The jolts grew more violent, and a scent began to filter in, a mix of damp sand and something like a sharp, coppery tang. We probably were almost there. Again, my eyes found him. His rifle's buttstock stood rooted between his legs, his palms burrowed over the barrel, his forehead pressed heavy against them. It was unclear if he was sleeping or lost in thought. It didn't matter. A few wisps of his pale blond hair struggled to escape the helmet's rigid brim, barely visible at the sides. I pictured him from Nashville, likely with blue eyes—one of those boys whose mothers had dreamed them destined for anything, anything at all, but to be nothing more than a body thrown into a landing craft, cannon fodder for the first wave of an amphibious operation. As the commander barked, 'Ready up!' and the clicks of guns rang through the craft, his forehead never stirred from the barrel.