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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 more than 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 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 older 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 fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming
out of this. 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, 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
waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help,
they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they
are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish
anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot 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 before 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, mission over.
Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full
of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds
and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against
cities 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.
The Rangers. There can be none like
them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties.
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.
We have come to an anniversary of that
day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the
survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To
remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper 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 of his own hourglass.
To remember the commitment of such a one
as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down 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. Though the blood,
and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water,
their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the
field of their labor.
They gave their tomorrows for our todays.
By William McDonald, PhD
