Courage in the Crucible

By Cory Rosenke

Eric pressed his shoulder against the cold steel of the landing craft, the metal biting through his soaked uniform. Bullets whizzed overhead, a relentless swarm of death, pinging off the hull like hail on a tin roof. The boat lurched, slamming into the Normandy beach, the roar of the sea mingling with the thunder of artillery. His heart pounded, a frantic drum in his chest, each beat screaming, I’m not ready. I’m not ready. Salt spray stung his eyes, blurring the gray, twisted dawn.

"God, give me strength. Don’t let me falter."

His whispered prayer dissolved into the chaos, barely audible over the screams of the wounded and the relentless crack-crack of machine guns. He glanced around the boat, his gaze darting over the faces of his squad. Private Malone, barely nineteen, clutched his rifle, lips moving in silent prayer, his knuckles white. Corporal Hayes, grizzled and scarred, stared ahead, eyes hard as flint, but his trembling hands betrayed him. A kid from Ohio—Tom, was it?—vomited over the side, his face pale as the foam churning below. 

We’re all scared. Every one of us.

Eric risked a peek over the boat’s edge. Omaha Beach sprawled before him, a slaughterhouse of sand and blood. Concrete bunkers loomed on the cliffs, their small, fortified openings spitting fire. Bodies bobbed in the surf, tangled in barbed wire, while explosions tore craters in the earth. Smoke curled like a shroud, obscuring the horizon. 

This is hell. This is what hell looks like. 

His stomach twisted, bile rising, but he forced it down. No time for weakness.

“Listen up!” Lieutenant Carver’s voice cut through the din, sharp and steady. He stood at the boat’s center, gripping a rail, his face carved from stone.

“When that ramp drops, you move fast. Stay low, head for the seawall. Don’t stop for anything—wounded, dead, nothing. Get to cover, then push for the bunkers. We take those cliffs, or we die trying. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” The response was ragged, voices strained, but resolute.

Eric nodded, his throat tight. God, be my courage. I can’t do this alone.

Carver’s eyes met his, a fleeting glance, and Eric saw it—the same fear, buried deep, masked by duty.

The boat shuddered, grinding against the shore.

“Brace!” Carver shouted.

The ramp groaned, then dropped with a metallic clang, splashing into the shallow surf. Hell erupted. Bullets tore through the air, cutting down the first men before they could move. Malone screamed, clutching his chest, collapsing into the water.

No, no, no!

Eric’s legs moved on instinct, surging forward with the others, boots splashing through crimson waves.

He stumbled onto the beach, sand sucking at his feet, the air thick with smoke and the acrid stench of gunpowder. A mortar exploded to his left, showering him with dirt, the blast ringing in his ears. He dove behind a steel barrier of welded beams, its jagged spikes offering meager cover. Keep moving. Don’t stop. His breath came in gasps, heart hammering. Bullets zipped past, kicking up sand. Across the beach, men fell—some silent, others screaming, their cries swallowed by the roar of war.

Crouched low, Eric’s gaze drifted to the surf, where waves lapped at countless lifeless forms. For a moment, the chaos faded, and he was nine again, fishing with his father on Lake Huron. The sun glinted off the water as his father baited Eric’s hook.

“Patience, my son,” he heard his father say. “The fish’ll come when they’re ready. We don’t get to control the timing.”

A shell exploded nearby, shattering the memory, yanking him back to the blood-soaked sand. Focus. Survive.

Carver’s shout pierced the haze. “To the seawall! Move!”

Eric scrambled up, legs burning, weaving through craters and debris. His squad—what was left of them—sprinted alongside, faces grim. Tom, the Ohio kid, ran beside him, panting, until a bullet caught his shoulder, spinning him into the sand.

Eric hesitated. I can’t leave him.

But Carver’s orders echoed: Don’t stop.

He pressed on, guilt clawing his chest, reaching the seawall’s jagged concrete. He collapsed against it, gasping, as bullets chipped the stone above.

Lord, keep me alive. Just get me through. The prayer felt feeble, but it was all he had.

Carver rallied the men, pointing toward a bunker on the cliffs, its machine gun spitting death.

“That’s our objective! Flank left, use the smoke!”

