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They are humoring me, my husband and son. I’ve plied them with coffee and croissants, then worried them like a sheepdog into the car. It’s seven a.m. in Normandy and the villages and towns are still cloaked in a gray blanket. We’re on the road early, slicing through swirls of fog, heading for the coast.

Outside Ranville, the sun breaks free of the clouds. Light cascades over the countryside, scouring the white headstones in a British cemetery. "Stop here," I croak. "Stop here."

Jack pulls over with a sigh. He reclines his seat all the way back, pulling his hat down over his eyes. He’s obviously discounting my promise to be back "in a moment."

And he’s right, of course. I’m gone much longer. But not nearly as long as those I visit.

Initially reluctant to make this Thanksgiving Day pilgrimage, my husband and son soon undergo a conversion. Perhaps it is at Pegasus Bridge, where the vanguard of the invasion landed in the first hours of D-Day. Perhaps it is at Longues-sur-Mer, where Rommel’s fortifications are massed like concrete giants. Or perhaps it is in the American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, where thousands of perfectly aligned crosses and Stars of David stand chaste and inviolable. By the day’s end, we are all humbled.

I am the World War II buff in the family. At each site, I tell my son what happened there on June 6th, 1944. At Pointe du Hoc, he hears of the Ranger’s ascent up the 30-meter sheer cliff face as German troops dropped grenades and fired down upon them. At Arromanches, he learns what a ‘Mulberry’ is. By the time we reach Sainte-Mère-Église, he’s well prepped.

"Is that supposed to be John Steele?" he asks, pointing to the dummy parachutist dangling from the church tower. "Yup, that’s where he came down," I confirm. "He played possum up there, but it must have been tough, watching his buddies come right down where the Nazis were waiting."

Greg stands silently regarding the figure. "Come on," I say, "Let’s go check out the Airborne Museum."

Six months later, at the dedication of the WWII Memorial in Washington, I meet men who fought on the beaches of Normandy, in the Pacific, and elsewhere. As the 60th anniversary of D-Day approaches, I think back…and remember.

Quick Tips:

Visitors to the D-Day beaches can be overloaded with information. With over thirty museums, hundreds of monuments, dozens of cemeteries, and numerous bunkers and gun emplacements strung along the coast, the best way to make sense of it all is to have a focus.

I concentrated on key areas where the Airborne Divisions fought, such as at Pegasus Bridge and Sainte-Mère-Église. However, having ‘done my homework’ in terms of major battles and events paid off. Here’s a list of books I found helpful.

Numerous tour companies operate from Caen and Bayeux, as well as the UK and US, should you wish to join an organized tour. Three "major" D-Day museums, at Caen, Bayeaux, and Arromanches, also provide a good orientation.

Useful websites:

• D-Day A terrific guide to museums, monuments, and battlefields.
  
• Battle of Normandy Includes a ‘clickable’ D-Day map. Lists all major places of interest.
  
• Paul Reed’s Battlefields of WII has excellent practical information on battlefield tourism.
  
• Untold Stories of D-Day
  
• Normandy Good D-Day primer at Britannica.com
  
• D-Day on the Web. A comprehensive listing of D-Day websites.

Best Way To Get Around:

The French have made it easy for us: They’ve organized the D-Day beaches and surrounding areas into eight routes comprising the Battle of Normandy Open-Air Museum. Look for the ‘seagull’ route markers, a chronological tour of the major battles. Be advised that several days are needed to fully explore these routes; however, the main routes along the beaches, a smaller museum or two, and several key sights can easily be managed in a day.

Although we preferred to drive, most places are accessible by Normandy’s Bus Verts du Calvados, which run D-Day Circuits de Débarquement, bus routes which stop at key places along the coast . The timetables and maps are listed in English at their website.

We had no difficulty parking or wending our way through small villages, though things are sure to be more crowded this summer as the 60th anniversary is observed. The one problem we encountered was at Caen, where we were stuck in traffic during rush hour.

