On an unknown beach in an unknown land, a man watches dozens of men trudge from the surf to their temporary homes farther into the shore. They grumble about where they will go after fighting in their nations’ conflicts, whether their governments care for them, and when they might get to return home. The man reflects on each of the soldiers’ sufferings and survival mechanisms, from wounds to sickness to digging holes for shelter to pitching makeshift tents. Their abandonment links them together. The men’s numbers have grown to fifty thousand.

One of the nameless soldiers thinks of his wife in Argelès but is haunted by the memories he has of being forced to eat his horses on a campaign to overthrow a tyrant. The number of soldiers has swollen to two hundred thousand now. Another soldier reminisces about his American Midwest home and his wife’s chocolate pudding. Instead of chocolate pudding, he can only have the chocolate-flavored bismuth given out before X-rays are taken. One of the soldiers recalls the women and children of the British Isles looking out at his ships as he was leaving to fight Bonaparte.

Similarly, on a quest to defeat Emperor Nero, a man remembers the hard work he poured into cultivating grapes for wine. Now, on this strange beach, the men can only harvest the fruits of the sea. However, not all of the shellfish they collect are edible. Cruelly, some are toxic, and their colors were used to dye garments purple for emperors.

Slowly, the sky lightens, and the men return to the sea from the beach. They grope for food amongst the sand. Their voices—voices of the living and dying soldiers—echo through the air. There are now a hundred million of them.