Eric gripped his rifle, hands slick with sweat, and followed, crawling through the sand, heart in his throat. Explosions rocked the beach, each one a hammer blow to his nerves.

They reached a barbed-wire tangle, smoke swirling around them. Eric fired at shadows in the bunker, his shots wild but desperate. A grenade blast silenced the gun, and Carver waved them forward.

But then, a cry—sharp, guttural.

Private Jensen, a lanky farmboy from Iowa, lay sprawled in the sand, blood pooling beneath him, a jagged wound in his chest.

Eric dropped beside him. Not another one. His hands fumbled for a bandage, but the blood wouldn’t stop.

Jensen’s eyes, wide with fear, locked onto Eric’s.

“I’m… I’m done, ain’t I?” His voice was a rasp, barely audible over the gunfire.

Eric’s hands shook, pressing the useless cloth against the wound. I can’t save him. Oh, God, I can’t.

“Hang on, Jensen,” he choked out, voice cracking. “Medics are coming.”

Jensen grabbed Eric’s hand, his grip surprisingly strong, his gaze steady despite the pain.

“It’s okay, Eric.” A faint smile flickered. “I know Jesus. I’m… I’m gonna see Him soon, I think.”

His breath hitched, blood bubbling at the lips.

He’s not scared. How is he not scared? Eric’s chest tightened, tears blurring his vision.

With a final effort, Jensen clutched Eric’s arm, fingers digging in, as if pouring his soul into him.

“Whatever’s ahead, Eric… trust Jesus. He’s the only hope that holds.”

His voice faded, eyes glazing, hand falling limp.

Eric stared, frozen, as the battle raged around him. He’s gone. Just like that.

Jensen’s soul had left, but his peace lingered, a strange, quiet flame in the storm.

We don’t get to control the timing. Eric’s mind drifted to his father’s words by the lake, and to Jensen’s unshaken calm.

All around him, men fell—young, old, dreamers, cynics—cut down without regard for age or status.

I don’t choose when I die. But Jensen… he wasn’t afraid.

The thought struck him, sharp and clear. Jensen knew his Redeemer, and that certainty carried him beyond the blood and chaos.

Even if the worst comes, there’s a reunion waiting.

Fear still gnawed, but a deeper truth flooded Eric’s heart—peace, hope, courage, born of a Savior’s promise.

Eric rose, rifle in hand, Jensen’s strength woven into his own. Trust Jesus, and keep going.

The cliffs towered ahead, bullets weaving a lethal chorus. Yet Eric charged forward—not unafraid, but unbroken—bearing a hope that no fury of hell could quench.

_______________________________

Dear Friends,

If you’re like me, you might have felt something strange reading that scene. Jesus’ name, spoken on a battlefield, through blood and terror, in the middle of a slaughterhouse. It almost feels out of place—maybe even disingenuous. Too neat. Too clean for something so brutal.

I understand that reaction. There was a time in my life when faith felt like something reserved for quiet churches and tidy prayers—not for chaos, not for trauma, not for the worst moments a human being can face. But life has a way of dismantling that illusion.

Because when the worst actually comes—when fear presses against your chest, when you realize you are not in control, when the future is suddenly fragile—the name of Jesus does not become smaller. It becomes clearer.

Men on beaches have whispered it. Hospital rooms have heard it. Prison cells have echoed it. Gravesides have leaned toward it. Not because it is sentimental, but because it is solid.

Jensen’s peace wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t denial. It was anchored. He was not trusting in survival—he was trusting in Someone who had already conquered death.

That kind of hope sounds unbelievable. In many ways, it is. And yet history is full of men and women who have faced execution, persecution, cancer, war, and loss with a steadiness that defies explanation—not because they were brave by temperament, but because they were convinced of something beyond the moment.

Scripture tells us that Jesus endured the cross “for the joy set before Him.” That means even in agony, there was something greater in view. That same promise stands for us.

This life is not the final word. Pain is not the final chapter. Death is not the final authority. There is a reunion coming. There is a restoration promised. There is a King who walked through hell so we would not face it alone.

So if you feel skeptical...I understand. If it feels strange....I get it. But I would gently suggest this: when your own crucible comes—and it will, in one form or another—you may find that the name of Jesus does not feel misplaced at all. You may find it is the only name that holds.

In His hope, Cory Rosenke