Over There by Jim Washburn

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It was one of the nicest evenings he'd had over here.
Bart had gone for another round of drinks when the waitress failed to be timely enough in his mind. Joe heard a faint but unmistakable buzz of an incoming V1. Nobody else around seemed to have heard it. He waited until the sound ceased then began counting. It was a very bad number.
Joe jumped to his feet bumping the table and sending the glasses flying. The women were startled. Both stood up quickly mostly, to avoid the mess.
"EVERYONE GET DOWN NOW, INCOMING! WATCH OUT!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. People turned to look. Bart at the bar was one of them. Others dove for cover; some sat blinking unable or unwilling to react.
At that moment the world exploded.
Chaos descended on their small oasis, screams and debris filled the air, an ominous creak of broken timbers came from above. It was mostly dark, the air smelled of dust, blood, smoke and gunpowder. Joe picked himself off the floor and looked around wildly trying to see who was hurt and who could help.
He felt fine, even great, as he wiped blood from his eyes. Adrenaline can be funny that way. That feeling rapidly ebbed as he limped, around trying to do something. Almost immediately he saw Abby when she crawled from beneath their still intact table. She was disheveled but seemingly unharmed.
Her nurse instincts took over and she was moving easily from casualty to casualty while he blundered around until finally he volunteered to be her orderly, taking directions and lending muscle where needed.
He saw Vera staring glassy-eyed at her mostly severed leg. She was too shocked to even scream.
"Your belt!" Abby yelled. "Take it off and tighten it around her leg mid-thigh as tight as you can."
He did so, thankfully Vera passed out during the process. They moved toward other crying, bleeding people doing what they could, or moving on when there was nothing to do.
Near the bar Bart was lying face down in a puddle of beer and glass. Gingerly he turned him over. A spray of splinters and glass was imbedded in his face and chest obscuring his once handsome features. There was nothing to be done here.
Joe wanted to throw up, to purge his body of the stench, the feelings of grief for the victims and of hatred toward the enemy over there across the Channel. No such relief came and there was no time for it. He moved off with Abby towards a woman moaning nearby.......

"No Eric, my hearing is still good. I was just remembering something." The old man sighed.
"I hope it was a good dude, the Steelers have the ball! C'mon it's the Super Bowl! We haven't been here since, like the 70's you know? Boy I hate the Cowboys!" His young friend gushed with enthusiasm and not a little alcohol.
"I promised Abby I'd get home." He said suddenly, obviously surprising the people around him. He got up, placed money on the bar and limped away from the untouched glass of dark beer.