RANVILLE CEMETERY

It is perhaps fitting that our first D-Day stop is at Ranville Cemetery, the final resting place of the first Allied soldier killed on D-Day. His name was Den Botheridge, and he was a member of the British 6th Airborne glider infantry, whose mission was to secure the two bridges linking Ranville to Bénouville, the major artery between Caen and the sea. (Map of the area.)

Just after midnight on June 6th, 1944 three Horsa gliders landed silently just yards from the Caen canal bridge, an astonishing feat of flying accuracy. Within minutes, men from the "Oxs and Bucks" Regiment under the command of Major John Howard swarmed over the bridge, surprising the sleeping Germans. When the shooting stopped, Lt. Botheridge was found lying near a café on the far side of the bridge, lethally wounded. The doctor who treated him reported that Botheridge was "lying on his back looking up at the stars and looking terribly surprised, just surprised." He died before the doctor could dress his wounds.

The cemetery at Ranville is deserted this November morning. My feet leave prints in the dew as I make my way along the long rows of graves. Most of the men buried here are British, many from the 6th Airborne, but there are a handful of Canadians and a few Germans as well. I read the headstones. Such British-sounding names: Algernon and Terrance; Ian and William.


There’s a sheltered portal at the main entrance to the cemetery with a brass vault containing a thick visitor’s book. I read the hometowns of the visitors: Stoke-on-Trent and Norwich; Doncaster and Cheltenham. I make an entry, "from Washington, D.C." Beside the date, November 27th, I write "Thanksgiving Day," by way of cross-cultural clarification.


OPERATION PEGASUS

Leaving the cemetery, we drive the short distance to the museum housing artifacts from the daring British airborne assault. The bridge across the Caen canal was renamed "Pegasus Bridge" in honor of Operation Pegasus, the codename used for the plan use glider to land early and seize the bridges. Numerous roads in the area also bear the name of D-Day heroes, while the village of Colleville-sur-Mer was renamed Colleville-Montgomery.

The 6th Airborne Museum (Mémorial Pégasus) on "Avenue du Major Howard" is relatively new, as is the bridge which is now used to cross the canal. The original bridge sits on the lawn outside the museum, the flags of the six armies, which fought in Normandy snapping in the breeze above it. There are plaques where each o the gliders landed, as well a series of markers for the Pegasus Trail, a walking tour of sites associated with the 6th Airborne.


The new bridge over the Caen canal

After Howard’s men captured the bridge shortly after midnight, they had been instructed to "hold until relieved." Other gliders and parachutists were landing, but they had separate objectives, such as destroying the battery at Merville. Howard’s men were under heavy rifle, rocket, and mortar fire from the German garrison in Bénouville. It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon when the besieged men at the bridge heard the skirl of bagpipes in the distance. It was piper Bill Millen, coming down the road with Lord Lovat and his commandos. He was playing Blue Bonnets over the Border to make sure the men of the Oxs and Bucks didn’t mistake the approaching commandos for the enemy. The troops who had landed at Sword Beach were at last linking up with the airborne men holding the bridges.

Jack and Greg express impatience at the prospect of visiting the museum, so I content myself by looking at the original bridge and a few of the memorials nearby. We drive across the new bridge to Café Gondrée, the first building in France liberated by the Allies. The Gondrée family still operates the café, which serves as a sort of informal museum with memorabilia displayed on the walls. Unfortunately, it wasn’t yet open. I would have liked to meet descendents of Madam Gondrée, who passed key information about the bridge to the Resistance, or Georges Gondrée, who broke out his reserve of champagne on June 6th to serve it to the liberators.

However, I know the day will be short and we have barely begun our pilgrimage. Regrettably, there’s no time to linger at the café until it opens. We bundle back into the car and head for Sword Beach.

SWORD BEACH

Approaching Ouistreham, we’re surprised at how tidy and prosperous the town looks. Although this is an historic area, commerce marches on: the valuable beachfront has sprouted countless holiday cottages and villas, while the fishing port of Ouistreham goes about its business.

