MARY ANN FITZMORRIS / L’Observateur / June 17, 2000

We took the first of our summer “field trips” last Tuesday, and I went totally prepared. We were missing only the most essential thing – confetti. I’ve neverreally needed confetti before, but this was a special field trip, and Tuesday was a special day. My son and I went to the D-Day festivities, and we dragged mydaughter along.

When I proposed this excursion to the kids my son was levitating at the thrill of seeing all that firepower parading in front of him. My daughter declined, impolitelydeclaring, “I hate guns. I hate knives. I hate tanks. Absolutely not.” (Take that,genderbenders!) I parried, “Did I say tanks? I meant Hanks. Tom Hanks will be there.” This got herattention. “Tom Hanks? The movie star? Will I be able to see him?” There was anexpectant pause as she awaited my reply. I pondered the wisdom of making apromise I might not be able to keep. Tanks I could surely deliver, but movie starsare elusive. My media experience gave me an advantage, though; I knew how itworked, I knew where to look, I knew people who would know where he was. Andfinally, I knew how to lie. But I don’t lie to my kids, so I returned her gaze with adeliciously noncommittal, “Maybe.” Maybes are maddening to her. Nevertheless, thisone was enough to reel her in.

On any other occasion I would have let her off, but I wanted her to be there. Iwanted her to have that history lesson that has no meaning to her now. Perhaps itwill never mean anything to her, but I knew it would mean a lot to all those men who endured hell.I wanted them to see all of us there, and thousands of others whocould never empathize with their experiences. At least we finally realized whattheir horrific nightmare meant. It is late: too late for the men they left on thebeach, and those that have since passed on. But it is not too late for the men who had come from all over the world to bask in the glory that is their due.

We went. From high atop Lee Circle I could see down to the very imposing museum.It is a stunning edifice, befitting the gravity of it’s mission. Confetti was streamingfrom the reviewing stand in front of it. I stared at the scene before me, wonderingif the rain would hold out, wondering why I hadn’t thought of confetti, wondering where Tom Hanks was.

My introspections were interrupted by the first bands in the parade. The militarywas on its proudest display. Troops marched in precision I’ve never before seen.This was a special parade. A perfectly turned out French band played militarytunes from the period, followed by a beautifully attired revolutionary era British fife band. The sounds of USO-type happy tunes of the time filled the air. Largetrucks began to bring in the heros. Each vehicle was loaded down with servicemen,just like 56 years ago. But this time they would not be revered, not slaughtered. The men were in varying condition: some still trim enough to wear their uniforms, some clung to the sides for support, some could only sit down. But they all had thesame expression on their face. Disbelieving but delighted smiles, dancing eyes,giddy gratitude for our belated appreciation.

I felt a little silly to have tears streaming from under my sunglasses, but it was a profoundly moving event.

The men in the best condition were clearly the medal of honor winners, who each rode in his own Humvee. Maybe receiving such an honor early in life makes you wantto take good care of yourself.

After the parade we went down to the museum in search of Tom Hanks. I ran intoan old friend and former colleague, Frank Davis. He was happy to allow me to usehim as a celebrity fix for my daughter.

She was ready to leave, but happy to have gone. As we walked away we heard twowomen buzzing about trying to catch a glimpse of Tom Hanks. She looked at themdisdainfully, then gave me a knowing smile. She finally decided it was not about TomHanks. It was really about tanks. Only tanks.

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