In the deep dark of pre-dawn, the tongues of flame from the long guns presented images that flashed and were gone, but remained behind, burned into his retinas. In spite of the heavy bombardment of the coast before him, the silence in his mind was deafening. He had no fears of the tasks that would surely be required of him in the next few hours, even though he knew death was waiting for many of them.

The ship rolled gently in the swells. It was getting close, the horizon was beginning to show against what remained of the night sky. He could feel the tension begin to rise among his shipmates. He remained outwardly calm, inwardly he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

He watched, showing no emotion, as the ships crew set the cargo nets so he and his mates could climb down to the landing barges. The belching flames from the guns of the battleships and cruisers pounding the beach and approaches cast an unreal light on the scene before him.

Once the nets were in place, the boarding began. He found his way into the belly of the landing craft and tucked himself into a ball for the trip to the beach. He had checked his weapons and insured a full clip in each. He could feel the weight of the four extra ammo belts he had weighing him down. If they wanted to shoot, he thought, he wanted to shoot back. A lot.

Looking around, he watched the faces of the men he had trained with, lived with, sweated with, and may die with. He tried not to think about dying. Not this day. There would be too much to do to let some enemy soldier end his time on earth. He felt the lurch as the landing craft pulled away from the ship.

The motion of the landing craft was more violent than that of the ship. In comparison, he felt like he went from a gentle roll into a washing machine. He could see better in the rising light levels of daybreak. He wished he couldn't. All he could think of was which would die, who wouldn't be coming back. He drove the thoughts from his mind.

Overhead, the large shells from the battleships continued to arc down to the beach, pulverizing the sand to a fine powder, destroying anything caught in the maelstrom. He could feel the concussion of the shells as they impacted on the beach. The landing craft lurched as the helmsman made a course correction. The sky was pale, the sun having risen and masked by the ever present overcast of thick clouds.

Suddenly the horrendous noise of the shelling ceased. It was replaced with the increased roar of the engines from the landing craft accelerating toward the beach. There was no turning back for any of them.

He was part of an army that was invading the European Continent. The continent was being held by a belligerent force that threatened the world, and his army was being sent to stop the threat. No one wanted to do it, it was something that needed to be done. The oppression of the impending invasion was permeating the entire landing force. Everyone was filled with dread. The last time an invasion was attempted, most of the invaders were cut down on the beach with no chance of escape. Those that didn't die were captured. No one really knew the total of the losses suffered that time. No one knew how many would die this time, either.

He could feel the fear grip his belly in a cold vise. He wiped the sweat from his brow, thinking how funny to be sweating in the early morning chill. He checked his rifle again. Fully loaded with a round in the chamber, the safety was on and he was ready. He thought of the number of rounds of ammunition that he had fired through the weapon in practice. He had gotten very good at hitting the paper targets at the other end of the shooting range, but he had never, in anger or other wise, fired his weapon at another human being. He wasn't sure he could, but he knew he would soon have the chance.

Before anyone was ready, the skipper of the landing craft crashed his vessel onto the beach and the ramp slammed down into the sand and foam swirling at the water line. Before he knew it, he was up on his feet and rushing out of the craft with all of his mates. He could tell that there should be a catatony of noise, with the battle joined fresh around him, but he couldn't hear a thing. Every thing was eerily quiet. He ran toward the cliffs in front of him and threw himself down on the sand. Just as he hit the sand, a line of bullets impacted the beach in front of him, throwing up pillars of sand and grit where they hit. Had he still been moving, he would have run into the slugs and most probably died.

He craned his neck slightly to look ahead. Beside and behind him men were dying. The gunners on the cliff had it easy. With the invasion force trapped on the beach, the gunners just had to point their weapons toward the beach below them and fire. Their bullets were bound to hit someone or something. He could see some of their positions from where he was. He moved slowly, bringing his weapon to firing position. He centered the sights on a figure up on the cliff and squeezed off his first round. A slight puff of dirt kicked up several feet down from his target. He adjusted his aim and fired again. This time, the enemy soldier slumped.

