Liquor_Riss
02-14-2003, 04:38 PM
Hi everybody, this is my first post on the boards so here goes :D This is a story I wrote for English homework on "Original Writing". If you like it please say so, if you don't like it don't say anything! ;)
Original Writing
The Higgins landing craft skims across the rough waters of the English Channel in the early hours of June 6th 1944. The American soldiers it is carrying have all been issued with sea sickness tablets but still the metal bottom of the boat is slick with the remains of the soldiers last meals, and also the bile that had come when there was no food left to vomit. Every man felt the sickening smack and the lurch as the boat hits the bottom of a big roller as it chugs its way to the French coastline. The driver swears and wipes away the sea salt from his face with his arm. He squints into the fog ahead and looks around for the other landing craft heading for shore. He hopes that the other drivers had their wits about them and wouldn't suddenly appear from the fog right in his path. He looks at the backs of the men standing waiting in the hold, and wonders how many would make it through the mission they have ahead. He doesn't know whether he will make it off the beach, but he will sure as hell try. The army Captain in the Higgins is also studying the backs of his platoon, but his mind was on the maps and photos back in the briefing room. He pulls out a battered metal cigarette case and, placing his M1 Garand rifle between his legs, pulls one out and places it in his mouth. He replaces the case to his breast pocket and takes out his lighter from his trouser pocket. He flicks it and lights the cigarette in his mouth, taking his time, every move practiced to perfection. He is a combat veteran and has fought all over Europe, but he has never landed in a Higgins, except in the training for this mission. He closes his eyes and concentrates, clearing his mind of distractions from the mission.
For a second the sound of the steady rhythm of the Higgins engine, crash of the waves and the curses and prayers of the men around him fade away and he is back home sitting on the porch of his parent's house in upstate New York. It is summer and the sky is a pleasantly rich orangey-red glow as the sun sinks over the horizon. He can smell the golden corn and feel the light caress of the breeze over his skin as he leans back in his chair and--- knocks his helmet against the hard metal side of the landing craft.
"Watch yourself Captain, this ain't the time to go fallin' asleep", calls down the driver. The Captain looks up at the depressing grey clouds above and shakes his head, blinking. He goes to pick up his rifle, which has slid down a little towards the front of the boat. As he bends down to pick it up, he hears the young soldier in front of him quietly murmuring the Lords Prayer. He smiles and pats the young lad on the shoulder, nodding to him. The soldier smiles back his acknowledgment and turns back to the front of the boat, a determined look in his eyes.
Suddenly the Captain hears a whistle blown from behind him. The driver has spotted the shoreline in the distance and is giving the signal to get ready.
"30 SECONDS!" yells the driver.
The Captain readies his rifle and checks all his equipment, patting the cigarette case in his breast pocket as he clears his throat to shout.
"Alright men, listen up! Portside, you're with Lieutenant Gavin, Starboard are with me! Remember our objectives, move up the beach as fast as possible and regroup at the shingle!"
"Yes sir!" choruses the men, and all around there is the clicking of weapons being readied and the rustle and metallic clink of equipment brushing together. The driver checks his watch and looks up at the fast-approaching shore. The fog around them has now lifted and he can see all of the other determined Higgins craft speeding towards the beach, as if the men they were carrying were speeding them on. He crosses himself and eases off the throttle so that the boat could guide itself onto the beach without the aid of the engine.
"PREPARE FOR LANDING!" He cries.
"SQUAD, CHARGE YOUR WEAPONS WE'RE MOVING UP!" shouts the Captain, his knuckles white from gripping the Garands wooden stock so hard. There is a loud clunk as the boat hits the solid beach and all around them the other boats hit home. The driver pulls the ramp lever and there is a whirring sound as the cogs and pulleys spin round to release the ramp. Almost immediately as he does this a bullet whizzes past his head and he ducks, cursing. Doong. The hollow sound of the ramp about to fall. It falls.
"GO GO GO! COME ON, MOVE IT, GO!" screams the Captain, goading his men forwards onto the beach. A volley of machinegun fire cuts down most of the first three ranks as they run down the ramp and the men behind have to climb over their bodies as they spill out into the red water. The Captain is one of the last to get out, and as he leaves he turns around to look for the driver. He is slumped over his controls with his helmet lying in the hold below. The Captain blinks and turns to run out onto Omaha beach with his men. He looks down and sees the body of the soldier he had smiled to but he still runs on. He ducks down behind one of the metal tank traps that litter the beach and tries to gather his wits. A nearby explosion shakes him back up again and he runs forward looking for more cover.
