He was nineteen when the ramp dropped.
Salt air, metal, and the sound of men dying.
The sea was red and cold.
He carried a rifle that shook in his hands.
The sand was farther than it looked.
Boots sank.
He didn’t look back.
Someone screamed his name but he didn’t turn.
Bullets stitched the water like angry needles.
A man beside him fell and didn’t get up.
Another ran, then stopped running.
He crawled to the wall and pressed his body flat against war.
He fired at shadows, didn’t know if he hit anything.
He didn’t cry.
He wanted to, but didn’t.
That was the first day.
The war lasted years.
He lived them all.
He buried the bad parts, or tried to.
Married, worked, had sons.
Drank some nights to forget.
Now he stands on the bluff, eighty years later.
The wind still smells of salt and ghosts.
Rows of white crosses stretch toward the sea.
Too many names.
Too many boys who didn’t get old.
His hands tremble now, not from fear.
The beach looks smaller.
The ocean quieter.
But the silence feels heavy.
He bends with effort to touch one cross.
A name he knew.
They’d shared a cigarette in the boat.
The boy hadn’t made it to the shore.
He says nothing.
There is nothing left to say.
Just the wind and the long breath of the sea.
A gull cries overhead like a memory torn loose.
They told him he was a hero.
He never believed them.
He had only survived.
And that was the hardest thing.
Now, surrounded by the dead,
He feels them closer than ever.
Not gone, just waiting.
He nods once, stiffly.
Then turns from the stones and walks back slowly,
down the path lined with the quiet.
Still carrying it all.
Still remembering for those who cannot.
Broken Author 