The thick black volcanic sands churn and ebb, infesting the pristine air with its pungent sulfur stench. In the distance an explosion blinds the dark earth, blasting sand, metal shards and endless dreams into the heavens. A mortar has exploded. In the distance a man falls. Lunging right when he should have gone left, sprinting when he should have slowed, he is pierced by a projectile with no mercy or soul. A chapter is closed, a book has ended. The man - John Basilone. The place - Iwo Jima 1945.