the
beach. A wave knocked the weary body of Dobson flat on his face. He
crawled along the shallow water and squeezed between the tank traps.
Finally he was lying on the wet sand of Omaha Beach.
Dobson got up as fast as he could and ducked behind a mound of sand,
wheezing for breath. Bullets whizzed above his head and pelted the
mound, kicking sand into the air. Dobson took a quick chug from his
canteen, laid his gun aside and brought his standard issue binoculars
hanging around his neck, to his eyes. He scanned, above the mound, at
the towers in the distance. It appeared that the towers lined the
shore in both directions and were connected by high steel walls. At
the base of the wall there appeared to be a system of trenches, which
was exactly as it was in the training simulations. If the simulations
were accurate, Dobson guessed that from the trenches, one could get
through an accessible port that led inside the wall.
Chump, Berry, and 5 other soldiers that Dobson didn't recognize,
joined him at the mound.
"What are you guys doing here? Where's your platoon commander?" Dobson
yelled at the soldiers he didn't know.
"Dead, sir." One of them yelled back, over the ear-splitting noise of
the Nazi gunfire. An artillery shell whistled down to the ground and
exploded 10 feet from the group's right, creating a large crater. The
soldiers were rained with sand and dust.
"Well then you better do exactly what you're told to do!" Dobson
yelled. "You are now under my command! You are no longer following the
original plan of whoever your platoon commander was!"
The unknown soldier kept nodding his head as Dobson went on.
"You will now adapt to my plan of attack! Well, what are you waiting
for! Turn that stupid safety on your rifle off, pour that seawater out
of your gun barrel, and shoot those darn Nazis, already!"
The soldier immediately obeyed. They rested their gun barrels on the
top of the mound and began to aim.
Dobson looked over at Chump, remembering something. "Are you afraid to
kill, Private Chump?" He asked. Chump looked over at him with his
usual, puzzled expression on his face.
"No sir." He said.
Dobson wasn't expecting him to be afraid. He then considered Berry.
"What about you, Private Berry? Are you hesitant to forever end a
man's life on this earth?"
"No sir." Berry said, still aiming through his rifles sights. "It's
just. I can't see the enemy, sir!"
Dobson looked through his binoculars, again. Even though he could see
the flashing yellow of the machine guns firing from the distant
towers, he could not make out where the Nazis were, through the thick
smoke.
Another shell exploded nearby, sending flak whizzing past the heads of
Dobson's new platoon.
"We have to get closer!" He yelled, knowing that they would have to go
all they way to the base of the wall, into the trench. "Stay low and
run!"
Dobson ran out from behind the mound and bolted as fast as he could up
the beach. He didn't know if he'd find another sand mound or anything
to hide behind while he made his way to the trench. He looked behind
him. His platoon was keeping up well but was looking at him with
worried, doubtful expressions. Tracers impacted the sand at Dobson's
right and Dobson's left. He didn't know if the Nazis were firing at
him or someone else. He only ran as fast as he could, keeping his head
as low as possible. Eventually, Dobson came to a high, thick barbed-
wire fence. There he stopped and lay prone, gasping. Berry came up on
his left. The other soldiers aligned on Dobson's right.
"Where's Chump?" Dobson yelled. Berry looked around, wildly. Then his
face fell.
Dobson rolled his eyes and said, "Cover me while I cut through this
barbed-wire!"
He took out from his uniform pocket, which was beginning to dry, a ka-
bar knife. He looked over at the other soldiers. They were not
covering him.
"What the heck did I just say, soldier?" Dobson yelled. The soldiers
were helping each other unwind a cord wrapped around what appeared to
be a satchel charge.
"With all due respect, sir, our platoon commander would have us blow
through the barbed wire, during simulations, rather than sit in one
place and wait for someone else to cut through it."
Dobson rolled his eyes again and looked through his binoculars. He
could clearly see the towers now but, from the way the towers were
fortified, he would not be able to get a clear gunshot at the Nazis
operating the 50-Caliber gun turrets in the towers, not even from the
ahead trenches. They would have to get through the trenches and hope
that they would lead to inside the enemy compound.
An explosion of sand and dust boomed at Dobson's right. He thought it
was another artillery shell but, when he looked over, he saw that the
other solders had made a nice gap in the barbed-wire fence with their
satchel charge.
