Serrated Jetty

Sicily | July 10th | 1943

The sudden noise startled him, and he made the foolish mistake of trying to rush back to the shoreline. He only got about five feet when his left foot slipped on a rounded rock, sending his body careening into the cold water. As his body fell, he felt his left leg, just above the brim of his boot, become wedged between two of the jetty’s sharpest rocks.

It was an excruciating pain, and the awkward angle made it hard for him to keep his upper body out of the water. He flailed his arms up and down, trying to lift himself up so he could breathe, sending harsh ripples rumbling across the quiet, and remote surface.

Unfortunately, with the serrated exterior of the rocks tearing flesh from bone, and the weight of the water pressing down on his chest, the simple act of sitting up became a nearly impossible task.

With the adrenaline rushing fear of drowning in a foreign pond in the middle of an isolated woodland in Sicily, alone, Garret was able to muster enough core strength to lift his upper body out of the water, giving himself just enough air time to scream out a gargled cry for help.

He was only able to accomplish this task two more times before his strength finally failed him, forcing his waist, abdomen, and head to remain fully submerged.

The upside down position forced all of the blood in his body to rush towards his skull. Causing his nose, mouth, and ears to quickly fill with suffocating pond water.

The face of his mother flashed in his mind’s eye, and the aroma of steaming hot sausages outside of Fenway park enveloped him in an eerie state of inevitable death.

His life, and favorite moments were all flashing before him.

Garret was dying.

Out of breath, and choking on gallons of cold pond water, Garret felt something strong grasp his wedged boot, lifting it free from the rocks.

Free, yet slowly sinking to the bottom of the pond, he felt two powerful arms wrap beneath his armpits just as his boots began to melt into the sandy earth...

...

Teetering on the fringes of unconsciousness, Garret could feel his nose being pinched, air being blown into his lungs, and his chest being compressed. He could also hear numerous disoriented voices frantically talking to one another.

He honed in on those voices, and used them to help yank his mind, body, and soul back to life.

Garret exploded with a tremendous gasp of harsh air. The water that was lodged in his lungs was forced up his throat, which he gargled around his mouth until spitting it out onto the cold dirt beside him. His head pounded, his body shivered from his waterlogged clothes, and his vision was foggy, save for three dark figures looming over his body.

He rolled over onto his side, and coughed up the remaining water, and slime still stuck in his lungs. As he purged his body from the pond toxins, his vision began improving.

Standing over him was an older man, at least fifty years of age, dressed in traditional church garb, and two similar looking teenagers. One male, and one female.

At first glance, the group didn’t appear to pose any sort of threat, but as the moon shifted above the canopy, the silver light quickly illuminated the grave seriousness of the situation.

The priest, and young girl both held large, semi-automatic pistols, and the young man, who’s clothes were also drenched, tightly clutched a rectangular wrapped package to his chest.

The trio was odd enough, but the fact that two of them were formidably armed, while the third was clearly embracing something of immense and precious value, spiked his interest, as well as his fear.

The priest then surprisingly bent down on one knee, gently placed his weapon onto the moist earth beside him, then with a thick Italian accent, spoke to Garret.

“Are you alright, soldier? That was a nasty fall.”

Garret’s head continued to pound, and fill with questions. He still was unsure about who these people were, and their intentions, so he answered the priest’s question with questions of his own.

“Who are you people?