June 6, 1944

Normandy

I taste the salt on my lips as my transport gets us closer to the shore. I pause for a moment to wonder if it's the backsplash of the ocean or the sweat from my brow. Either way, I know we are the allied powers' last hope.

I tighten my grip on my M1 Garand and begin to hear the muffled gun fire in the distance over the roar of the engine. "10 minutes out" shouts our Shipmaster.

I bite my bottom lip and think about the opposition we are about to face. I remember the words of my father who fought in the first Great War and decide to use my last few minutes to take a combat piss. There's a good chance I could lose my life, at least I could save my dignity by not pissing myself in the heat of battle.

We're packed into this landing craft like a bunch of sardines, but somehow I shoulder my way to the edge of our boat. I see McMillans, from the 101st. "Cigarette?" he offers.

I put the smoke up to my lips and light it. I tuck my rifle under my armpit and unzip my fly. This isn't how I pictured my last moments, but at least those Nazi bastards wouldn't get the best of me and I'd face my enemy with honor.

"Two minutes out!" yells our Shipmaster.

"Shit!" I say to myself. That went fast. I look at the quickly approaching horizon as I begin to hear the whizzing of bullets over head. Time to wrap up my own whiz. I push out the last few drops and lift my zipper with some zeal. "Aaaahhhh" I scream as a wave slaps the bottom of our ship. What happened? Did I take a round to the pelvic girdle? Couldn't be. I wouldn't be standing.

I look down to examine where the pain is stemming from to find an excess of my own dick skin peaking through the teeth of my zipper.

"One minute to landing" shouts our Shipmaster. What?!? This can't be happening I think. I look down to further examine the mechanism of injury. In addition to the excess dick skin it seems the dick itself was also protruding from the zipper. How could I have forgotten to put my penis away?!?!

"30 seconds out!".

"Damn it!" I shout. "McMillans! Help me out brother!"

McMillans turns to see my unprotected and now crooked meat twinkie fully exposed to the elements. "Dude, your dick is out" he yells.

"No shit!" I reply as the sound of gunfire grows louder. He sets down his rifle and takes a knee. "I'm going to have to touch it" he informs me.

"What?!?!" I ask frantically wondering if there's another way.

"There's no other way" he says. "Like, really, really touch it".

"Fine. Whatever" I reply.

McMillans grabs my rogue and injured shaft with his chapped salty sea hands and tries to force it back into its rightful home but is unsuccessful.

The pain is intense, but I focus on the cigarette in my mouth.

"I'm going to need some help" he says. He turns to Jacobs, who looks bothered that we are interrupting his Copenhagen dip.

"Brace for impact" yells the Captain.

We feel the sudden jolt of our craft impacting the shore and my eyes grow wide as I see Jacobs' spit cup of saliva and dip come flying towards my crotch. I clinch my teeth as I see the coffee colored liquid land explosively all over my unsheltered long dong. "Damn it Jacobs!!" I yell.

"Lower the ramp" shouts our Platoon Sergeant.

"No! Don't lower the ramp!" I plead. As I shout my concerns I instantly realize I shouldn't be talking with a cigarette in my mouth. I lower my gaze to see the burning ambers fall in what seems like slow motion. There was no question that it was going to land on my fallopian finder, but maybe it would at least avoid my pee hole. Nope. Right on the urethra!

"Aaaaahhhhhh" I scream in shear pain as I think about my scolded beef bugle. I begin to squirm as I do all I can not to panic. As I squirm, I feel a weight shift under my arm...oh shit...my rifle! I look in time to see my rifle free falling south. Please lord, I pray. Not the bayonet. Not the bayonet. My prayers were unanswered.

I feel the sharp unforgiving edge of the bayonet as I shout the words "why me God?". Peeled like an apple. Effing great!

The boarding ramp lowers and my shipmates begin storming the beach. I join them, dip covered, scolded flesh mushroom and all. I dive to the ground to avoid machine gun fire from the north. "Aaaaahhhhh" I cry out again, as the course sand makes contact with my recently peeled short arm.

My Sergeant lands next to me. He looks down, disgusted by what he finds. "What happened to your Johnson, and why is it out?" he appropriately asks.

I ignore his question and freeze as I detect a metallic surface just below my waist. It can't be. It was. A land mind. "Damn it again!!" I yell. I'd have to sprint and hope I could out run the blast radius. On three. One. Two. Three!

I jump up and run feeling a tight pinching sensation, but hear no explosion. I look down to discover a flap of my skin flute wedged into the pressure plate. Here I was standing with a live mine dangling from my plonker.

I panic. I take off in an outright sprint towards the enemy position. And apparently, I didn't get all the pee out on the boat because I began to urinate myself. The ammonia burns every last scathing scratch. I'm so distracted by my own personal hell that I don't see the enemy machine gun trench in front of me. I leap at the last moment, surprised to see the urine had lubed the pressure plate enough to jar it free. The mine lands in the enemy trench as I land safely in the sand hearing the explosion behind me. The machine gun falls quiet.

I turn to see my platoon make their way safely up the now clear path. "You did it Johnson" said my Sergeant. "You saved us all."

I saluted him and he saluted back. "It was my pleasure sir".

"Good" he said. "Now put your dick away. You're embarrassing yourself."

**Remember reading this in the history books? Share your own recollection in the comments section.