"Let's move, platoon!" He yelled, getting on his feet and running
through the gap. He looked behind him. Only one of the new soldiers
were following him. The rest of his platoon, including Berry, lay dead
and gushing out blood, on the ground, apparently shot by Nazi fire.
Dobson tore his face away from the corpse and ran for the cover of the
upcoming trench. He dove down into it and landed hard on his belly.
The wind knocked out of him, Dobson stayed where he was. He set his
gun down beside him and looked around. Ahead the trench branched to a
T in both directions. Crawling this way and that were other soldiers
that were blessed enough to have made it this far up the beach. Taking
a long drink from his canteen. Dobson looked behind him at the only
platoon member he had left.
"What's your name, son?" He asked.
"2nd. Lieutenant Leo Poet, sir." Came the reply.
"How come you're still alive?" Dobson asked, half being serious, half
being sarcastic. Poet thought for a moment and then said,
"I've been following you, sir. I did not participate in using the
satchel charge and have obeyed every order you have given me." He
paused. "If I die, don't blame yourself, sir; I fully realize that I
am a warrior and a I am at war."
Dobson appreciated Poet's words.
"Are you afraid to kill?" Dobson asked, getting up off his belly, into
a crouching position.
"I am. afraid to ambush, but I am not afraid to kill a man on his
guard." came Poet's response.
Dobson moved slowly and cautiously along the trench and turned right
at the T, with Poet following behind. Dobson held his rifle at ready,
against his shoulder, prepared to fire at any Nazi that might be
around the next corner of the trench. He looked up at the wall. The
Nazi 50-Caliber guns were still firing at the shoreline, sending
bullets flying high over Dobson's head, but most of the soldiers had
already made it to the trench, as Dobson discovered when he rounded
the corner. The soldiers had discovered a door in the side of the wall
and were getting in formation so that as soon as they opened it, they
would be able to get a clear shot at any Nazi guard on the other side.
Dobson aligned himself at an angle of the door's right side and held
his rifle ready. A soldier standing against the wall, on the left side
of the door looked at the group, nodded, reached over, and swung the
door open.
Dobson almost pulled the trigger, while aiming at the doorway, before
he noticed that what he thought was a Nazi on the other side was just
a stack of rusty barrels. The room inside was dark and dimly lighted
by red, overhead lamps. Dobson, with the rest of the soldiers behind
him, slowly stepped into the room. It was a small square room
containing only the rusty barrels and a staircase leading upward to a
closed door. Suddenly the room filed with light as the door at the top
of the stairs, swung open. A figure in a black coat ran down the
stairs. By instinct, Dobson aimed at the figure's head and fired his
rifle. The figure's head spurted out a blast of blood and he tumbled
limply down the stairs. Dobson froze. He looked at the crumpled heap,
at the bottom of the stairs, of the first man in his life that he had
killed.
"Keep moving, soldiers!" came a voice from behind Dobson. Dobson
looked up from the Nazi's body. It would not be the last man he would
kill. He slowly stepped to the foot of the stairs, keeping his sights
on the open doorway. It led out on top of the wall.
The other soldiers came up beside Dobson. Poet carefully took out from
his uniform pocket, a hand grenade, pulled out the pin, and tossed it
through the open doorway, up the stairs. A few seconds later, the
entire room shook as a tremendous explosion boomed at the top of the
stairs. Dobson and the soldiers ran quickly up the stairs and looked
around. The wall led, in both directions, to the towers where the 50-
Caliber guns were still firing. Stepping around the gap in the top of
wall that the grenade had made, Dobson and Poet ran over to a doorway
leading into one of the towers. Poet pulled out the pin of another of
his grenades and tossed it through the doorway. They both backed up.
The entire tower burst apart in a gigantic fireball, reddening the
faces of the two soldiers with the heat blast.
Dobson looked at what was beyond the wall, on the other side. A level
elevation of sand contained a bunch of small steel houses, tents, and
sandbag barriers, which were all scattered about, resembling an
infantryman's barracks. Behind the houses, Dobson could see the
artillery guns. He walked quickly, off the wall and to the side of one
the houses. Poet followed, but was then shot in the stomach by an
unseen Nazi sniper hiding behind a pile of sandbags, next to one of
the artillery. Poet screamed out in pain. Dobson quickly backed up,
took a hold of Poet's leg and dragged his screaming body behind the
backside of the house.
