We are a week away from Remembrance Day, and Wednesday we were joined by 17 year old Minnedosa Collegiate student Victoria Fisher. She is the senior essay category winner in the Royal Canadian Legion's 2015 National Poster and Essay writing contest.

The six year Air Cadet's story Boys In The Sand was inspired by a visit to Juno Beach in 2014, and conveys the emotion of that former battlefield juxtaposed with children playing on the beach today.

Juno Beach was the site of one of the deadliest battles in World War II, and thousands of Canadian soldiers lost their lives trying to take the beach.

“The essay started out as a exam in my English course, and we were assigned to write about a memory that we could assign emotions too,” explained Victoria. “I wrote the exam, and when I got it back I realized this is exactly how I feel and how I would like other people to see this experience, so I took it as an opportunity to share this.”

We also asked Victoria to reflect on the importance of November 11th.

For being selected first in the Royal Canadian Legion's senior essay writing contest. She will travel to Ottawa next Wednesday to attend the 2015 National Remembrance Day service.

Below is the winning piece written by Victoria.

A curtain shifts as the bus makes a turn, allowing a shaft of bright sun to attack my face and render me blind. Tears build in my eyes as I squint into the glare but I make no move to wipe them away. It’s useless, I think, to bother when I know that these tears will be only some of the many shed today.

It’s June 5th, 2014. I am travelling to Juno beach, location of the infamous D-Day landings. 70 years ago today,thousands of Canadian men, some barely older than myself, journeyed to the same place. However, the difference between those soldiers and I is that I know I will return home. On June 6, 1944, some 14 000 men (and boys) from our country stormed the beaches of France in an attempt to end Hitler’s reign of terror. Under such circumstances, who would have thought that today I would shed tears of joy.

The bus makes a final turn, and I’m roused from my thoughts by the rumbling of tires on gravel. My feet meet dusty ground and my feelings are mixed as I walk the path leading to the museum. Soft puffs of cloud dapple the azure sky, allowing light to sparkle off the ocean and highlight the soft hues of wildflowers peeking from the tall grass. Full of France’s lush beauty, it’s hard to imagine this place as a deadly battlefield.

The Juno Beach Centre appears in front of us, a contrasting collage of modern and historic times. The museum sits, accompanied by a proudly waving Canadian flag. An equally grand French flag flies by its side. Hundreds of plaques adorn giant concrete pillars, thanking those that sponsored the centre. It is heart-warming to see such teamwork, but I bitterly wish that there were no reason to build this place, no Canadian deaths to mourn.

It is when we approach the grassy outcrop overlooking the beach that hints of war begin to show. The entrances to German bunkers gape like open mouths in the sand. Around them sit huge cement pyramids that used to hold back tanks. The sand is pale and soft beneath my feet, but I grimly wonder how much blood left it clumped and stained in the past. Why must we fight such brutal wars? As my eyes comb the strange marks inside the bunker, I suddenly feel sick. I avert my eyes and hurry back to the surface.

I continue to the beach. The sand becomes thicker under my feet as the grass thins, and attracts my gaze as I stop to think. I try to imagine what this place must have looked like in the midst of war. I picture boat after boat closing in on the shore, then soldier after soldier sprinting for cover on the wet sand. I think of the rattle of gunfire and the scars left by tanks in the earth, the smell of smoke and the sounds of screams carried on the wind. It is hard to imagine though, for I have never known war.

I’m finishing this thought as a sharp cry sounds behind me. Its high pitch is that of a young child. I turn in time to see them tumble onto the beach, two French boys, no more than four years old. Their father trails behind, watching affectionately as they laugh and roll in the sand.

At first I feel a prick of anger, who lets their child yell and wrestle on such hallowed ground? As I watch, however, I remember that they’re still young. Four-years-olds aren’t expected to understand war.

Suddenly I’m hit with a wave of thankfulness. There was a time not so long ago that a four-year-old boy would be expected to understand war; a time when worldwide fighting wasn’t a chapter in a history book but a way of life. Those boys and I have a lot in common. We both grew up in such a peaceful environment that we don’t know the horrors of battle. I can read about it in books, but I didn’t

experience the death and oppression firsthand. Those thousands of men died for the future, the

idea that their children could grow up the way I am now.

A bittersweet tear builds in my eye when I think of this. I grieve for those that came before me

and gave everything 70 years ago on the hope that they could make things better, but I also feel

joy and gratefulness. They dedicated themselves fully to the battle against oppression and they

succeeded. They succeeded for the future, and for me. I only hope that if my time comes to take

a stand that I can do it too, for those like the boys in the sand.