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There was a certain buzz in the air of the dive bar tonight. It was busier than usual and much louder - the men laughing and drinking as if they weren’t being sent off to die tomorrow.
You were gathered around the bar with your husband Michael, his brother Gerard and their friends Raymond, Robert and Frank. You were friendly with the men but you made sure to stay close to Michael. They knocked back their drinks quickly and irresponsibly and let out a rowdy cheer when somebody offered to buy the next round. You however, didn’t plan on drinking that night - honestly you didn’t know how they were all so calm and comfortable.
The idea of being shipped off to war had always unsettled you - of course - but now that it was your husband at stake, you were more frightened than ever. When he was drafted Michael had insisted that he had to go - that it’d be an honour and he’d be disgraced if he didn’t - you begrudgingly agreed but you couldn’t shake that terrifying thought of losing him. You almost wouldn’t have cared if he was shunned for it, that stuff didn’t matter to you, all you wanted was to start a family and grow old with him.
But for tonight, you choked down your discomfort and tried to enjoy your night, The bar was hot and sticky from the sheer amount of people out for a last hurrah and the strong scent of ale and cigarettes filled your nostrils. It really wasn’t your scene but at least you were with Michael. Each time you began to grow a little uncomfortable, you were met with a familiar squeeze from his hand on your waist - letting you know he was with you.
As you swivelled your head to gaze up at him, you were met with that sweet tight lipped smile you loved so dearly and his loving eyes admiring you. As you saw all that you had, you saw all you could lose. He must’ve sensed your fearful thoughts as he shook his head slightly, dismissing the idea in that tiny gesture and planting a gentle kiss onto your forehead to soothe your swarming mind. As he returned to his conversation, you felt a little better, leaning your head on his shoulder and relaxing into the flow of the night.
As Frank told another hilarious anecdote from his time at school, the group erupted into laughter. Subconsciously, you glanced at Michael, almost to check whether he found it funny before you decided to laugh. To your surprise, you caught each other’s eye which was enough to send you both into a fit of laughter. You hadn’t had fun like this in such a long time, giggling together like the kids you once were. Things had gotten a little serious after you married Michael - with his mother pushing you both to start a family and his shitty job that hardly paid enough to sustain the two of you (let alone a little one.) Of course, Michael held and comforted you through it all, but in this moment, you were just those high school sweethearts, young, in love and you were just as crazy about each other as the day you met. Times like this showed you that your little crush on him never really died.
As the bar quietened down a bittersweet feeling hung in the air and you were sure you weren’t the only one to sense it. Loud cackles turned to mellow chuckles, every conversation reminiscing on circumstances far happier than the current and comfortable silences just appreciating the company. Robert and Raymond were the first to leave, as they headed home to their wives who didn’t feel like showing up - understandably so. Not long after, you and Michael decided to head home too, leaving Gerard and Frank in the bar.
The cool air brushed over you as you strolled down the road - Michael’s warm hand held tightly in yours. At first you welcomed the breeze as it soothed your sweating discomfort from the sweltering bar, but it wasn’t long before the chill began to bite at you sending a sharp shiver down your spine. Without a single word, Michael released your hand to slip off his jacket and drape it over you. He always knew exactly what you needed. ‘Why didn’t he know you needed him to stay?’ Your mind began to spiral but you pushed away the notion. Your heart couldn’t fathom his abandonment but your better judgement understood his position. You spent the rest of the walk home in silence, trying not to let the harrowing thoughts flood your eyes and gripping Michael’s hand tighter as tears threatened to spill.
When you arrived home, Michael took his coat off of you to hang it on a peg as you felt the warm, homely air soothe over your chilly arms. The two of you stood frozen in the doorway, you gazed up at him, trying to soak up every detail of the face of that man you loved so deeply. The longer your eyes lingered over him, the harder it was to hold back tears.
Michael admired you with a sorrowful look in his eye, noticing the wells filling in your waterline and your quivering jaw. He brought his hand up to your face, smoothing his thumb over your cheek in an attempt to subdue your weeping. His warm touch always made you feel so safe and secure - your defensive walls almost immediately came crashing down as you collapsed into his chest in a heap of sobs. You couldn’t hold anything back anymore, your loud wails muffled into his now tear stained shirt as he stroked your hair and rested his head upon yours.
“Hey, hey, what’s the matter sweetheart?” He asked, worried. You couldn’t even bring yourself to form any words, but he knew exactly what the matter was. The most you could manage was a sequence of incoherent babbles. “Shh Darlin’ its okay, its gonna be alright, I promise” He continued to shower you with comfort and reassurance, holding you through your cries. He noticed the way you winced every time he made a promise that you both knew he couldn’t keep. You noticed how he sounded like he didn’t believe a word he was saying, and how he tried to disguise his own sadness as it seeped through in choked breaths and stifled sniffles.
After a while, your cries plateaued out - more out of exhaustion than anything else. Michael planted a kiss on the top of your head and cradled your face with both hands, bringing your head up to look at him. “Let’s get to bed hm?” He said in a low, gentle whisper and you nodded weakly in response as he wiped the tears from your face and led you to the bedroom.
You readied yourself for bed and settled comfortably curled against Michael as he cradled you in his arms. You thought about how selfish you were being, letting him comfort you as if it were you who was being shipped off to war in a matter of hours. Your crying had calmed considerably as you’d collected your thoughts and you managed to speak your first real sentence since you had arrived home.
“I’m worried Mikes.” You mumbled, still sniffling and you could hear your heartbreak in your voice. Michael was taken aback by the nickname, you hadn’t called him that since high school. A few seconds of silence lingered, as he stroked over your hair and tried to form another comforting response.