He sees a radio operator crouched behind a tank trap, screaming into the phone something about German artillery being homed in on their positions, and where was the tank support? He lies down behind the riddled body of a soldier from another platoon and looks up at the foreboding stone bunkers a few hundred yards ahead. From the dark openings in them he thinks he can see the bright flashes of machinegun fire and in the moments of light he thinks he can see the expressionless faces of the German gunners. Phoom. Phoom. Phoom. The sound of the guns seems to be in slow motion, and he believes he is able to see each round as they are spat out of the barrels and into their fleshy targets. Fffssckarak! A machinegun round rips into the body of the radio operator behind him, and he sinks over sideways. Slowly, slowly. The Captain leans back against the rusted metal of the tank trap and allows his mind to wander once more back to his home. They were playing cards, at their old beat-up wooden table as they liked to do in winter, and his older brother Jonathon had just won again, as he always did. The sound of his family's laughter and protests as Jonathon collected the pennies they played with and deposited them onto his pile of winnings. Fffssckarak! A log is engulfed in flames in their fireplace and they all jump at the alarming sound it makes---A bullet pings off the metal just above the Captains head and he feels glad that the sound of the log didn't make him jump too much. If he had been as involved in this memory as the one on the landing craft, the price would have been much higher than a slight knock on the head. The Captain looks down at his rifle and then hoists it up to his shoulder and takes aim. He fires several rounds into the dark mouths of the bunkers and he thinks he sees one of the seemingly endless flashes extinguished. He turns around to look behind him and now the dead radio operator is now lying facedown, his radio beneath him.
A face suddenly appears in front of the Captain.
"Sir, whadda we do no-" cries a voice before it is suddenly cut off and the face before him disappears in a wet red spray. He shakes his head, wipes his face and wonders if what had just happened was real or not. He shrugs and turns back to peer over the top of the tank trap. Boom. There is a dull sound in his left ear and he doesn't know it but the bullet accompanying the sound has just torn off his left ear, along with most of that side of his face. He sinks down and sees his helmet slip off his head and fall upon the red sand. Slowly, slowly. A small plume of sand moves across his hand from where the helmet landed and the feeling is sharper than any other he has felt. He lies down with his hand on the battered metal cigarette case in his breast pocket and closes his eyes, relaxing his mind. His thoughts drift back to his parent's home in upstate New York, where he liked to sit on the porch in summer watching the sun go down, smelling the golden corn and feeling the light caress of the breeze over his skin.
Thankyouverymuch :D
Original Writing
The Higgins landing craft skims across the rough waters of the English Channel in the early hours of June 6th 1944. The American soldiers it is carrying have all been issued with sea sickness tablets but still the metal bottom of the boat is slick with the remains of the soldiers last meals, and also the bile that had come when there was no food left to vomit. Every man felt the sickening smack and the lurch as the boat hits the bottom of a big roller as it chugs its way to the French coastline. The driver swears and wipes away the sea salt from his face with his arm. He squints into the fog ahead and looks around for the other landing craft heading for shore. He hopes that the other drivers had their wits about them and wouldn't suddenly appear from the fog right in his path. He looks at the backs of the men standing waiting in the hold, and wonders how many would make it through the mission they have ahead. He doesn't know whether he will make it off the beach, but he will sure as hell try. The army Captain in the Higgins is also studying the backs of his platoon, but his mind was on the maps and photos back in the briefing room. He pulls out a battered metal cigarette case and, placing his M1 Garand rifle between his legs, pulls one out and places it in his mouth. He replaces the case to his breast pocket and takes out his lighter from his trouser pocket. He flicks it and lights the cigarette in his mouth, taking his time, every move practiced to perfection. He is a combat veteran and has fought all over Europe, but he has never landed in a Higgins, except in the training for this mission. He closes his eyes and concentrates, clearing his mind of distractions from the mission.
For a second the sound of the steady rhythm of the Higgins engine, crash of the waves and the curses and prayers of the men around him fade away and he is back home sitting on the porch of his parent's house in upstate New York. It is summer and the sky is a pleasantly rich orangey-red glow as the sun sinks over the horizon. He can smell the golden corn and feel the light caress of the breeze over his skin as he leans back in his chair and--- knocks his helmet against the hard metal side of the landing craft.
"Watch yourself Captain, this ain't the time to go fallin' asleep", calls down the driver. The Captain looks up at the depressing grey clouds above and shakes his head, blinking. He goes to pick up his rifle, which has slid down a little towards the front of the boat. As he bends down to pick it up, he hears the young soldier in front of him quietly murmuring the Lords Prayer. He smiles and pats the young lad on the shoulder, nodding to him. The soldier smiles back his acknowledgment and turns back to the front of the boat, a determined look in his eyes.
