Courage in the Crucible

Eric pressed his shoulder against the cold steel of the landing craft, the metal biting through his sodden 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 dawn, but he didn’t dare wipe them. To move was to die.

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 a lifeless form. For a moment, the chaos faded, and he was nine again, fishing with his father on Lake Huron. The sun glinted off the water, his father’s laugh warm as he baited Eric’s hook. “Patience, son,” he said, ruffling Eric’s hair. “The fish’ll come when they’re ready. We don’t get to control the timing.” I wish I was there now. Safe. Home. 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, hands fumbling 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’m… I’m gonna see Jesus soon.” 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. It sounded strange, hearing Jesus’ name in a place like this. But once spoken, Eric realized it was the only name that mattered.

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 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, to Jensen’s unshaken calm. All around, 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 Jesus, and that certainty carried him beyond the blood and chaos. If the worst comes, there’s a reunion waiting. A better one. Fear still gnawed, but a deeper truth flooded Eric’s heart—peace, hope, courage, born of a Savior’s promise.

Eric rose, 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, bearing a hope that outshone the battle’s fury.

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Dear Friend,

I don’t know the battle you face today, whether it rages in your heart or storms around you. You may not hold the reins of its outcome. Yet, as pain and opposition surge, lift high the name of Jesus. He will give you hope and courage in the crucible. Jensen’s hope wasn’t pinned on victory in the fight, but on the unshakable truth that, whatever came, Jesus would receive him into a better place—a promised dawn where pain and tears dissolve. His light is a beacon piercing the darkest storm. Cling to the Savior’s name, and let its power carry you forward, unbowed, toward the eternal embrace of His grace.

In His hope,

Cory Rosenke