Omaha Beach in a New Light

From the Vierville draw, I scanned the long, sandy crescent US soldiers had stormed on June 6, 1944. I tried to imagine the carnage. But the tide was in and it didn’t look at all like the pictures. People played Frisbee right in front of the National Guard Memorial, as if it was a perfectly ordinary beach. Surprised at their insensitivity, I kicked off my shoes and trudged down to the hallowed shoreline. Surely I’d capture a sense of the past there.
Beautiful and clean, Omaha Beach isn’t overrun by tacky tourist attractions. A few informative plaques and vestigial fortifications salute its heroes. About 2km east, sunlight glinted off the newest memorial, so I aimed for that.
Today, la Manche was a mirror. Reflected sunrays bounced off the water in a sick parody of bullets. How many men might have survived if the sea was this calm on D-Day? Icy wash lapped my feet but that’s not why I shivered. This was Dog Green sector, where swarms were mowed down. Gazing back at the seawall and the high bluffs beyond, it was easy to see why. The sand between my toes squelched, the tranquility belying past horrors.
Squealing children pierced my reverie. A boy shoved a girl and pelted past me to evade retaliation. Drenched, I traipsed up the beach, only to be greeted by bikinied teens preening for their male admirers. As if not irreverent enough, I spotted a moving mass of towels only partly concealing a mound of entwined limbs.
Appalled, I plodded on to the shiny, sleek lines of Les Braves memorial. Intended as a temporary sculpture to commemorate the 60th anniversary of D-Day, public pressure and its own durability ensured it prevailed in fitting homage. Finally, here was the peaceful place of reverence I sought.
An old man sat on the wall. I smiled a hello and he tipped his Durham Bulls cap. We sat in sober silence awhile, reflecting. He looked 90, so I chanced it. “Memories?”
He nodded. I met his glistening eyes. “Thanks,” I babbled. I felt intrusive but had to let him know someone still cared about the brave sacrifices made.
Screeching boys destroyed our peace. A spray of sand shot past my ear. A woman strolling behind called something in French then mouthed an apology. I glared back just as a ball hit the old man’s cap clean off his head.
“Come on!” I cried. “Teach your kids some respect!”
The veteran clasped my offered hand. Were those tears of joy?
“Don’t you see?” he said, beaming at my shock. “These boys' freedom… Everyone's… This is what we fought for.”