The Reasons Why The Reasons Why [1/1]
by Arriall

-- You can E-mail Arriall at skyfox@interlog.com --

-- Rating: G --

-- Summary: At thought about the Admiral's past and his
understanding of Harm's quest. --

-- Classification: V --

-- Disclaimer: The characters included in this story belong
to their creators (Bellasario, et al) and the current
network/production company (CBS, Paramount). I am only
borrowing them, no money is being made from the
distribution of this fan fiction - no copyright
infringement is intended.

Please do not further distribute without the consent of
the author. --

-- Thanks to Jill for beta-reading. All mistakes remaining
are the responsibility of the author. --

~~~~~~~~~~

The Reasons Why

Early morning
June 6, 1994
Vierville, France

The tall man wore a white Naval uniform, the braid on the sleeve
signifying his rank as Admiral. He strode along the sea-front
promenade. The road he followed soon led him downwards to the rocky
beaches of Normandy--'Omaha Beach' to be exact. It seemed as if the
population of the entire town stood silently on the shoreline
watching the sunrise. He glanced at his watch: 6:30--it had just
begun.

He felt the eyes of the people in the crowd and briefly cursed his
decision to wear the uniform. He could have blended into the
background. He could have been like all the rest. But he knew he
was not--not really. But he knew he wore it out of honour for a man
he had never met--a man who had died on this beach. . . on this day
fifty years ago.

Unlike that historic day, the seas on this one were calm and the
skies clear. He sighed softly. There had been many mistakes made
here in one of the hardest fought victories of the invasion. But
there had been many acts of heroism as well.

He walked carefully across the rough beach to hover at the edge of
the crowd. He marvelled at the open country-side where those men
had fought. So different from the jungle war-fare of Vietnam.

He closed his eyes; his mind filling in the details of that early
June morning. The roar of the waves receded, replaced by the sound
of artillery fire from ships off the beach, the staccato sound of
machine guns and the screams of the wounded.

He took a deep breath. The salt air was heavy with the smell of
explosives and gun-powder. . . and blood.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur.

His eyes snapped open and he looked down. She was probably four
years old, with big dark eyes and curly dark hair. Her face solemn
as she held up the small bouquet in her plump hands. So much like
Francesca the last time he saw her.

"Ceci est pour vous. Merci beaucoup."

He dropped to one knee, noticing a slight tremor in his had as he
accepted the flowers. Forget-me-nots. He recognized them from his
mother's garden. They had covered the garden every spring. He
remembered the year he had tried to be helpful and had cleared away
some that seemed about to choke out the roses. They were there for
his father, she had chastised him.

He knew his father's voice. It was there in the letters that his
mother had saved: the love for his wife and the joy at the birth of
a son. . . and his pride at serving his country.

The man and the young girl looked up in unison, drawn by the drone
of the aircraft overhead. A squadron of vintage WWII planes flew by
in the missing man formation.

He felt a lump in his throat.

A bugle started to play "Last Post" and he instinctively rose to
stand at attention, raising his right hand in salute. As the echo
of the last note faded from the cliffs, he spoke.

"Thank you, Dad."

"Merci."

He felt the small hand slip into his and looked down at the grinning
child.

"You're welcome, ma petite." He patted her on the head.

It was time--he was ready to go home to assume his new position as
the Judge Advocate General.

Finis