One by one, he targeted enemy soldiers and fired at them. The action on his weapon kicked back and ejected the empty clip. He reached to his belt and grabbed another, shoving it into the receptor, feeling the satisfying click as it seated home. He pulled back the action and re-cocked the rifle, ready to start firing again.

In front of his face, a flurry of dirt flowers blossomed as one of the enemy figured out what was happening to his buddies. Rolling quickly to one side, he jumped to his feet and advanced to the foot of the cliff. There he sat, amazed at how out of breath he was. He surveyed the beach he had just crossed in blind haste. There were bodies, and pieces of bodies everywhere. He wondered how he had gotten this far.

He looked back toward the top of the cliff. It seemed to rise forever. He was safe, for the time being, for the enemy at the top of the cliff could not bring their guns to bear on those who had made it to the relative safety of the cliff base. But the tide had turned, and was starting to reclaim the beach, swallowing bodies and burning machines. It wouldn't be long before the ocean was once again lapping at the base of the cliff. They had to climb. They had to climb or die. Many of them would die either way.

He didn't know how long he had sat there. It seemed the ocean had covered over half the beach and was advancing on his position. He knew that he had to do something. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and turned to the cliff, finding handholds. He started climbing.

It was slow. He had to search for every purchase he could find, and then pull himself up another six inches. He didn't look up or down. He concentrated on the task before him. Through the fog in his mind, he noticed that he could hear the tumultuous roar of battle. He could hear the screams of the dying and the silence of the dead. He could hear the reports of weapons above and below. He noticed the difference between them, the loud and explosive boom of the weapons of his friends, and the comparatively weak and empty sound of the lighter weapons being used by the enemy.

He was very close to the top of the cliff. Just as he was reaching to wrap his hand over the top and pull himself up, a fusillade of shots rang out scant inches from where his hand would have landed. He tried to press himself against the cliff, making himself as small as possible. He clung there for a few moments, until without thinking he unstrung a hand grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and let the safety spoon fly away to the beach below.

Counting, he waited until the fuse was almost burned through before he tossed it over the edge. Almost immediately there was a resounding boom, dirt and smoke blowing over the cliff just over his head. The sound had almost died away when he vaulted over the top of the cliff, bringing his weapon to bear. There were over a dozen dead bodies around him when he landed, and twice as many live ones. Without thinking he began shooting.

The firing pin of his rifle slammed home on a dud and the last remaining enemy soldier rushed him to attack by hand. Whirling around, he slammed the rifle butt into the head of the other soldier. The urgency of the situation relaxed as he realized he was alone on the cliff top. He paused, for the first time, noticing the overall quiet.

The battle was over. He looked down at the beach and saw the remnants of the invasion army swarming over the beach. The landing craft were no longer bringing in men, they had started bringing in supplies and landing them in piles on the beach. Some of the men down there were starting to break down the supply piles and sort them into some kind of order. Other men were slowly walking the beach, gathering the dead and arranging them in lines at the foot of the cliff. There were hundreds of dead.

Now he found himself surrounded by soldiers again, this time wearing the same uniform as his, dirty, torn, and tattered. They began gathering the enemy dead, placing them outside the stronghold he had taken. Then they began turning the enemy machine guns and mortars back toward the inland area. The silence he had just gotten used to was being broken by heavy engines roaring from out of the woods several hundred yards away. There was only one answer: Tanks. Then he realized, the battle wasn't over, it had just begun.

On the other side of the strip of ocean that separated the lands held by friendly and enemy armies, the Commander In Chief of the invading army read the dispatch from the beach. He turned to his aide and gave the order. The enemy's heavy armor was poised to strike, now was the time. The diversionary force had done their job and fooled the enemy into committing his resources away from where the real invasion was about to take place.

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