NORMANDY 2001
by Peabod
The date was September 14, 2001, three days after the horrifying terrorist attacks in the United States. I was traveling in France when the massacres took place, and on this day the Normandy American Cemetery at Omaha Beach seemed an appropriate place to be. Solemn and reverent; a haven for reflection and solitude amid an apprehensive world suddenly filledwith uncertainty.
The soft autumn light was particularly radiant at the memorial where cotton-ball clouds dotted a cerulean sky that blanketed manicured grounds that sloped gently toward a cobalt blue, white-capped sea. It was a place where timelessness merged with infinity.
Lengthening shadows angled from the graceful elegance of thousands of white crosses and Stars of David; their charcoal silhouettes made even more distinct by the contrasting brilliance of the green lawn.
The setting was landscape architecture at its finest, where the unification of earth, sea and sky had been harmoniously achieved to perfection. Sublime elements of nature entwined with human inspiration in eternal gratitude to those who had made the ultimate sacrifice for the freedoms that are the cornerstone of our American identity. Freedoms that will be forever cherished, even by generations unborn.
Shortly before noon a ceremony began, unannounced and without fanfare. A small procession of people solemnly marched forward, forming a line in front of the 22-foot bronze statue symbolizing The Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves. They faced the rectangular reflecting pool with the chapel in the distance. Moments later the chimes of the carillon rang out poignantly with the American National Anthem followed by three minutes of silence, a rifle salute and the haunting music of Taps. And then it was over.
It was a heartfelt expression of sympathy observed in a brief span of 6 or 7 minutes to honor the brave, innocent victims who perished in the United States on September 11th. But it was the participants at the ceremony who made it so meaningful, for they were the mayors and dignitaries from every village and town along the entire coast of Normandy who gathered in that hallowed place to pay their respects to the American people. An America that had liberated their own country from the grip of tyranny nearly sixty years before.
Later, I continued my D-Day journey, traveling along the coast toward the resort community of Arromanches. With thoughts and images of what I had experienced at Omaha Beach vividly replaying in my mind, I stopped along the route to visit Longues sur Mer.
Several bunkers, with gun emplacements still intact, remain at Longues sur Mer, just as they were six decades ago. The artillery sits high on a bluff with massive, dormant barrels overlooking the English Channel, still aimed at the coast of Great Britain.
Longues sur Mer seems a contradiction of itself today. Though the weapons are awesome, powerful reminders of a world at war, the area is now a grass-covered park that is eerie in its serenity as it placidly looks toward the sea.
In truth, the entire region of Normandy is much the same. Though the past thousand years have frequently been filled with conflict, it is difficult to imagine as you gaze upon rolling landscapes that become a prism of rich, dappled colors beneath ever-changing patterns of light. Pastoral rural tableaus dotted with stone cottages and half-timbered houses where the ravages of wars past are but a distant memory. Perhaps William Zinsser said it best when he wrote that “death in battle is an old story here.” And yet, despite its turbulent history, Normandy remains today, one of the most tranquil regions of France.
German artillery was a force to be reckoned with on that eventful day in 1944, but in the end, it was the hedgerows, the dividing lines that have defined property boundaries for centuries, that were the toughest barriers to overcome in the allied march to the interior.
On clear days, just eight miles inland from Longues sur Mer, the twin-spired silhouette of Bayeux Cathedral can be seen rising above the horizon of meadows and fields. Bayeux was the first town liberated after the landings on D-Day. It is also home to the famed Bayeux Tapestry, an impressive, nearly intact 11th century embroidery that provides a vivid pictorial account of medieval times and the Norman Conquest of 1066.
Along the coast, just a few miles east, the remnants of the Mulberry Harbors protrude above the waters of Arromanches. Ingeniously designed to allow vehicles, machinery and other large equipment to penetrate the German perimeter on D-Day before moving into the interior of France, the artificial harbors were instrumental in the success of Operation Overlord and the events that followed the invasion.
I continued to Arromanches and began searching for a place to have lunch. It was mid-afternoon, and I knew my prospects would be limited. After fifteen minutes, I located a small restaurant and went inside. The dining room to the right was filled with locals, but the bar on the left was empty, except for a couple of employees watching the news on French television.
Being hopelessly monolingual, I signaled to the hostess about the possibility of getting something to eat. She glanced at her wristwatch. Instantly I knew the kitchen was closed for the afternoon, but as I turned to leave, the young woman held up her forefinger and gestured for me to wait. Then she vanished into the kitchen.
Moments later she returned, followed by a large man wearing an apron. She motioned to a table, and with a smile, handed me a menu as she indicated that I sit down. As I took my seat, the dark-haired man with the apron spoke.
“You American?” he asked in broken English.
“Oui,” I replied, using one-third of my knowledge of French.
“You eat,” he said. “We open for you.”
