Barbed-wire Beach

© John A. Ward

I am on my way to the cafeteria. I swipe my ID card across the sensor, the red light flashes green and beep, beep, I am clear to go. I pull the handle and three guys in green scrub suits approach from the other side of the
door.

The first says, "You go."

But that's silly, "No," I say. The door opens out, I am already holding it, they are on their way to surgery, carrying more than I am.

"No, you go," I say.

"Thanks," they answer and bustle through.

Suddenly, I flash back. I am in the first boat approaching the beach, forty years ago. The gate drops down in the surf and I am the first out. Fifty yards up the beach, the concertina wire coils in an unbroken barrier,
side-to-side, as far as I can see. I've been taught to bridge it. I want the experience, hold my rifle in front of me, almost at present arms, curl my wrists inward so my sleeves protect them and drop onto the serpentine
spiral.

The members of my boat team run over me. The last man is supposed to drop and bridge from the other side so I can get across, but he doesn't.

"There's another team coming right behind me," he says and he runs up the beach toward the tree line, where the defenders are raining fire on us. The beach is no place to be. Even running toward the gunfire is better. The
tree line is cover and concealment. Here I'm a still target. The only thing that helps me is that I'm not an immediate threat to the shooters. For all they know, I may already be dead.

The second boat team runs over me. The last guy just yells, "Thanks." He doesn't bridge for me. Why should he? He's not on my boat team. I wait. There must be a third boat. There's always a third boat. I can't stay here.

Rifle and machine gun fire are kicking up small showers of sand. Artillery bursts are sending geysers of grit and shrapnel into the air. Screams and battle cries pierce the explosions.

There is a third boat. The last man in the third squad just runs over me and keeps going toward the trees, like everyone else before him. "Hey, come back. Bridge for me." He just keeps going, like he doesn't hear. There are no more boats. There's never a fourth boat.

I have to get up and find my squad. I try to stand, but the wire comes with me. The barbs are stuck in my utility jacket. I have a fleeting thought of trying to keep it nice for inspection. This is stupid. I'm in an amphibious assault, not a parade. I push up with my arms and legs. The wire tears away and a swatch of green federal prison industry cloth rips off with it, leaving me with a jagged hole in my uniform and still on the wrong side of the barrier.

I have to stomp the coils down and stumble across. I'm a good target, but our platoon has hit the tree line hard and they're moving inland. The first line of defenders is already dead or retreating. Move up, find them. I don't want to be alone. Even if they're getting shot at, I'd rather be with them than alone on the beach, waiting for the tide to wash me out. I'd rather be.

Did I blink? There is a bright light shining through my eyelids. I open them. I'm on my back and three guys in green scrub suits, masks and gloves are looking down at me.

John A. Ward was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to
Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio running, writing and living with his dance partner. He has published in Doorknobs & Bodypaint, Clockwise Cat, Apollo's Lyre, Ascent Aspirations, Static Movement, Toasted Cheese, Green Tricycle, Alighted Ezine, Lit Bits, Cenotaph Pocket Edition, The San Antonio Express-News, Antithesis Common, Wild Child, Holy Cuspidor, Idlewheel, Cautionary Tale, Sentence, Sun Poetic Times, Byline, Quirk, ken*again, R-KV-R-Y, The Smoking Poet, Long Story Short and Rose & Thorn. Links to his work can be found at http://www.geocities.com/jaward04@sbcglobal.net/dancfool.htm .