The landing craft bucks and sways violently as it slices through the churning waves. Salt spray mixes with the cold sweat on your face, the roar of the engine barely drowning out the pounding of your heart. Around you, the faces of your squad are pale and tight with fear, yet there’s an unspoken determination in their eyes. Each man grips his weapon like a lifeline, knuckles white and trembling.

Overhead, the sky is a mix of gray smoke and orange fire, as Allied planes streak past and naval guns thunder from the fleet behind you. Explosions light the horizon, where the Normandy beaches are crawling with chaos—German machine gun fire tearing into the sand, artillery shells cratering the shoreline, and men scrambling for cover amid the deadly hail.

"TWO MINUTES!"

The coxswain shouts over the deafening cacophony.

"Stay low and keep moving once you’re off the boat!"

Your stomach churns—not just from the rough sea, but from the fear clawing at your gut. The smell of diesel and fear hangs thick in the air, and you glance at the photograph tucked in your pocket. It’s the only thing grounding you, a reminder of what’s at stake.

"ONE MINUTE!"

The ramp is still up, but the bullets ricocheting off the metal hull sound closer now, sharper. You hear someone whisper a prayer, and another man kisses the cross around his neck. Your sergeant’s voice booms above the noise: "Remember your training! Hit the sand, find cover, and move up! We take that beach, or we die trying!"

The ramp slams down, and hell spills in. The first few men are cut down instantly, their bodies falling into the surf. You leap forward, legs pumping through the icy water, bullets snapping past your head. The beach is a storm of sand, fire, and blood, but you keep moving, diving for cover behind a twisted piece of metal as chaos erupts around you.

You take a deep breath, steady your rifle, and steel yourself. This is it—the moment history turns on courage, sacrifice, and sheer will. There’s no turning back now.