Suddenly the Captain hears a whistle blown from behind him. The driver has spotted the shoreline in the distance and is giving the signal to get ready.
"30 SECONDS!" yells the driver.
The Captain readies his rifle and checks all his equipment, patting the cigarette case in his breast pocket as he clears his throat to shout.
"Alright men, listen up! Portside, you're with Lieutenant Gavin, Starboard are with me! Remember our objectives, move up the beach as fast as possible and regroup at the shingle!"
"Yes sir!" choruses the men, and all around there is the clicking of weapons being readied and the rustle and metallic clink of equipment brushing together. The driver checks his watch and looks up at the fast-approaching shore. The fog around them has now lifted and he can see all of the other determined Higgins craft speeding towards the beach, as if the men they were carrying were speeding them on. He crosses himself and eases off the throttle so that the boat could guide itself onto the beach without the aid of the engine.
"PREPARE FOR LANDING!" He cries.
"SQUAD, CHARGE YOUR WEAPONS WE'RE MOVING UP!" shouts the Captain, his knuckles white from gripping the Garands wooden stock so hard. There is a loud clunk as the boat hits the solid beach and all around them the other boats hit home. The driver pulls the ramp lever and there is a whirring sound as the cogs and pulleys spin round to release the ramp. Almost immediately as he does this a bullet whizzes past his head and he ducks, cursing. Doong. The hollow sound of the ramp about to fall. It falls.
"GO GO GO! COME ON, MOVE IT, GO!" screams the Captain, goading his men forwards onto the beach. A volley of machinegun fire cuts down most of the first three ranks as they run down the ramp and the men behind have to climb over their bodies as they spill out into the red water. The Captain is one of the last to get out, and as he leaves he turns around to look for the driver. He is slumped over his controls with his helmet lying in the hold below. The Captain blinks and turns to run out onto Omaha beach with his men. He looks down and sees the body of the soldier he had smiled to but he still runs on. He ducks down behind one of the metal tank traps that litter the beach and tries to gather his wits. A nearby explosion shakes him back up again and he runs forward looking for more cover.
He sees a radio operator crouched behind a tank trap, screaming into the phone something about German artillery being homed in on their positions, and where was the tank support? He lies down behind the riddled body of a soldier from another platoon and looks up at the foreboding stone bunkers a few hundred yards ahead. From the dark openings in them he thinks he can see the bright flashes of machinegun fire and in the moments of light he thinks he can see the expressionless faces of the German gunners. Phoom. Phoom. Phoom. The sound of the guns seems to be in slow motion, and he believes he is able to see each round as they are spat out of the barrels and into their fleshy targets. Fffssckarak! A machinegun round rips into the body of the radio operator behind him, and he sinks over sideways. Slowly, slowly. The Captain leans back against the rusted metal of the tank trap and allows his mind to wander once more back to his home. They were playing cards, at their old beat-up wooden table as they liked to do in winter, and his older brother Jonathon had just won again, as he always did. The sound of his family's laughter and protests as Jonathon collected the pennies they played with and deposited them onto his pile of winnings. Fffssckarak! A log is engulfed in flames in their fireplace and they all jump at the alarming sound it makes---A bullet pings off the metal just above the Captains head and he feels glad that the sound of the log didn't make him jump too much. If he had been as involved in this memory as the one on the landing craft, the price would have been much higher than a slight knock on the head. The Captain looks down at his rifle and then hoists it up to his shoulder and takes aim. He fires several rounds into the dark mouths of the bunkers and he thinks he sees one of the seemingly endless flashes extinguished. He turns around to look behind him and now the dead radio operator is now lying facedown, his radio beneath him.
A face suddenly appears in front of the Captain.
"Sir, whadda we do no-" cries a voice before it is suddenly cut off and the face before him disappears in a wet red spray. He shakes his head, wipes his face and wonders if what had just happened was real or not. He shrugs and turns back to peer over the top of the tank trap. Boom. There is a dull sound in his left ear and he doesn't know it but the bullet accompanying the sound has just torn off his left ear, along with most of that side of his face. He sinks down and sees his helmet slip off his head and fall upon the red sand. Slowly, slowly. A small plume of sand moves across his hand from where the helmet landed and the feeling is sharper than any other he has felt. He lies down with his hand on the battered metal cigarette case in his breast pocket and closes his eyes, relaxing his mind. His thoughts drift back to his parent's home in upstate New York, where he liked to sit on the porch in summer watching the sun go down, smelling the golden corn and feeling the light caress of the breeze over his skin.
Thankyouverymuch :D