321 Senior Essay, Second Place Lyra Fletcher, Branch #281 - Port McNeill (continued) First Place "We attacked at Puys early in the morning, the cover of darkness and surprise on our side, or so we thought. I remember the splash and then the cold rushing into my boots as we made land. The chatter of machine guns filled the air; the impact of bullets sinking into the sand beneath my feet, into my friends. Mortar shells fell like rain, each explosion stunning, invisible waves beating us back. Although I hardly noticed much of what was going on, my head was filled with cotton, and my ears full of ringing. The adrenaline narrowed my vision, and my pounding heart kept me going." "We raised a hell of a fight, some of us even breaching the seawall. But we were pinned to the beach; the English Channel at our backs, sheer cliffs towering ahead. We couldn't even retreat." "Many died that day: the rest of us, captured. Two and a half years a prisoner in German labour camps, until the war finally ended; before I returned home. I remember stepping off the boat for the first time and smiling. Fathers, brothers, sons, and daughters were home as heroes after years away reuniting with loved ones they thought they might never see again, and well if it wasn't the most beautiful thing I had ever seen." ~ Mr. Atkins sat with a sad smile on his face, the frame in his hands. Dimly, the backlit photos cast a pale glow on his features, flickering every 15 seconds or so as a new memory slid into place. Blinking, the silver tears that lined his eyes escaped, tracing the paths decades had etched deep into his skin. I looked around at all the photos, the memories adorning the small room. Overexposed, grimy, yet perfectly preserved and treasured black and white photos. 60-year-old medals, as shiny as if they were just awarded. An old army issue jacket was neatly pressed and hung on the back of the door. Outside, the sounds of children laughing and playing drifted through the window. A bright red ball whizzed and bounced off the pavement, a group of kids chased after it with hockey sticks seemingly indifferent to the cold and oblivious to the sacrifices this man and thousands of others throughout many wars and conflicts, had made. It struck me then, everything those brave people had lost, only for us to forget. Their friends, their families, their youth, their health, often even their happiness, reminders dragging them back through their worst experiences day after day. But their sacrifices are not irrelevant until they are forgotten, which is why I will always remember. "Thank you."
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