Low tide at dawn. Waves landing and then sucking away from the shore, drawing pebbles and sand back into the English Channel with each cycle. The sandy beach widening, the cliffs moving further away from the water’s edge. In the early hour, few souls awake to witness this moment.
Calm seas. Looking across the greenish blue expanse from England, the horizon disappearing into the sea, the coast of France too far away to see. The sight is soothing in good weather, sobering in a storm.
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| Coast of Normandy, France, looking east towards Omaha Beach |
A long day of sunlight.
Thanks to the northern latitude, early morning light touched my eyelids at 5:20 am this morning. No darkness will signal day’s end until almost 9 pm. The coastline in Normandy, France, is almost the same latitude as our home in Bellingham, Washington.
Seventy five years ago, General Dwight Eisenhower was in a trailer in southern England contemplating stormy weather and deciding when to invade France. The Allies had drawn up a 700 page plan that included split-second timing defined for every phase. Success depended a full moon, a low tide at dawn, calm seas, and a long summer day.
June 6, 1944 has been called “The Longest Day.” The invasion ultimately succeeded, but the price was the loss of many human lives. When I try to put into words why this story is so compelling to me, I falter. I am not generally interested in military history. I picketed and marched against the Vietnam War. I am not in favor of solving differences by going to war. Any trauma that I have experienced has been personal, in shades of hurt or discrimination or loss. I think of death in terms of one person at a time: one brother, one friend, one mother. I have limited experience with physical violence. I have never been in an army and I have rarely been part of a team.
Maybe because of this, the first hand accounts that I read touch my heart. I hear about paratroopers who are dropped from their planes after midnight many miles off course, sometimes into marshes or the English Channel. Although the moon was full, the clouds obscured landmarks and pilots lost their way. The storm in the English Channel resulted in rough seas. I read about young men who followed orders to step off their landing craft even though their buddy or their commander was just shot. I read about soldiers directed to ignore cries of help from their fellow soldiers in order to complete their missions. I read about amphibious tanks and their crews that sank in five foot waves. This is the story that has grabbed my attention and stirred my soul. Young men placing themselves in the line of gunfire and likely death. Inexperienced soldiers struggling to stay alive on both sides. Terror as the German defenses wiped out the first wave of American soldiers. Horrifying images of dead bodies on Omaha beach. Bodies left at sea. Many missing in action. Leaders lost, troops re-grouping.
On our recent trip to France, I also heard personal stories of the toll that the Occupation and invasion had on the people of Normandy, and on the German soldiers. For four years, the French people who lived in Normandy had been controlled by the Germans occupying their towns and the coastline. Their sons were sent against their will to Germany for Obligatory work service. The German soldiers assigned to Normandy were often as young as fifteen. Many of the German soldiers were poorly motivated prisoners from the countries that Germany had invaded, given a choice between joining the German military or prison. All but three cities in Normandy were destroyed by the Allied bombing.
Thanks to the northern latitude, early morning light touched my eyelids at 5:20 am this morning. No darkness will signal day’s end until almost 9 pm. The coastline in Normandy, France, is almost the same latitude as our home in Bellingham, Washington.
Seventy five years ago, General Dwight Eisenhower was in a trailer in southern England contemplating stormy weather and deciding when to invade France. The Allies had drawn up a 700 page plan that included split-second timing defined for every phase. Success depended a full moon, a low tide at dawn, calm seas, and a long summer day.
June 6, 1944 has been called “The Longest Day.” The invasion ultimately succeeded, but the price was the loss of many human lives. When I try to put into words why this story is so compelling to me, I falter. I am not generally interested in military history. I picketed and marched against the Vietnam War. I am not in favor of solving differences by going to war. Any trauma that I have experienced has been personal, in shades of hurt or discrimination or loss. I think of death in terms of one person at a time: one brother, one friend, one mother. I have limited experience with physical violence. I have never been in an army and I have rarely been part of a team.