A simple “I know moonshine...” was all he could muster, trying not to fill your head with any more rickety promises and false fragments of hope. He’d never told you why he called you that - he spoke the endearment with such admiration for you and it rolled over his tongue like silk. He only called you moonshine when times were particularly tough and emotional, it always brought such a warm rush of easement over you and you couldn’t place why. You didn’t even know the origin behind it but you knew it meant you were everything to him.
As if he could read your mind, he softly asked “Y’know why I call you that?” You hummed no, gently shaking your head. “Because your like my moon sweetheart...” You were a little confused by the sentiment.
“Isn’t the one you love supposed to be your sun?” you countered.
“The sun is for everyone to love, when you see the moon in the day, it feels extra special and you can’t help but stare. Plus you’re my light in the dark Y/n, I love you” You were in complete awe of his words, always stunned by how much he loved you. You wanted to shower him with kisses and keep him by your ear forever so he could speak his sweet words to you all the time. Your chest fluttered painfully with adoration for him. If you could make it so this night would never end - despite your sadness - you’d do it in a heartbeat.
“I love you too Mikes, I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you” you said, voice tear stained.
“It’ll be okay darlin’, they’re saying we’ll be home by Christmas” uncertainty wandered around his words and he could tell you caught it. With a heavy sigh he continued, “Listen… when you start to miss me late a night, just look up at the moon, okay? I’ll be looking up at the same one... I promise”
Now that felt like one he could keep.
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The beaming sun glazed over the vast lawn, warming your chilly arms from the wind. The grass grew a vibrant green, littered with the yellow of dandelions. The garden was slightly unkempt, wildflowers growing all around and moss coating the stepping stones. The pond at the back of the garden was a green-blue colour due to the algae that had amassed within and you could see small flecks of orange and gold swimming around.
The faint sound of a wind chime tickled over your ears, the noise was a soothing contrast to the playful giggles running around the garden. Hopping along the trail of moss-cushioned slabs were two children. A girl - no more than five years old - her hair was braided into pigtails with precision and tied off with two pink ribbons, she wore a teacup dress in a matching pink paired with thick white stockings and a pair of Mary Jane shoes, adorably small for her tiny little feet. And a boy - taller than the girl and seemingly a few years older - his knee length shorts were held up by suspenders that sat on the shoulders of his tucked in button up, he wore glasses with wire frames and had his hair gelled neatly just like Michael had when he was younger.
The two frolicked around the garden, chasing each other to their hearts content, analysing the ladybugs scurrying over the leaves and gazing over into the pond - the boy being careful not to let the girl fall in. Watching them, your heart swelled with wonder, as if you were viewing the world through their curious eyes. You could’ve sat and watched for hours.
A hand came to rest upon yours - which might’ve startled you if it wasn’t the most soothing presence you’d ever felt. A thumb grazed back and forth over your hand and your fingers naturally began to intertwine. You welcomed the motion.
Your eyes wandered over to your right - finally growing curious about who was there comforting you so deeply. First glancing down at the hand, you saw a wedding ring… Michael’s wedding ring. You could feel something in your brain telling you to pull him close immediately and never let go, but you felt no such urgency. It felt like you had forever here and there was no need to rush.
The ring appeared more tarnished than you remembered but the delicate etchings remained visible upon it. He wore his father’s wristwatch, the leather was slightly frayed and tattered on the edge, but it was still holding strong. You didn’t make an effort to observe the face of the watch and read the time - you felt no need. Every second brought you a never-ending sense of tranquility as your gaze trailed slowly up to view Michael’s face.
The sun shone brightly from behind him, half blinding your eyes. In its haze you could only make out small details. The wire frames of his glasses that rested on his ears, slightly scruffing up the hair around them. The way his cheeks obscured his eyes and the light caught his sharp little canine tooth - you could see he was smiling widely. The way his shoulders moved up and down ever so slightly with every long calm breath.
The more things you noticed, the brighter the back lighting got, but still you stared. Your eyes were burning slightly but you were determined to stay fixed on him - even if by this point he was only a silhouette of himself. The more intense the sun became, the colder you felt. There was little reminiscence of the warmth that it had enveloped you in earlier, the only thing grounding you was Michael, his hand still in yours despite his form fading in front of your eyes - it was more of an impression of him by this point. It was like you were being ripped further from him by the second.
You hadn’t noticed but the ambience of the garden had disappeared, and the sun had relinquished its attack on your eyes, now only seeping through your heavy eyelids.
Your head wavered up and down slightly to the rhythm of Michael’s breath as you attempted to pry open your sleepy eyes. Small mumbles escaped your throat as you acclimated to your situation - feeling cold at the loss of your idyllic dream and heavy with the weight of the day to come.
It seemed that Michael had been awake for some time - he was propped up somewhat against the headboard and his hand brushed over yours with such care, comforting you in the last few moments of true peace together. His wedding ring showed no signs of wear like it did in your dream. It was clean and polished, fresh. The ring appeared new and as you stared at its fine details you began to miss the tarnished surface. Though you had fallen in love with each other so many years ago, spending almost everyday devoted to one another, you felt your time was being cut short - it wasn't that you didn't feel fulfilled, you just felt you had so much more to do together. Then again, maybe forever wouldn't even be enough time with Michael.
The morning was unbelievably tough. You were preparing yourself to go out and attempt to wave your husband off to war with a smile on your face. Tears smeared the makeup from your face before you could even lay it on and the lump in your throat almost restricted your breathing when you thought too hard.
