"So. Mr Baumgarten. Take your time. Just tell us what you remember."

The interviewer leant over and switched on the tape machine, smiling at Harold Baumgarten to encourage him. Harold closed his eyes and remembered. Remembered…

"Well, if you want the whole story don't expect your readers to like it."

"We never did. Just take your time."

He took a deep breath and for the first time in 60 years his nightmares, his dreams, his thoughts… were given a voice.

So there we were, stood in the boats that would take us either to glory or shame, life or death. The man to my left was emptying the contents of his stomach onto my boots, and the man to my right looked as though he might join him soon. All around me were seasick men, terrified men, men murmuring to whichever God they served. Then suddenly the air was a mass of shouting and whistling and the door was open.

Our commanding officers pushed us out, neck deep into the sea as we held our rifles above our heads. One boy was screaming something about not being able to swim, but was pushed out anyway only to disappear beneath the waves. Sometimes I think back and envy his fate… he never witnessed what came next.

The water had turned from its original colour to red in a matter of seconds, the water awash with bodies. All around me, men were screaming, in pain or fear I never knew. It was probably both.

Bullets flew through the water, occasionally meeting with a leg, an arm, a face… I hurried towards the beach, miraculously surviving… only to meet the terror of the beach. It was already littered with bodies, one of two types; dead or soon to be the former. I took out the little first aid I had been permitted to carry and ran to help the man nearest to me. I stemmed the bleeding from his large wound as best I could with shaking hands, whilst the man clutched at me and screamed, convinced that I could save him. When all my bandages were drenched in blood, the man screamed for death. I obliged, injecting morphine into his leg until his screams subsided.

No time for emotion. I hurried to the next man.

And the next… and the next… and the next. All wanting to be saved, none surviving. They either died in my arms or screamed for the injection they knew would take away the pain. I had neither the time nor the skill to save them. Sometimes I just gave them the morphine without even trying. Save the pain… on behalf of both of us.

I soon came to a boy whose face I remember as clear as day. He was around sixteen, and was screaming for his mother. He screamed for me to help him, do anything just to take away the pain. It was just then… I just remember not being able to function any more. I fell to the ground and stared at the boy screaming for me, not hearing him. I could not hear the guns, the yells, the explosions. Everything was fuzzy, apart from that one boy. I sat there, staring helplessly, for what seemed like hours, but what was probably only a few seconds. Then he was shot in the head… and fell still.

My world was jerked back to the reality of warfare. My commander was yelling my name, and I looked his way, still a little confused. Then I gathered my senses- with difficulty- and ran to help the next man. My commander held me back, yelling into my ear- "Every man on this beach is either dead or dying. Just get yourself out of here!"

I ran. I was not sure where I was running to, but I ran. Leaping over the bodies. I was aware of men shouting my name and ran towards them, huddled on the sand banks. I lay shaking, waiting for instructions, just like the men next to me. What to do now? It seemed even our commander did not know. He was shaking as much as any of us. We watched him for a moment, watching him struggling to compose himself. Then he took a deep breath and mustered courage I did not know any one could or had ever had. I think it surprised him.

He yelled for us to run as close as we could to the machine gun tower and then throw ourselves to the ground. We all started to get up, and maybe only I heard him whisper; "God's speed… You'll need it…"

Then we were running.

We ran as far as we dared, and stopped right under the towers. They seemed to go on forever. Up and up and up… we did not know what we should do next, but did not have to decide. The boats arrived. Only one, but we whooped and cheered, hoping that the end was near. Then the tower above us was targeted. We threw our arms above our head as sandbags and rubble cascaded down upon us...

We were later given the job of clearing the beach of the dead. Boys as young as sixteen, men as old as forty. No one had been prepared for this.

The sea remained red for all of the week that we stayed there, and maybe even after that. I wouldn't know.

I never returned, and probably never will. I don't know if I want to.

He stopped, and the reporter was almost glad that he had. That was it. The end of his involvement in this. He left with a sense of relief, and Mr. Baumgarten watched him off, reliving those last few hours in his head. They were private.

A German man approached him, hands in the air. He was yelling something, and he knew he was surrendering. But he was shot anyway. By the gun in Mr Baumgartens hands. He deserved it.

Didn't he?

Aimee Code