text: [Themes: modern, war, historical]
  
  "Goddammnit, it's almost like they were fucking PROPHETS!"
  
  Omaha Beach seems to have turned into Omaha Bloodbath. Normally you would be delighted by the fact that in bloodbaths, the enemy too, would take heavy losses as well.
  
  But not at this place. Machine guns shred your fellow soldiers, friends, as high-power bullets cut and tear off flesh in strips and chunks. Artillery blasts pieces like it was a darned meat shower. Mines force sharp shrapnel into every pore of every poor American bastard who steps on them.
  
  "Quit your whining, Private!" your platoon leader Lieutenant Sierra Foxman shouts back in return. What's left of your platoon cowers in a massive blast hole, courtesy of the Landkreuzers the Nazis set up, absolute mammoths of metal impenetrable by just about any projectile the U.S.A. has to throw.
  
  All the while as shells and bullets fall around you, your group shouts out conversations, mainly because they see that not only has crap hit the fan, the fan also GENERATES crap of its own to disperse.
  
  "Lieutenant, sir, how the hell are we gonna fight these Krauts?"
  
  "We're all gonna die! We're all gonna die!"
  
  "Fuck your whining, Carl. It's kill or be killed!"
  
  As your comrades keep talking, a massive cannon round strikes.
  
  [Author's Note: Pinging, ringing, zinging, and kabooming cloud everything. For an eyeblink in time the smoke clears and the ground, a literal lattice of bodies, provides a horrific but all-too-common site...in 1944. Not only is this my first storygame, it is also the first in my potentially new Alternate Reality Series (in which time will judge whether I'll take up the nerve to work on or not). My entry for the Chaos Contest. NOTE: This is historical fiction, and as such there WILL be inaccuracies compared to reality. And though one can die in the story more than he or she can live, that's because this presents the many could-be struggles of a soldier in an alternate version of the D-Day Invasion.]
  
  > Lucky you ain't dead yet, soldier
  You wake up in a daze and haze of black smoke. At least two-thirds of your party are now splattered tidbits scattered around.
  
  "Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit, God-" a voice nearly inaudibly whispers to your right. Somehow your ringing ears picked up the sound. You turn to the right...
  
  Lieutenant Foxman lies, blood pouring from his minced left arm, part of where his forehead used to be, his feet nearly torn off and his body patched with burns. His eyes are already glazing over in death.
  
  Everywhere, you see the consequences of what couldn't be anything else other than the Germans having had forewarning of D-Day, what with their secret plans and whatnot. You and your fellow Americans look like Russian conscript cannon fodder, being mown down by the hellfire of the Reich's wrath against all who stand in its way.
  
  And in the midst of this, as you hide among the bodies in that forsaken blast hole, you remember. All the things that led you to this place...
  
  > Motivation, Training, Execution
  You couldn't have gotten here without motivation...
  
  "Dammit, son, America's calling for you!"
  
  "But dad, I don't wanna fight in the-"
  
  "I raised you for twenty-one years without your mother, and don't tell me now that you're gonna break tradition!"
  
  "Well I've had enough of this goddamn tradition! I've had enough of your telling me what and how to do in life, and I've had enough of-"
  
  "You can't get away from destiny, son", your father grins as he shows the dreaded document. "You can't dodge a draft, now can ya?"
  
  Further hopes of argument are useless, as you look at the paper that orders you to obey its command.
  
  Without motivation, you'd be incarcerated for draft evasion.
  
  > Next Step...
  You couldn't have gotten here without training...
  
  "Oh, shit", your friend Carl says as he stares at the long furrow of mud lined with gore you're supposed to crawl under in.
  
  "Grow a pair, Private, that's just pig intestines", the lousy company commander Captain Sowle replies.
  
  Captain's "pep talk" works, and Carl, along with you and the other soldiers, rolls into the string of bloody innards and crawls in mud. Holding back vomit is hard, but in the end, all the blood and guts you went through doesn't sicken you as much as it did thinking about it during lecture.
  
  Without training, you wouldn't have been able to take that bloody mess from the artillery shell, and would have lost your stomach by continuous retching.
  
  > Last Step...
  You couldn't have gotten here without execution...
  
  As your platoon runs in the sand of Omaha Beach, MG42's start slamming in your direction. All of you are as helpless as barndoors to bazookas...
  
  Suddenly, a squad of other soldiers to your far left get pulped by a massive howitzer shot, creating a large hole from the blast.
  
  Your platoon runs in the safety of the newly created shelter, losing only three men in the run for cover.
  
  Without the execution of those other poor bastards, you would have been cut to ribbons by those machine guns...
  
  > SNAP OUT OF IT!!!
  You snap back into reality, looking everywhere. It seems that the battle is ending, what with the guns falling silent...
  
  Suddenly the Landkreuzers, behemoths which make Tiger tanks look like bugs, lurch from their positions, headed for you and the other Americans. It seems they have gone from war to butchery as they crush soldiers and tanks under their mighty treads.
  
  This is it. All is lost, your thoughts scream over and over in your shell-shocked head.
  
  A Landkreuzer comes inbound for your blast hole, demonic in its black hugeness.
  
  > Evade!!!
  Seeing the futility of surrendering to an enemy which probably can't even see you due to its gigantism, you decide to evade the Landkreuzer.
  
  Question is, how?
  
  > jump out of the blast hole
  With that thought in mind you leap away from the blast hole and away from a flattening death.
  
  What you forget to have in mind, however, is the fact that you're now in plain sight, by not only the Landkreuzer but also by the artillery observers, who create yet another blast hole on the spot where you jumped from the original blast hole.
  
  Fleshy pulp remains of your body.