"2nd Lieutenant Poet, stop screaming!" Dobson yelled. He ripped off
the sleeve of Dobson's own uniform and attempted to stop the blood
from flowing out of Poet's stomach. But Poet had already lost way too
much blood. In a matter of seconds, he was dead.
Dobson was completely frozen solid. He didn't move single muscle of
his body, not even his eyelids. He just stood there, over the corpse
of 2nd Lieutenant Leo Poet. Almost everything in the mission had gone
wrong. First the troop carriers didn't come in far enough and, as a
result, most of the soldiers were killed in the water. Then, when they
finally got to shore, the enemy was way out-of-range and, as a result,
most of the soldiers were killed in attempt to get closer.
"Wir haben hostiles erhalten!" Dobson heard a voice shout from the
other side of the house. "Sie haben den seawall gebrochen!"
Dobson shook with anger. He grasped his rifle tighter than ever
before. In what seemed like slow motion, he spun around the corner of
the house, brought his rifle's sights to his eyes and fired at that
darn Nazi sniper. He missed completely. The Nazi reacted and dove his
body behind the pile of sandbags. The artillery gun to the Nazi's
right let out a BOOM as if fired a shell. Dobson looked behind him, at
the other side of the wall. At the shore, troop carriers from Wave
Charlie were coming in and dropping off their troops. A second
artillery shell shot out from the large guns, ahead of Dobson. The
shells began bombarding the soldiers attempting to advance up the
beachhead. Dobson was going to tear those artillery guns apart, piece-
by-piece.
Something hit the ground at Dobson's feet. A grenade! Dobson kicked it
toward where the Nazi sniper was and he ran back around to backside of
the house. The grenade detonated. The artillery guns fired and fired.
"Soldiers! Get over here and give me some fire support." Dobson
yelled. A group of soldiers who were still securing the wall towers
ran over to Dobson's aid. Dobson reached down for Poet's body, took
out a grenade from one of the uniform pockets, pulled out the pin and
tossed it around the corner. A fiery explosion rose high into the air,
above the house. Dobson spun around the corner, ready to fire at any
other Nazi that stood in his way. It appeared that Dobson had tossed
his grenade directly towards one of the artillery guns, which now
smoked with fire. "Good." Dobson mumbled.
The Nazi sniper, who was still alive, peeked up again above the
sandbags, and took a shot at Dobson. Dobson felt something hit his
left shoulder with such force that he was knocked backward onto the
ground. He cried out as blood streamed from where the bullet had hit,
and stained his uniform. He grasped the wound. Where were those other
soldiers? Dobson looked over and saw their bodies laying limply about
the ground, obviously shot by Nazi forces hiding in the barracks area.
Dobson felt faint. He was losing a lot of blood. This was it. He was
going to die. His first platoon had died, his second platoon had died,
and even his fire support had died. Now he was going to die, right
there, upon the ground of enemy territory.
Everything in his mind and in his sight seemed to be blended together.
He thought about his career as an Officer and what a life-changing
experience it had been, as he watched soldiers on his right and on his
left run by and fire at Nazis. He thought about all the people in the
Army that he had led in combat and that he would see them again, soon.
Sound coming through his ears was quiet and distorted. The last thing
Dobson remembered seeing was a figure, an Army soldier or a Nazi,
standing over his body. The last thing Dobson remembered hearing was
something like "Let's get you to the medical tent." After that,
Dobson's mind was engulfed by darkness.
The next day, Dobson was wide-awake. With a bandage around his left
shoulder, he was helping Army field medics search the beachhead for
any soldiers that had been wounded and were still alive, from the day
before. Dobson had heard, after he awoke from unconsciousness, that
troops from Wave Charlie had brought along with them M1/M9s (Shoulder-
mounted rocket launchers) and had secured the barracks area without
much difficulty. Normandy Beach was successfully captured. United
States Army Soldier 1st Lieutenant Gregory Dobson had killed a total
of one Nazi and had almost been killed himself. He was a participant
in the battle of June 6th, 1944, or, what Dobson called, "The Battle
at the Shores of Death."