You and Michael occasionally exchanged almost sorrowful glances at each other, knowing that talking about it would just make it harder for the both of you. You wanted nothing more than to scream, cry and beg him to stay but instead you opted to hold him close every second you could, hoping he'd receive your silent communications and drop everything to stay home.
Deep down you both knew Michael wasn't cut out for war, he'd never been particularly manly or athletic. He was a lanky guy with glasses, he was a teacher's pet in school, he made miniature models in his free time and if he wasn't doing that his nose was likely stuck in a book. The closest experience he'd had to a fight was getting beaten up for lunch money numerous times in high school. You were so worried about him - not just for those obvious reasons but because all those things meant he almost had something to prove. You were scared he'd feel pressured to put himself forward or launch himself into something he wasn't ready for just because people often had low expectations for him.
You remembered the morning Michael received the letter telling him he was going to be drafted. You were whipping up some breakfast for the both of you while he sat at the dinner table. You were speaking to him about needing to go to the market to pick up some more eggs but you were met with no response. When you turned to see what was occupying him, you saw him staring at the letter, mouth hanging open slightly, breathing heavily and eyes filled with shock and fear. When you asked what the letter was, his ears were ringing too much to produce a reply. You came over and soothed your hand over his back while you read over his shoulder. You remembered how your heart sunk in that moment and that feeling never truly went away. That morning was hard - this one was harder.
Your brain was processing this like he was dying today. So you tried to think of other possibilities. What if he was killed in his first battle? In his last? What if he lost a limb or needed a wheelchair? What if he came back less gentle and kind? What if he was a shell of himself? What if he didn't love you anymore? That didn't help much.
As the endless thoughts spiralled over every way you could lose him, you hardly noticed you were about to leave and make your way to the train station. You choked down the tears brimming in your eyes and took a deep breath as you stepped over the threshold of the house. You watched Michael take in the mundane image of your home before composing himself and locking the door behind him.
The train station was swarming with people, neatly dressed men piled onto the steam train as wives waved their handkerchiefs. There was an eerily celebratory atmosphere on the platform - families being split before your eyes under the pretence of honour and patriotism, all with smiles plastered on their faces.
As officers horded the men toward and onto the train, you pulled Michael into one last hug, holding him as tight as you could. He reciprocated burying his head into the crook of your neck and pulling you ever-close. The gesture - despite lasting only a few seconds - was extremely weighted, like you were discussing all of you worries and comforting each other through it. But of course you weren't, there was nothing you could do now to stop him from leaving, so with an artificial smile on your face, you let him go.
Countless men were leaning out of the train windows to say their final farewells and you searched desperately to spot Michael until you heard a familiar call of your name and rushed over to him. As soon as he was within reach, you pulled him into a kiss - clearly regretting not doing so before. You rested your forehead against his, just taking in the seconds you had. You let your arms rest over his shoulders, one hand nestled in his hair and the other lulling over his back. His hands, however, gripped you tight afraid to ever let go. You noticed the way he sighed with every breath and the way his hair tickled your forehead and how his eyes were scrunched tightly as if trying to think of anything but what he was about to do.
As the conductor called out one minute until their departure, you realised you had almost forgotten to give Michael his small parting gift. You shot up, startling and almost headbutting Michael, to rummage in your bag frantically before pulling out a small slip of paper.
You handed it to Michael - who wore a very confused expression - and smiled as you watched him unfold the paper. It had been the first genuine smile of the day and the second followed shortly when Michael opened it up to find a picture of you. It was a picture he had taken, he remembered the day so vividly. He stared at the image and admired it before looking up at you - lost for words but his loving eyes welling with tears told you enough.
"So you don't forget me." you sniffled, now holding back tears of your own.
"Never." Pulling you close once more. "Never." He repeated, now muffled into your neck.
Your embrace was broken by a shift in the train and its deafening horn. Reluctantly you let go as the train began to pull away. "I love you moonshine." He called out.
"I love you too Mikes." You responded as he slowly drifted further from you. His beautiful smile stained your memory as he disappeared, tucking himself back into the carriage as the train finally sped out of view.
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Life without Michael was easier than you thought it'd be. That wasn't to say it wasn't hard - because god was it hard - but after those first couple weeks (that were practically akin to hell for you) you fell into the swing of normality. At first you were inconsolably lonely, finding yourself accidentally speaking to him or calling for him which always formed a small pit in your chest. Counterintuitively, you shut yourself inside at first, which was a very bad idea - surrounding yourself only with things that reminded you of him.
Eventually though, you began to manage. You (and many other women) got jobs helping out down at the factory to fill in for the men, it was nice to be occupied and you could've sworn the efficiency of the factory increased tenfold with women working instead. Every week, you met for tea with Michael's mother just to check in and catch up. If you were struggling to the extent you were, you couldn't even imagine how hard it was for her, having both of her sons sent off to fight. The conversations between the two of you were light and surface level - neither of you wanting to acknowledge the looming unease.
You never really touched Michael's things while he was gone (aside from the sweaters of his you liked to lounge in.) You made a point to leave his nightstand exactly as he had left it.
On the back left corner of the bedside table there was a photograph of the two of you on your wedding day. It sat in a beautiful wooden frame, passed down from his mother, and in the photo you were both beaming with happiness. In front of the picture was Michael's shaving kit - left open from when he had used it on the morning he left. He rarely had to shave and he had a habit of nicking himself. Also on the nightstand, was a copy of The Hobbit with a bookmark shoved in just past the halfway mark - nearly finished. You hadn't even emptied out his ash tray after he left - the cheap tin still soiled with his morning cigarettes right next to the scuffs on the wood where he'd strike his matches. Next to it was a packet of cigarettes - half full, he had told you he'd smoke the second half when he returned. You weren't sure why, but it made him feel less far away, like he had just popped out quickly and he'd be back soon. Each mundane object carried a piece of him.