I get out and walk a section of the Sword Beach, a broad, flat swath of burnt orange sand dotted with bathing huts. It’s hard to believe that this area was once fortified to within an inch of its life, with anti-tank ditches, ‘dragon’s teeth’, enormous concrete walls, tetrahedrons, tank traps, and mines. A bunker armed with cannon was placed every 100 meters along the 8-kilometer-long beach, though the main defense came from 75- and 155-mm guns positioned further away. It was a formidable section of ‘the Atlantic wall’ devised by Rommel to keep the Allies from advancing inland.

Here at 7:30 on June 6th, the first British troops arrived with specialized tanks, nicknamed "Hobart’s Funnies". Equipped with floatation devices, the Sherman and Churchill tanks swam ashore bearing an astonishing array of specialized equipment. There were tanks with mine-clearing flails mounted in front of them, tanks with ramps and bundles to go over or fill anti-tank ditches, bulldozer tanks to clear paths. There were even assault bridges mounted on tanks, enabling them to span gaps of up to 30 feet. "Hobart’s Funnies" were a triumph of ingenuity over seemingly insurmountable obstacles, clearing paths and allowing troops to get off the beach.

As we drive along the D514 coastal road toward Lagrune-sur-Mer, we see monument after monument, each commemorating a regiment or particular event. I begin to suffer from ‘monument overload,’ but we stop at Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer to get a closer look at the remains of a bunker.

It is at this point that my 13-year-old son finally expresses enthusiasm about the day’s proceedings. Monuments he’s seen out the whazoo in Washington, but the chance to clamber over an enormous concrete bunker was something else again. To my eye, bunkers are squat, evil-looking things, but to his they are miniature fortresses. I think to myself, ‘Wait till he gets to the gun battery at Longues-sur-Mer. He’ll be in hog heaven.’

JUNO BEACH

The morning fog has given way to a piercing blue sky with banks of purple-tinged clouds scudding swiftly inland from the sea. We’ve reached the Canadian sector, Juno Beach, where we make a stop at the Juno Beach Centre, just opened in June of 2003. The metal façade of the new complex gleams in the sunlight. Rows of pentagonal-shaped stele inscribed with the names of the Canadian combatants stand in front of the center.


Juno Beach Centre

We go in and approach the front desk, where a movie-star-handsome young man is conversing with a visitor in rapid French. When I address him, he switches to English spoken with an unmistakable American accent. Ah yes, the bilingual Canadians; so useful now, as they were sixty years ago. French villagers near Juno Beach were astonished to be hailed in their native tongue when the 3rd Infantry Division and 2nd Armoured Brigade came ashore.

The Canadian D-Day force consisted entirely of volunteers, anxious to avenge the terrible losses suffered two years earlier at Dieppe, where 3379 Canadians were lost out of force of 5000. The soldiers who came ashore at Juno Beach were magnificently trained: former lumberjacks, farmers, fishermen, and other tough outdoorsmen spoiling for a fight. Germany’s 716th Division was no match for them.

Outside the Juno Beach Centre once again, the weather has dramatically changed. The sky over the channel is dark with an approaching storm, but still the areas inland are bathed in sunlight. I walk toward the beach, drawn to the sight of the angry purple sky over the slate blue sea. An enormous double-barred Lorraine cross, symbol of the French resistance, holds a lonely vigil on the edge of the beach. The approaching storm makes it easier to imagine what took place here sixty years ago. As I stand gazing out to sea, a rainbow forms at the edge of the dark bank of incoming clouds.



By sunset on D-Day, the Canadians had progressed further into France than any other force, facing opposition stronger than any save at Omaha Beach. The men who’d waded ashore that morning, spoiling for a fight, had found one.

MULBERRIES

I am trying to explain to my son, with scant success, what a mulberry was, "mulberry" being the code name for artificial harbors constructed off the Normandy coast. "They deliberately sank old ships," I explain, "and flooded hollow concrete cubes with seawater to form a breakwater and pier."

He’s having none of it. "So how does that make a harbor?"

"Wait and see," I tell him. "One of the mulberries is still partially there."

We’re on the D514 running parallel to Gold Beach, on our way to Arromanches. One of the most interesting things to me is the sheer logistical brilliance of the D-Day invasion. Starting with an elaborate deception campaign to mislead the German command into thinking that the Allies were planning to invade at Pas de Calais, the Allies also relied on the Germans expecting them to use a pre-existing harbor to stage an invasion. As a result, the harbors at Cherbourg, le Havre, and elsewhere were heavily defended. However, the Allies, who had learned at Dieppe the difficulty of gaining at foothold at a defended harbor, came up with another solution.

