The June air was wet with blood and rain; the ocean waves ran red as soldiers toppled under the hail of bullets. Mortars bellowed like thunder, hurling men to the ground in showers of sand and severed limbs. Cries of fear and pain echoed around the beach---grunts, curses, pleas to God mingled into a deafening cacophony. Ben Hollander watched as his buddies, his comrades were cut down before they could even get their bearings. They tumbled from their boats headfirst, enemy fire crumbling faces, tearing chests apart, ripping throats out; ravaging the young men without mercy. The German troops pinned them down like rats under their boots, launching an onslaught so fierce the hope for victory seemed an impossible dream. Ben hit the ground as mortar shells broke on the ground around him. He crawled on his belly through the wet sand, clutching a rifle he had yet to fire. His stomach churned as he scanned the Normandy coast, watching men charge headlong into certain death. He listened to the shrieks rise above the rage of the battle, heard the mindless cries in his ears.
