Omaha Beach Normandy

This was something that was on my mind lately. Then it suddenly it dawned on me that tomorrow is the 65th anniversary of D-Day. This is based on a visit to Normandy that my family made when we were living in Belgium.

The sand stretches serenely out in all directions, brown and smooth, long and flat. No holes, no pock marks. The ocean laps peacefully at the edges of this unmarked landscape. The waves are a surprisingly long way from the hills and cliffs. On these cliffs at the edge of the beach are houses that are most likely vacation homes. Families no doubt spend countless hours enjoying looking out over the smooth sandy expanse that is before them and into the sometimes peaceful English Channel. For them it is just a short easy walk from the house to the waters edge. The only sounds you hear are waves crashing and rolling onto the sand. Perhaps a sea gull screeches. The scene is peaceful. A place where you can relax and ponder your troubles that seems so great. The entire picture belies what occurred sixty-five years ago. A more extreme contrast would be hard to find.
Sixty-five years ago the air was full of unnatural sounds, roaring motors, explosions, the scream of artillery shells, gunfire, bullets careening off of boat hulls. With this are the dreadful sounds of men, screaming, dying, bleeding. It was unbearable to listen to.
As unforgettable as the sounds were the sights were worse. The normally perfect smooth sand is full of shell holes and bomb craters. Even more shocking is the humanity or what is left of it. Hundreds are dead, the bodies and parts are everywhere and in surreal positions. Machinery and metal is ripped, torn and burning. The grayish channel water is tinted red.
Those who are still alive on the beach are either waiting to die from their wounds, or they are frozen in fear. Those not in these two categories are bravely moving up the excruciatingly long stretch of sand to get to the base of the cliff. They all try but few will make it. For hours they endure the screams, the explosions, the choking smells of burning machines and flesh, the sights no man should see.
One both sides these are sons, husbands, dads, and brothers. They are mechanics, teachers, school kids, bus drivers and factory workers. Both Americans and Germans have loved, hated, been sad, and happy. Most have been in love or are in love. For too many their last earthly thoughts will be of their mom in Cleveland or in Munich. They will die with the name of Mary on their lips or perhaps Hilda. For those who survive they forever will be haunted. Some will be able to move on, but some will never be able to.
For us as we walk along this non-descript piece of beach we can only image the horrors that were. For them it could never be the same. But knowing this makes me look at Omaha Beach differently. I must not see it as a patch of oceanside, I must see it as holy ground, a place of honor, a place of reverence, a place of remembrance.
Today politicians will wax eloquently about sacrifice, courage and honor of this disappearing generation. My cynicism will make me wonder how much is truly felt and how much is show. But I have been there, I have truly felt it and I will never forget.