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First hand account of Omaha. Incredibly graphic.

G

gilmourwow

NewbieX
Here's for all of the gore fans out there, who wouldnt hesitate to enlist to watch some fun stuff go down.

What's the most you ever lost on a coin toss?

Imagine waking up on June 6th, 1944.

You're 18. Tall, athletic, handsome, brave, intelligent. Trained and handpicked for years for your unique strength, insights and intelligence. A true leader.

German tanks and machine guns have taken over the world.

You have one chance to stop the world from being plunged into an eternity of genocide and hellfire.

All of your friends drop out of the assignment.

All you know it's some beach in France. They tell you that the beaches are deserted and the bunkers destroyed.

An easy march to Paris, where hundreds of thousands of abused beautiful young women are waiting for their soul mates and heroes.

You wake up confident, energized, a bit of butterflies in your stomach, but you know you'll make it through the day. Your officers are the bravest versions of you, and they have never told a lie.

There are 5,000 alpha men in your group.
Tall. Highschool quarterbacks, many of them. Alpha leaders.

You've never felt so confident, so heroic, so purposed in your life. You're surrounded by true men. Heroes.

The motor starts and the boat lurches forward.

-------------

You feel the first surges of exhilaration. The first shot of adrenaline. The first unexpected creeping wave of doubt.

And then you learn the true meaning of fear.

--------

There are no heroes in war. Only victims.

There are things you see on a battlefield that are not meant for flesh-and-blood creatures to witness; impossible things, acts of propulsion and psychics only made manifest by the cruelty of Satan and the sheer white hot hatred of man, things that I can describe beyond words but are still somehow left undescribed, a grotesque carnival of horror and brutal gore on steroids.

We can begin with Omaha beach. When the landing craft were approaching the shells began hitting the waves at 1000 yards or more, some of them hundreds of pounds. Earlier in the day as an ironic act of mercy the Army command had granted the soldiers a feast of epic proportions for breakfast: second and third helpings of every food available, and as a mortal error of greed 9 out of 10 soldiers ate more than they ever did in their lives. When the transports hit the water running, it was an unusually cloudy and windy day, and some waves were nearly 6 feet high. The resulting hours towards the beach were worse than the most tumultuous roller coaster you could imagine: multiply a bloated stomach to maximum capacity with 120 pounds of gear and ammo and waves that nearly capsized you and the result was a horrifying foreshadowing of what was to come. You may have seen cinema depictions of the ride towards the beach, with stalwart young bravados cooly standing packed on the boats facing their judgement, but being there was something you just can't describe and a thing I wouldn't wish on Hitler himself.

With shells weighing as much as individual men crashing into the waves at breakneck speed all around you for 30 minutes and the rocking pendulum of death many soldiers vomited to the point of suffocation and a large amount simply passed out. Because the waves were two or three feet higher than the walls of the boats many were simply overwhelmed with water and capsized hundreds of yards before even hitting the surf, something history books wont mention but really happened. If you can begin to even imagine the proceeding journey to the spot where your boat went under, with seasickness and a hundred pounds of gear on you, there was absolutely nothing to do but sink straight to the bottom while you were already out of breath completely before even going under. Even that description will not match the horror of what truly transpired the moments leading up to the landings, but it gets even worse. The seismic BOOM and thud of a heavy shell hitting a swell near your boat (or a boat near yours) was enough to shake your heart off of it's ligament supports and cause permanent chest damage. Your shins were fractured under the right circumstances, your eyeballs felt like they were going to explode and if your helmet was strapped (which it had to be on the route) it was enough to give you a concussion. In addition to that, the actual sound of an incoming artillery round is something that could have only been synthesized by a monstrous leviathan from hell. You could feel the static in the air bending while it was still yet hundreds of yards away, and the descending crescendo was like demonic freight train slamming towards you full force manned by shrieking Valkyries. It is an experience that won't be felt until you are there, and even afterwards, you feel it for the rest of your life. It becomes embedded into your ancestral DNA and every other experience in the future is deadened and dulled to the point of lead. I can't give the words justice. The sentences I write are brutal, but we hadn't even reached the beach yet.

At 500 yards we began receiving concentrated MG42 rounds. The fastest machine gun in the world, the MG had the gentle priviledge of gifting the front ramp of the transport 20 or so white-hot rounds per second, and because there were more than 5 MGs on Omaha, that meant more than 100 bullets could potentially hit your boat per second. Each individual round had the ability to split your body cleanly in two and vaporize you in a torrent of steel.

With the grotesque pandemonium literally bending the metal platform under your feet, your genitals had far and away completely retruded into your stomach and your anus puckered in like an unfortunate mouth after sipping battery acid. This experience continued in some cases more than 30 minutes after most of the landing craft had drifted spectacularly off of their intended targets, in some cases nearly a mile. In addition to many soldiers nearly already dying from being capsized, many suffered concussions to the point of a zombified stupor.

