“The battle belonged that morning to the thin,
wet line of khaki
that dragged itself ashore on the channel coast
of France.”
General Omar
M. Bradley
We all know the significance of the D-Day invasion and Omaha
Beach. We have seen Saving Private Ryan and The Longest Day, maybe even read Steven
Ambrose’s book. But nothing quite
prepares you for the sight of thousands upon thousands of snow-white marble
crosses and a few Stars of David, standing forever at attention in perfect
formation, each marking a life given that others might live free. We know them by name, rank, serial
number and date of their death.
Others are marked with “Here lies in honored glory a comrade in arms
known only to God.”
They were 18, 19, 20 – some younger, some older. They were private soldiers, non-coms
and officers – even generals. They
died thinking of wives and children or calling for their mothers. Many would
never know a woman’s body. Some had never even had a sweetheart to
kiss. Some died heroically and
were decorated posthumously. Other
acts of valor were private and went unnoticed. Many never fired their weapons and had no idea what hit them. Others drowned before reaching the
beach. The living crossed the
beach through a hail of bullets and worked their way up the hill only to learn
that this would be their life, day after day, for the duration or until they,
too, became casualties.
Few of us who have served our country since World War II ever saw
combat. We who have always knew
how long we would have to stay.
What must it have felt like to think, like Sisyphus, this was your fate
until death?
Words can’t express what I felt today. Pride, I guess, gratitude, certainly. I can tell you I was lost in my own
memories, my body was shaking and my cheeks were wet. And when a large group of French school kids ran rowdily
through the cemetery, I wanted to remind them and their teachers that what lay
before them was the only reason they could haughtily speak French and not
German. I didn’t of course. My French isn’t good enough.
