Echoes of Normandy - A World War II Story

Today, I am thrilled to share something very special with you.

Earlier this week, my first historical fiction story was published on The Pearl, an official website that publishes short stories, poems, and articles. My story, Echoes of Normandy, follows the life of a young German prisoner during World War II, where his encounters with an enemy soldier changes his life. This story explores friendship, sacrifice, heartbreak, and the meaning of humanity in the midst of a raging war.

A one-minute video trailer of Echoes of Normandy

This is a tale that meant a lot to me to write, and I hope it leaves an impression on you as well. I can't wait for you to check it out. And if you enjoyed reading it, I'd love to hear your thoughts—please leave a comment on the website, and share it with those who might like it! Your feedback means the world to me. ❤️

Click the link to read Echoes of Normandy, or read the full short story below: https://pearlmag.co/echoes-of-normandy/

-Julie

(Special thanks to Noah Matthews from The Pearl for helping me edit and polish up my story; Lanya and Lauren for their immense support of my writing journey; and Emma for her unique and inspiring prompt, and for letting me know about The Pearl website.)

Echoes of Normandy

The sun was sinking over the sea.

In the far distance, against the horizon, a streak of golden light rippled on the water. A lone seagull wheeled in the sky, wings catching red in the fading sun. Over the waves it flew, and over the shore, where remnants of old artillery lay half buried in the gray sand. It circled over the scattered fortifications, over bunkers covered with moss and lichen, then soared away, crying forlornly as it went.

As the gull vanished in the east, a man stepped onto the beach. He strode toward the water, eyes sweeping past the debris and lingering for a moment on the small flags dotting the sand, their red and white stripes fluttering in the wind. Tangled wire snagged at his clothes, but he pushed his way forward until he reached the water's edge. Cold waves surged against the sand.

The man reached inside his jacket and pulled out an old pocket watch. It was a tarnished silver, its cover now worn by time and marred by scratches. Beneath the glass, the intricate hand ticked steadily over the Roman numerals. His fingers strayed over the ridges in the metal.

As the sun sank deeper beneath the horizon, the man raised his eyes, a frown shadowing his face. The sea stretched before him, stained from the glow of the sunset. A cold wind blew. Spray flew into the air.

The man blinked. In the distance, it seemed that the calm of the water was shattered with sound, and the sea was red with blood.

The boy shivered.

The sky was still dark, painted in shades of deep blue and gray. He could hear the ocean crashing against the shore, a restless, never-ending sound. The salty wind stung his face. He drew his jacket tighter and huddled closer to his companion.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” the soldier beside him whispered, and the boy nodded, swallowing hard.

All of them stationed at the beach felt it, the tension. It was thin, tight, stretched nearly to the breaking point. But there was no turning back, no fleeing. All they could do was wait.

“Try to get some sleep,” the soldier said.

“Sleep?” The boy's voice was barely audible, his breath visible in the frigid air. “How can anyone sleep?”

“I know,” his companion replied, voice equally low. “But we need our strength. Tomorrow might be…”

He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air. The quiet stretched between them, and the boy heard his own heart, pounding in his chest.

What if it’s tonight? he wanted to ask. But the words stuck in his throat.

A distant rumble split the silence.

Peering over the sandbags through the early morning mist, the boy saw that the sea seemed to come alive with countless dark shapes. An armada of ships filled the horizon, their silhouettes sharpening as they approached. The sound of engines grew to a deafening roar.

The invasion had begun.

The boy grabbed his rifle, palms slick with cold sweat. Officers shouted orders, but he hardly heard them over the pounding in his ears. Artillery fire blasted the shore. The explosions shook the earth.

As the enemy made landfall, the boy ducked back behind the sandbags and loaded his rifle, hands trembling. Soldiers yelled; shots rang. Men crumpled to the ground. The air thickened with gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood.

He aimed, narrowing down on a single target. His finger squeezed the trigger. The recoil jolted him as the shot rang out, and the enemy soldier staggered, then crumpled, swallowed by the chaos.

Through the thick smoke, the boy glimpsed his companion beside him. He was yelling something, yanking at the boy’s sleeve.

The sandbags exploded.

The blast slammed the boy to the ground. His vision spun, ears ringing. His heart hammered. Each beat echoed like a distant drum in his skull. He blinked rapidly, fighting to clear the fog.

