The landing craft ramp dropped into waist-deep water. Private Eddie Tanaka jumped, the weight of his gear threatening to pull him under. Around him, men fell—not to bullets, but to the sheer exhaustion of carrying too much through too deep water.

He made it to shore, collapsing behind a sea wall. Beside him, a kid from Texas clutched his arm, blood seeping through his fingers.

"Thanks," the kid gasped.

"Don't thank me yet."

They lay there for hours, pinned by fire. When darkness fell, they crawled forward together, dragging wounded, leaving dead. The beach at dawn was a different place than the beach at dusk—littered with the cost of freedom, but finally, achingly, secured.