Memoir of a Battle

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It's the adreneline. It gets to you in ways you cannot imagine. It makes you thimk you can do things you can'y. It's addictive. It's a drug.

The first thing I remember is the feeling of trepidation. The knowing that you mighn't come back and of course, the adreneline. We were crammed into these death traps. There was 25 men in one. They hardly floated. The worst thing was that the door was at the front. As we grew nearer AND NEARER TO OUR OBJECTIVE, AS WE WERE FLUNG ABOUT by those falling killers, by the waves. We all knew we would die.

When the doors dropped, there was a hail of hot metal. It was coming from all sides. From the land abd from the sky. We jumped over the side, just as the 'boat' exploded. We swam and swam with hot metal diving, seeking out that tendour, jucy flesh, the glorious hit follwed by the splat of red and the closing of eyes. As most of the hot deavils hit their mark, nothing wouyld have prepared us for it, not even the adreneline.

On the beach, the sand scurried away as we stepped. Knowing of our doom. The grey figures in the towering, concrete fortresses. Untouchable, unbeatable, unforgiving.

That day was a day of death. And now that beach will be a graveyard for years to come. People say I was lucky but I'm cursed. My friends are gone, the corageous ones and the coward is left.

They say I am a hero but in war, there are no heroes, or heroic acts. Just things to be done and people who do them. The formalities come after. But for us, who killed and saw death, it is just another thing to be done.

That is what war does to you.





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