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Dreaming of War

April 26, 2013

March 7th 1945 Remagen, Germany:

I wonder what it was like for those poor bastards on the beaches of Normandy? I doubt their biggest
concern was avoiding chunks of road on the way to a so called paramount bridge. Every bridge is important to the top hats back home. It’s been a week since I have had to piece a man back together. I know it sounds morbid. It isn’t that I wish for any of my brothers to be wounded. Rather, I know there are soldiers out there hurt, and here I am in an ambulance looking for trouble. I bet there wasn’t this much leisure time on that beach. I wonder what it felt like right off the boat. Too hard to place the sensation I suppose. I imagine that it was like stepping into a lightning storm. Clouds exploding and bolts of electricity striking brave men in their dog tags. I think of the sky and how it must have moaned as bullets, both domestic and foreign traveled from land to sea and back again. I wonder if the sun was high and as red as the sand below. I wonder how many sons, fathers, brothers, and generations fell to their knees, never to rise again. I wonder how many I could have saved. I wonder if I could have saved myself.


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