At the First Division Museum http://firstdivisionmuseum.org/museum/exhibits/gallery/wwii.aspx
a few years ago, a visitor stood in front of the D-Day invasion
exhibit. Next to him, a man bent with age and gripping a cane addressed a
boy of about eight or nine who called him, Paw-paw.
"They brought
us in over here,." He used his free hand to point at Omaha Beach on a
map. The finger shook slightly. It made the visitor think of Tom Hanks
in Saving Private Ryan. "Big guns were
set up there and there, all over those bluffs, inside concrete bunkers.
They just kept shooting at us. They never stopped."
The little boy listened. So did the visitor.
"We landed too far out. We had to swim." He paused. "Some of my buddies never made it . . . to the beach."
"Did they drown in the ocean?" the little boy asked. The other visitor
held his breath. The older fellow shook his head but seemed lost in
thought.
"Some of them did, yes." His voice faded, perhaps as he
remembered what he had seen and tried to think of a way to describe the
vision that would be appropriate for a young boy. He leaned a little
more on his cane.
"Bullets were flying. Closer to the bluffs were mines. The mines were terrible things."
"I know about them," the boy said but not with the excitement the
visitor would have expected from someone his age. His eyes turned as
solemn as the moment.
"Yes," the older fellow said. Added, "It was an awful, awful day."
He pressed the free hand to his forehead. The boy waited for several
moments in respectful silence. Then he took his Paw-Paw's hand and
started leading him toward the door.
The visitor moved to catch up with them,
wanting to say something meaningful, to thank the older man for his
service. The man and the little boy passed into the hall holding hands.
The visitor realized he had phlegm caught in his throat. He stopped
short, coughed a couple of times. Rubbed his eyes. Realized he couldn't think of a remark that wouldn't sound banal or hollow.
So, for once, he kept his mouth shut.