As his vision cleared, the boy saw his companion, unmoving beside a large crater in the sand. He crawled toward him, reaching out a trembling hand, touching the limp shoulder. But the body lay still.

The soldier was dead.

Before this thought could sink in, blinding pain tore through his calf. He cried out, rifle dropping to the sand. His hands scrabbled at the wound. They came back slick with blood.

The world spun. Black spots pressed against his eyes, and he groped at the air. It was as if he were fighting against mist.

The nothingness swallowed him.

For a long while, only darkness filled his mind.

And then he dreamed.

In the depths of his consciousness, stars began to appear, glittering silver and bright. Thousands of them lit the night, and the boy watched them in wonder.

Perhaps, he thought, in this lonesome, glorious place, even time itself had stopped to see the stars wheel overhead.

Yet even as he thought it, the night dispersed. He stood in a meadow, the long grasses rustling. Wildflowers swayed in the soft wind, and butterflies fluttered among them, bright and beautiful.

In the distance, he could make out a thin string of smoke rising into the blue sky. He wandered toward it, and when he drew near, he saw that it curled from the chimney of a small cottage.

The scent of fresh bread wafted in the air. Laundry hung on a clothesline, blowing lazily in the breeze. Through the window, he glimpsed bookshelves against the wall. On the top shelf was his father’s large volume of Shakespeare, and beneath that, his old German school books, familiar and comforting.

As he walked closer to the house, a large tabby cat appeared.

“Schnurrbart!” cried the boy. The cat yawned and licked its paw, then turned and disappeared around the back of the house. He jogged after it—and froze, eyes widening. 

In the garden stood his mother.

For a moment, his heartbeat faltered. How could his mother be here, when she was gone? They had told him she was gone, that she was not coming back, that she was dead. And how could all of it be here, the cottage, the books, the garden? He had seen it up in flames, seen it crumble, seen everything burned to ashes…

Still, as his mother opened her arms wide, all his dark thoughts slipped away. The boy cried out, waving, exhilaration surging through his veins.

But as he ran toward her, his movements began to slow. He struggled forward, pushing against air suddenly thick as water. The more he wrestled, the farther away his mother became. Shadows chewed at the edges of the garden, the cottage, the bright blue sky. Then a dense fog swallowed everything.

He heard a low rumbling in the darkness, as if a multitude of planes were roaring overhead, and they were coming for him, coming to break his world to pieces.

With a cry, the boy awoke.

For a moment, he was disoriented, his mind grappling with fragmented memories of his dreams, of gunfire, and the cold pain that had sent him spiraling into darkness. In his chest, his heart pounded, and his head throbbed, sharp, quick pains stabbing his skull.

It took him a few seconds to realize he was not on the beach, but laying on a cot in a large tent. The canvas flapped gently in the breeze, and distant voices drifted to his ears.

The air was heavy with a mix of antiseptic and sweat. Wounded men lay on cots around him, moaning, murmuring, a discord of suffering that echoed his own disquiet. Beyond the confines of the tent, he could see the stark outlines of barbed wire fencing and silhouettes of men moving with purposeful strides.

His leg felt heavy. His throat felt hot and dry, all scratchy like sandpaper. Where was the water? He needed water.

As the boy slipped out of his cot, a stab of pain shot through his leg. A wave of nausea washed over him. The ground seemed to shift, and he cried out, reaching wildly as he fell. He hit the dirt with a thud.

Someone yelled something. Footsteps strode toward him. Through his swimming vision, he could make out a figure in uniform. A man’s voice spoke, the sound ringing in his ears. He flinched.

No blow came.

Slowly, the boy raised his head.

A dark-haired soldier stood before him, mouth tight, eyes regarding him. He was foreign, the uniform strange. An olive-green jacket hung over his frame, the fabric frayed at the edges, and his trousers were baggy, tucked into heavy, worn boots. The lack of tailoring was a far cry from the crisp, polished lines of the German uniforms, and the boy gaped.

It was an American.

“Come on, get up,” the soldier said in English, gesturing at the cot. “You can barely walk. Don’t even think about escaping.” The foreigner held out a hand.

The boy stared at it for a moment. Then he shook his head, pulling himself back up onto the cot. His bandaged leg throbbed angrily, but he clenched his jaw, and the pain ebbed away.

“Not escape,” he said. “I wanted water. I am thirsty.”

