THE HUNTING OF MAN

 

With the help of an ancient entity, Richard Blaine has already seen the slaughter awaiting soldiers on Omaha Beach.

Now, that entity has promised to keep him and his men safe. But how?

THE HUNTING OF MAN

“There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.”

- Ernest Hemingway

 

“Three!”

The ramp thumped down hard, but …

There was no splash of water.

Only a stretch of eerily dry pockmarked beach lay beyond the opening revealed by the lowered ramp.

All the towering seven-and-a-half-foot tall metal Belgian gates were gone.

No long rows of hedgehogs, five-foot structures of three crossed metal beams.

No lines of tall log posts, most of which had mines affixed to them.

I would wager no buried mines in the beach sands either.

The Belgian gates and log posts were designed to blow up entire transports of troops.

And hedgehogs were designed to pierce the bottom of landing craft and make them easy targets for the German machine gunners on the cliffs above.

No. I was mistaken. They were not gone.

They were flying.

Along with what appeared to be sharp spools of concertina wire that had lain in ambush beyond the shingle stone behind which Lady Churchill and I had hidden in that time now not to be.

It was a mouth-drying sight.

All the Belgian gates, the hedgehogs, the long log posts, the spool of barbwire, and hundreds of mines were sailing through the air as if spit from the mouth of an angry God …

Straight for the dug-in machine gun emplacements.

I and the other Spartans were blown back on our heels by the concussive force of those mines going off in the contained area of those machine gun nests.

I shook my head in dazed shock. Then, a question hit me.

Where was the ocean?

Over my head, Sentient as the Angel of Death flew shrieking like a demoness smelling fresh-shed blood.

“Tod dem Dritten Reich! Death to the Third Reich!”

The Angel of Death pealed in wild laughter like a hungry harpy swooping down on blind children,

“Hitler! Du hast gegen den Wind gesät. Jetzt werden Sie den Wirbelwind ernten.

Hitler! Thou hast sown to the wind. Now, thou wilt reap the whirlwind.”

‘Go! I cannot hold back the ocean forever. GO!’

I got a very rude slap on my butt from invisible fingers. But I went, calling out to the Spartans behind me.

“The Angel of Death has plowed the field and drained the marsh for us. It won’t last long. Follow me!”

I ran out of Rocinante and would have frozen but for another slap of invisible fingers on my rump.

But I had cause.

Sentient had spoken true. As in Old Testament times with the Red Sea, the ocean had parted for us.

The sound was terrifying and enormous … like a thousand Niagara Falls booming right on either side of us.

The ocean was not static but rippling up and down in a gut-freezing impossible manner all along the pushed-up walls of waters .

But then, this whole thing was impossible.

‘If only we had a photo of this.’

‘We do. Robert Capa is currently taking one as we communicate. He is wondering how you left the USS Samuel Chase where he and you had just been playing poker. I had you lose to him, by the way.’

My rump was slapped again. Harder. I barely felt it.

‘Now, move it or lose it!’

I moved it.

Sentient gave Capa a photographic moment by posing mid-air in front of us for a chilling heartbeat. Then, she flew off in a blur of black wings towards the cliffs shrieking again.

“Tod dem Dritten Reich! Hitler! Du hast gegen den Wind gesät. Jetzt werden Sie den Wirbelwind ernten.”

“Gentlemen and lady! Please do not shoot me in the butt! All the obstacles on this part of Omaha have been dealt with!”

‘I believe you may be anal retentive what with your fixation on your hind parts.’

‘Very not funny.’

D-Day planners chose 06:30 as 'H-Hour' because this was when the tide was at its lowest.

At low tide, most of the deadly obstacles the Germans had placed on the beach would be exposed, allowing landing craft to avoid them while also making it easier for demolition teams to clear them.

It also meant the soldiers would be exposed, too, and for longer. But then, when had generals ever cared for the lives of those under them as long as the objective was obtained?

Serving under a general is an exercise roughly akin to picnicking with a tiger. You might enjoy the meal, but the tiger always eats last.

Sentient sneered agreement in my mind as I ran for all I was worth. I was not eager to have tons of ocean come crashing down on me.

‘If not for me doing this, by this early afternoon, Omar Bradley would be ready to call off the invasion. Omaha Beach would be so bad that they were ready to say, “All right, we cannot do this.”

Sentient was living contempt in my mind. ‘Omaha Beach is the worst of the Normandy beaches simply because of the natural defenses that are here facilitates this sort of defense.’

I saw Porkins stumble, his helmet falling off. I dropped back to snare his arm. Reese stepped beside him and did it for me.

“Watch where you place those clodhoppers, Franklin.”

And a wisp of a memory from Sicily breathed out from the darkness of those days.

Reese had just finished sneering at Porkins, and I slipped up beside him, murmuring, 

“You lost your kid brother on that camping trip. The Army has given you another. Watch out for him this time. I don’t think Life will give you a third.”

Then, the image was gone.

I watched Reese hand Porkins his fallen helmet and tousle the man's hair, racing on ahead.

Amos raced beside me near winded. “Father and his synagogue will never believe this.”

Cpl. Sam Wilson, taking hurried strides, panted, “Hell, lieutenant, I don’t believe this.”

Way in the rear, Stew Taylor was running as if expecting to be riddled by bullets any second when he tripped, and I raced to his side, steadying him.

As soon as I touched him, another memory from Sicily misted before my eyes.

Stew was huddled by a feeble campfire. He wrapped his threadbare blanket around his thin shoulders. His eyes seemed filled by some ancient hurt and loss. He was trembling.

I could see myself sit by him and whisper, “Hey, do you know what one snowman said to the other?”

He wordlessly shook his head, and I whispered, “Is it me, or do you smell carrots?”

He laughed so loud it awakened Reese who swore at him, but Stew kept on laughing. It wasn’t that funny a joke, but I guess it caught him out of the blue, or he really needed the laugh.

Back on Omaha Beach, I smiled and said, “Is it me, or do you smell carrots?”

He didn’t laugh, but his steps firmed.

I raced ahead.

Theo ran up beside me. “You know each of these men would die for you.”

“I want them to live for me.”

‘To your right, sentimentalist. You see that shape struggling in that wall of moving water?’

“Yes.’

“Latch onto it and pull in our newest Spartan to join in the festivities.’

We were halfway to the cliffs, and I didn’t want to spare the time. Who knew when replacements for the snipers and machine gunners would show up.

‘How long can you tread water?’

I sped to my right.

 * Listening to the below while reading helps a bit. :-)