Unbeknownst to the Germans, some 20,000 workers in British shipyards began working around the clock beginning in the summer of 1943, building more than 150 caissons which were later used to form two artificial harbors, "Mullberry A" in the American sector, and "Mulberry B" in the British. The project consumed over two million tons of steel and concrete and required huge numbers of tugboats to tow the Mulberries into position. Although Mulberry A was destroyed during a storm before it could be completed, Mulberry B was finished and provided an effective harbor.


Remains of Mulberry B offshore at Arromanches
We stop at the viewing table overlooking Arromanches, where we can clearly see remnants of Mulberry B offshore. More than 500,000 tons of equipment were unloaded here during the summer of 1944. From this vantage point we have a good view up and down the coast. Looking west are the cliffs housing the gun batteries at Longues-sur-Mer, a commanding position on this stretch of coastline. But the most striking things are two religious memorials nearby, one of the Virgin Mary atop an immense pedestal and the other a huge crucifix overlooking Arromanches beach.

ARROMANCHES 360°

While there is a D-Day museum in Arromanches, we’re pressed for time and elect instead to view the short 20-minute film, "The Price of Freedom," shown in the wrap-around Arromanches 360° cinema just a short distance from the viewing table.

More intimate than the vast IMAX screens favored in the States, we stand in the center of the cinema and watch scenes unfold around us. Images are projected onto nine wraparound screens, producing the sense of being in rather than watching the action.

The thing that impresses me most is the quality of the 1944 footage. For example, in one sequence, taken aboard a landing vehicle approaching the beach, we look all around us in a complete circle, viewing the men in the boat, the coastline, and the other landing craft. During a sequence showing tanks moving through village, the entire theater rumbles and vibrates with the sound of the engines. There is no narration or music, only sounds that would have been heard that day.

Interspersed with the scenes of battle are images of the same areas taken recently. A meadow in 1944 strewn with bodies morphs into a pasture with grazing cows, or a view of a street lying in rubble changes into the same street today. It’s an extremely affecting film, particularly the images of the troops. We are so accustomed to seeing the romanticized Hollywood images of soldiers that it’s almost shocking to realize that these are the actual men who fought in Normandy.'

My longsuffering fellow travelers seem to have appreciated the film, too. "That was great!" Greg says as we exit the cinema. It was the sequence with the Allied warships blasting away at the German bunkers on the coast that seems to have impressed him most. "Let me show you what those ships were firing at," I say as we head westward toward Longues-sur-Mer.

LONGUES-SUR-MER

Built on the cliff tops on the outskirts of Longues-sur-Mer, the Longues battery was a formidable component in the German defenses. Set in thick concrete housing, the 155-mm guns were able to fire over 25 kilometers out to sea. Even though the Allies pounded the battery during the aerial bombardment prior to the D-Day landings, the German guns inside the meter-thick concrete emplacements were barely scratched. The Germans began firing on several battleships before the HMS Ajax, positioned eleven kilometers offshore, engaged one gun in the battery in long ship-vs-cannon duel. Even though the battery was not destroyed, the pounding on the concrete housing was so intense that the German artillerymen eventually fled their posts.

The Ajax managed to score a direct hit on one gun emplacement, apparently sending a shell through the slit in the fortification at a crucial moment when the gunners had opened the door to the magazine and were loading shells into the breech. The shell from the Ajax set off what must have been one helluva explosion; it threw up immense chunks of concrete and blew the entire roof off the emplacement.

At the end of WWII, most Atlantic Wall defenses were dismantled, but the battery at Longues-sur-Mer was left intact. It is one of the few places visitors can get a sense of what Allied troops faced as they came ashore. Certainly my son and husband seem impressed; Greg explores the command bunker, with its meter-thick reinforced concrete walls, and sizes up the impressive 155-mm cannon.

