Saving Private Ryan- Omaha Beach Scene.
Rushing and roaring in unwilling ears, the sea foams around the approaching tins, men inside already as dead as the content of the ration cans their families eat in America. Hearts pound against ribs, eyes sting with salt, mouths water as they try to rid themselves of the taste of rising vomit. There is a fear in air, which asphyxiates the soldiers who know- this is not a mission they can expect to survive.
The ramps open into dark waters, foreign waters, lapping at unknown shores. Boys fear the enemy as one fears the monster under their bed; or the hand which grasps their ankle as they run up the cellar stairs. The first to take the plunge into the angry waters are shot- leaking trails of red from their wounds, their frantic hearts pulsing, squeezing the blood from their veins. More bodies make their way into the sea, some sinking, some swimming. Many died before they reached the sand.
The beach becomes littered with bodies in seconds. Soldiers take any cover they can find- machine gun fire and shells blast holes in the ground and the men. Medics dart to wounded soldiers; bandaging minor wounds, extracting bullets, but mainly watching the life drip from open flesh in red teardrops and waterfalls. A young medic screams as another life ends before his eyes. Orders are yelled, falling on many deaf ears. Senses give way in many men- some go deaf as the artillery and machine guns roar in their eardrums, others blind as explosions and sand attack their eyes. No human is adapted to this- a species constantly at war, but never ready for it.
The Yanks move forward slowly, despite running. A sickening consistency had fallen into place for the attackers. Run, shoot, run, duck, run, rest. And repeat. Men lost limbs and sanity with no moments notice: for most, staying alive was an unconscious but very real decision- fight or flight? In the eyes of those who choose to fight there was deadly focus and an adrenaline fuelled desperation to live. Those who froze, and broke, showed only a detached apathy. A man was wandering the beach with that very look in his eye, searching for a limb which, minutes ago, had been attached to a bleeding shoulder stump.
German snipers aim for troops who dash across the sand, trying to find whatever cover they can. Sand bars, bodies, and other men- it's all the same to the soldiers whose only thought is instinct. There are Americans gathering behind a sand bar- so many are dead, both leaders and followers alike. The followers are stranded with no one to follow, and the leaders, no matter how well trained; shout orders on panicked and deaf ears. Bullets speed by, some hitting the sand and causing miniature earthquakes and sending sand flying into the air, many finding targets in American flesh.
All of the survivors know now, if they hadn't before, that there is only hope. They have been sent on a suicide mission, and survival is a not a right, but a privilege.