Waves. 

Waves. Small waves roll forward and then swiftly back. They roll on an ever changing bed of sand. The wind slowly gives up on pushing the clouds away and soon the waves are joined by droplets of rain. It's a beach. Just a beach. Just an ordinary, wet, cold, beach that looked perfectly safe. Then again, no beach is safe in 1944. 

The calm waters soon reflect the hue of grey steel. A landing craft. Then two. Then three. Then dozens. Waves. The ships are packed full with men, guns, equipment and desperation. The landing craft chugs along at an unwavering speed determined to carry the men in green to their adversaries in grey. The steel boats look like coffins and when the guns start firing, they are. 

The beach is hell. The onrushing soldiers trying to avoid the death stroke of a bullet to the chest. Most succeed, others fail. None of these attacking men feel like the "Great Arsenal of Democracy". None of the men in the blockhouses feel like "The Great Evil of our Time" either. They just feel either the need to survive, or the yearning to die. 

As the bullets whizz past the on rushers, slowly and steadily they gain ground. The defenders who had taken the lives of the men on the beach just seconds ago are now the object used for the bloody satisfaction of payback. And then the beach falls silent again, only interrupted by the faint cries of the dying and the wailing. 

4,200 lives. 4,200 families that have to be crushed. All of this for five miles of beach. five miles of beach that is covered with the dead. 

But that was 70 years ago. Why are we remembering that battle? We remember because of their bravery. We remember because of their immense sacrifice. We remember not to glorify their fight or to somehow endorse the death inflicted that day. We remember our fathers and grandfathers so that we do not send our sons to a similar conflict.

A Blog written by my son...David Andrew Vincent Wood (IX)

a grandson of a WWII Veteran, my dad...David Vincent Britten Wood.