It’s right there, all out in front of us.

We will not be overconfident, arrogant, and certainly not dismissive. Our stance is grim. Our lips are set.

This will be World War II. Black and white fotage. Monty chasing the Desert Fox through the dunes of Northern Africa.

Our amphipibious war crafts bound for France, as the cold North Atlantic licks at the sandy Normandy beach.

“I’m scared, buddy,” a nineteen year old GI says, turning to a close buddy who he has known for all of four days. “Me too,” responds his new friend, already an old young man, and gristled at twenty.

“Have a butt,” he says, offering him a cig from a soggy pack of Chesterfields, as the seas get more and more rough.

“Thanks, buddy.”

And they puff away. Landfall will be soon.

Then, turning and cupping his hand toward his new friends ear, as the atmospher is overtaken by the water roar, he shouts hopefully, “See you on the other side.”

Good luck today, Frank, landfall will be soon.

See you on the other side,

Roz