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  ALIEN INVASION - Copyright © 2015 Peter Hallett. All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B019E4FUJS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher - Edition:

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  ALIEN INVASION

  Sergeant Kent entered the barge-like LCA, Landing Craft Assault, by walking over the gangplank that led from the Ben My Chree, to which it hung from its davits, to join the rest of the platoon of Rangers and the crew of four that would ferry them over what remained of the English Channel to their target beach, the icy wind cutting at his face, making his ears and fingers numb, taking the air from his lungs, creating goose pimples, sending a wave of shivers through his body.

  Kent worked his way to stand in the center of the LCA by pushing and squeezing through the tightly packed men, some of them acknowledging his presence with a nod, others not seeming to notice it was him until he’d pushed past. They were far too overcome with fear and trepidation, which was painted all over their distorted expressions. Kent expected no less.

  Some of the men around him were already pale, a few saying prayers, either in their heads or out loud. One had rosary beads in hand and was counting off the Hail Mary’s he was saying. One of the men puked. A few stepped from the chunks as Kent helped the man from his retching position to stand back upright.

  “You okay, Private Jordan?” Kent asked, still with his hand on the young man’s shoulder, his other gripping his Thompson submachine gun, which was covered by plastic waterproofing, now speckled with droplets of muddy water, some running down in intertwining patterns.

  “I’m regretting having those flapjacks with the coffee for breakfast.” Jordan was a whip of a guy. He had prominent cheeks, and a sunken face, if you’d not have known otherwise you’d have thought him constantly ill. Although currently at that moment he was, and having trouble staying upright because of it.

  “You won’t be when we get ashore. You’ll be glad of the food, so try and keep the rest of it down, will you?” Kent steadied him, and once he was sure he had control over his own balance, he let go.

  “I make no promises,” said Jordan, looking to be fighting back more of the food.

  The LCA departed the huge transport ship with a rumble and splashing of waves and headed out into the dark cold loin of the English Channel as it billowed around them, and under them, causing the LCA to dip up and down in sudden stomach-turning drops. Jordan placed his hand to his mouth as the craft continued to bounce up and over the waves between the sea’s massive paws.

  Kent left the struggling private and worked his way to the left side of the boat to look over the clad armor plating at the two columns the LCAs were moving in, six boats to each, all battling with the rough sea, caused by a vicious storm the previous day. Water splashed up and on his face, each run of the wetness traveling down his skin, making his face an even more stinging form of freezing.

  Jordan moved to Kent and took in the same sight. He wasn’t as balanced as Kent though; he was wobbling all over the place, readjusting his poise constantly, his method of staying upright just about working, but causing him to look like a drunk who had pushed past his usual consumption. “How many?”

  “Sixteen … You should know this,” Kent said as he threw a glance at Jordan, his brow furrowed, water getting the chance to pool in the gaps between the lines.

  “Sorry, Sarge. My mind hasn’t been in full swing since we boarded the Chree.” Jordan took hold of the LCA’s side to set him steady. Now just his upper body swaying and dancing in perfect time with the violent sea.

  “Ten of the landing craft are carrying men,” Kent said as he looked back to them. “Two are carrying supplies, packs, rations, demolitions, and extra ammo for the three companies. There’s four DUKWs accompanying the small flotilla, they have the extension ladders onboard. Each of the Ducks are topped with twin Lewis machine guns to provide firepower for an anticipated contested landing.”

  A wave crashed over the side of the LCA and drenched all the men. Some appeared to have swallowed copious amounts of water and they started to cough it up. Jordan wiped some from his face. Kent just let his flooding run off naturally. His face was completely numb now. He couldn’t even feel the low temperature of the sea anymore.

  Salt water had pooled around the men’s feet and was dripping off their helmets. Their uniforms were soaked and the cold of the water added to the chill of the wind, they were shivering, hugging their arms into their bodies in a desperate effort to try and raise their temperature.

  One of the LCAs in Kent’s column was hit by an even bigger wave, it engulfed it, swallowed it up. Men fell over in the boat, the top of their helmets, which had been poking over the top of the side armor plating, dropping out of Kent’s line of sight. The boat rocked and bobbed, the front going under a swell as another wave hit. Kent was helpless. There was nothing he could do, but watch.

  The LCA began to sink, filling up with water quickly. Men screamed and lungs were filled with the aquatic, the bubbling H2O choking the sounds away, like turning the volume down on a rickety radio, the suffocating screams the crackle from the speaker. Some of the men went under and never returned to the surface. Others lay flat in the water, whooshing this way and that with the waves, no movement coming from them, bar what was transferred from the raging soak.

  The LCA had sunk. The men had drowned.

  “We’re screwed, aren’t we?” Jordan’s eyes were wide as he took in the horrid sight, looking as though the motions of the dead had hypnotized him. The movement of them, as they got forced up into large swelling waves then back down to a rippling garbling sea, more effective than a swinging pocket watch.