“That so?” asked the American, seeming taken aback at his English. He regarded him for a long time. “Well,” he said at last, “you stay here. I’ll see what I can get you.”

When the American returned, he had a tin cup of water, a chunk of bread, and a can of peaches.

The boy took the food. The peaches were sweet, the bread warm, and he ate hungrily. When he finished, his mind felt clearer. The American was watching him, a strange mixture of concern and curiosity in his eyes.

“Feeling a bit better now?” he said.

“Yes,” the boy replied. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Thank you.”

“Good,” said the American. “I’m Michael, by the way. Michael Collins.”

The boy’s gaze drifted to the wounded men lying around him, to the entrance flap of the tent fluttering in the wind, to the field, the guards, the barbed wire beyond. Then he looked back at the foreigner.

“I am sorry, Michael,” he said in careful English. “I just…I just don’t remember how I got here.”

The American crossed his arms, glancing around at the injured men and the ongoing activity in the tent. “You were found after the battle on the beach. They brought you in with a group of other wounded prisoners. We’ve been working to stabilize everyone.”

Prisoners.

The boy swallowed and lay his head back down, closing his eyes, the full realization of his predicament dawning on him. At length, he spoke again.

“What—what happened on the beach?” he asked.

The American’s expression tightened, a brief shadow crossing his face. “The beach was secured,” he said. “The Germans eventually surrendered that sector, but it was hard-fought, I’ve heard. Many were lost on both sides.”

The boy looked away. Against his will, his mind replayed the harrowing battle. He saw flashes of gunfire and choking smoke. He felt the jolt of his rifle, glimpsed the distant figure falling to the sand. He saw blood trickling down his companion’s face, saw the soldier’s wide, vacant eyes.

The foreigner said something else, and the boy nodded faintly. The tent’s canvas continued to flutter, bringing a scent of the world beyond, a world that now seemed so far away.

“You’ll be fine,” said the American. He stood, taking the empty can and cup. “Get some rest now. You need it.”

The boy’s leg improved under the care of the medics, and Michael Collins continued to visit him. As the days passed, Michael told him stories about his family and home, and his earnest words aroused hope in the boy, a flicker that warmed the cold uncertainty of his heart.

Each morning, he would find himself waiting for the American to appear with an old book or some other small gift in his hand. Then they would sit together, and Michael would talk, and the boy would listen. But at night on his cot, when the tent was dark and silent, he would lay awake and puzzle at his own tangled thoughts.

Didn’t the American feel, just like he did? Didn’t he, too, yearn for home?

Wasn’t he just like him?

And yet…if they were both on the battlefield, wouldn’t Michael kill him? Wouldn’t he kill Michael?

But no, he could not. He would not.

He would never kill again.

One afternoon, Michael brought a deck of cards. He shuffled them, thumbs running deftly over the edges, then passed them to the boy to deal.

“How old are you, anyway?” he asked, when the boy had taken them. “You don’t seem much older than me, if at all.”

“I am fourteen,” the boy told him.

“Gee!” The American looked around quickly, then lowered his voice. “You’re only fourteen—and they made you fight?”

The boy swallowed. The subject of the war had come again, hovering like a storm cloud. Sudden hot tears welled in his eyes.

“I never wanted to,” he said rather hoarsely, fingers tracing the worn deck. “My mother and father—they—they died in an air raid—and then I was conscripted.” He closed his eyes, the tears threatening to spill. “I didn’t know what to do. I had to fight. I had to.”

Michael regarded him, a mix of pain and pity etched on his face. Then he reached out a hand and gently touched the boy’s shoulder. “You don't have to fight anymore,” he said quietly. “This war isn’t your fault. Me and you—we’re caught in something bigger than us all. And we just got to do the best we can.”

“I wanted to be a teacher,” the boy whispered, voice choking. “I wanted to teach English, like my father.”

"Listen.” Michael leaned toward him. “You will be. When this is all over, you'll go home and teach. The world will need people like you to rebuild it.”

The boy wiped at his tears with his sleeve.

“You know, it’s probably hard to believe right now,” his friend continued, “but nothing bad can last forever. Nothing. It's only a matter of time before this war ends."

And a matter of lives, thought the boy. But he did not say that aloud.

Instead, he asked, “How old are you?”

