The Picture

The page has yellowed with age, and the edges show the wear and tear of the countless fingers that have lifted and held them. The book itself is starting to fall apart, its binding creaks and complains with every movement. Printed on the page of the open book is a simple, black and white photograph.

The photograph is easily identifiable as being much older than 30 years. The almost surreal quality of being completely two-dimensional is all-pervading to the senses. The very scene that it attempts to record seems unreal and lifeless.

Yet the photograph displayed is indeed effective, beyond the ability of the simple Brownie camera used to form its existence. One could look into the photograph and see a story of horrific atrocities, sudden terror, and of vast sorrow. The very qualities that belie its age also assist in verifying the integrity of the story shown within.

A large field, lined with trees, was the stage set for the scene. A few blurry, man-like shapes can be seen in the background, their apparent activity now frozen in time. The subtle shades of gray fail to lend to the clarity of the view, but where the image's aesthetic continuity is lost; the imagination can take over and easily identify the marks and craters of explosions.

The main figure of the scene kneels huddled; hands clasped in front. The hues of her dress and jacket have been lost --melted into the black and gray of the lifeless reproduction. Her hair was most likely a lovely yellow in life, but is drab and unimpressive as it floats from her head on an invisible and timeless breeze.

The young girl appears no older than twenty or twenty-two; but her face shows the sorrow of an aged saint or martyr. Her eyes are half-closed, and expressionless, while her mouth is open and motionless, caught in a mournful wail by the camera's shutter. With a little imagination, it can be imagined that at the time she was rocking back and forth in sorrow.

Her entire face shows the horror of a war she didn't choose to be involved in. Hidden within the lines of mourning can be seen the history of a madman determined to conquer the world, as his troops advance across Europe and East Asia. In the numbing shock showing in her eyes appears the vision of millions of people, used and cast aside like garbage, only to fuel the fervor of carelessness, hatred, and cruelty.

Directly before the woman, in the foreground of the photograph, lies the body of another young girl. Her face is still and almost peaceful amid a confused scene of panic. The features and hair, although stained with dark smears of blood, hold a familial semblance to the mourner. The only compelling thought that germinates from the mourner's appearance is: "She should not have died!"

The entire picture and the story behind it --the living and the dead-- are all disgraced by only a brief and uninformative paragraph of explanation. A Historian's haste has lost an entire story from the past: "A Polish peasant girl mourns over her sister who was killed in a Nazi strafing and bombing run. The nearby immigrant train was mistaken to be carrying supplies to the Allied front."

Overlooked and passed off as unimportant by historians, the picture holds an insightful look into the sins of war, and more specifically, those who cause war. Whether a madman in Germany with a hatred for other races, a tyrannical king forcing his taxation, or crooked politicians unwilling to admit ignorance in tactics: War will happen. And war will bring the death of the innocent along with the guilty.

Some view war as a thing to avoid and shrink from. Others glorify it in toys and films. But war will come, and with it will come countless horrors and death. To fight can be wrong, but to not fight for what is right is worse. Those who avoid all war should read the thirteenth chapter of Job; those who search for war should read the twelfth chapter of Paul's letter to the Romans.

We must defend the cause of right and truth, but with every war will come death: that of the innocent Polish peasant girl; the rich and the poor; and our sons and our daughters. There is much we could learn from the records of history that we all too often fail to see.

Omaha

The mounted Maschinengewehr 42 machine gun continued its methodic staccato, although the rate of fire was such that the human ear could not distinguish between separate shots, the sound of ripping cloth earning it the nickname of “Hitler’s Buzzsaw”.

The five 7.92x57mm bullets ripped through his flesh and muscle with the same level of care and sensitivity as a chainsaw through an unwanted sapling; and with much the same amount of destruction.

The bullet that struck lowest literally grabbed his right kidney and exploded with it out his back. Simultaneously, the highest bullet was bursting from his left shoulder amid a profusion of blood, flecks of muscle, and bits of bone. The three other bullets had continued much the same fashion, leaving large, bloody holes strewn carelessly across his torso. All five bullets, now much slowed, smacked ‘harmlessly’ in the sand some distance behind him.

He wasn’t surprised. He had expected to die, expected to be shot or blown up. You can’t be the first man off the first Higgins LCM and expect to see the end of the war. He didn’t even expect to see a German. The solid “WHUMP” of the 300mm “Nebelwerfer” was enough to convince anyone of the reality of death, even someone who already had five gaping holes in their body.

He wasn’t surprised to find himself lying on his back. The shock acquainted with one’s insides being forcibly rearranged was enough to make anyone want to lie down; but the force of five bullets hitting home almost simultaneously would have been enough to put even Hercules over.

What did surprise him was that there was no pain. It wasn’t that he couldn’t feel anything at all – the very real feeling of sand and pebbles in his clawing fingers was as real as the feel of Lynn’s golden hair against his palms. He could very realistically feel his own blood forming a small pool behind his head as he stared at the overcast sky. The clouds were almost the same color of grey as Lynn’s eyes. He could almost see and feel her beckoning, calling him home to her. Yes, he could feel alright. There just was no pain.

He was also somewhat surprised that the battle continued around him. Men were screaming, crying out in horrible and guttural sounds, occasionally mixed with the solid thud of bullets hitting mankind. Mortars exploded everywhere, one even showering him with sand and bits of hot metal. The sound of gunfire was a living thing, floating up and down, far and near as the battle thickened and thinned with the deaths of thousands. He hadn’t expected this, but it did seem logical, now that he had time to think about it. Before, he didn’t think about it, he just did what Lieutenant Johnson said. Now, since he was wounded but not in pain, he could simply think and think and think.

He thought he heard someone yell “Corpsman!” nearby, but the sounds of the 88mm Anti-air guns were deafening, as once again the British (God love the British!) tried to hammer the coastal defenses into submission. As the Aero planes disappeared, the sounds subsided back into the previous wafting of the M1 Garands’ and the Browning Automatic Rifles’ unsteady cacophony. Only now, over the sounds of fighting and dying, he could hear an awful, bloodcurdling scream. It continued and continued, pausing only occasionally, apparently for a breath, before starting up again.

The scream was horrifying, gurgling, and completely unreal. He thanked God in Heaven he was not in the kind of pain that scream must be in. Poor devil! Someone should either shoot him up on morphine, or shoot him once and for all. It really was terrifying, laying there hearing that scream. It wouldn’t stop, and it wouldn’t let this war be unimportant. He tried plugging his ears against the sound, but the blood covering his hands made it impossible to do so. He wished something would happen. The ocean waves lapped at his legs like a sad child trying desperately to comfort an adult they don’t know why is upset. He had to think, but he couldn’t think with that poor man screaming!

Suddenly, he saw and felt Lynn. He didn’t know how she had come to be here, but she was a very welcome sight. The blood and guts didn’t seem to bother her, his or anyone else’s, and the sights and sounds of bitter fighting were as unseen to her as sadness is to angels. She was smiling at him, softly petting his arms and face, crooning like she had a few months before when he couldn’t quite say goodbye.

She was talking to him, comforting him, telling him he could stop screaming now, that he was dead.

He was, and the screaming had stopped.