Saving Privite Ryan

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Sabiha Shorif 11.2

Saving Private Ryan

It was June 6th, the worst, most unforgettable day of my life. I still remember it like it was yesterday.  The waves crashed fiercely on to the surface of the big, wooden boat, rocking it from side to side. I was sat inside the boat like a tin of sardines, packed in tightly with the other soldiers. The murky, filthy sea water splashing in each time. I felt sick with fear, the other soldiers were literally being sick, the smell of it made me want to vomit. I stood there as still as a statue in my heavy, covered uniform, thinking about going home. The stench of my clothes fogged up the surrounding atmosphere. It felt heavy and wet, making me feel even more miserable. It was like I was locked in a prison cell. I wondered where I would be in the next five seconds and rubbed the damp mess of tears and sweat of my face with my shaky hands. I drank water from my canteen and wished I was strong enough to settle my nerves.

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 The soldiers around me were shaking and shivering, partly from the cold but mostly from trepidation. Tears ran down most of their faces. Some tears were silent, some sobbed quietly and others howled violently. Then that was it. Thousand rifles fired. The sounds of the bullets made me feel frightened and alone. I turned around uneasily with my eyes closed, my glasses steamed up by the hot air. I could hear screaming and shriek of bullets. I opened my eyes slowly and gently.

I found myself beneath the surface of the water. I tried swimming but the water ...

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