3 February 2003

Omaha Beach

My dad was on my mind this week.  It was probably because I traveled back in time when I stood on Omaha Beach, the place where thousands of Americans died defending freedom and fighting against hatred.  (Visit this place at http://www.abmc.gov)

WWII isn’t talked about much where I live near Paris.  Most of the war memorials are honoring the dead of the Great War, WWI, where 1.3 million French people died.   But in the Normandy region of France WWII is big business. 

One of the first things we noticed when we left the main highway from Caen and drove west towards the beach are signs showing how to take different driving tours to connect with the D-Day Invasion (Jour J in French), Operation Overlord, and Operation Cobra.

Our first stop was Omaha Beach where the army units under Omar Bradley went ashore.  We were able to drive right up to the beach where the land is very flat.  Further down on the horizon there were cliffs in either direction.  A shudder went through me as I stood on the sand.  I could hear my parent’s voices speaking to us as children about the horror that took place on this beautiful beach.

The concrete barriers that the Allies constructed are no longer visible.  The giant stakes that the Nazis planted on the beach to sink the Allied ships are gone.  All that remains are two memorials and the American Cemetery high on the hill that overlooks the beach.

We walked up the hill to the granite memorials and stood silently watching the waves.  I was feeling the sadness that this place represented, and wondering how the people who lived through this war of wars could ever be normal after such an experience. 

An American friend had traveled with us to the beach.  Her father lived to tell the stories of how he survived in that horrible place.  We all had tears in our eyes as she told how her father watched almost his entire unit killed one by one.  Yet as he made his way from the boats to the shore he kept hearing his aunt tell him as he was leaving the U.S. that he would make it back.

At the top of the hill we crossed into the American Cemetery.  There are several of these in the Normandy area, but the 9,387 graves representing 49 of the 50 states on 172.5 acres make this the largest one.  There are 307 who are not identified, three Medal of Honor recipients and 4 women.  A white Star of David marks the ones with Jewish faith, a white Latin cross marks the rest.

The handout given at the information center reads, “The precisely aligned headstones against the immaculately maintained emerald green lawn convey an unforgettable feeling of peace and serenity.”  Somehow the “peace and serenity” part was lost on me.

I kept hearing the fear in my dad’s voice as he told of his experiences on a Navy ship.  I remembered the stories that my uncles told of their time in Europe during and just after the war.  All those crosses in the cemetery represented enough pain to destroy a world.  And these were just the remains of people who had not been claimed and returned to the U.S.

There was also a garden of the missing but it was blocked off.  I really wanted to see the names on the tan circular wall of the 1,557 whose remains were never recovered or were missing.  I had already seen a lot of names of Ohio young men.

That night when we went to bed Cat asked me, “Why do people pick such beautiful places to do such terrible things?”  I told her that the people who made those decisions didn’t die on that beach, or have their homes or schools or churches destroyed by bombs.  The people who make those decisions just send other people’s children to fight wars, and die.