And with those few words, he turned and went back to his kitchen. Through hand signals and occasional nods, I managed to communicate my order to the waitress. So occupied had I been in deciding what to eat, I was unaware that the proprietor had returned. He was standing behind the bar, scanning the television channels with his remote. After a determined search the Frenchman found what he was looking for. He called to me across the room as he pointed toward the television. Then in a loud voice he shouted, “CNN!”
There so far from home came a small, but significant, act of kindness from a stranger in a foreign land. A man I would probably never encounter again. Between bites I caught up on the events in the States. By 3:45, my hunger and curiosity now satisfied, I paid for the meal. I thanked the owner for his hospitality with countless “mercis” and several “merci beaucoups,” fully depleting my French vocabulary in the process.
When I was ready to leave, the proprietor followed me to the door. Once outside, I thanked him one final time, and began to walk away, but he stopped me, pausing momentarily to point to the French flag outside his restaurant. It was tied to the pole at half-mast. The owner smiled at me and waved, and as I made my way down the street, alone with my thoughts, uncontrollable tears trickled down my cheeks.
The incident at Arromanches was the second time I had been overwhelmed with emotion that day. The first had occurred at the conclusion of my visit to the American Cemetery earlier that morning. With thoughts of the noontime tribute etched into my memory, I had somberly, almost aimlessly, wandered the grounds of the memorial. As I strolled past the Statue of American Youth for the last time, I noticed something that had not been there before the ceremony. At the base of the sculpture was a single basket of flowers which had been placed by an anonymous donor. And tucked behind one of the flowers, to hold it in place, was a picture.
The picture had been taken from the front seat of a car while crossing a bridge. No doubt the work of an amateur. A tourist. Someone who had once visited the United States. It was a photograph of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. But there was something even more telling about that tiny, unidentified tribute, for I knew it had been placed there by someone who had survived the Battle of Normandy in 1944. The answer was written in four simple words along the sash that draped across the basket. Words that read, “We have not forgotten.”
It has long been my quest in my travels to seek out stories with a message; vignettes of life that extend beyond guidebooks and bring other destinations, cultures and points of view into perspective; meaningful narratives that provide greater understanding of who we are as Americans by observing the world through new eyes.
Through it all I never fully understood the source of my passion in that search. Then unexpectedly it all became clear. Compassion had validated my passion. It happened on an autumn day in September, 2001 in a place that has witnessed more than its own share of turmoil and grief. A place the world knows as Normandy.
by Peabod
The date was September 14, 2001, three days after the horrifying terrorist attacks in the United States. I was traveling in France when the massacres took place, and on this day the Normandy American Cemetery at Omaha Beach seemed an appropriate place to be. Solemn and reverent; a haven for reflection and solitude amid an apprehensive world suddenly filledwith uncertainty.
The soft autumn light was particularly radiant at the memorial where cotton-ball clouds dotted a cerulean sky that blanketed manicured grounds that sloped gently toward a cobalt blue, white-capped sea. It was a place where timelessness merged with infinity.
Lengthening shadows angled from the graceful elegance of thousands of white crosses and Stars of David; their charcoal silhouettes made even more distinct by the contrasting brilliance of the green lawn.
The setting was landscape architecture at its finest, where the unification of earth, sea and sky had been harmoniously achieved to perfection. Sublime elements of nature entwined with human inspiration in eternal gratitude to those who had made the ultimate sacrifice for the freedoms that are the cornerstone of our American identity. Freedoms that will be forever cherished, even by generations unborn.
Shortly before noon a ceremony began, unannounced and without fanfare. A small procession of people solemnly marched forward, forming a line in front of the 22-foot bronze statue symbolizing The Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves. They faced the rectangular reflecting pool with the chapel in the distance. Moments later the chimes of the carillon rang out poignantly with the American National Anthem followed by three minutes of silence, a rifle salute and the haunting music of Taps. And then it was over.
It was a heartfelt expression of sympathy observed in a brief span of 6 or 7 minutes to honor the brave, innocent victims who perished in the United States on September 11th. But it was the participants at the ceremony who made it so meaningful, for they were the mayors and dignitaries from every village and town along the entire coast of Normandy who gathered in that hallowed place to pay their respects to the American people. An America that had liberated their own country from the grip of tyranny nearly sixty years before.
Later, I continued my D-Day journey, traveling along the coast toward the resort community of Arromanches. With thoughts and images of what I had experienced at Omaha Beach vividly replaying in my mind, I stopped along the route to visit Longues sur Mer.
Several bunkers, with gun emplacements still intact, remain at Longues sur Mer, just as they were six decades ago. The artillery sits high on a bluff with massive, dormant barrels overlooking the English Channel, still aimed at the coast of Great Britain.
Longues sur Mer seems a contradiction of itself today. Though the weapons are awesome, powerful reminders of a world at war, the area is now a grass-covered park that is eerie in its serenity as it placidly looks toward the sea.
