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Message: <blockquote data-quote="ledded" data-source="post: 1358506" data-attributes="member: 12744">[PLAIN]We were like gods once... [Moose's story][/PLAIN]France, somewhere near St Lo. 9:52 am. Robert “Moose” Pressman sat in the bouncing deuce-and-a-half cradling his BAR, smiling at Hank and Smitty going on about the finer points of gunsmithing and feeling like a comfortable part of the conversation without adding anything to it.  But he rarely ever did; Moose was a quiet man for the most part, slow to move and to anger. Not that he was stupid or clumsy; he was just so big, and strong, that he was afraid that he would hurt someone or break something on accident if he acted in haste. At 6-feet, 7-inches and 265 pounds, he was a behemoth of a man, with a quiet, rumbling northern Minnesota accent on the few occasions that he chose to speak. Hence the nickname “Moose”; he suspected it was tacked on more because of his Minnesota/Canadian-influenced speech or ancestry than his size, but either way he didn’t really care. All he cared about was making his folks proud, and staying alive long enough to get home to see it. Though he seemed to always be lucky when it came to getting hurt, if luck is what you wanted to call it… Moose lets his thoughts wander.   Several weeks earlier, England: “Yeah, Moose here was actually one of the youngest guys to ever play in the CJFL ya know”, Frankie bragged to the 82nd Airborne guys. “Damn good, he was too.” At their skeptical looks he added “Canadian. Junior. Football. League. Jeez guys, don’t get out much, do ya?”. “Oh yeah, that a fact? Sheez man ya expect me ta believe dat? Whaddaya say, Bullwinkle? Rocky just pullin’ my leg or what?”, the big airborne corporal tossed at Moose in a thick Brooklyn brogue and cocky smile. “Oh ya. Last played in ’36 for da Moose Jaw Maroons dere, dontcha know”, Moose rumbled, embarrassed. Frankie jumped right back in, “Yeah, you remember, the ’36 Winnipeg St Johns game, they dropped it 13 ta 0 seein’ as how Moose here got hurt in the first quarter. His family moved to Minnesota right afterwards, and now *boom* he’s here. So, whaddaya think, we got a game or what? Or are ya too yellow?” Moose thought back to that game, his last one with the Maroons; he was a kid then, but still a big one at 6-foot-4 and 200 pounds. He remembered running with the ball that day, feeling like nothing could stop him; remembered that monster linebacker, that fearsome brute that everyone was so afraid of, cutting an angle across to intercept him. He also remembered his own stark fear when he realized he was about to get nailed by this guy, this vicious guy who had ended the careers of 5 poor schmucks that season alone. Moose remembers dropping his shoulder and bunching himself as tight as possible in anticipation of the linebacker’s rage to fall on him like a hammer blow from the gods, legs driving towards the goal line. He remembers, in distinct detail, the look of surprise on the linebacker’s face then they connected; the SNAP of the boy’s femur; the jarring shock and debris and blood from his shattered teeth; the horrible “whuuuff” noise he made as his ribs collapsed; the feeling as all 235 pounds of him rolled over Moose’s back and spun lazily, kite-like, in the air a full revolution and a half before SLAMMING into the ground like a sack of boneless meat. And Moose also remembers how he didn’t even slow down on impact, how he felt like a loaded lumber truck hitting a deer when he slammed into the guy. How he stopped a few yards later, and then just sat down on the field in his shock and guilt. He knew he couldn’t play anymore after seeing that boy put on a stretcher and carted off to the hospital, crying and gasping for breath and bleeding everywhere. So, guilt stricken, he acted like his shoulder was torn up from the impact and quit football forever from that moment on. Later that year his parents moved to Minnesota and the ever-growing and self-conscious Moose was more than happy to pack up and leave all of the strange looks and whispered comments behind him.  “Sheesus Moose, what are ya doin’? Go man, GOGOGO… I got 5 bucks ridin’ on ya!”, screamed Frankie, pushing him, as Moose realized that the Airborne fella was taking off down the yard, another Paratrooper pumping the ball in his hand getting ready to throw a long one. Moose shook off his ruminations and took off after him, fast for such a big guy. He could see the Airborne fella looking back now as he gained, a look of glee on his face when he realized that he could snatch down the pass before Moose could get a hand on it. Moose could also see that the pass was overthrown, that the guy was getting close to the street. Too close. Moose pushed himself, and ran faster, huge thumping legs tearing furrows in the damp English turf as he closed on the paratrooper. He could see the paratrooper’s foot hit the edge of the road, the look of exultation on his face as he caught the pass; he could see the speeding Lorry, fully laden with supplies begin to skid on the damp road. Moose’s feet slipped on the wet pavement just as his hand closed on the paratrooper’s jacket. He heaved the man as hard as he could and caught the Lorry’s grill, like the teeth of some great predator, just out of the corner of his eye before everything became a bright, white light, and silence. …… “Moose! Moose! Ah, crap, Moose! I’m sorry buddy, come on now, Moose… Jeezus…. MEDIC!!! Somebody get a freakin’ Medic over here!”, the muffled, underwater voice came to Moose. It was Frankie, shaking him. Looking down at him from up above the sea he was gently afloat in. The sky is a nice shade of grey today, bubbled up into Moose’s mind, funny how it looks almost normal from under water.  Moose winced as he tried to get up; his head, arm, and ribs hurt bad; probably broke something, Moose slowly thought to himself with an almost sunken, surreal quality. “I’m okay dere, eh”, Moose groaned to Frankie as he sat up. He remembered now. The airborne guy. The football. The truck. The world came into focus, and the water seemingly drained away all at once. “Is that dere fella ok, eh?”, Moose queried as Frankie sat back, wide-eyed, while Moose shook out the last cobwebs from his head. “Yu-yu-yeah, well, yeah man, t-t-take a look for yourself.” Frankie’s eyes were all whites around the pupils, and moving wildly in his head. Moose looked over where Frankie pointed, and saw the big Airborne guy sitting on the grass, surrounded by a few of his buddies.  Fifteen feet *back* the way they had just been running flat out from. Fifteen feet, wondered Moose. Must be that English food dere. Yeah, all dose potatoes, eh? “Gosh, I hope I didn’t hurt ‘im”, Moose inadvertently mused aloud. “Hurt him? Hurt HIM? Are you nuts Moose? Jeez man you *saved* his life, I aint never seen nothin’ like that before… he… he... flew! Like, in the friggin air! Over your shoulder! And you! Are you sure you’re ok?”, rattled off a visibly shaken Frankie. “Well, yeah dere, I’m ok, maybe some busted ribs or somethin’. Why’re ya so worried, Frankie? Da truck musta just clipped me, eh?”, Moose replied, smiling. Frankie’s voice was a whisper, eyes wide, when he replied, “Clipped ya? Moose… lookit… look at the…”. His voice, failing him, Frankie just pointed a palsied hand. Moose looked, and saw the Lorry. And saw how the front was crushed like it had hit a boulder, how the axle was visibly broken. He noticed, now, how the stacked supplies lay broken and scattered in the road all around them, past the truck. “Um, he must have, well, dontcha know, uh, well I guess I got lucky dere, eh?”, Moose replied nervously, already feeling a little better. “Yeah, Moose. Sure. Lucky”, Frankie mumbled, with that familiar look of fear and awe that Moose dreaded so badly. Worse yet was the amazement of the doctors when his broken ribs and arm were only bruised the next day, and two days later when the bruises were but a memory. He was almost glad when the order came to get ready to load the boats; the invasion day had finally come, and with it all thoughts of what happened faded to myth in men’s minds in the rush to take the fight to Hitler. Though later, in retrospect, he would think that he would have rather faced that day a hundred times instead of the horrors soon to come. Anything but Omaha...</blockquote>

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