Maybe because of this, the first hand accounts that I read touch my heart. I hear about paratroopers who are dropped from their planes after midnight many miles off course, sometimes into marshes or the English Channel. Although the moon was full, the clouds obscured landmarks and pilots lost their way. The storm in the English Channel resulted in rough seas. I read about young men who followed orders to step off their landing craft even though their buddy or their commander was just shot. I read about soldiers directed to ignore cries of help from their fellow soldiers in order to complete their missions. I read about amphibious tanks and their crews that sank in five foot waves. This is the story that has grabbed my attention and stirred my soul. Young men placing themselves in the line of gunfire and likely death. Inexperienced soldiers struggling to stay alive on both sides. Terror as the German defenses wiped out the first wave of American soldiers. Horrifying images of dead bodies on Omaha beach. Bodies left at sea. Many missing in action. Leaders lost, troops re-grouping.
On our recent trip to France, I also heard personal stories of the toll that the Occupation and invasion had on the people of Normandy, and on the German soldiers. For four years, the French people who lived in Normandy had been controlled by the Germans occupying their towns and the coastline. Their sons were sent against their will to Germany for Obligatory work service. The German soldiers assigned to Normandy were often as young as fifteen. Many of the German soldiers were poorly motivated prisoners from the countries that Germany had invaded, given a choice between joining the German military or prison. All but three cities in Normandy were destroyed by the Allied bombing.
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| Normandy American Cemetery, France |
When we went to the American Cemetery in Normandy, I found what I had expected and more. Nine thousand graves, each marked with a white stone cross or a star of David, and the name of the soldier, when known. The cemetery is above the English Channel. The experience was somber but also scripted, from the recording of Taps to the uplifting quotations on the walls. Visitors, old and young, meandered across the grassy expanse and back to the parking lot. On the spring day that we were there, the birds serenaded us, the breeze refreshed our skin, and we had to be back at the bus in an hour.
The La Cambe German cemetery was ten miles down the road and not far from Omaha Beach. Where the American Cemetery was populated with 9,000 white markers, the flat grave markers in German cemetery were in natural stone. 20,000 German soldiers were buried there. Each gravestone marked the body of two fallen German soldiers. Their birth and death dates were engraved below the names. We could easily calculate that many of the soldiers died before the age of twenty. It was here that our French guide spoke more personally about her family history than she had throughout the three days we had spent with her. “We must distinguish between Germans and Nazis,” she told us.
The La Cambe German cemetery was ten miles down the road and not far from Omaha Beach. Where the American Cemetery was populated with 9,000 white markers, the flat grave markers in German cemetery were in natural stone. 20,000 German soldiers were buried there. Each gravestone marked the body of two fallen German soldiers. Their birth and death dates were engraved below the names. We could easily calculate that many of the soldiers died before the age of twenty. It was here that our French guide spoke more personally about her family history than she had throughout the three days we had spent with her. “We must distinguish between Germans and Nazis,” she told us.
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| La Cambe German Cemetery, France |
The story of D-Day has been told and re-told in countless books and movies, although not necessarily over the dinner table. The part of this long story I want to tell is of the great human tragedy that unfolded on D-Day. It was part of a massive human effort to stop the horrors that Adolph Hitler and his forces were inflicting on the people of Europe. The Allies did succeed with time.
This story was not told to us by our fathers. Their story is also one of silence and return to normalcy. “We did what we had to,” our fathers said, if they said anything at all.
In this week between Memorial Day and June 6th, 75 years since D-Day, I reflect on loss and horror. My heart goes out to both those who were lost and those who survived D-Day. Your story is alive in me.
This story was not told to us by our fathers. Their story is also one of silence and return to normalcy. “We did what we had to,” our fathers said, if they said anything at all.
In this week between Memorial Day and June 6th, 75 years since D-Day, I reflect on loss and horror. My heart goes out to both those who were lost and those who survived D-Day. Your story is alive in me.
