Metal Birds

Chapter 65: D-Day Prayer

Omaha Beach, France, June 6-29 1944

The world was a blur, a blur of madness, complexity, and perfect organized chaos. A blur in which Arthur could both feel himself dying, and prospering with the violence of the storm. Everything that moved, everything that breathed, everything that cried out like a shot stood out to him. It reminded him of wars in the 1700s, the movement slurring like a discarded painting in the rain. The urge to push. The hyperactivity quelled by his own activities. Running, gliding, soaring and diving back down to earth once more. 

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:

And so Omaha fell. He didn't know how long it took, though it took longer than a day. He knew that in the least. He had heard that two of the other beaches had connected quickly, but he focused his concern where he had promised himself he would. He focused on each wound, on each man he could bring from the water. He focused on patching the grizzly wounds, on fixing anything he could, on getting men back on their feet. On praying, clasping his palms around the bloodied fingers of another to bid them safe guidance to wherever God wished them to be. To wrap his arms around someone who just couldn't sit down because 'that's my friend, that's my best friend!' screaming, as another body was added to the heaps on the beach. 

Arthur was too focused on everything else to remember how badly he wanted to cry. 

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.

Arthur would not say that he was scared. He would not say out loud that the blood collected in the waves, turning them sickly red and ashen pink, made him ill. He would not say that the entrails of the men, the soldiers who fought to preserve their countries, their families, their brothers, made his heart stop. He would not say that he wished to halt it all to bury the bodies cast in the sand. He would not say that the screams of the men around him made his feathers grow limp. He would not say that the throat of each enemy sniper in his grip made him waver for a moment. 

He would not say he felt purpose helping his infantries push forward. To get his training platoon to move onward to safety. He had found them, thank god. He would not say he -for even a moment- believed his sole reason of existence was to fight in the cusp of battle, to stand there at the top with a weapon in hand and scream for men to 'Come forward, to push the line!'

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.

Arthur could feel every small jolt of his stomach, instinct telling him to step back, met with the soft and cruelly gentle brush of a bullet's trail. He felt the dirt upon his face, bursts of mines in action, or enemy artillery serving it's purpose. The dirt on his hands, brushing it away from a wound, off a coat, the tearing of fabric beneath his hands as still more was applied. The dull whisper of meaningless comforts escaping his lips in a foul bid to buy time. The sensation of his fingers burrowing into a bullet wound to stop the bleeding, a syrette between his teeth, everything slipping into a haze.