In truth, the entire region of Normandy is much the same. Though the past thousand years have frequently been filled with conflict, it is difficult to imagine as you gaze upon rolling landscapes that become a prism of rich, dappled colors beneath ever-changing patterns of light. Pastoral rural tableaus dotted with stone cottages and half-timbered houses where the ravages of wars past are but a distant memory. Perhaps William Zinsser said it best when he wrote that “death in battle is an old story here.” And yet, despite its turbulent history, Normandy remains today, one of the most tranquil regions of France.
German artillery was a force to be reckoned with on that eventful day in 1944, but in the end, it was the hedgerows, the dividing lines that have defined property boundaries for centuries, that were the toughest barriers to overcome in the allied march to the interior.
On clear days, just eight miles inland from Longues sur Mer, the twin-spired silhouette of Bayeux Cathedral can be seen rising above the horizon of meadows and fields. Bayeux was the first town liberated after the landings on D-Day. It is also home to the famed Bayeux Tapestry, an impressive, nearly intact 11th century embroidery that provides a vivid pictorial account of medieval times and the Norman Conquest of 1066.
Along the coast, just a few miles east, the remnants of the Mulberry Harbors protrude above the waters of Arromanches. Ingeniously designed to allow vehicles, machinery and other large equipment to penetrate the German perimeter on D-Day before moving into the interior of France, the artificial harbors were instrumental in the success of Operation Overlord and the events that followed the invasion.
I continued to Arromanches and began searching for a place to have lunch. It was mid-afternoon, and I knew my prospects would be limited. After fifteen minutes, I located a small restaurant and went inside. The dining room to the right was filled with locals, but the bar on the left was empty, except for a couple of employees watching the news on French television.
Being hopelessly monolingual, I signaled to the hostess about the possibility of getting something to eat. She glanced at her wristwatch. Instantly I knew the kitchen was closed for the afternoon, but as I turned to leave, the young woman held up her forefinger and gestured for me to wait. Then she vanished into the kitchen.
Moments later she returned, followed by a large man wearing an apron. She motioned to a table, and with a smile, handed me a menu as she indicated that I sit down. As I took my seat, the dark-haired man with the apron spoke.
“You American?” he asked in broken English.
“Oui,” I replied, using one-third of my knowledge of French.
“You eat,” he said. “We open for you.”
And with those few words, he turned and went back to his kitchen. Through hand signals and occasional nods, I managed to communicate my order to the waitress. So occupied had I been in deciding what to eat, I was unaware that the proprietor had returned. He was standing behind the bar, scanning the television channels with his remote. After a determined search the Frenchman found what he was looking for. He called to me across the room as he pointed toward the television. Then in a loud voice he shouted, “CNN!”
There so far from home came a small, but significant, act of kindness from a stranger in a foreign land. A man I would probably never encounter again. Between bites I caught up on the events in the States. By 3:45, my hunger and curiosity now satisfied, I paid for the meal. I thanked the owner for his hospitality with countless “mercis” and several “merci beaucoups,” fully depleting my French vocabulary in the process.
When I was ready to leave, the proprietor followed me to the door. Once outside, I thanked him one final time, and began to walk away, but he stopped me, pausing momentarily to point to the French flag outside his restaurant. It was tied to the pole at half-mast. The owner smiled at me and waved, and as I made my way down the street, alone with my thoughts, uncontrollable tears trickled down my cheeks.
The incident at Arromanches was the second time I had been overwhelmed with emotion that day. The first had occurred at the conclusion of my visit to the American Cemetery earlier that morning. With thoughts of the noontime tribute etched into my memory, I had somberly, almost aimlessly, wandered the grounds of the memorial. As I strolled past the Statue of American Youth for the last time, I noticed something that had not been there before the ceremony. At the base of the sculpture was a single basket of flowers which had been placed by an anonymous donor. And tucked behind one of the flowers, to hold it in place, was a picture.
The picture had been taken from the front seat of a car while crossing a bridge. No doubt the work of an amateur. A tourist. Someone who had once visited the United States. It was a photograph of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. But there was something even more telling about that tiny, unidentified tribute, for I knew it had been placed there by someone who had survived the Battle of Normandy in 1944. The answer was written in four simple words along the sash that draped across the basket. Words that read, “We have not forgotten.”
It has long been my quest in my travels to seek out stories with a message; vignettes of life that extend beyond guidebooks and bring other destinations, cultures and points of view into perspective; meaningful narratives that provide greater understanding of who we are as Americans by observing the world through new eyes.
Through it all I never fully understood the source of my passion in that search. Then unexpectedly it all became clear. Compassion had validated my passion. It happened on an autumn day in September, 2001 in a place that has witnessed more than its own share of turmoil and grief. A place the world knows as Normandy.
No comments:
Post a Comment