Short Story Collections
Alms for the Dying; Collected Short Stories: 1991-1992
Run
Chapter 1 Page 8
A shell fell on the beach, just ahead of him. Taylor never knew sand could hurt so much, but it did. It cut his face like a sandblaster with the force of the explosion. His head nearly at beach level, the mortar blast almost ripped Taylor's helmet off, taking his skull with it. Eardrums burst, nose bleeding, the corporal fell, and was submerged in the sea of death. The weight of his equipment dragged him down, and a feeling of panic enveloped him. He struggled against drowning.
He shed his rifle. He snapped the belt for his pack, then dropped that too. Off went his webbing and his bandoliers of ammo.
If he needed anything, thought Taylor, there were plenty of dead guys ahead on the beach to re-supply him. Meanwhile, he kicked out with his legs and scooped water with his hands. When he burst to the surface, he filled his lungs with air in a ragged gasp.
Sarge and the rest of his platoon (what was left of them) were already charging up the beach, their combat boots kicking up rooster tails of sand. One fell. Then another. A shower of machine gun bullets kicked up an artificial rain around Taylor's head. So he went back underwater.
To hell with it. I'll just swim the rest of the way. That's what you're supposed to do at the beach anyway, right? Right.
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