The ground around me shook violently as if it was about to take off. Thick black dust clouds blocked my vision. All around me, the helpless moans and groans of men who gave their today for someone else’s tomorrow. The sand on the beach was kicked up as bullets barely missed soft flesh. Bullet casings of all sizes litter the floor around the dead and dying. This is war.

When a man is dying he does not call for his Mother, Father or lover, he calls for me ‘HELP! Corpsman!’, when I reach some, they are a mess: arms shredded by hot metal, a nearby blast from artillery, legs missing from a machine gun burst.

The air is still filled with gun powder and death. The dying have now gone to a better place and have been replaced with new victims. I can not see the once golden beach any more, it is covered in the blood of friends and fellow servicemen. The chatter of machine guns can still be heard in the distance, sending more young men to God’s waiting room. Tracer rounds fly over my head. My rifle is clogged with a mixture of sand and blood.

The Khaki green uniform is now a dark shade of brown. My hands were trained to help those who needed it most, but who was trained to help me when I needed it? Artillery rounds burst all around me creating massive craters that can be used as temporary cover. The screams get louder and louder as I crawl up the beach, bullets snap over the top of my head. In the distance the palm trees lay burnt and charred.

On the horizon,  I see a man stumbling blindly across the beachhead, completely oblivious to the dangers around him, he has no weapon, his clothing is soaked in sweat and blood, then I see it; what’s left of his arm is shreds of skin and torn muscle, part of his face is no longer covered in flesh but the muscle has taken its place. He does not scream for help. I call his name ushering him to some to me, he turns his face towards me, he opens his mouth, blood and spit dribble down his chin.

He smiles.

A figure emerges from behind a tree stump; he wears the rank of an officer just like myself. His uniform was exceptionally neat for a man who waged war against other men, his chest was filled with medals and stripes from previous conflicts.  His helmet had a red cross painted on, just like me.

The mans hands are covered in thick blood, just like me. He does not seem fazed by the blood or the bullets. A piece of bloodied cloth was hanging from his hand. He had been shot.

The weapon he carried was coated in sand, it began to jam as he knelt down to fire. The sand kicked up around his feet as rounds landed near him.

Then it happened.

I saw him sitting in a crater, looking straight at me. His eyes wide with fear, he was not firing his weapon. His clothes bloodied and torn probably from the shrapnel that sliced through the air.

I try to fire at him but my rifle is full of sand and dirt. His hands are covered in sweat and dark red. I try and unjam my weapon so I can fire at this man. It doesn’t work. You can no longer see the beach, the dead and dying litter the flaw. It is my job to be there when they need me but who is there when I need someone?

The machine gun next to me never stops chattering, I can see the heat radiating off of the barrel, every burst sends another man to his grave. I can see tracer rounds flying over his head however the man in the cater does not get hit, he just sits. The branches and sand is getting kicked up around him but he just sits.

Then it happened.

We lock eyes for the first time. He looks terrified however he knows he has a job to do.  he reaches for his weapon. So do I. I know my weapon is jammed but I intended to scare him. We both squeeze the trigger. Nothing happens.

We are now both standing, rifles aimed at each other, he looks tired and worn out. His face looks grimy and has a faint layer on gunpowder that covers his cheeks. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever, neither of us moved. I could see his bottom lip begin to shake in fear and his eyes grow wider.

He began to lower his rifle and started muttering the words ‘Don’t shoot’. He had a cloth tied around his hand, he had been shot and was bleeding heavily. In Japan they teach you never to let an enemy live. This man was different. He had given me another chance, he allowed me to live.

It was then that I realised, this enemy we fight, the men that lay dying on this beach, this man in front of me was no different than me. A piece of artillery fire lands near me throwing me across the sand. When I come to my senses the man is gone. Maybe he is dead or maybe he is still sitting in the crater. This is war.

それが離陸しようとしていたかのように私の周りの地面が激しく揺れ、太い黒の塵の雲は、視力の私のラインをブロック (The ground around me shook violently as if it was about to take off, thick black dust clouds blocked my line of sight).