On the particularly hard nights, you just remembered what Michael had said to you the night before he left. Through your window, you stared at the moon, admiring its features, the same way you'd admired Michael's - taking in every detail you could to be closer to him. It worked mostly - of course you were still alone, but the empty bed felt warmer knowing he was out there thinking of you, the same way you thought of him.
Those nights, you were with him in your dreams and it broke your heart to wake up without him.
Michael's letters home were always the highlight of your week. You'd read over them so many times that you had his handwriting committed to memory. If you'd looked any further into his words you might've been unsettled by his plain optimism and vague stories - and there was a small part of you that did notice - but you were far too excited by the contact with him to delve into it. You were totally enamoured by his words - he built you palaces out of paragraphs describing how he loved and missed you.
In one letter you received was a photograph of Michael. Clad in army greens and a helmet - his smile crooked to one side, baring his pointed canine tooth and squinting his eyes. You hadn't seen his face in so long, your heart melted at the sight of him. He looked so handsome and his smile felt so real. You kept that photograph with you all the time - even placing it under your pillow while you slept. If you imagined hard enough, it almost felt like he was there.
When you wrote back you often found yourself conflicted. You didn't know whether to tell him how much you missed him and were struggling without him or to tell him everything was okay. You didn't want to lie to him but you also didn't want him to worry. You knew that moping and complaining wouldn't make return home any sooner so you decided to sugarcoat it and make it seem manageable while still letting him know that you needed him close.
When you received your invitation to the USO ball, it was like all your prayers had been answered. Your heart buzzed with excitement for the event. You spent your shifts at the factory daydreaming about running into his arms once more. You spent hours planning what you were going to wear - you knew it didn't really matter and he'd be happy to see you no matter what but you really wanted to look your best for him.
The morning of the event, you were brimming with happiness. You couldn't wait to just see his face, hear his voice or to feel his touch again. Getting ready you were almost giggling like a schoolgirl excited to see her hallway crush. There were a few negative thoughts springing up in your mind - 'what if he had changed a lot already?' - but you shoved those thoughts far into the back of your mind, determined to enjoy your time together.
When you arrived at the event, you found yourself lost in a sea of dress greens. Each and every man, wearing them with the same sleek hairstyle too. Despite this you were sure there was no way you could miss Michael in the crowd - even though you hadn't seen him in many months, you knew he'd strike you instantly if you passed him. You sat on the bleachers and waited for him, observing the crowd with an eagle eye.
The room was loud with music and cheerful chatter but through the swarm of people you locked eyes with him and for a moment it felt completely silent. Before you could even register what you were doing, you ran toward him, locking him in a warm embrace. All of your problems, all of your struggles and strife seemed to melt away at his touch. Hearing the beat of his heart, knowing he was alive and well, felt like a blessing in itself. Being able to hold and be held by him felt like more than you could ever ask for.
You broke the hug to look up at him. He certainly looked like Michael. His eyes still looked at you with adoration and his smile still sent a thousand butterflies to your stomach. You brought your hands up to cradle his face, he certainly felt like Michael. He leaned into your touch and you felt that slight stubble graze your palm, his hair was still smooth and neat, his jaw still strong, his nose still pointed, his eyebrows still thick. He was certainly still Michael.
You felt the familiar burn of tears in your eyes but you almost welcomed it, they didn't feel even half as bitter as all the tears you had shed before. You were happy. It was almost as if he had never left at all.
Almost.
You couldn't pinpoint exactly what was different, he just seemed a little colder. It didn't show in his actions or the way he talked, but every now and then you'd notice that it was there. Like he was all shaken up, or like he was sat behind his own eyes looking on at his surroundings. A couple times throughout, the night you caught him zoned out, staring off into the abyss - and when you asked what the matter was he snapped out of it like nothing had happened. It worried you but you were glad to have him back at all.
You chatted for hours, easily falling into the flow of the night. You told him about work down at the factory and how you were sure you did his job better than him. You told him about how you kept his photo with you at all times - he told you how he kept your photo in his helmet. He told you stories of battles, mentioning how strenuous it was but clearly omitting details as to not upset you.
You clung to every moment with him, taking in every second, knowing you'd have to let him go again at the end of the night. You kept his hand in yours, embraced him whenever you could and never pulled your eyes away from him. It was as if when he blinked, you were scared to forget the colour of his eyes.
As a slow song rang through the speakers of the hall, Michael led you onto the dance floor, drawing you close as you began to sway to the beat of the music. You rested your head upon his chest just to feel the rise and fall of his breathing and hear the thumping of his heart. No matter how much fear swarmed you had one line of reassurance… he made it this far. He had endured so much already and you were beyond proud of him.
As the final song drew to a close, the men began to filter out of the hall. You and Michael stood frozen in time, not wanting to let go of each other, standing idly enclasped in each others arms.
Eventually though, the time came for Michael to leave, he gave you one last kiss and joined the crowd. He took one look back at you, giving a reassuring smile before turning to walk away again. It took absolutely everything in you to not to run into his arms, grab him and beg him not to leave you all over again. But instead you stood there, utterly helpless, just letting him walk away and slip from your grasp once more. With your hand over your heart, afraid it might burst, a sorrowful smile and your eyes welling with bitter tears, you let him go.
