Donold J. Grump #36

VS

Storming the Beaches - Conclusion

Somewhere in Normandy, 1944 — Field Hospital Tent

The canvas above his head flickered with the lantern light.

Donnie Grump blinked.

The groaning was gone. The chaos had passed. The distant thundering of shells had faded. There was only the rustle of cloth, the steady rhythm of footsteps, and the faint, painful sounds of breathing.

He rolled his head to the side.

Pete was gone.

In his place lay another soldier—young, unconscious, wrapped in thick, blood-stained bandages. Tubes ran from his nose. His legs were gone below the knees.

Grump tried to sit up, but his ribs burned. “Pete?” he croaked.

A nurse appeared beside him. “Don’t move too fast.”

“Where is he? Pete? He was right here!”

She gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “He’s in surgery.”

“Is he…” Donnie swallowed. “Is he gonna make it?”

The nurse didn’t answer immediately. “They’re doing everything they can. He lost a lot of blood.”

Donnie stared at her, breathing hard. Then he nodded.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

He lay back, staring at the stained fabric of the tent ceiling. Something twisted in his chest—familiar, but unrecognizable. He wasn’t used to it.

He was... worried. Not for himself. For Pete.

The Hours Crawl

Time moved strangely. Slower than it should, faster than grief wanted it to. Donnie watched, hollow-eyed, as the stretchers came and went. Some returned. Some didn’t.

He stopped asking names. The nurses barely looked up anymore.

He watched them wash faces and close eyes. Fold hands. Whisper soft prayers.

He wept once and hid it behind the sheets.

He tried to sleep. He couldn’t. His thoughts ran in circles. Pete screaming. The explosion. The kids crying out. The blood. The boy whose legs he’d borrowed still lying there, ghostly pale and still.

That Night, They Returned

They came quietly.

Six of them.

One by one, they stood beside his bed—not bloody or mangled now, but clean, dressed, faces soft with sorrow and grace.

Private First Class James L. Hart

     “Left my mom and two sisters in Detroit. They said they’d wait for me.”
     “Tell them I didn’t run. I made it to the bluff.”
     “Tell ‘em I wasn’t afraid at the end.”

Sergeant William Greene

     “My boy’s just five. Named him Will, after me.”
     “Tell him I was thinking of him the whole way up the sand.”
     “Tell him he’s braver than I ever was.”

Corporal Henry Nash

     “Had a girl. June. Was gonna marry her.”
     “She kissed me the night I left. Told me not to get shot.”
     “Didn’t listen. Always stubborn.”

Private Leo Dunning

     “I was just starting school when they drafted me.”
     “Didn’t even finish my exams. My mom’s still mad.”
     “I hope I was worth it.”

Lieutenant Robert Finch

     “I ordered those boys forward.”
     “Some didn’t make it. I did. Then I didn’t.”
     “Tell their parents it wasn’t in vain.”

Private Thomas Raye

     “Tell them we mattered.”
     “Even if no one remembers our names.”
    “Tell them we weren’t just numbers.”

They each placed a hand on Donnie’s shoulder. Not to condemn. Not to curse.

Just to ask.

“Did my sacrifice matter?”

And then they were gone.

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Dawn

The morning crept into the tent without fanfare.

It slipped between the seams in the canvas, painting the air with the softest hue of gray-blue light. No birds sang. No waves crashed. Just the soft shuffling of nurses’ boots and the whispered prayers of the wounded.

Donnie Grump lay still, his face half-turned toward the pale illumination pooling across the floor. Beside him, the battered form of Pete Hoggs-Breath remained silent, unconscious, swaddled in gauze and bandages.

His face was sunken. His eye still covered. His right arm gone. But he was breathing. Barely.

Donnie stared at him.

Something inside still ached, something that had never hurt before: guilt.

Real guilt.

It sat behind his ribs like a rock.

He reached out and placed a hand gently on Pete’s shoulder.

He wasn’t sure why it mattered. But it did.

