A soft
breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure
waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, 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 stark white stone crosses
stand, and where once the jackboot tread, and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever,
they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will 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 of
the two responds, “Many, most…I don’t know.” A tear forms in the younger man’s
eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to
say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m coming 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, Gold, Sword 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 packs and ammo weighing them down. Calling,
crying for help they beg the crews of other landing craft for rescue. But more
often, than not they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. And
as they perish, anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch; those
unable 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 thirty, mission complete.
And the
glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail
craft ride the winds, and the waiting terrain offers them different fates. For
some crash violently against cliffs, and trees and earth, and all onboard are
lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least; a broken
shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.
And oh, the
engineers. There is none like them. For they begin to climb; treacherous enough
without added difficulties. And 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, stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a
thousand other men who are doing the same.
For we are
come to the anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day which is still living, and
vibrant and new in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget.
They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiney-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 such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have hugged
mother Earth, after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as
this who stood, and fought and fell again; never more to rise.
The soft
breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean,
white sand. And though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed
by the whelming floods of water, their crosses stand sentinel, just above the
bluffs; just beyond the field of their labor.
They gave
their tomorrows for our todays.
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