Edging forward, eyes bloodshot,
hiding beneath his rusted, metal helmet,
he made his way to the shore.

He was following at the feet of his friends,
seeing them fall on impact; crumple to the ground
like torn rag dolls, lifeless and forgotten.

Men were shouting all around,
bombs exploding, sending jagged metal
flying through the musty air.

Screams echoed in his ears,
waves crashed onto the sand,
but he could only hear the gunfire.

He squeezed his eyes shut,
but there was no escape
from the immense battlefield.

Perhaps that was his mistake.
Perhaps showing vulnerability
was his ultimate downfall.

His hopes of survival were shattered
by a small, bronze bullet
penetrating his smooth skin.

He fell to the beach, his face
hitting the jagged shells that littered the sand,
the ocean water rising beside him.

Incessant waves rolling in and out, clashed against his blood soaked side, sending pink, salty foam
above his soft, youthful face.

His cheeks were milky white,
his eyes rolled back,
his face frozen in a twisted scream.

Some may think he was remembered
as a hero,
but he wasn't.

People aren't remembered
for following in the footsteps
of millions of others.