The fickle weather brings a sudden rain squall and we take refuge in one of the concrete emplacements. We share it with a British couple and begin chatting the way strangers do when thrown together. The rain subsides, but I linger in the concrete shelter for a moment, imagining what it was like to be a German artilleryman on the morning of June 6th, 1944. Later, I read the account of Major Werner Pluskat of the 352nd Artillery Division, in charge of the artillery at Arromanches. He was was in the observation post on the morning of June the 6th::
"I picked up my artillery binoculars with amazement when I saw that the horizon was literally filling with ships of all kinds. I could hardly believe it. It seemed impossible to me that this vast fleet could have gathered without anyone being the wiser. I passed the binoculars to the man alongside me and said, ‘Take a look.’ He said, ‘My God, it’s the invasion."
At that moment, Pluskat later recalled, he knew for a certainty that "this was the end for Germany."

THE NORMANDY AMERICAN CEMETERY

Anyone who’s seen Saving Private Ryan is familiar with the American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer. There’s that final scene, when the surviving veteran comes to pay his respects; the camera pans through the cemetery, across row upon row of perfectly aligned white crosses, intensely green grass, and reverent stillness.

I knew in advance what I’d see at Colleville-sur-Mer. I had all the facts at my fingertips: 9,386 graves at the site overlooking Omaha Beach; 172 acres of French soil granted in perpetuity to the United States.

But that had not prepared me in the slightest.

We have entered the zone of the American landings and American losses. Nowhere is this clearer than at the American Cemetery. This Thanksgiving Day, there are a surprising number of visitors, almost all American. Entire families have assembled to pay respect. Knots of people gather at individual graves, but others, like us, simply wander, bereft of speech or purpose. I’m struck by how pristine the graves are, how flawless the lawn, and how precisely deployed the marching rows of headstones. It is unmistakably a military cemetery.

Despite the open vastness of the grounds, everyone speaks in a whisper, as if in church. We walk to the focal point of the cemetery, the memorial featuring a bronze statue "The Sprit of American Youth Rising From The Waves." It’s flanked by two enormous maps of the European Theater of Operations (ETO). An elderly man stands with several younger men and points to one spot on the map, then another, perhaps indicating places he’d fought during the war.

The cemetery is ringed by a wall of dark evergreen trees. A long path through the trees runs parallel to the cliff edge. Walking down this path and then toward the beach, we find the viewing platform overlooking Omaha Beach. The 1st Division landed on this sector of the beach on D-Day, and it seems strange now to see nothing there but a placid ocean beyond a featureless spit of sand. It occurs to me that a good portion of the cemetery must stand on what were once German defenses. As I look down at the beach, I wonder if it is high or low tide.

The Allies, of course, had to land at low tide to avoid having their landing craft hit the mines and other obstacles which were concealed in the water at high tide. Since the beach shelf slopes very gradually, the difference between high and low tide amounts to several hundred yards more of beach to cross, perilous yards consuming precious minutes as the American troops were exposed to withering fire from German machine guns while attempting to reach the relative safety of the seawall.

I think of that fatal gauntlet, braved by men burdened with heavy equipment, as we leave the American Cemetery and head down to Omaha Beach.

OMAHA BEACH

"The enemy is at his weakest just after landing. The troops are unsure and possibly even seasick. They are unfamiliar with the terrain. Heavy weapons are not yet available in sufficient quantity. This is the moment to strike at them and defeat them." - Field Marshal Erwin Rommel The American troops who came ashore at Omaha Beach had been assured of three things: That the German gun emplacements on the cliffs would be destroyed by a massive bombardment from the air and sea, that the ‘swimming’ DD (dual drive) tanks would swiftly knock out remaining artillery and machine guns, and that the German troops they faced on shore were not high grade.

None of this proved to be the case.

Air Force bombers, unable to accurately pinpoint objectives through dense cloud cover, bombarded areas far inland, leaving all the German guns intact. Almost all the specially-outfitted Sherman ‘DD’ tanks designed to swim ashore were caught by currents then swamped and sank as they attempted to correct course. And Allied intelligence had judged the German troops positioned at Omaha to be the less-than-half-strength 76th Infantry Division, consisting mostly of disheartened Poles and non-German troops. Instead, the Americans faced the combat-hardened 352nd Infantry Division, operating at full strength.