Across the room Donnie saw President JR Biden walking quietly between the beds, nodding to nurses, bending low to whisper to the wounded. His hands moved over foreheads, straightening blankets. His lips whispered small comforts, names, and memories.

Finally, he came to Donnie’s bedside.

He didn’t speak right away. He let the silence sit, heavy and holy.

Then: “How are you, Donnie?”

Donnie didn’t look up at first.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said in a long time,” President JR Biden replied.

Donnie turned. His eyes were glassy.

“I thought he was dead. Pete.”

President JR Biden nodded. “He almost was.”

Donnie swallowed. “He was just screaming. I couldn’t help him.”

“You weren’t supposed to fix it,” Biden said. “You were supposed to understand it.”

He pulled up a chair and sat beside Donnie.

“Donnie,” he said softly, “do you know how many men died here?”

Donnie didn’t answer. He just stared at Pete’s barely moving chest.

Biden continued.

“Over 2,400 American troops were killed or wounded on this beach alone— just Omaha. In one day. One morning.”

He glanced down the rows of cots.

“Across all five landing beaches—over 10,000 Allied casualties. 4,414 confirmed dead.”

He paused.

“And do you know what made it possible for any of them to survive?”

Donnie shook his head slowly.

“Surprise,” Biden said.

“Timing. Discipline. Planning. The Germans expected an invasion—but not here. Not now. We tricked them with fake divisions, phantom radio traffic. It took months. Thousands of people kept that secret.”

His eyes met Donnie’s, unwavering.

“If someone had leaked that plan…

If even one page had fallen into the wrong hands…”

He glanced at Pete.

“…those boys would’ve been dead before they hit the sand.”

Donnie swallowed. His throat was dry.

Biden leaned in.

“Do you get it now?”

Donnie didn’t nod. But he didn’t look away.

“You sit in the most powerful seat in the free world,” Biden said.“And you treat national security like it’s office gossip. Like you’re passing notes at lunch. You let your team send battle plans over apps built for dating.”

His voice lowered to a growl.

“If someone had done that in 1944… we wouldn’t be here. Not free. Not proud. Not anything. The Nazi flag would be flying over this very building.”

Donnie’s hands clenched the blanket.

“I didn’t mean to—”

President JR Biden cut him off with a raised hand.

“This isn’t about meaning. This is about consequences. Grown-up ones. The kind where people bleed.”

He stood.

“You want to make decisions like a president?”

He pointed toward the beds.

“Then start by understanding what those decisions cost.”

President JR Biden stood up and looked around the tent. “It’s time.”

He reached down and grabbed Donnie by the collar.

The sensation was instant—like being pulled out of deep water. Out of pain.

The soldier’s body remained behind. Still legless. Still breathing.

Donnie turned and stared.

“That’s a real person, isn’t it?”

President JR Biden nodded. “Name’s Charlie. Nineteen. He’s gonna spend two years at the VA, if they don’t close it first.”

Donnie flinched.

Pete was next.

President JR Biden pulled his spirit from the broken body. Pete gasped when he emerged, looking around, disoriented.

Then he just stood still. Staring. Lost.

President JR Biden placed a hand on both their shoulders.

“You needed to see it. That’s all. I can’t make you care, Donnie. But I can show you what happens when you don’t.”

In front of them, a soft blue light opened—a door, pulsing gently.

President JR Biden led them through.

They emerged behind the podium, stepping into a moment frozen in time.

Only seconds had passed.

Pete looked pale. Donnie was shaking.

Cameras clicked.

The room stirred.

Donnie stepped forward, slowly. The podium felt different now—heavier.

He adjusted the microphone.

“I have… an announcement,” he said.

Silence.

“I am ordering that all proposed cuts to the Veterans Administration be immediately halted. Every staff member terminated will be reinstated. All funding restored.”

His voice cracked.

“They deserve it.”

He stepped back.

The room was still.

And somewhere behind the flashing cameras and lowered pens, President JR Biden stood, arms crossed, nodding once.

Then he vanished.

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Just remember if you have someone in your life that loves you, holds you at night, makes you laugh, cry...

Then you are richer than

"He Who is PU!"