I have been to France many times, but I have never been to Normandy. Angus has also been to Normandy but has only been passing through, so for the first time we both stopped and took a moment to explore the beaches and quiet places that dot the landscape and remind us all that 61 years ago the world was a very different place indeed. While our trip to France was fantastic and I am chock-full of warm and loving memories, the trip will be a two-parter as no one can combine the chilling tragedy with the loving sunshine in one post.

Or maybe someone else can, but I can't.

The Normandy Beaches aren't about Americans. The beaches are about young men from all over the Allied World, nervous young boys that should have been starting their lives as opposed to wearing a metal helmet and running straight into hell. Americans stormed two beaches-Utah and Omaha, while the British forces swept into two other beaches, called Gold and Sword, and the Canadians stormed into a middle beach called Juno. These troops were enforced with men from countries desperate to join the fight for freedom, men from Norway, the Czech Republic, Australia, Belgium, and many others.

The Beaches are about those boys, and the quiet French towns and villages are pock-marked with graves and markers that point to where heroes fell, and these markers are well-tended and quietly respected.

I am not sentimental about war. War troubles me. I am a pacifist and someone that truly puzzles over the evil that seems to sweep into the occasional soul of man. While I come from a very long line of men that served in the military and in the wars-from WWI all the way on down to now, to an uncle who is in Iraq-I personally know that the military service is not for me. I couldn't do it, and I admit that. Scopes and battles are something that is hard for me to comprehend, to take in, as I have never been in one.

But I was unprepared for just how shocked and impacted I would be by the Beaches.

To quote some information on just how large the scale of it is:

In the invasion's early hours, more than 1,000 transports dropped paratroopers to secure the flanks and beach exits of the assault area. Amphibious craft landed some 130,000 troops on five beaches along 50 miles of Normandy coast between the Cotentin Peninsula and the Orne River while the air forces controlled the skies overhead. In the eastern zone, the British and Canadians landed on GOLD, JUNO and SWORD Beaches. The Americans landed on two beaches in the west--UTAH and OMAHA. As the Allies came ashore, they took the first steps on the final road to victory in Europe.

That's the basic information.

What you don't know is that the beaches are an open target-range. When you stand on the sea grass of Utah Beach and look down, you realize that the men walked out of their carriers and straight into hell.

The cliffs overlooking Omaha Beach only highlight the fact that young men were probably so easily in gun sights. There is detritus still laying around, rusted ironworks and pieces that could come from tanks, airplanes, ships. They lie in the sea grass growing in bomb craters and on artifical hills, a reminder that after the deaths can come life again.

We went to a number of museums, all of which failed to leave an impression on us. We went to the American Cemetary at Colleville-Sur-Mer, the one from the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan. Nearly 10,000 graves stretch out, and they're only filled with the bodies of those that weren't repatriated-they don't tell the story of the boys whose bodies went home.

We went to one of the many British cemetaries, this one near Ryes. The peace and tranquility of the cemetary was stunning, as was the age differences-while the American cemetary was filled with men in their early 20's or younger, the British cemetary whispered of longer and harder fights that the people were faced with-a 45 year-old next to a 19 year-old. A 39 year-old next to an 18 year-old.

61 years ago, it could've been my Angus who was called off to war.

The thought of that fills me with a liquid dread so overwhelming I lose track of how to lock my kneecaps.

The British cemetary shares space with some of those that served with them. In the cemetary near Ryes, there are 26 Polish soldiers on the left hand side. Canadians in the silent right-hand corner, all in their early 20's.

And they also share space with those that served against them-in the last 4 four rows, slightly off to the side, the thick and silent tombstones of a number of Germans, resting next to the English and Scottish soldiers. Enemies during lifetimes and silent sleeping partners during death.

The one thing that hits home more than anything are the defences that the Germans built, which still stand today. Pillboxes, bunkers, anti-tank concrete structures. The French have wisely chosen to leave these standing, and more than any museum these alone remind you of what was faced on that frightening day more than 61 years ago.

This is one of many bunkers still lining Omaha Beach.

They are unmarked and open. This one was scarred by what appeared to be bomb damage, so the assumption is that a grenade was lobbed in, killing the men inside.

You can stand where they died.

You can look out the window and see what the German soldiers saw.

You can weep knowing that the window claimed lives in single second bursts.

I don't mourn for any particular group-I feel terrible for them all. Young men who lost their life for their countries, some out of hope, some out of idealism, some out of opression. The tragedy is that a generation lost their men. I admit that the war was necessary and the lives lost were for the greater good, but had it been my husband/father/son/brother that would have been cold comfort on the nights when the insomnia and the longing set in.

And for all of the graves I saw like this-and there were many-I wanted to sweep them up into my arms and whisper a gentle thank you for those that were lost but are not forgotten.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:34 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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