And seeing as how it's getting close to the 61st anniversary of D-Day
again, I thought I might share. Laura's fic reminded me that I wrote
this one-off. It's a TOTALLY different universe -- X-men:Evolution, the
TV show, and Stan Lee changed almost everything to make the Xmen
suitable as a Saturday morning cartoon, including most of Logan's past,
but in the ways that matter I don't think Logan changed too much. I
played Logan on the X-men: Evolution RPG (which is now defunct) and
wrote this back when the RPG was at its height. This is Logan, writing
in his Livejournal about going to France for the big 60th anniversary
rememberances. Apologies about the formatting, Live Journal was being a
butt and so it came out looking like this. I have another journal entry
about Logan and the war -- when I find it, I'll post it. Until then, enjoy.
Name: June 6th, 1944
Author: Wolf Whitewater
Pairing: None, this is just Logan and an original character
Notes: See above
Created: June 6 2004
Archive: Please ask first!
Is it up on my website? Not Yet
Disclaimers: Evolution universe. I'm making no money. This isn't my
character, not technically.
Feedback: Yes, please! I always like to know what people think
This weekend I took the jet and went over to France for the D-Day
remberances. I didn't bring anybody with me. There wasn't anyone who
would have been appropriate. Sorry, Jean. Sorry, Charles. I just knew I
wanted to do this by myself. I walked along the beaches and looked up at
the concrete bunkers on the high green hills above the beaches and saw
the Germans again, waiting to slaughter us. Rommel and his army were
waiting, although Rommel himself wasn't there. He'd gone back to Berlin
with a present for his wife's birthday. But he knew we were going to
come sooner or later, and he was ready. They set traps, to waylay and
kill men. All kinds of traps. Mines. Great big X's made of steel. They'd
barricaded the beach at the hill's beginnings with rolls of loose barbed
wire. Loose, so that we couldn't climb over it, but get entangled in it,
within easy range of their guns. Sharp stakes where the water would be
at high tide, to tear open the hulls of our ships. No cover at all. It
was a madhouse of horrors. I have never seen such carnage, such death.
Such numbers. At least two thousand men and boys died in roughly two
hours along those three and a bit miles of beach. I was one of them,
though of course I revived and continued on. Must have screwed up the
There weren't many people at the beach that we were told had been
codenamed Juno. I still don't know what it's real name is. Or was. The
Canadians were a small contingent anyway, much smaller than either the
British to the west or the Americans to the east. There isn't much about
us in the history books. The men that were there this weekend were
standing in groups of no more than three, or more often by themselves,
looking around them silently. I saw one take out a test tube, or a vial
of some kind and scoop some of the sand into it. Another planted a small
Canadian flag at the base of the hill, where the cruel barbed wire
barrier was. The flag looked like it might have been there on the day,
and I guessed it was some kind of a promise kept. I was suprised that
the sand was so . . . unmarked. It was low tide when I was there, and it
was fresh. Made new. Am I the only one that will be left to tell the
story of what happened here? Of how a mass of determined men and
conscripted boys with only a handful of training took the beaches
everyone said were untakable? The cocky 18 and 19 year olds that I
crossed the Channel with, smoking and talking about their girls and
convincing themselves desperately that that night was just another walk
in the park are now old, old men. Many are dead. Some died that night,
others later in life, I guess. There are worse ways to die than
instantaneously in war. I walked among them with my hands in my pockets
and my hat pulled well down. I didn't want to be recognized. But. . . I
was hailed, and my nose jerked around because of a scent I hadn't
smelled since that night.
"Corporal Logan!" It was a tall, gangly senior citizen that when I knew
him had been a tall, gangly 19 year old, celebrating his birthday on the
1st of June and always accidently winding up where he shouldn't have
been. I tried to remember his name.
"Corporal Logan?" This time the words were questioning, as though he was
ashamed of letting his imagination get away from him. That too, I
remembered. He was always second-guessing himself, and it saved him that
"Private Harris. It's been a long time." I raised my hat and made myself
look at him and smile.
"Corporal Logan! It's good to see you! Haven't aged a day, have you? But
then, they said you would come through it ok, and I guess you have. Or
else, I guess you could be his son?"
"No, Harris, it's me. I'm. . . " I hesitated. "I'm still a special
agent." He nodded.
"I'd guessed that might be it, Corporal. Or is it Captain or something
now? They said you were different from the rest of us and I put two and
two together after some of the things I saw that night. Always wondered
if I was seeing things."
I glanced at him. That frighteningly quick intelligence was his best
asset. I'd forgotten he could deduce so accurately from fragments. "No,
it's not Captain anything. I have no rank anymore. It's. . . classified."
He nodded. "I understand." And somehow I got the bizarre feeling that he
really *did*, that he understood *everything*. Seeing me basically
unchanged must have finally given him the last piece of the puzzle. We'd
been drifting along, chatting quietly in the way of old soldiers, until
we reached the base of the hill, and both shuddered in memory of that
accursed barbed wire, preventing us from getting to the cover we craved
and the Germans we needed to kill.
"Do you still have them?" The question came out of the blue.
"What?" I asked, startled. I didn't know what he meant. "What?"
"Those-- knife things. They told us you were different from us, that you
were going to be our secret weapon against the Nazis and not to be
suprised at anything. I was right next to you when I saw you slash
through the wire like it was melted butter. And I thought, 'Holy Cow,
I'd really like a set of those!' Because I collect stuff like that,
knives and swords and things, even back then when I'd just started. I
hope it isn't too personal, but I'd really like to see them again, just
once, if you have them on you. I never got to ask back then."
I looked at him. And hesitated. He was the only one that would talk to
me, treat me like a human being on that day in the boat. I trusted he
still had that kindness and tolerance. *schook* He recoiled briefly,
then came back and glanced up at me, then back to them.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I never realized what it must have been." He
nodded, thinking, then spoke. "You saved all our lives that day. You
gave us a way out. You stood there, holding back the wire in your hands
and were the last one through." He paused. "I'm the only one of our
regiment fit enough to come back here. I just wanted to say, thank you.
For staying behind. If it hadn't been for you we all would have been
I didn't know what to say to that. You're welcome seemed so inadequate.
I shrugged a little. "Anybody else would have done the same."
He tipped his hat to me. "But they didn't." And waved and walked off.
If there was only one to be saved, I'm glad it was him. I didn't stay
for most of the ceremonies and I didn't watch the unveiling of the new
memorials. I spent most of my time on the beach by myself, remembering,
in the silent comradeship of others who were doing the same. It was very
peaceful, and I found myself in a much better mood leaving than when I
I'm glad I was on the beach in Normandy on the 60th anniversary of the