Omaha Beach

by Jenny Doughty

From the overlook: channel
quiet, tide out, beach golden,
the local guide in full flow –

They said to the general
“There’ll be many casualties.”
The general replied, “I know.”

The guide pointed: Killing zones
that way and that, but here? Just
two machine guns, light defense.

I looked down at the bluff: green
bushes, easy climb for men
unburdened, unopposed,

but not seasick soldiers
landing heavy laden from
swamped boats in smoke and mist.

The first wave half strength before
they reached the bluffs, wounded men
drowning, landing craft afire.

Eighty years away I saw
them scramble into bullets,
forge up singly, in small groups.

Even now he said, shrapnel,
iron beads from munitions,
will stay there a hundred years.

Now a short shellfire away
nine thousand bodies lie neat
under crosses, stars of David.

Cemetery guidelines say:
No pets, bikes, food, no lying
or sitting, no running, playing

or other boisterous conduct,
proper attire, no littering.
It was so untidy then.

All plans did not go as planned
If only careless bodies
had not littered the landscape,

lying down, sitting on grass,
improperly attired. If only
the conduct was less boisterous.