Many boats were still nearly 100 yards away from the beach before they hit a wall of sand and were forced to engage.

Then the ramp (in some cases after the driver's whistle blew, in many cases the holder was already dead) flung open in a metallic SWOOSH and Satan made his first appearance of the day.

With 50+ supersonic MG rounds honing in on your face at nearly 3,000 feet per second, many bodies just simply vanished. Again, the cinema (notably Saving Private Ryan) offers a toddler-friendly sanitized picnic version for bored and happy campers, but the gruesome reality was far beyond the point of being able to witness. The only reassurance you had before being shattered into dust was glimpsing the laser-like stream of bullets slicing into your body three times the speed of sound.

With faces, eyeballs, throats, hands, intestines, and legs being splattered mercilessly into the air like the Grim Reaper's lawn mower exhibition, you were lucky to be able to choke to death on blood and vomit before your boots hit the sand. Others were not so fortunate. Because of the phenomenal force of steel and fire shrieking through the front entrance to Hell soldiers had no chance but to knock kindly on the side door.

Because of the intensity of the war and general fitness/testosterone levels of men in the 1940's, (before the global government very brilliantly allocated massive resources devoted to increasing estrogen in the water supply and food to further sterilize the civilian population), soldiers trained for D-Day were of exceptional shape and proportion. If the U.S army of today had attempted the same beach operation in the same indescribable conditions like those of June 6, 1944, many of the soldiers would have died from shock and exhaustion before even making it to the opening of the landing craft ramps.
 
Weighed down by 150+ pounds of soaking wet gear and ammo, many were forced to jump over the sides and into the freezing depths below. How we managed to lift ourselves after experiencing the appetizer of the squalls is a story for another day, but maybe we were boosted by the titanic thuds and paralyzing booms of the 300-pound shells that rained on us like a British storm. After successfully hurling ourselves into the steel-colored waves many who had not had the foresight to loosen their gear before the gate opened sank like bowling balls to the bottom, never to be seen again. The only mercy God seemed to grant us was the legacy of Newton himself, which dictated that no bullet would penetrate your body if stopped by more than a yard of water. Regardless of that little ray of sunshine, we instantly found ourselves dancing a frozen waltz on the very bottom at the gray depths of 10 feet or more. Because our boots were made with a thick and heavy rubber platform with leather soles they became particularly cumbersome when dry, and absolutely impossible when damp. It wasn't exactly a lucky day to play our numbers anyways, but nobody told the fortified Germans as they continued to methodically send traced reminders of themselves at the thrashing blobs 400 yards away.

At the bottom our feet became glued to the mud and our fractured shins began to bend under the steadily increasing weight of our carbines and ammo. Most immediately gave up and died peacefully this way like dark green gargoyles frozen in place, swaying eerily with the continuing volcanic booms of thunder above, but if you were stupid or brave enough to fight back, then you had might as well already signed your death warrant and been transported to the front of the line at the speed of light. The sad reality is that even a superhuman freak of nature would find himself against the odds to somehow propel himself back to the surface, and in many cases there was still 200+ yards of 6 feet of water or more.

Watching Saving Private Ryan both infuriates and saddens me. What truly transpired in those moments after the gates of hell opened is too bizarre and freakish for even the most gung-ho recruit to paint in his canvas of memory. Some have simply forgotten. But that's a tale for another universe - the shared reality of modern mechanized warfare does not co-exist with the aspirations and charity of good men or women, but simply devours them in a frenzied maw of an utterly alien fiasco of death and dismemberment.

If my words seem enraged and pitiful, then please note that I have not even scratched the surface of the images that transpired in those 10 hours of Satan's eternity. War is blackness incarnate: those who aspire to be heroic in the chaos of battle are atomized and shattered in ways that seem to create a complex mockery of them. Those who instinctively hide and flee may often survive.

War is the ultimate equalizer: it is eternal pandemonium in reverse, where right is wrong and wrong is rewarded, and the only reward is a prolonged existence of utter horror beyond imagery or eloquence. The only beauty in my words is masochistic and sadistic, a painterly scene where the only color scheme is red and black and gray and red even more. Because of the unique gifts of heavy artillery fire, you begin to hallucinate, seeing angels in the air weeping, being banished by bullets; huge demons in the form of mangled mountains of flesh, and shadowy figures clouded behind every vaporized youth.
 
When they say war is hell it's almost like a compliment: as if hell is some ironic R&R detail after the unique sadism of Newtonian ideals. Atomic warfare is simply a macrocosm of our shared reality, in which neutrons and ghost particles zip towards each other in frenzied array, in competition with themselves to manifest into larger and larger weapons of mass destruction. Earth is truly Satan's realm. All beauty is corrupted and all corruption is beautiful, and the only perfect thing is the gaurantee of how quickly beauty will decay.

