The Beach

January 24, 2014
I remember the ships. Fighting against the surf. Dark green battling blue. The endless
pounding. The motor, a constant noise in the background. The commander shouted orders, but I
couldn't hear them. I already knew what we were getting ourselves into anyway. We were merely
the first wave to reach the beach. The pawns in a game of chess. We got closer to the beach. Two
hundred yards. Shouting more orders. I remember going numb at the sight of the land mines.
One hundred yards. That's when my body braced itself for the beach. I stiffened. The weight on
my back was nothing. The gun in my hand was nothing. Then, the doors opened. The wall of
men was shot down. I jumped overboard to avoid the bullets. I swam. And once I stopped
swimming, I ran. I could see the blood and my dead comrades, but self-preservation came first. I
shot back. I couldn't care who they were, whether they had wives, kids. I shot back because they
shot first. I had to shoot back. And run. I had to run.





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