Not so sure about the dates. Well, here's the first attempt....
November 2, 1962
Shores of Cuba
Was he dead? The world had remained still for so long that he was not sure any more. No, he could not be dead. If he were, surely his head would not feel like some jazz player was using it for drums. Or a pin cushion. After the explosion, he could feel a thousand needles in his ears, his sinuses and even the back of his head. Must be the shift in air pressure, like when you were coming in for a landing in one of those unpressurized aircraft. His eyes hurt too. The instant he saw the flash, Private Daniel Jefferson threw himself into the soft sands upon the beach.
After assessing he still lived, Daniel began to wonder if he was deaf. The explosion was beyond anything he ever imagined. The earth lay still now, minutes, hours– maybe even days after the blasts, Daniel was clueless as to how long he be laying face down on the beach. The rustle of the breeze broke the momentary silence. No, he was not deaf, but the sounds of the wounded and dying that soon rose up made him wish he were.
He knew full well he could not just lie on the beach. The fact that he was not already chewed up by machine guns said any Cubans on the beach were just as dead. He risked a quick peak. Against agonizing pains in his head, he turned it sides ways and gazed down the beach. Where once stood groves of palms and white sands, was now a blackened and shattered landscape, covered with a light rain of ash that began to fall. Not a single palm stood upright, and those thrown about like discarded matchsticks were almost as black as he. The stumps were nothing but mounds of charcoal, probably good enough for his old man to use in the barbeque, if not for all the radiation.
A large shadow soon fell over Daniel. “You alive, boy?” he asked with a slow drawl that came from the back of beyond, Alabama. Daniel would recognize that voice anywhere. Sargent Simmons always called him boy, but did so in a casual way, like one who talked that way to colored men all his life. The Sarge was not as malicious towards Daniel as were the white folk in Key West. Actually, Daniel thought to rephrase that. The Sarge was not particularly malicious towards the colored soldiers in the squadron. It was one of his redeeming qualities; he hated all enlisted me equally.
“Yeah, Sarge,” Daniel cracked, started by how his own voice sounded. If he looked half as bad as he sounded, he should probably be hauled off to some hospital ship. If any of those were left.
Simmons stood over him with little patience. “Then get on your feet!”
Daniel slowly forced himself upwards, dizziness striking the moment he tried to stand. Shock struck him life a Louisville slugger. It was not the pain in his body, but rather the full sight of the world around him. The white sands were ashen, and the tropical forest that lay further inland was charred. The landscape and all upon it was monochromatic, black and white and all the shades between. Even the Sarge, his face burnt and covered in soot, making him a few shades darker than Daniel. It would have been comical, if not for the sight out to see.
It could not have been more than an hour ago when the invasion started. Hundreds of ships bobbed up and down in the coastal waters, half of which were on fire. A few capsized, and settled on the shallow coastal waters. The once blue waters were black as millions of gallons of oil spilled from broken hulls, and was now ablaze. Off in the distance, no more than a few miles, the flat bow of an aircraft carrier stuck upwards at a forty-five degree angle. The stern was nowhere to be seen.
High in the sky, several circular clouds rose columns of smoke and ash, miles into the air. Off to the east, where another landing was suppose to take place, Daniel saw the sure-tell signs of an atomic explosion; a hideous mushroom snaking its way up into the sky. A sudden lump fell into the pit of his stomach. Did those same clouds now rise over his home? His whole family lived in Chicago– or at they did this morning.
Did the whole world now look like this beach? If atom bombs were used to thwart the invasion, and it was looking like it did a fair job at that, were they used elsewhere? No doubt there was retaliation. Did missiles or B-52s destroy Havana? Was the objective even still standing, or just a slagged radioactive ruin? Where the few soldiers on the beach all that remained of man? The invasion should have been supported by fighters and bombers, but not a single jet flew in the sky, American or Cuban.
“Shake a leg, boy!” the Sarge barked as Daniel dawdled. “You gonna get yourself killed, and me too, if you stand out in the open like this.” He shoved Daniel towards the charred forest further inland. “Get under cover before the Commies dig themselves out and get their wits together.”
“The others?” Daniel asked. There were thousands of soldiers storming the beach last he remembered. Surely they were not all vaporized by the bomb? No, there would be a million charred bones scattered around the beach, and he noticed none. At least not that he could tell was bone. His old man was in the barbeque business back in Chicago, and Daniel had seen plenty of blackened bones in his short life.
The Sarge shook his head. “These poor saps won’t live to see the night. I ain’t no corpsmen and neither are you. Nothing we can do except find the rest of the squad.” The Sarge was right. Despite all the meanness the Army bread into its NCOs, Sergeants had a way of always being right. Daniel’s own NCO was a veteran of Korea. He seen combat and knew what he was talking about. If was saying get off the beach, then that was sound advice.