Omaha (a short story) by Jorge Aldegunde

Just a few minutes earlier I was standing at the stern of a landing craft on the starboard side. Many were praying, others would quiver and vomit.

We felt the enemy fire upon us even before the ramp was lowered. I saw Sizemore and Vitali fell. Burns got badly wounded as he jumped off. Seawater was freezing cold on that June morning.

I ran, God knows for how long, to be able to reach the shore. I came across Otero, who would release his rifle off the cover. A great bang ensued and, suddenly, I felt myself much lighter, as if bereft from an extraordinary burden. I missed my weapon, which I found lying on the sand –next to an arm whose trembling hand would still grasp it–.


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