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This novel, told from the perspective of an ordinary American soldier, offers a raw and profound portrayal of the brutality of war and the inner struggle of humanity. It carries no political stance or ideological bias. Its sole purpose is to evoke reflection on the true nature of war through vivid dep
Through this work, we hope to remind today's readers that peace is not something to be taken for granted—it is a hard-won treasure, earned through generations of sacrifice and painful lessons. To reject war, cherish peace, and pursue global development should be the shared goal of all humankind. May we resolve conflicts not with gunfire, but through understanding and cooperation, and strive together to build a brighter and more peaceful future.
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"BOOM!" The deafening roar of a nearby shell exploded, and the blast sent dirt flying that buried me behind an anti-tank barrier. My head was ringing so badly I had to shake it violently before emerging from the earth, blinking until my vision cleared. In front of me stood a cluster of reinforced concrete bunkers, their intersecting fields of fire spitting torrents of lead. Every time the machine guns opened up—"tat-tat-tat"—flesh tore apart like tissue, forming an impenetrable wall of death. Mortars kept lobbing rounds onto the beach, adding to the horror of this blood-soaked shoreline.
When the bunker fire finally paused, a big-nosed doughboy—helmet askew—burst out from cover and dashed forward with his rifle, almost making it to a shallow shell crater for safety. But luck wasn't on his side. From inside the bunker came the guttural staccato of an MG 42, "rat-a-tat-tat," and 7.92 mm rounds rained down like hail, ripping him apart. He wasn't cut to a "hive of holes"—that would have been too merciful. He became a lump of crimson, a mass of gore. I felt a shiver down my spine, numb with horror.
"Oh God..." I could barely believe I was here. Back in Philadelphia, I was doing an archaeological survey at a derelict shipyard when I found a rusted fragment inscribed with a Tesla coil circuit diagram. The moment my finger touched those strange green-etched symbols, a swirl of emerald mist erupted from the ground, crackling with electricity. My body felt like it was being torn apart, and then—suddenly—I was here, on this battlefield, inhabiting the body of an American soldier. Was I lucky? Or cursed?
I clutched my diminutive steel helmet and curled up behind the anti-tank barrier like a startled ostrich. Since my consciousness merged with this soldier's, survival had become the only thing that mattered. Every other thought was irrelevant.
The shelling and savagery of this battlefield—nothing like any movie or video game—left bodies strewn everywhere: countless dead, wounded men groaning in agony, half-drowned by the incoming tide. A severed leg floated not far from my fingers, bobbing in the red surf. Blood had stained the water a dark scarlet; I wondered how many sharks were circling, drawn by that scent. Soon, I might join them as shredded remains.
Off the beach, a seemingly endless line of LSTs—Landing Ship, Tanks—loomed, disgorging waves of troops onto this so-called "Bloody Omaha." My head spun. Every second, more men piled out, funneling toward this hell.
"Staff Sergeant Carter! What do we do? The Germans' fire is too heavy! We're scattered!" A hoarse voice shouted from a few yards away. A handful of American soldiers squeezed behind a shattered anti-tank barrier, looking to me for an answer.
I'd learned from this soldier's memories that my name was James Carter—a staff sergeant in the 3rd Company, 1st Infantry Division—one of the first waves hitting Omaha. Dang it, I cursed inwardly—why did I have to come here? If I could just get off this forsaken beach...
I glanced up. A few of my men were crawling across the sand, heads down under the relentless fire, making a run for a freshly punched-out shell crater. That was my lifeline. "Shell crater!" I bellowed, throwing myself onto my stomach and racing toward it. Bullets traced past like too-hot coals; one round ripped past my spine, grazing me so closely I felt its heat. Pain shot through me, but I was alive. My hand came away slick with blood. If that bullet had nicked my vertebra, I'd be dead. Behind me, a handful of Americans had already fallen, peppered in the sand like macabre pins in a butcher's shop.
"Medic! Medic!" I cried, tasting iron in my mouth even as the horizon seemed to quake with explosions. Every patch of sand was soaked in gore; every wave brought more ruined bodies in. I could feel myself getting lightheaded.
"Sergeant! Sergeant! What do we do?" Another soldier, the radio operator, dove into the crater beside me, eyes wide with panic.
"Jesus, what else can we do?" I snapped, trying to will my lungs to draw in air. "We move forward—otherwise we'll just die here!" My ribs burned where the shell fragments had gashed me. I needed a medic, but there were none. "Where the hell are our officers? Are they all dead?"
The radio operator's face was as expressionless as death. "All gone, Sarge. You're the highest-ranking guy I could find."
I wanted to curse, but instead spat out, "Well damn, I'm one lucky bastard."
Omaha Beach curved like a crescent: wide in the middle, tapering to steep cliffs at either end, dropping thirty to fifty feet above the surf. The sand sloped up to a low revetment made of rubble—barely half a meter high—but it offered enough cover to shield us from direct fire. At my back, the constant staccato of MG 42s and the thunder of artillery shook the earth. But if I could just get to that revetment—three hundred meters or so away—my chance of survival would at least double.
The Germans' machine guns swept the sand like harbingers of death. Mortar rounds kicked up geysers of earth, shaking the ground beneath me. This small beach spat out its fury, declaring its sovereignty in blood and iron.
