A Visit to the American Cemetery in Normandy – Pilgrimage All Americans Should Undertake

I recently visited the American Cemetery in Normandy, France, and as I stood in the middle of a field of white crosses and Stars of David spread out under an American flag flapping in the wind, the enormity of the loss of lives that began during the D-Day invasion – June 6, 1944 – overwhelmed me. I always knew that thousands of soldiers died, but being surrounded by their graves provided an astonishingly powerful perspective.

Anyone who remembers the emotional opening scene of Steven Spielberg’s film Saving Private Ryan will recall the reaction of the aging veteran who walks onto that field and is shaken by the sight of so many graves. As I turned perhaps the same corner and saw the stark white monuments, I started taking tenuous steps forward and felt as if I were holding my deceased father’s hand for comfort and support, just as I did when I was a little boy.

Long ago my father visited the grave of one of his friends – his next-door neighbor – after the war, and took a picture to send home to his friend’s mother. Dad stayed in France until 1946, utilizing his fluent French to work with the forestry service to recover undetonated bombs. He never imagined that the makeshift cemeteries that he saw at that time would become this magnificent tribute to those fellow soldiers who gave their lives.

In part my visit to the cemetery was for Dad, but I also realized how much it was for me. I was fortunate that my father came home, but so many did not, and I wanted to pay my respects to them – to all of them – for my father and for me. Because of those brave souls, the Allied Forces triumphed over an unimaginable evil and saved the world.

The 172.3-acre cemetery overlooks the beaches where the Allied Forces came ashore that fateful day. It would be easy to look across those white sands to the beautiful blue water of the English Channel and forget why I was there; the view was so alluring, but turning around and seeing those graves spanning off in all directions helps to keep things in focus.

Earlier that day I started my pilgrimage on the sands of Omaha Beach, where so many perished that day not only as they stepped off the landing craft but even as they were still on board it. My father was not in the first wave of landings, but as I stood there I wondered what he was thinking as he came off the craft into the chilly water and saw so many of his fellow soldiers dead on the beach and in the surf.

Now children ran in and out of the small waves as I studied the shining war memorial on the beach. Les Braves, created by French sculptor Anilore Banon, depicts three elements: The Wings of Hope, the Rise of Freedom, and the Wings of Fraternity. It is stark and visually interesting, its stainless-steel glistening in the sunshine, and its purpose is to honor “the brave” who came ashore that day to bring freedom back to a continent crushed under the weight of Nazi oppression.

I stood there and closed my eyes, hearing the wind and the children’s laughter, and it seemed that was more than appropriate because those lost on this beach were fighting so that children had something to laugh about and could enjoy life as children should be able to do.

I turned and walked up to the second monument above the beach, my wife and kids following me quietly. This monument commemorates the Allied Forces landing on this shore to liberate Europe. I said a prayer for the dead and felt as if our coming here meant something to those lost. The actual act of visitation is a way of honoring them for their sacrifices for us.

Then we got back in our car and drove to the American Cemetery which is about five minutes away from Omaha Beach. Just walking from the car to the entrance of the visitor’s center gave me a feeling of awe and gratitude. The visitor’s center is a modern facility – opened on June 6, 2007 – that provides exhibitions of related military material and artifacts and displays pictures of some of the 9,386 soldiers killed in the Normandy invasion.

On the lower level there is a theatre and visitors have an opportunity to view films that focus on the D-Day invasion and the soldiers involved in it. The one we watched included the reading of letters home from soldiers who are buried here, and it is virtually impossible not to shed tears as you hear their stories and see their young faces. My children were in awe that the these “men” – many of them 18 – were only a little bit older than they are and were in such a dangerous situation.

Upon leaving the visitor’s center there is a long pathway with the Channel and the sandy beaches visible below. Birds flew above the path and some chirped happily in the trees. It is an idyllic setting that somehow tricked my mind momentarily until the sea of white tombstones came into view, reminding me of why I was there.

The bright white crosses and Stars of David against the meticulously kept green grass provides a stunning sight, and as an American flag rippled in the wind coming off the water, I felt deep gratitude to the men interred beneath my feet but also to France and its people for this sacred place on its soil.

There is also a beautiful chapel in the center of the grounds where we stopped and said a prayer for the dead. A walk down the Central Mall took us to the Memorial and Wall of the Missing – with 1,557 names listed – a stark reminder that there were those lost whose bodies were never recovered after the invasion.

Our visit to the cemetery was emotional, moving, and extremely memorable. My kids will not soon forget the things they saw here, nor will they take for granted their freedom to live life the way that we do. It is a lesson in humility and the nature of sacrifice – so many people pressing forward into a fierce battle so that their loved ones and others could be free.  

Later that day we returned to our hotel in the Bayeux, a lovely little French town not far from the cemetery. That evening we walked the streets, did some shopping, and enjoyed the marvelous cuisine. My daughter remarked that it reminded her of the village from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. There was an air of impossibility in thinking that such a peaceful place had once been scarred by war.  

That night as we all got ready to go to bed, I thought about my Dad and felt he knew we had come there and had paid our respects and was happy that we did. In his later years he had expressed a wish to go back to France but it never happened. I had come to Normandy for him and for me but most of all for my children, because D-Day and the war are long over and many of the men who fought here either died in combat or passed away later on, but their story goes on and we owe it to them to be sure that it is always told.