You didn't know it, but he had hoped you'd stop him, so he could run back to you.
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In the early hours of the morning, on the 6th of June 1944, the sun reared its head over the eastern headland of Normandy beach. Packed like cattle onto navy ships, were over a hundred thousand men, travelling towards blood soaked sands. Air forces had already been sent in the midst of the night and although the shore was still distant - the sounds of war and the visible splatters of death were unmistakable. Still, the troops headed forward, each soldier as stoic as the next - trying to ready themselves for what was to come.
Among the vast flood of army green was Michael. No matter how many battles he fought in, he'd never get used to the intense unease that ate away at him every time. But even considering that, he had never felt this unsettled before. Maybe it was the sheer scale of the attack, maybe it was the knowledge that soldiers more trained and experienced had already met their end, or maybe it was how he could sense that every single soldier around him was filled with the same dread and fear.
One man, on the far end of Michael's row, heaved and gagged to the point that he threw up his rations. He claimed it was simply a result of the rolling and pitching of the boat upon the rough sea, but everyone felt sympathetic to his plight - feeling so nauseous with fear alone that they could do the same. Most of them were probably praying to any god that might hear them at this point.
Two rows in front of him, he had spotted his older brother Gerard. Michael could've bore a hole into the back of his head with his stare, hoping Gerard would sense it. He just wanted him to turn around and offer some look of reassurance - he didn't. Michael didn't exactly blame him, he was probably lost in his own swarm of fear and worry.
Nearing the beach, the sun lifted higher, working to eradicate the blue haze of night that lingered in the western sky. The summer heat was already beaming down onto the left side of Michael's face, leaving him uncomfortable, burning in the hot, salty, sea air. Seeking respite, he turned his head away, clinging on to the windy night for as long as he could. He spotted the full moon as it still hung in the sky and thought of you, it was faint and fading but still prominent enough to see as it fought a losing battle against the dawn.
He thought of you to soothe himself, wishing for nothing more than to be by your side. His fingers came to rest on the front of his helmet, where he kept your picture. He repeated in his head how he just had to make it through to see you again, all he had to do was make it through and he could grow old with you. He thought about how he regretted not starting a family with you sooner and how he wouldn't waste a second to do so once he got home. He imagined the rest of his life with you - he knew that maybe he shouldn't but it was just about the only thing that'd keep him sane in times like these.
However, his dreaming was about to be cut short - the ship was about to roll in to the beach.
The heavy-duty ramp thumped into the shallow saltwater. A horde of thick, leather, rough-out boots thrashed onto the shore, scrambling over small sand dunes. Each soldier splashing up water behind them as the ocean ushered them onto the beach. Cries of war rang out all around, melting into one buzzing sound of agony that fell upon Michael's ears.
Before any soldiers had even reached dry land there were corpses plummeting to the ground. Their bodies obscured the blue sea, the rough tide already washing up the fresh remains with crimson still pouring out. But still the storm continued on, trampling over their former comrades in an adrenaline fuelled stampede. Those unlucky enough to live past the first bullet wailed out in excruciation, wishing someone would have enough mercy to finish them off. They were met with no such luxury.
Michael felt lost in the bustling attack, soldiers being shot with no rhyme or reason - he just prayed he wasn't stood where the next bullet would land. The swarm of soldiers were nothing but a flock of pheasants, and the Germans were hunting for sport. They fired their machine guns recklessly and with no remorse, flinging bullets like spare pennies from their pockets.
It did take few loud explosions for the troops realise, but Normandy beach was littered with landmines. About every one hundred heavy-footed stomps on the beach, a soldier would be regretting where he placed his foot, being instantly blown away by the eruption. But the fighters had no time to be thinking about intricate and cautious footwork in that moment, they pressed on, leaving their fate to chance.
The soldiers attempted to retaliate the Germans attack but while frantically racing to find any cover they could, an accurate shot proved increasingly difficult. With no tangible hope, it was their instinctive will to survive that kept them firing at the well sheltered opposition. As a plethora of soldiers tumbled over the berm crest of the blood stained sands they were met with a small glimmer of hope. The Germans had set up large metal structures, clad with barbed wire, intended to obstruct any of the allied forces' airborne attacks. In theory, these structures were meant as a defence tool, they were there specifically to put their opposition at a disadvantage, however the soldiers were quick to seek refuge from the fire behind these bases.
Michael set his eyes on the base closest to him and veered his course to get there. Laser focused on reaching the feeble excuse for a shelter, he didn't concern himself with the frantic charge surrounding him that was becoming more disorganised by the second. He was totally fixed on the opportunity for any mild respite from the hail of bullets that showered the troops and when he crashed down crouching behind the metal structure, he felt an - albeit small - sense of relief.
His breathing was untamed and irregular, fluctuating between hyperventilation and deep breaths that'd make your lungs pop. He clutched his rifle close to his chest trying to make himself feel safer, though it wouldn't do much to protect him unless he had the guts to aim it. Michael had only killed two people in battle: the first time he was frozen with fear for his life and it seemed to be his survival instinct that had aimed and pulled the trigger; the second was more intentional - less defensive, he didn't need to shoot that soldier - the course of the battle likely wouldn't have been affected by this man living or dying. Both situations impacted Michael to the fullest extent - he was plagued by his own actions for a good while afterwards. The fact he could take someones life without thinking about it or the fact he could do it in a deliberate and calculated attack, he didn't know what sickened him more.