"Forward! Forward! Head for the revetment!" I roared. I wasn't even sure how many men heard me, but some began crawling, then running, across the beach. Most never made it thirty paces before collapsing. Still, a few lucky ones made it to the base of the revetment.
The German commander—probably frustrated—shifted part of the firefight toward those who made the revetment, easing some pressure off the beach. "Move! Move!" I screamed at the survivors. "Keep pushing—or we're dead!"
The radio operator—his face chalk-white—kept his head down and called for reinforcements. But a German machine gun sighted on the long antenna of his radio, hammering it relentlessly. That chunk of fire cut these men off completely from their landing ships and support.
"Sir! Sir! Where are the tanks?" A group of soldiers who had also scrambled to my side pressed forward. They saw the radio operator and assumed I was a high-ranking officer—couldn't even be bothered checking my rank patches.
"I don't know!" I shouted. My voice cracked, raw: "This beach is a slaughterfield, and our armor isn't here!" I kicked at the sand, disbelieving. We were supposed to have a tank company pushing in behind us, but I saw only incoming shells.
"Sir, you're our leader now!" the radio operator yelled over the din.
"Yeah? Then damned if I know where the heck our armor is!" I spat. Every man behind me looked to me for an answer. I could feel my ribs burning with pain from that grazing wound. Everything beyond survival—honor, orders, strategy—vanished. Right now, orders meant nothing if we couldn't move.
"I'm 3rd Company. I repeat: 3rd Company! Enemy fire is too heavy. We can't take D-1 beach! Repeat: we cannot take D-1. We need tanks! We need tanks!" The radio operator's pleading crackled through static; the world felt as though it was closing in on me.
"Yeah? Well, tanks can't come! We clear this beach ourselves!" I ordered. It was all I could do, calling on some faded training. Anything was better than waiting to die under that hail of bullets.
I keyed the transmitter. "Call in naval gunfire on enemy positions!" Desperation forced the words out. "Pray to God it works."
The radio operator rammed his earphone back into place, trying to stay calm. But the German MG 42 was relentless, feeding him lead even as he broadcast. Another fed-up German squinting through a periscope sight pinned him in place—until, suddenly, a burst shredded the handset, snapping it off the radio and silencing him.
"Son of a—!" I swore. Without the radio, we were blind.
I looked around at the ragged handful of men left alive. "Gather up weapons and ammo! Now!" I barked. We shared the few rifles we had—those whose guns were jammed or clogged with mud were set aside. I improvised: dividing survivors into three assault squads for a last-ditch push.
Engineer troops—only a few—raced forward with demolition charges. Under covering fire, they laid their fuse to the concertina wire blocking the revetment. "Hit the deck! Heads down!" they warned. A deafening roar followed as the charges detonated, ripping a gaping hole through the razor wire. A cheer rose from the stunned GIs.
"The D-1 breach is open! D-1 is open!" came the shout.
"Grenades! Grenades!" I ordered. Germans had laid nearly a hundred mines in the thirty meters of sand beyond the revetment. We had to clear them or nothing or no one would survive. Dozens of K-2 "pineapple" grenades arced into the minefield. One by one, mines detonated—each blast throbbing with black smoke that hung heavy in the air.
"Squad One, move! Squad One, move!" I directed. Seven or eight men surged out of the revetment, rushing the now-silent bunker where a lone German MG 42 had jammed and its crew was struggling to clear it. It was now or never.
"Go! All of you—go!" I yelled, sprinting forward, body low. Another MG 42 opened up from a flanking position on the cliff, its "rat-tat-tat" spitting death behind me. Men crumpled all around, shredded into bodies I barely recognized. By the time we made it to that bunker, only ten of us remained.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. We ducked behind the ruined wall at the cliff's base—our only temporary refuge. Down here, the Germans' overlapping fields of fire couldn't reach us. But as long as they reorganized, they could pummel us at any moment.
"This won't do!" I hissed. "They'll bring artillery down on us soon. We need to move again."
"Hey, anyone got a mirror? Or gum?" A private asked, rummaging his pocket.
I frowned. "Right now you want gum?"
He grinned, fishbones gone. He peeled a stick of gum from his cheek and stuck it on a small pocket mirror. "There. Use it to check that gun nest."
I nodded, popped the mirror into my hand. Sure enough, through a narrow gap I spotted a German machine gunner barely two dozen yards away, aiming at us.
My ribs throbbed with every breath. We were pinned in a kill zone; no flanking maneuver remained. But maybe—just maybe—if we could deploy one more grenade... I stuffed the mirror back in my jacket and extracted a fresh K-2 from my pouch.
"Look alive," I said. "When I say go, we roll in, lob everything we have, and take that nest. Otherwise, we're all dead."
The men nodded, fear and determination etched into their faces. The world shrank to that one fleeting moment: live or die. I raised the grenade, thumb on the pin, heart hammering.
"Go!" I shouted. And in that instant, my modern mind—still reeling from being ripped from a quiet Pennsylvania shipyard—merged with this soldier's desperate will to survive. Time seemed to slow as we hurled ourselves toward the bunker, flames and metal raining down around us. Every step felt like wading through hot coals, every breath a gasp for life. I knew, right then, that this was no movie, no game. It was raw survival, and I would do whatever it took to see another sunrise.