I was twenty two and had left medical school to join the army. My mother had cried, my father had scowled and lamented my wasted education. I felt that I was needed more on the front and joined up without so much as a mother may I, thinking that perhaps my patriotism and bravery would finally make my father proud. He may have been, but he hid it well.
As a staunch Irish Catholic my mother had raised me with great respect for "thou shalt no kill." So on sixth of June 1944 I found myself packed in a small boat with forty other men all of them armed except me. As a army medic I was considered a non combatant. All I carried was ninety pounds of medical equipment, some food and a canteen.
I plopped my helmet on my head and tightened the straps, ashamed that my hands were shaking. Evens a private from Boston noticed, he gave me a smile and handed me a flask. We were getting closer, the first few boats had almost reached the shore when all hell broke loose. Nazi machine gunners opened up, spraying the ships and the men upon them. The ocean waves couldn't drown out the screams and the gunfire and I found myself whispering the Lord's prayer.
As our craft hit the beach men to the left and right of ne leapt into the surf. I followed, nearly drowning as a wave knocked me over and the weight of my gear pulled me to the bottom. A boot on my back pushed me into the silty bottom and panic seized me. I fought hard and surfaced, gasping for air. All around me men were screaming and yelling. Some in pain and others in righteous American hatred for the German army. Gaining the once white sandy beach my boots immediately sunk and running became even more challenging. Not to mention the anti-tank barriers and razor wire that criss crossed the wide open expanse of sand. I scanned around me, each man down appeared to be deceased from serious artillery or multiple gunshot wounds.
Then the cry of "Medic!" I didn't look, I just ran toward the cries for help. Hoping that the red cross upon my helmet and bag would keep me from being a target. I fell to my knees beside the downed soldier, his hands were clasped over his stomach and blood was pouring from the wound at an alarming rate.
"Let me see." I shouted over the artillery. Pulling his hands away and biting back a curse. His intestines were exposed and ruptured, I could smell the acid of his stomach. Gutshot. I put a dressing over his stomach and gave him morphine. His eyes glazed over and I grabbed him under the arms and dragged him behind a antitank barricade for cover.
"Medic, Medic, Medic!" Again the call came and again I ran. This time it was Evens that was down.
"Its okay buddy, I've got you!" I shouted. Quickly pulling a tourniquet from my bag. Both of his legs had been blown off just below the knee.
"Oh God, is it bad? Evens asked his eyes wild with pain and shock.
"You're alright, Evens! I'm gonna patch you up and get you out of here."
"Oh Mama, Mama, Mama it hurts so bad." He cried as I tightened the tourniquets. I gave him a shot of morphine for the pain, pulling the stopper of the needle with my teeth.
The blast from the land mine he had stepped on had knocked his helmet off, so I unbuckled mine and put it on him hoping the cross would protect him. I worked quickly cutting away his still smouldering pants and injecting another dose of morphine. Then I checked the tourniquets making sure the bleeding had stopped. It had.
"You're gonna be okay!" I said triumphantly looking up at him. Then I turned and vomited into the blood drenched sand. A bullet had pierced my helmet, my friend Evens was dead.
The German bastards were targeting medics.