Just as he readied himself to make his way further up the beach, a comrade fell before his feet with a sonorous thud - spraying splatters of blood and flesh over his face, he'd taken 2 bullets to his neck. Michael stared at the gruesome sight in front of him with wide panicked eyes and quickening breath. The harder the soldier tried to cry out the more blood spilled from the gaping hole in his throat - his pain couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds before his eyes glazed over - the expression of agony still stretched across his face. A man Michael couldn't even put a name to, who likely had ambitions and values - maybe even a family, now just a corpse.
Michael was stunned by the sickening sight before him - almost heaving and shaking from all the pent up adrenaline. His wide eyes were fixed on the soldiers cold ones, glued to the gory scene. As the troops around him carried onwards, the body was ruthlessly trampled, flailing lifelessly being squished under heavy boots. More blood oozed from the wounds with every careless stomp atop the corpse. He tried desperately to steady his dizzied bearings and looked around to assess his next move.
The blaring ambience of war pierced his eardrums but amongst the head-splitting noise Michael could pick out one familiar voice - Gerard. He whipped his head around so frantically he wouldn't have been surprised if he got whiplash, he was so desperate to find his brother having lost track of him in the storm.
Finally they locked eyes from across the battlefield and for a moment Michael felt safe, protected. Just like when they were little - how Gerard always stuck up for Michael, even if he wasn't particularly tough himself. He thought about one time when they were at the play park and some kids came to pick on him, just as they were about to push Michael to the ground, Gerard had come to the rescue as he always did, managing to scare off the bullies and make sure Michael was okay. But of course, you cant scare off soldiers like kids in a playground.
Gerard was only one base further up the beach, not too far from him. The brothers communicated everything they needed to say within a few seconds of eye contact and God did Michael want to be wrong about what his brother was trying to say. But no, the look in Gerard's eyes was unmistakable - 'we have to run'.
And if that look wasn't confirmation enough, Gerard got up into a crouch behind the shelter and readied himself to go. Michael saw snippets of him through the running rampage of their comrades, he was looking ahead and trying to plan their course, he was going to lead them to any temporary safety he could find. He wore a focused and determined expression as he tried to bite back his feelings of distress in order to help his little brother.
He shot Michael back a look, putting on the most reassuring facade he could manage signalling that he had a plan of action. He nodded three times to a count and Michael attempted to ready himself to run for his very life. He nodded meekly back to his older brother, not radiating a shred of confidence.
"Mikey, Let's go!" Gerard screamed so loud their was no way he couldn't hear. He waved his arm, beckoning his brother to run with him and getting up to begin his sprint across the war zone with his brother close behind.
Except Michael wasn't close behind. He crouched behind his base, frozen with sheer panic. He tried desperately to regulate himself and follow Gerard - squeezing his eyes tightly shut and hyperventilating rapidly as he tried to imagine he were anywhere but there. His rifle rattled against his chest due to his shaking hands before he built up the courage to run after his brother. He took three deep breaths, pumping his shoulders as he did so to manage and channel his adrenaline and launched forward - his feet bounding onwards before his mind could protest any longer. He didn't know how long he had been frozen with fear - only a matter of seconds, surely, but it was long enough for Gerard to have disappeared into the horde.
Michael searched feverishly for his brother still launching himself forward like his life depended on it - and it did. But as he spotted his brother crashing down into the makeshift trench, he realised that he'd missed the window of opportunity Gerard had curated in his plan.
Gerard turned his head, expecting to have Michael within arms reach, but he found no such thing. Through a clearing of the stampede, there he was, collapsing upon the rough sand - struck down. Before he could even process what he was witnessing - two familiar faces, Frank and Robert, had their arms wrapped tightly around him, stopping him from running back into the open fire. And they were right to do so, Gerard almost immediately tried to get to Michael.
Just a small pinch as he charged forward through the lethal battlefield. Just a tiny, pinching feeling in his lower abdomen and it had thrown him off of his feet. The harsh fall had knocked all the air out of his lungs and he struggled to take enough back in. His breath was feverish and ragged as he heaved for air in gasping intervals.
Initially the impact of his body upon the beach was his primary source of pain, he felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a horse, but before long that previously minuscule pinch began to burn. That's when it occurred to Michael, he'd been shot.
Cries of pure agony ripped from his throat as his pain worsened with every second that went by. He could feel all of the muscles in his abdomen tightening and pulsing around the fresh cavity. The wound spilled more blood with every pained spasm and every sharp gasp for air, Michael could feel it soaking his uniform but he was far too disorientated in that moment to register the sheer volume of blood he was losing.
The crippling affliction didn't relent for even a second as the burning sensation radiated through his entire body. The shooting pains only worsened as he writhed on the ground, gritty sand clinging to and infesting the oozing wound. It was like he could taste the gunpowder - metallic and astringent on his tongue.
Among the ear-shattering sounds of gunfire and landmines, and aside from his own screaming, Michael could hear one voice, totally clear as day, Gerard was shouting out his name. He tipped his head back, pushing against the sand in an attempt to trace his voice and locate his brother. All he needed to do was get to him and it'd be okay, he thought. As much as he strained his neck searching for him, it amounted to nothing, Michael was met with nothing but the orange, hazy sky of dawn through his blurring eyes - forced to listen to his brothers cries with no way to settle him.
Just as Michael's eyelids were weighing down and his body began to fall weak, he was rammed back into consciousness by a sudden, overwhelming pressure upon his tender wound. Past the tortured noises from his own throat, Michael could hear mumblings of reassurance from the figure above him - a medic, he figured. The constant repetition telling him it'd be okay, his worried and frantic voice, and the worsening pain in his abdomen, had Michael wondering whether the medic was talking to him or trying to convince himself.
