Storming the Beaches by Max McCullom

It is a cold morning in mid July in Normandy, France. We pull up in a large parking lot and get out of the car, we are drenched by rain coming down sideways. I did not care though, anything was better then sitting in our cramped rental car, with the only leg room was littered with half eaten Cheetos and wrappers. The scent reminded me of a fire burning during the winter. I could hear waves crashing in the distance. I asked my dad where we were going and told him "it better be worth it". He replied solemnly saying "we are seeing ten thousand dead Americans". It took me a little bit to reply, but I finally said "what are you taking about". He finally said "You will see". We approached a white marble building with windows. We were greeted by another pleasant surprise of a line consisting of at least six hundred people. An hour later, my family finally cruised through security. What came next was the most astonishing sight I have ever seen. Before me was grass in such good shape, it looked like artificial turf. It was lined with about ten thousands stone white crosses and occasionally Stars of David. In perfect rows and columns. This quickly whipped me into shape and I soon forgot about everything that had went wrong previously in the day. On the crosses, it gave a fallen soldiers name, where they grew up, and where and when they died. I began to look for someone who lived close to me. As I was walking down the isles, an older man with shimmering white hair, with a distinct limp caught my eye. The man wore a black jacket with yellow writing on his sleeve, which I could not make out. The man also had a hat on which said World War "Two veteran". He had a very determined look on his face, he was on a mission. He peered at each tomb stone for a second, then quickly swung his head to the next. I watched him for a couple more minutes. About a minute later I turned around to look for him. At first I could not find him, but then I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was in his knees before a cross with tears flowing down his cheek. I tried to mind my own business but I could not, however, I could not help myself and slowly advanced towards him. It became clear that the writing on his jacket stated "Normandy Veteran" on it. When he finally left the cross I looked at the cross. It read Christopher Moore Normon, Oklahoma Died on Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944 This man stormed the beaches and this was his dead comrade.