The cold dirt gripped him at his feet as he tried to escape. Shrieks of tired men overlapped his thoughts. He hid in the trench hole, as tiny objects of lead darted into his mates, causing them to fall in pools of red. There, he got down on his knees and felt the guilt overcome his body. He ashamedly looked down at his hands, where sores and bloodstains covered the innocence of his long-ago working hands. He felt his heart pound as yet another shot turned into a shriek.
When would this end?
But as he cleaned his dirty hands, he remembered his days of catching baseballs. He then looked at his feet, and remembered the feel of the fresh grass under his toes as he ran down the hill of his backyard. He could almost smell the scent of summer evening, and hear the yelling of his mom, calling him to dinner.
But he remembered he was no longer there. It was right now he needed to act, and it was right now he needed to give his all. He stood and started running towards the never-ending cloud of fire and smoke.
He ran to fight, because he knew why he was on this battlefield.
Not for glory, not for purpose, not for will, and not for strength.
It was for freedom,
because it was in freedom he ran as a child,
and it was for freedom he ran now.
Omaha Beach, Normandy, France.