I would go further to describe what actually happened to those cowardly enough to hide behind floating bodies and heads in the surf, or to simply lay down and play dead. I must rescind myself in this moment: we were all heroes that day, even if none of us were. The grim irony is that we were all cowards, but the weaker cowards died the fastest. Those who were physically strong enough to be exceptionally gutless were rapidly forming pathetic piles of writhing shit stained mangled trousers while bathing in a hilarious rotating fountain of puke and vomit. Bathed in head to toe with entrails and bits of blasted genitals, they looked like oversized squirrels or undersized walruses, twisting deliriously and desperately trying to hide behind one another while white laser beams of MG rounds send them flying in increasingly abstract patterns of creative gore. If my words have shocked you beyond fury and paralyzation, then let me remind you that it is my sadistic pleasure and God-given duty to paint this scene in it's most far-fetched realism possible. I soberly repeat that war is the king supreme of paradox: men who are valiant and boastful in the enlisting lines are transformed into blubbering dematerializing ghouls under rapid machine gun fire, and those casually disaffected while in boot camp and brave in the thick of battle are usually turned into wet clouds of ruby mist before the battle even begins.

The pulsating ramparts of men on the first few yards of the beach swelled to dark proportions. Bullets exploded in flashes of brilliant light off of metal blockades and wooden pikes, and the occasional perfectly timed land mine or shell would send the entire structure of suffering termites spiraling in a metallic cone of genius asymmetry. God was already dead, evaporated; evident in the supernatural torrents of flame and fury that pockmarked the beach like the populous acne of the unidetifyable mountains of dismembered heads.

Some G.Is, usually the tallest and burliest, were punished by being chosen as the wielders of flame throwers and in purposefully ironic glee Lucifer had decided to experiment in the pursuit of varying displays of tremendous and catastrophic explosions. The spirals of fire that engulfed dozens of men looked like an invisible dragon had breathed some new and unexplored layer of hell from the sky, and the tendrils of exploding gasoline melted the eyeballs of the decapitated heads watching the scene in a circled ring of frozen shock, creating pink and yellow puddles of syrupy goo.

I will again refer to the portayal of this scene in Steven Spielberg's acclaimed war drama. In the depiction, the soldiers who are unlucky enough to not suffocate in the water hop off of the ramp like rabbits; some falling like sacks of potatoes, but this was simply not the case. The ghastly violent vibrations and seismic slams from all mathematical angles of the beach gave the splattered legions of gore a ghoulishly ameoba-like appearance. It turned alive, gyrating and pulsating to new and abstract forms, exploding like gargantuan pimples, painting the ever growing landscape impossible shades of red. The persistent shells, the new and reincarnated mechanized fingers of the once-youths that littered the beach like mountains of trash in a third world country, began to disintegrate the valleys and hills in slowly increasing anger and defiance.

The smells were in an olympic tournament of decay, and transformed to new and impossible heights. The vibrating water near the open ramps of the engulfed boats was red, almost black, but everything else was increasingly becoming yellow and white and brown. As a final display of dominance and cruelty Satan had made it rain all manner of half-digested food.

Rain was an understatement. It was a tornado, a hurricane of smoke and glops of what mostly looked like blood and diarrhea and oatmeal, not too hot, not too cold; just wrong. If any of the individually pulped heads in the new French Grand Canyon had once had golden locks, they were all mutually brunette at this stage. At the end of this perfect fairytale everything would be various degrees of black: Satan's favorite color. Only the rare glimpses of sky in between the smoke was white, signifying a dull and uninterested heaven, totally desensitized, completely drained of vital fluid, devoid of Creation.
 
McM said:
Thanks, HG. It's nice you like it.
I've learnt these things quite late. After I inherited everything I had access to all the old letters and some documents too.
Letters mostly in Latvian, wtf. You don't get a single word without a translator and it's very time-consuming.
Click to expand...
you have interesting stories - they are great...

such a great break from the endless back and forth abuse i read...
 
gilmourwow said:
You're 18. Tall, athletic, handsome, brave, intelligent. Trained and handpicked for years for your unique strength, insights and intelligence. A true leader.
Click to expand...

gilmourwow said:
An easy march to Paris, where hundreds of thousands of abused beautiful young women are waiting for their soul mates and heroes.
Click to expand...

gilmourwow said:
There are 5,000 alpha men in your group.
Tall. Highschool quarterbacks, many of them. Alpha leaders.
Click to expand...
What the fuck is this, a Danielle Steele novel? Get the fuck out of here man.
 
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