When my Grandpa was a younger he wanted nothing more than to go off to war. I’m not sure what the urge was but he had it none the less. His group was being sent off to Normandy–in my opinion the worst place any human being could have gone–to be shot like fish in a barrel however an infection to a mole he had from his backpack forced him to stay behind in the hospital while the rest of his troop shipped off. He wasn’t impressed at all because he wanted to go to war, but that infection probably saved his life from that horrendous battle.
I can’t possibly imagine what was going through their heads as the transport door burst open and within seconds your friends on either side of you and the guy behind you are shot dead. You clamber over their bodies and rush to find some sort of cover while wondering why you traded the dry seat for a wet one.
Grandpa missed out on that battle but after he was better he finally got head for the trenches and hit the front lines… I’ve asked my Dad about this and he said Grandpa never liked to talk about the war, but he remembers a story where Grandpa was talking to his partner and then when he turned to look to the left when he looked back he was dead. He shot off a clip of ammunition and when he reached over to grab a spare clip he got shot in the elbow. With that injury he was shipped back home; he wasn’t impressed at all. The family’s rotten luck held it’s own that day, but I don’t see it as being bad luck at all. His rotten luck saved his life, and for that I’d take a little black rain cloud over me any day. -Steve