My children will tell Papa’s story to their children one day and no doubt go back to Normandy with them. All Americans should make it a point to visit the American Cemetery in Normandy at least one time in their lives to show gratitude and pay respects to those lost in the invasion. Because of them we live the lives we live – free to search the Internet, go to school, watch any TV channel we wish, travel wherever we want to go, and think for ourselves. When we see an American flag flying outside our children’s schools, we should remember those soldiers resting in that field in France and thank them because a different flag might be there if they had not done what they did.

  

The Enduring Myth of Endless Summers

As I turned the calendar page to September yesterday, I made a little joke about how it was my favorite month, and my kids reacted predictably with groans of horror and consternation. I told them I was only kidding, but they sulked off to corners of the house to brood as their “free” time period – I count 77 days which is a nice chunk of freedom – is almost over.

When I went upstairs into my son’s room, I noticed that he had turned his Charlie Brown calendar to September. This month features Snoopy, Woodstock, and friends with the caption “Happiness is a new adventure.” I wouldn’t expect Charles M. Schulz to rub salt in my kid’s wounds, but my son had already circled the first day of school in red crayon and gave it an unhappy face.  So much for school being a new adventure I guess.

Ah, how bold my kids were back in the middle of June when their school doors closed and they were unleashed to what at the time seemed an endless summer. School clothes were thrown in heaps and out came shorts and tees and flip-flops. They were hanging loose because it was summer time and the living was easy.

That was then but this is now as they say – their sad faces staring at the word September on the calendar no doubt with images of books, an apple for teacher, and the words Back to School dancing in their heads. Reality – cold, ugly, sadistic as it may be – had hit them like a sucker punch.

Of course, I too bought into the myth of endless summers when I was a kid. I was old enough to enjoy The Beach Boys’ classic album Endless Summer when it debuted, listening to all their great songs like “Surfer Girl,” “Surfin’ Safari,” “Catch a Wave,” “I Get Around” and so many more that could be considered anthems for summer. The album seemed to make the listener think that life was not only a beach but that summer could go on forever.

On the morning of the last day of school, I’d crank up Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” and savor every line, most especially the one about school being out forever. Later that day I’d run home with my mind racing as I thought about what I would do first – or even think about doing nothing at all. That was so enticing and exciting – a notion that nothing needed to get done or be handed in or studied.

When I think back on my summers as a kid, I can recall sitting on the porch in the early mornings reading some great books. I didn’t need an airplane to get away someplace when I had stories that could take me all over the globe or even into outer space or under the sea or to the center of the earth. I treasured those mornings with the wind blowing through the windows and my dog resting against my feet.

The rest of my summer days were filled with the swimming, playing baseball, hanging out with my friends, watching Mets games, and my favorite thing – doing nothing at all. I liked sitting on the beach and just watching the waves, the sun and blue sky above, the seagulls swooping toward the water, and the boats way out near the horizon. I can still feel those moments, so peaceful and precious now, and the best thing was it was before cell phones and laptops and the only thing that connected me to the world was a small radio tuned to my favorite rock station.

Like most myths, endless summer has some basis in truth – we yearn for it and it comes; we hope it never ends, yet we know it always will. Alas, my endless summers always faded. My Mom would turn the calendar page just as I do now, and she would circle the box for the first day of school. I guess I thought it was cruel, but she would draw a smiling face there – unlike my son’s sad one. Actually, Mom loved having us home but also was realistic about things as we were not. I wanted to put off third grade forever, but those thoughts quickly faded as I walked through those school doors so sheepishly – the same ones I had dashed out of so happily months before.

Each school year I can understand how my kids feel because I went through it too. There is still a desire in me now to drag out the summer as long as possible – but now it is because they are home and can be with me the way they cannot be during the school year.

Later in the day as we sat down for lunch yesterday, I reminded my kids of the great summer they had this year. We took a wonderful trip to Europe, and before and after that we had days of going to the pool and beach, attending a great Fourth of July party with fireworks, seeing some of the biggest summer movies, and doing what is still one of my favorite things – simply nothing at all.

One of my best memories this summer was laying on our lounges next to the pool letting the day slip away. My son and I just stared up at the clouds and watched them float slowly by. One was a dragon, another a lion, and so on. 

Then along came a long thin cloud and my son said, “Doesn’t that look like a pencil, Dad?”

I didn’t mention that perhaps that foreshadowed going back to school, but instead I said, “You know what? I think it looks like a snake.”

He studied it and said, “Yeah, it is a snake,” and then his endless summer continued unabated.

This Tuesday the endless summer myth shatters once again, its shards falling silently into the stuff of memories. We will recall all that we did but, as the hectic schedules of work, school, and after school activities commence, it will be easy to forget that happy time as we become subsumed with being on the clock again.

After I go back to work, I will stop myself at some point in time each week and think about our summer. This year I will smile as I picture us walking through Disneyland Paris with my kids’ faces beaming under Mini and Mickey ears. I will remember the scorching heat as we waited on a long line to meet Darth Vader – the Sith Lord from Star Wars who does not give autographs. I will think about sitting in Notre Dame and seeing the kids stare up at the vaulted ceiling in awe. I will remember the reverence they showed at the American Cemetery in Normandy, and the joy as they ate their gelato in the quaint town of Bayeu. I will remember our time on the beach in Cascais, Portugal, and the cool nights walking through Lisbon as if it were a dream. I will think about our watching the Fourth of July fireworks display, going to the beach, swimming in the pool, and watching great flicks. Most of all, I will remember being on that lounge by the pool with my son using our imaginations to make clouds whatever we wanted them to be.

In this way our summer will be endless in our memories, and there is always next summer to dream about. For now, I’m going to listen to “Surfin' Safari” and recall those summers of long ago that still play out in my mind as if they were only yesterday, making them endless summers indeed!