We’ve all seen the classic movies about the WWII Normandy invasion, especially “The Longest Day” and “Saving Private Ryan.” Both of those dealt with the paratroops who were dropped far behind the actual Coast battleground, with assignments to disrupt German communications lines, roads, and in some cases to capture key points like bridges, which the enemy might blow up to slow the Allied forces advance, should the invasion be successful, as it was.

I disremember the real casualty rates — and I apologize for that. Some reader will probably say at this point, “Well, all Dummy Neill had to do was to go to the Normandy website, and all that is right there to read.” I appreciate your show of confidence, but bear in mind that we’ve not had high-speed Internet out here at Brownspur but a few months, and your old (key word there) Uncle Bob has not figured out how to go to websites and stay there, because this doggone compooter insists on jumping off-line a dozen times an hour. I dunno why, okay?

Anywho, my point here is that the casualty rates were horrific at Normandy, both on the beach and behind the lines. The reason for the latter deaths was just illustrated quite graphically to us, as a family.

Realizing that our own county bans the sale and shooting of fireworks in these modern times, one has to find a place to light the fires which explode so beautifully in the night sky, to commemorate the Fofa July and New Year’s day. We are not far from a neighboring state, and for years have journeyed west to plan such a show, especially for the kids — grandkids, nowadays. We had a wonderful time turning money into spectacular blasts, and the youngsters assembled were properly impressed. The purchasers of the fireworks had bought a fine selection, but the ones which made the biggest impressions on the little boys contained paratroopers, which would go up upon the lighting of the firecrackers, then burst high above our heads in a fantastic display of color, from which a little plastic soldier would parachute back to earth, to be retrieved quickly by a two-to-four year-old just sitting on “Go” when Dad or Uncle W-O-D shot it off. Obviously, there was a competition for getting the little paratroopers back safely to American lines, and I occasionally had to intervene to get one for the younger grandson.

Of course, we were shooting the fireworks far away from civilization, and there were trees around. The lighters of the fuses (like some of the higher-grade field officers, according to the aforementioned movies) were not particularly making an attempt to aim the paratroopers — apparently there’s no way to do that with firecrackers — so some of the parachutes came down in places which forbade their rescue back to friendly lines. Several of these hung up in the trees, and though the grandboys in question were tee-totally in favor of climbing the trees, the mammas in attendance quickly vetoed such a venture. Heck, the Grunk even volunteered to climb to the rescue, but my Bride began to recite the number of broken bones that I already have, so I gave it up, although pointing out that not one of the over 23 breaks had come from falling out of a tree.

“Yet!” was the answer from Doots.

Several of the unlucky troopers were encased in shells that were defective, for their chutes did not deploy at all, and they fell hard. It was easy to figure out that if a parachute fails to open, the trip down for the unfortunate wearer will be pretty much short, painful, and fatal. Here’s the point: at the end of the evening, when the skeeters were feasting upon all the watching congregation who had not had the forethought to get into the nearby cars, the fireworks purchasers began to total up their favorites, so as to know which ones to buy for New Years’ Eve. Only 40 percent of the paratroops survived to become a boy’s play soldier. Sixty percent were hung up in trees or their chutes failed to deploy.

Someone tell me that the Chinese did not pack our chutes at Normandy!

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Robert Hitt Neill is an outdoors writer. He lives in Leland, Miss.