Jack agreed. Except for the navy’s ego, who the hell cared what the truth was?

The Americans had taken Cherbourg, but the Nazis had blown up everything and destroyed its usefulness as a port. Repairs would take months, which was why the LST had to land on the beach in the first place. Nor had the LST been able to get terribly close as it had taken on a lot of water and everyone who was able to had to wade. The wounded and the dead were taken off by small boats or by medics who waded out with stretchers, but the majority of the soldiers, Jack included, had to walk through cold water that sometimes came over their waists.

The residue of war littered the beaches of Normandy. Burned out tanks and trucks and crushed German emplacements were everywhere as mute testimony to the battle that raged only a few days prior.

As a soggy Morgan walked across the sandy beaches, he had the unpleasant thought that he was treading on dead soldiers who were lying just underneath his water-soaked boots. This, he decided, was hallowed ground, like Gettysburg. He felt inadequate walking there.

A little farther on, the sight of temporary graves did nothing to dispel this feeling and a growing sense of inadequacy. How had he gotten himself into this mess? He should be flying bombers, not walking in sandy muck.

He knew the answer, of course. He’d frozen at the controls of his plane and the copilot, a mere trainee, was forced to land it for him. This happened after seeing one of his friends blown to little pieces when his bomber had crashed and exploded on landing. Jack first thought he could handle it, but he’d been wrong. Thus, he no longer flew bombers and was sent from Kansas to England and now to France. Who needed a pilot who wouldn’t fly? Who would ever trust a pilot who froze up? Funny, but he thought he was over his collapse and could take the controls again, but it didn’t look like he’d get the opportunity anytime soon.