  “It’s not going to be easy.” Kent was calm, steadier than the rest in the boat, in both composure and balance, he tried to count the dead, then he decided it was fruitless, he knew how many were in the LCA, and that was no doubt the number of dead. “I’d dare gamble we have the most difficult mission of this whole godforsaken operation. But everything that’s possible to be done has been done to increase the chances of this invasion being a success. Project Overload will not fail.

  “The reason we’re attacking Normandy, even though the fleet has had to sail over 100 miles across the widest part of the English Channel, is because the beaches here are ideally suited to landing craft and support operations. The location is fairly isolated, reducing the risk of a sudden and large German counterattack. The hope is to cut off all vital roads, slowing German reinforcements and cutting off supply routes, increasing the chances for the success of the invasion.”

  “That may be,” Jordan’s eyes didn’t leave the swimming dead, “but I heard since Rommel was put in charge, the krauts have placed countless numbers of mines, of all types, along the coast to slow down or stop an invasion force. You know, like the one we’re now apart of. All along the coastline engineers have built pillboxes into the sides of the cliff for Nazi machine guns, not to mention the heavy artillery.”

  “That’s our job.” Kent nar
rowed his eyes. Focus took him over as he ran over the mission in his head, not leaving out any details. Sometimes forgetting the finer points could be fatal, the difference between an unsuccessful attack and a successful one.

  “That’s bullshit, that’s what that is.” Jordan snorted and spat.

  “There are six 155mm artillery pieces in six cement casements, with a range of fifteen miles. If we don’t take them out they could bombard the two neighboring beaches with ease, our guys. Observers could direct the fire from the massive guns onto our ships, while the others could simultaneously enfilade the adjoining beaches.

  “In addition they could do a great deal of damage to ship anchorages and troop marshaling areas. The fate of the planned landings rests on the troops that have been selected to reduce the defenses at Pointe Du Hoc. So that isn’t bullshit. That’s the truth of the matter. The matter being … us winning this war. So watch your mouth, Private. You need to remember your training. I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

  “I … I don’t know myself. Maybe the Nazi War Machines. We’re so screwed.” Jordan struck the side of the craft with the palm of his right hand.

  “The Nazi war machine is nothing to fear. It’s missing a few vital parts.” Kent looked him up and down, trying to gauge his state and where the conversation was heading.

  “I don’t mean the Nazi war machine, I mean the Nazi War Machines. They’ll be stationed with the defenses at the beaches too. I can guarantee you that. Everyone on this boat is screwed, everyone on every fucking boat.” He screamed the next part as he looked around his LCA. “We’re dead men walking.”

  “If I’m following you right, you’re talking about Nazi propaganda.” Kent spoke calmly, didn’t allow Jordan’s heightened state affect his own.

  “No. It’s true. They have them. Tanks built like men. War Machines. Robots. How could we not be screwed?” Jordan leaned into Kent’s line of sight and waited for an answer.

  “No they don’t.” Kent moved him away by placing his hand on his chest. “Those are tall tales to scare short soldiers.”

  “A friend of mine said he saw footage of them on a can of film his platoon found in a bombed bunker. We’re–”

  Kent turned to him now. “Even if he did see that, it would have been faked somehow. You need to be focusing on what we have to do now, on what we have to fight at this present moment, on what we know to be real and waiting for us at the beach. Your mind is running riot. You’ve been reading too many of those science fiction magazines.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong.” Jordan shook his head as he looked at the water pooling around their feet, the ripples of them shuddering. “I don’t know what to believe or think … I’m afraid. I know I shouldn’t admit it … but I’m afraid. I don’t want to fucking die.”

  “Do this, look at me.”

  Jordan stayed focused on the churning water that was now covering the toes of his boots.

  “I’m not down there. Look at me.” Kent grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him so his face was an inch from his. “Over two thousand soldiers from across the U.S. filled out applications to join the elite Ranger battalions. Rudder selected five hundred of the best after carefully reviewing the forms. You were one of them. I was one of them. We are the elite. The best of the best. We have been determinedly trained for this assignment. We are prepared and ready to fight.

  “Do you remember the drilling and training in that hot shitty humid Tennessee climate and how physically demanding it was? The hikes we endured, over 50 miles, during the night? The agonizing repeated high-speed forced marches and the sweat-filled hours of demolition sessions with live rounds?”

  “Yes.” Jordan nodded as he spoke but it was obvious his heart wasn’t in either the gesture or the vocalization.

  “Do you remember when we were sleeping and riding on a troop train and Rudder woke us up, stopped the train and sent us and all the other exhausted men out of the railcars? We had to live in the woods, surviving on wild game, rabbits and squirrels and other such shit? We learned to live lean, with limited rations, equipment and tools? Do you remember?”

  Jordan nodded.

  “Don’t just fucking nod! Answer! Do you remember?” Kent had to shout to be heard over the roar of the water that was crashing all around them.

