Normandy, a Historical fanfic

As the continuous, thundering racket of the last stray firearm finally dies down, you feel ready to die from stress and self-induced exhaustion alone.

You were much more fortunate than most; you were one of the very few lucky enough to survive the invasion with little more than a few scratches, bruises, and one heck of a dirty body.

Throughout the whole ordeal, you held your rifle poised, seemingly instinctively, clenching it to a point of firmness that your knuckles went pale and numb. You struggle even now to release your grip on the weapon; you cannot so much as feel your fingers any longer. It’s almost as though your hands were a part of the rifle, and the rifle a part of your hands.

You force yourself to release your grasp, slowly, and the weapon then clatters to the ground, of which itself seems to bleed with the mess of bodies and entrails that had accumulated over the past few hours.

Days must have passed; no, weeks, even.

It felt as such; a bit like jetlag. Only just this morning your battalion set foot onto the beaches of Normandy, and now, only an hour or so has passed, yet every fraction of a second, every detail, every last observable body movement, every shot fired over that period, all of it is firmly and deeply ingrained into your head.

Temperature means nothing to your senses right now; your numb, trembling palms are soaked by cold sweat, yet you are aware not of the mixture of cold and warmth on your hands that formed as a result of this sweat, but of the slipperiness it brings to your grasp on any nearby object.

You don’t know just how you can still maintain your equilibrium after all that chaos. The joints of your fingers feel weak and brittle after gripping that rifle harder than ever before. The thing with that weapon was how it took a different, often involuntary role for every different situation you went through.

There were times when things were calm all around, with no definitive peril or enemy units around for miles and miles, and you were lightheartedly messing around with your friends who shared the same barracks as you, and it was late in the night.

During these times, that rifle was nothing more than a knick-knack that no one cared to gaze upon, sitting against your bedpost like a useless, yet treasured item.

There were also other times, times seldom felt these days. Times of the undertaking of practice drills, to be precise.

Sure, you could think of a billion worse things; you’d gladly trade the presence of hazardous smoke, gunfire, blood, entrails, and a field of corpses, you among them, for two years of grueling exercise, orderly marching, and the taking of orders from a man shouting so loudly, and strictly, that he’ll definitely lose his voice one day.

During those times, your rifle was nothing more, and nothing less than a complete burden. Your shoulder would become painfully sore from all those days you’d sling the heavy thing over it as you marched forward, wishing you could just drop the stupid thing.

Then, there were these times. Times you had been a part of just moments ago. Amidst total pandemonium and the fear of death, your rifle becomes more than just a weapon for which to plow through Nazis. It takes on the role of a personal companion.

Although, without the necessary self-control, you’d merely grasp the weapon but not fire from it, your mind too wrapped up in surviving the battle and not enough in killing your enemies as instructed, you still think of it as an in-expendable guardian angel. Despite knowing full well that you rarely can muster up the courage to pull the trigger, you somehow feel completely naked and vulnerable without it.

You may sometimes even forget that you’re holding it in the first place. Seemingly essential yet non-essential at the same time, your rifle, your burden, your guardian angel, is nothing more than a tool used for killing off people you don’t know, but of whom you’ve been ordered to shoot on sight.

Now, at this very moment, as the Allied survivors of the invasion proceed to secure the area, you realize that this stupid firearm is the only friend you have left.

Almost as soon as you have dropped the weapon to the ground, you slowly reach down, your hands trembling, as you attempt to grasp your guardian angel once again.

Ever since this war started, the two of you have been inseperable.

Overall, though, an English assignment from roughly two months ago. Blah.

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