"Michael."
Did he hear that right? That wasn't one of Gerard's cries out for him, no, it was closer. How would the medic-
"Michael."
There it was again. For a second Michael thought it could be God, but the voice was close and God felt far from here. This was the voice of the man pushing the pain of a thousand needles into his gaping wound. However the question still stood, how did he know his name?
Michael willed himself to gaze up at the medic, gathering the unreasonable amount of strength he needed simply to open his eyelids and focus on the silhouette of the man before him. Through fuzzy, spotted vision, he found a familiar face. He wasn't sure how he didn't recognise the distinct voice of his long term friend Raymond but he was - for a moment - glad to have somebody with him.
Michael tried to communicate with his friend but all he could manage were long, incoherent babbles of ache - met with an abundance of spluttered 'I know'-s . They ranged from attempts at comfort to spits of frustration as white cloth spilled from his fingers - turning red at the slightest contact with the bullet-site.
As Raymond blundered unravelling the billows of bandages, each reel he pulled out instantly drowned in the blood. Michael could pinpoint every minuscule sensation - suffering even as the cool breeze feathered over the surface of the contusion. What hurt more though was the wet, coarse sand nestled in the lesion - carried in by both the wind and Raymond's feverish attempts to stop the bleeding. It was like he could feel every grain that sat on the walls of his wound like thousands of glass shards were wearing away his tissue.
Michael's ears picked up Gerard's cries growing louder and more distressed by the second as Raymond's sighs of frustration became periodic, baffled by Michael's incessant bleeding.
Gerard struggled against the iron grip of Frank and Robert, pleading for them to let him go, begging for them to let him save his baby brother with tears streaming down his face. Michael thought about how horrible it was that his brother had to watch him die like this. Unable to help, expected to watch then move on like some soulless machine, playing a passive part in his own brothers death. Michael knew he was dying - he knew it from the defeated huffs coming from Raymond, he knew it from the searing sting that ran through his veins, he knew it from his army greens practically swimming in blood.
Dying wasn't what scared him most in that moment though. He couldn't shake the image of you receiving a heartless notice with faux pity and a box of his belongings. He couldn't die here, he had to get home to you, have a family and grow old with you - that's what was he was meant to do, that's what was meant to happen. So, ignoring his body's instinct telling him to let go, he held on, enduring every painful moment and powering through every difficult breath - the thought of you guiding him through.
There was a selfish part of Michael that wished you were there on that beach . Just so you could hold him close and cradle him in your arms. He imagined you with him, lulling him into death so sweetly. He was grateful you wouldn't know the extent of his agony - he hoped you'd never experience even half the pain - but he just wanted you there to make it all go away, to soothe him as you always did. He wished he'd ran back into your arms hat night of the ball. He regretted every second he had ever spent away from you, he regretted all the things he never told you, he regretted always assuming you'd have more time together.
He craved nothing but your presence, but your absence reminded him of the heartache you'd likely feel tenfold from having to live with it - he was lucky enough to die. He knew his fate, he was only holding on to think of you longer.
However, he grew tired as he felt his time approach. He felt nauseous with the abundance of unknown that awaited him and the charmed life he had to leave behind. Before his eyelids could fall shut a final time, he looked up to the sky. As his breath slipped from him in the blazing sun, he looked up for the moon - but you were nowhere to be found in the morning sky and he couldn't hold on any longer.
Raymond had to tend the the next soldier, distressed and defeated as he tried to tune out Gerard's screams for him to do something, to help his baby brother, crying like a tall child. Michael's tortured screams were no longer and his strained muscles stilled into a stiff, pallor cadaver.
That was no longer Michael, just another set of bones laid to rest.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
You were startled awake by your blaring alarm clock beating your eardrums as the morning sun shone brightly through your window. You rolled out of bed to get ready for your shift at the factory and peered out of the window to search for the moon - as you always did. Usually you had luck with this - dawn only breaking just as you awoke - but recently with days only growing longer, he'd been harder and harder to spot in the sky.
With a defeated sigh, you made your way downstairs to fix yourself some breakfast before you left. You'd settled nicely into your routine by now - working Monday to Friday, heading to the farmer's market on Saturdays, having Sunday tea with Michael's mother and receiving a letter from your husband on Monday mornings. You were scanning the practically barren cupboards for what you needed to pick up at the market the next day when you heard a sharp knock at the door.
It was the postman, perhaps Michael's letter had arrived early, you thought excitedly. Ripping open the envelope quickly, you failed to notice that the address wasn't scrawled in your husband's handwriting. You unfolded the paper, desperate to write back as soon as you could. It read:
Dear Mrs. Y/N Way,
I deeply regret to inform you that your husband, Private Michael James Way, has been reported as having lost his life on Active Service Overseas on June 6th 1944. I wish to offer you and the members of his family my sincere and heart-felt sympathy.
There was more written on the page but you couldn't bare to read any further - your eyes were far too blurred with the welling tears to continue anyway. Your body tingled with unease as you tried to process what you'd just read. Every cell in your body felt ten times heavier as your stomach sank.
Your ears rang out like you were totally isolated for miles - time frozen still as you stared at the notice with wide, unblinking eyes, fixed open from shock. Tears soddened the paper before you could think about the reality you were living and your eyes began to burn from the attack of your salty tears.
It felt like you'd swallowed a paperweight - your cries choking in your throat as you gasped for air between them. June 6th, he had died three whole days ago. Dead while you daydreamed of his return at work. Dead while you willed yourself to get out of bed for him - knowing he'd want you to get out of the house. Dead while you wore a smile on your face for three whole days.
