George hadn’t warn his uniform for many years, the last time being a few decades before during a similar memorial, but as he sat in his jeep on the outskirts of Sainte-Mère, he stared thoughtfully down at the medals resting on his chest. His rested state of mild tranquility slowly etched into a deep feeling of añorar as he remembered those of his friends and comrades that had given their lives for him. “Those men are the real hero’s of this war, I’m just lucky to have made it through that hell hole of a beach” he muttered to himself, “or maybe they are the lucky ones for not having to live with themselves everyday, knowing that if it wasn’t for their cowardice, countless others may have lived…”. Easing out of this saddened thought, he looked up at his hands, which rested uneasily on the jeeps steering wheel, the same ones that had experienced close up the horrors of war.
All of a sudden, the whistling of artillery and screams of the rifles filled his head, his vision blurred and rushing in came the scene of battle he had experienced all those years ago. His mind slowly adjusted to the shock, he noticed his hands which previously donned the clean white gloves of the parade uniform, were now soaked in blood, of who’s, he did not know.