Their Day At The Beach Poem by John F. McCullagh

It was cold for early June; a pause between two storms.
The surf -rough, the water-cold, but the reception would be warm.
Our Higgins boat made steady speed taking us to shore.
For some it was the Longest Day, for many others the last they saw.

The scene awaiting us was surreal; a muck up like the worst.
The Germans kept the corpsmen busy- if they didn't kill them first.
The leaden rain was constant as we struggled towards the shore.
Our platoon was decimated; many saw the end of war.

There were acts of heroism. Our leaders proved their worth.
We took Hitler's Atlantic wall; thought impregnable at first.
I looked from the high bluff at the grey Armada just off shore.
I lost a bunch of pals today, but we'll even the score.

We are a band of brothers encamped above this Norman shore.
I will never tell my parents of the horrors that I saw.
The air stinks of sweat and iron, and the stench of cordite from spent rounds.
The chaplains collect the dog tags from the still forms on the ground.