Gentle rocking, soothing their frayed nerves. They stand or kneel, huddled together, forming one big shuddering entity. They look at the ramp. It doesn't seem like much, just a flat metal plate. But they know. They know that it's so much more. The ramp is life, and also death. It has power over them all.
Suddenly, the rocking gets violent. They hear a yell: "TEN SECONDS!" Everyone tenses up. The ramp never seemed so kind, so unfriendly. For now it was life. Their protector, their keeper.
Ten seconds pass. All movement stops. Everyone is tense, spring-loaded and ready to bolt. The ramp groans. Now it is death. It has betrayed them, left them exposed.
Enemy troops peer down at them from dark and sinister pillboxes, waiting for them to make an approach and come closer to the deadly machinegun fire.
The troops move slowly and begin to spread out, glad to leave the deathtraps that the brass called LSTs. They were metal boxes essentially, often causing bullets to ricochet back and forth, causing even more casualties. They were packed, and the only sign of a deflected bullet was a sharp "pinging" sound.
The enemy machinegunners open fire sporadically, peppering the sand around the beach obstacles-the ones the soldiers had taken cover behind-with a deadly rain of bullets. Some are lucky, bullets just grazing them or slamming into their gear bags. Others aren't so lucky. a lot of dogtags would need to be collected before the day was through.
"MOVE UP THE BEACH! MORTAR INCOMING!" The tiny exlosives whistle as they fly through the air. The soldiers know the whistle means death for anyone nearby. The sheer cliff below the pillboxes is the only refuge. If they don't make it, they'll die for sure. If they run, the machine gun might kill some of them. Oh well, lesser of two evils. They run for the rock face.