How could you be so stupidly hopeful? You kicked yourself for expecting him to come home. You and Michael both knew he wasn't cut out for war yet you let him get onto that train that'd send him to his death. Maybe if you'd pushed harder for him to stay, he would've given in. All the moments you could've stopped him. The night before he left, or before he boarded the train, or that night at the ball - the last time he held you in his arms. Your brain wracking through every possibility as if it would change what was written on the letter in front of you.
Your heartbreak was almost visceral as you felt the pain bubbling deep inside your chest like your heart was pulsing around the knife of your loss. It beat like it was trying to mine it's way out of your chest and for a second you were afraid it'd stop entirely. The next second you wished it would.
You didn't know how long your sobbing had lasted - still stood in the same doorway he'd held you in the night before he left. This time he wasn't here to make it all go away. You tried hard to imagine his arms around you the way you had on so many lonely nights - but it didn't work anymore. Even the thought of him was lifeless now.
Eventually your legs grew tired and slid down to the floor. Your eyes hardly had any tears left to give but your crying continued. You were a great heap of sobs as you wrapped your arms around your body trying to console yourself enough to get up for work, but to no avail.
You could see no end to your suffering - he was never coming home. He'd never hold you again, he wasn't going to be there to wipe your tears, he'd never even send you another letter. He was everything that kept you going and he was gone.
You'd been crying for what must've been hours and had completely forgotten about work. A rational voice in your brain told you to telephone your boss and explain but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. You'd have to walk through the house filled to the brim with reminders of Michael, compose your weeping enough to speak and even worse than either of those - you'd have to say he was dead out loud.
It was a fallacious idea but it felt like saying it aloud would make it true as if it wasn't already so. You weren't ready to accept the crushing situation you'd found yourself in.
The floor became increasingly uncomfortable and you finally willed yourself off of the ground to traipse into your once shared bedroom. Your sore eyes failing to release anymore tears through your dry, unyielding sobs as you walked past all you would ever have of him. All the pictures of you together clawed at your gut, you were nauseated by the hole he'd left in your heart and the happiness you'd felt that you might never feel again.
You practically threw yourself onto the bed and melted into the mattress. You were exhausted from your bawling and the soft surface soothed aches in your body that you hadn't even noticed or acknowledged behind your grief. You layed your head upon his pillow - as if there'd be any trace of him left from so long ago - and tried to fall asleep to escape all of your overwhelming emotions. However, the blazing daylight surpassed your scrunched eyelids and you'd have to give up on that idea, locking you in with your swarming thoughts.
You let your eyes wander around the room, his memory was chained to everything in sight. You reminisced over everything in the back of your mind, far too drained to focus on the present. Whilst sat behind your mourning eyes, you stared at the possessions that remained on his nightstand, untouched from the day he left. The smiling faces you wore on your wedding day, immortalised and unaware behind the glass of the photo frame. The shaving kit, left open still waiting for its next use. The copy of 'The Hobbit' with the bookmark still shoved in the middle - permanently unfinished. The practically empty ashtray and the half empty pack of cigarettes beside it that he'd vowed to finish when he returned. You'd kept everything the same so he'd feel closer to you but seeing his things completely preserved felt like staring at his cold corpse.
You didn't want to imagine his body - of course not - but with nothing but time to think, you were contemplating every aspect of your loss, whether you wanted to or not. Your mind raced through every horrific possibility, replaying your husband's death a hundred different ways. You could do nothing but pray it was quick and peaceful. You wished you were there to hold him in his last moments and soothe all of his pain. What had he thought about in his last moments? Did he resent himself for leaving? Did he wish you were with him? Did his brother Gerard witness it? Did he have anyone to comfort him?
Distressing questions left unanswered, the sun began to set. You stared out of the window waiting for moonrise - doubting it'd settle you much but hoping for even a smidgen of ease or closeness. By now you should have learned not to hope for anything. The night was completely overcast - the moon tucked behind thick billows of cloud.
Though the thought of him on the battlefield wasn't much more comforting - you tried to pretend that he was still off fighting. You rationality was clouded by love and your heart was heavy with knowledge. Maybe Michael was still smiling for that picture he'd sent home, maybe he was still on that train carriage hopeful to return, maybe he was still just outside the ballroom as you considered running after him.
To you, if the moon could exist behind the clouds then maybe Michael could live in the moments you'd spent apart.
But nothing could bring those moments back for you to change. No prayer could give you back his kiss and no wish could give you back his hand upon yours. You found yourself yearning for the years gone by with Michael far away, knowing they might've been some of your hardest but they felt like heaven compared to the endless years to come without him. So many letters home that you'd taken for granted and you'd never get another. His messy handwriting would never narrate his love for you again.
You felt empty knowing it was over, all of those years spent together had amounted to nothing. All the things you should've said that were never said, the things you should've done that you never did. Everything you could've given him but you didn't - you just wanted him to come and make it all go away. Your life with him hardly even began, you were foolish to think you'd always have time. You never had the children you'd dreamed of having together. He never got to leave a piece of him with you and start a family of your own. All he left was a searing mark on your life that you'd never shake. He promised you the life you both wanted, it was so close you could almost grab it only for it to be ripped away. Unfulfilled, meaningless and agonizing.
So as your fatigue caught up to you and began to overthrow your mind, you longed to dream of him again. Begging for the lord to have enough mercy to wash you away and take you to him in your sleep. But you dreamt of nothing.