He remembers, does our Tommy

His days at the beach.

With bucket and spade in hand,

His brothers all around him

Those days of warmth and happiness

In summers endless reach.

 

Now he's going to the beach again,

Our Tommy

With his brothers all around him.

No bucket and spade in hand this time

Just a gun and a pack

that almost breaks his back.

 

He stands and shivers

In the early morning cold

His mind cast back to those days of old

Knuckles white as he grips his rifle

He can't meet the eyes of his brothers

And the tales of fear they hold.

 

He recalls like it was yesterday

He and his brothers and their friends

Would scream and play

Building fortresses out of sand

Fighting to kick the other towers down

And parents would scold and frown

When things got out of hand.

 

Now running for his life

Along this unfamiliar beach

The screams and shouts of joy

Replaced by the cries of dying friends

Forever out of his reach.

 

Not made of sand

These fortresses today

And no parents to stop the madness

Just these boys,

A beach

A final stand.

Every one of them in harms way.