“I’ll be nineteen in August,” said Michael. “Well, I feel I’ve aged a lifetime. I wanted to be an actor, you know, to go right into movies. My mother didn’t want that. She wanted me to go to college.” He smiled wryly. “Neither happened. I was drafted just a few days after my eighteenth birthday.”

A heavy silence followed. The boy lowered his head, fingers running over the side of the cards, up and down, up and down.

Then Michael reached into his uniform pocket. The boy looked up as he pulled out a small leather pouch and carefully opened it.

“This,” said the American, taking out an old watch and holding it up to the light, “is something really special to me. My father gave it to me before I left. It was my grandfather’s before that.”

The boy studied the watch. It was elegant, finely crafted, the polish reflecting the sunlight. Michael continued speaking, his voice soft and reverent. “My dad, well, he said it symbolizes becoming a man. It’s a reminder of responsibility, of the path I’m on. Even though I'm far from home and everything, this watch keeps me grounded. It reminds me of who I am and where I come from.” 

Slowly, the boy reached out and gently touched it. “It is beautiful,” he said softly. “It must mean a lot to you.”

“Yes,” said Michael. “Yes, it does.”

As the sun began to set, the American stood. “Hang in there,” he said, almost to himself. “We’ve all got to hang in there.”

One late afternoon, the boy sat on his cot, flipping impatiently through a book he had already finished. More than a month had passed since his injury, and the doctors had told him he would be walking soon.

As afternoon faded to sunset, and sunset faded to dusk, Michael finally entered the tent. Even in the dim light, the boy could see the grave expression etched on his face.

“What is it?” he asked, closing his book.

Michael swallowed. "I'm leaving.”

The book clattered to the ground.

“Leaving! When—where?”

“Tomorrow morning,” his friend said heavily. He picked up the fallen book and sat down on the edge of the cot. “We’re going to push deeper into France.” 

The boy was too stunned to speak. As he struggled to grasp the meaning of Michael’s words, a cold weight, like an icy hand, squeezed his heart.

"I don’t know if I will be back,” his friend continued. “I—well, I wanted to give this to you, before I go.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the leather pouch, placing it in the boy's hand. Numbly, the boy opened it. The watch tumbled into his palm.

“It’s yours now,” Michael said, gently closing his fingers around the cold metal. “Keep it.”

The boy’s throat constricted. He stared at the watch, then back at his friend. He opened his mouth. No sound came out. He closed it again.

Michael smiled sadly, extending a hand. The boy grasped it.

For a moment, time seemed to pause. The wind seemed to hush, and the tent flap seemed to still. The sun seemed to halt in its place just below the horizon. A silent promise passed between them then, a promise too profound to place into words.

Then Michael pulled back. The cold wind blew again, and the American stood, straightening his shoulders. The boy’s heart clenched.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

Michael  nodded. “Take care.” He clasped the boy’s shoulder briefly, then turned and strode away.

At the tent exit, he paused and turned back, his silhouette framed against the fading light, hand raised in farewell. Then he left, and the boy watched as the darkening evening swallowed him. 

He would never see Michael Collins again.

The cold waves crashed onto the sand, soaking the man up to the knee. An echo of pain shot through his leg, and he startled from his thoughts.

The tide was rising. Overhead, streaks of deep velvet painted the sky. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon, and only a faint golden light shimmered low in the distance.

As a chill wind blew, the barbed wire rattled, and the little American flags fluttered, like the tent flap from all those years ago. He drew his jacket tighter. The echoes of his memories lingered in the air all around, and the sea whispered, pushing forward, pulling back. 

The man looked down at the pocket watch. There were small imprints on his fingers, places where the ridges had pressed into his skin. The watch hand ticked steadily over the face, and Michael's words rang in his mind.

It’s yours now. Keep it. 

He closed his eyes, recalling their conversations. He thought of the hope that had risen in his own heart, the warmth that had burned like a flame, fierce amidst the shadows of fear.

Keep it.

The last of the light had slipped beneath the horizon, and night hovered over the water, draping the sea in a cloak of darkness. The scattered fortifications stood as ghostly silhouettes, casting dark shadows over the sand.

The man slipped the watch into his jacket pocket and turned from the shore.

As he walked away from the water, the stars emerged, one by one, glittering in the darkness above. They shone through the veil of night, silent echoes of a light that lingered, long after the sun had faded.