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “Do you remember this, when we were shipped to England and we got sent by Rudder to work with the South London firm of Merryweather? We, that’s us, you and me, were charged with developing a better means of scaling Pointe Du Hoc, other than the conventional mountain-climbing ropes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good … That company came up with a solution; the Rangers could use 100-foot extension ladders that we could requisition from the London Fire Department. And we have and we will use them. That is in part because of us. Do you remember?”

  “Yes!” Jordan screamed.

  “But it wasn’t over for us yet. We had to endure more exhausting and dangerous training, dealing with cliff climbing, as well as night combat and logistic problem-solving sessions. Rudder even ordered live fire assault training drills, and we survived them … so I’m not going to ask you do you remember anymore, I’m going to ask you, are we screwed?”

  “No! No, sir!” Jordan’s body stiffened and he stood more erect than he had since getting on the LCA.

  “That’s the spirit, soldier.” Kent released him and patted him on the shoulder. “Now prepare yourself to put all your training to good use.”

  Immense waves continued to slam into the LCA. Rangers held onto each other and the side of the boat for support. A few fell over. Kent and Jordan helped one up, each grabbing a shoulder. He thanked them with a nod.

  Fire from the German positions began to rain down in a roar of deafening sound, mortar fire and machine guns targeting the boats. Some bullets struck the side of the LCA Kent and Jordan were in but it didn’t pierce the armor, it just sparked and pinged. 20mm fire from a cliff position close to the Pointe sunk one of the DUKWs, a Duck, a six-wheel-drive amphibious truck. It went up with a thunderclap and a mushroom of black smoke. Bent and warped metal flew and splashed down into the swell.

  “The sons of bitches,” Jordan cursed as he watched the Duck sink.

  The Rangers closed in on their objective, the nine surviving LCAs advancing on a 400-yard front on the eastern side of the Pointe, water splashing up all around them from missed mortars, bullets still pinging off them in a staccato beat. Kent could see and hear the thunderous blasts from the USS Texas as it shelled the fortifications on top of Pointe Du Hoc and could make out some of the impacts as they sent up puffs of sand and rubble. One of the clouds of sand was dyed red. The sign of a great hit, another few more dead Nazis.

  German mortars and machine guns started to focus their fire on the LCA Kent and Jordan were in and the other lead boat to their right. Water popped from blasts and metal clanged, but they kept pushing forward. They were the first two LCAs to reach the beach. The front opened and the first row of five Rangers was cut to shreds. Their uniforms ripped and bloodied, their bodies slushy and wobbly, splash back from the gory wounds striking Kent and Jordan in the face.

  Kent grabbed Jordan and shouted, “Over the side.”

  Splash.

  They were both under water, freezing and struggling to swim through a mass of men with the same idea. Jordan got ahead of Kent, his feet kicking bubbles in his face, making his vision even more eroded. Blood, dark dirty water, and bullets whizzed through the wet walls he was desperately trying to knock through.

  A Ranger to the side of Jordan took a hit. The blood seeped through his uniform and clouded the water even more red. Kent pushed through it, the last of his strength and air going. He kicked off the dead man with his feet and raised his head from the sea.

  He gasped and took a breath, getting just enough time to see the top of the cliff they had to climb and the German positions guarding it. He saw a bunker with an MG 42 sticking o
ut, raining down heavy fire on his friends. Two other Nazis were standing on the edge of the cliff throwing down stick grenades. There was other enemy activity but he didn’t have time to take it all in before he was under the crimson sea again, the frantic sounds of the battle being drowned to silence when his ears filled up with a witch’s brew of salty water and fellow soldiers’ blood.

  Kent’s feet hit sand; he pushed and was soon on his hands and knees in the drink, almost on the beach, having trouble getting to his feet, the weight of his soaked uniform intensifying the ache in his muscles. A Ranger was kneeling a few yards ahead, on the sand, taking aim with his Garand.

  “Get off the fucking beach, get to the cliff!” Kent ordered, his voice having trouble making itself heard over the weapons fire cracking all around, water running out of his ears, more running down his face, into his eyes, stinging them.

  His command was too late. The Ranger was eaten up by MG fire and his body twisted into a soggy red mess.

  “Bastards,” Kent said as he stood and started to charge forward, kicking up sand behind him as he did, water flying from him, like a dog shaking off the soapsuds from an unwanted bath.

  An explosion.

  Kent was flung off his feet; a black crater left in the beach where his feet had just been. His helmet fell from his head when he crashed back down, his body imprinting the sand with its shape, his Thompson now not in his hands, his ears ringing, his vision speckled, his head woozy, his world spinning.

  Kent felt the length of his legs. They were still there. He rolled to a fallen Ranger and used the body as cover, pulling it onto its side and hugging into it, while rounds pelted the wet shore around him. Blood splashed on his face from the body. He wiped it away. It was soon covered again, sand stuck to it now.

  Kent got positioned on his stomach and scooted to look where he’d fallen when the grenade hit. He saw his Thompson, still with the waterproofing on. His helmet wasn’t far from it.