Click on 2015 in the index on the right of this blog. Next, click on the title of my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You." All my blog titles for 2015 will appear in the index.
A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent now, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.
Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But
summer is upon the land, and our “snowflakes” do not melt. Row upon row of
white, stone crosses stand where once the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled.
Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy
the enemy.”
We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the
edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy
pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken
destinies.
And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the
unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The
elder man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s
eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fears. Other men smile, as if to
say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this alive. I’m going home when this is
over.”
The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with
ships, and boats and landing craft of every description; bobbing like bottles
in a bathtub.
And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code
names like Utah, Omaha, Sword, Gold and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are
dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate
crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped
certain death, flounder in deep water now, their ammo and packs weighing them
down. Calling, crying for help, they beg the men on other craft to pick them
up. But more often than not, their pleas are ignored. The urgency of the
mission is foremost. And as they perish, anguish breaks within the bosoms of
those who watch; those who are helpless to respond.
A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat
forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And
‘ere the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their
fate dawns upon them… they lie dead. For these 30, mission complete.
And the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes,
these frail craft ride the winds; and the winds and terrain offer these men
different fates. For some crash violently against cliffs and trees and earth,
and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes,
upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.
And, oh, the Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb;
treacherous enough without added difficulties. But they are greeted with all
the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless
bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.
And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.
And some come again. To walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read
inscriptions on stark, white crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed
among a thousand other men who are doing the same.
For we have come to the anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day which is
still living within the minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a
new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed troop who ran
across the beach; only to fall. And to understand in his last mortal moment
that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands in his own hourglass.
To remember the commitment of a man like this. The paratrooper who might
have rested; after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a man as this
who stood, and fought, and fell again; never again to rise.
The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across
the clean, white sand. And though the blood, and foot prints of just men have
been cleansed by the ageless, whelming flood of water, their stone crosses
stand sentinel, just above the bluffs, just beyond the field of their labor.
They gave their tomorrows for our today.
By William Royce McDonald, PhD. A Remembrance. Copyright 1995
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