Casualties at Omaha Beach were greater than all the other four beaches combined – over 4,000 men. The overall survival rate was 1 in 9, but this is misleading, for the troops who came ashore later in the day suffered very light losses, whereas the nearly half the men who came ashore in the first wave were killed.

Huddling in their landing craft, the men in the first assault were wet, cold, and suffering from seasickness, yet they had little idea of the hellish prospect they faced. As they approached, it was strangely quiet as the Germans held fire until the landing craft were within range, then hit them with the full weight of their firepower. Company A of the 116th Regiment, ‘the Stonewall Brigade,’ lost over ninety percent of its men before managing to fire a single shot.

A high percentage of the men who were killed weren’t shot but drowned. Those who made it ashore faced a stretch of beach that was no more than a shooting gallery for the German machine gunners. It seemed, at first, hopeless, and in fact General Bradley, overseeing the battle plan offshore, considered aborting the plan to invade at Omaha and sendind incoming troops to Utah Beach instead.

Yet somehow the stunned and demoralized men at Omaha Beach began to coalesce and fight, forming ad hoc groups rallied by the surviving officers. "Two kinds of people are staying on this beach," bellowed Col. George Taylor, "the dead and those who are going to die. Now let’s get the hell out of here."

Somehow, they got the hell out of there.

Omaha Beach

Down on Omaha Beach, it’s midway between high and low tide, though I’m unsure if the tide is coming in or going out. No one is around; it seems few of the visitors at the cemetery make the trek down to the beach. Jack and Greg have elected to stay in the car, once again humoring me as I take my time, slowly walking down the beach. Pebbles on the sand click together as they wash back and forth in the surf. I bend down and pick a few up. They’re unremarkable, like any other pebbles on any other beach, but I carefully brush them off. I put them in my pocket as I turn to walk back to the car.

Pointe du Hoc

It is late in the afternoon when we reach Pointe du Hoc, a rugged headland jutting out to sea west of Omaha Beach. The Allies believed a powerful artillery battery was in place at the top of the sheer cliffs, and it was vital that it be neutralized so that it could not fire down upon Omaha and Utah beaches.

Unfortunately, the only way to attack the position was to climb a sheer 100-foot-high cliff face, a task assigned to two Ranger battalions. Equipped with special grappling hooks and using modified ladders provided by the London Fire Brigade mounted onto DUKW amphibious craft, the Rangers began their attack at 6:30 on D-Day. They were supported by the 16-inch guns of the USS Texas anchored out to sea, which kept up a steady barraged aimed at the top of the cliff.

A pitched battle between the Rangers attempting to scale the cliff and the Germans above ensued, but at last a few intrepid Rangers hauled themselves over the edge of the cliff, where they fought from bunker to bunker against the German garrison. At the end of the fight, however, it was discovered that the Germans had actually taken the guns from the emplacements and moved them to a field inland. The ‘guns’ that had been observed by air reconnaissance were long timber beams.

The Rangers’ ordeal was not over once they routed the garrison at Pointe du Hoc. Completely surrounded but with no reinforcements forthcoming, the Rangers withstood German counterattacks for over two days before they were finally relieved. Only 90 of the 225 men who made the cliff-top ascent survived.


Today Pointe du Hoc is one of the more dramatic D-Day battlefields, with enormous craters gouged into the earth by the more than ten kilotons of high explosives that rained down upon it. This is equal in explosive power to the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Even so, many bunkers remain, the meter-thick walls pockmarked but intact. It is the ground that bears witness to the day’s savagery, sculpted by explosions into an eerie landscape of hollows, craters, and irregular gullies.


Greg insists on exploring each bunker and emplacement, of course, scrambling up iron handholds and clambering down steps into narrow fortified chambers. Once again I marvel at the difference in attitudes between Europeans and Americans in regard to public places. In the U.S., there would surely be dozens of cautionary signs, advising the dim-witted not to get to close to the edge of the cliff. Here, however, the French rely on visitors having the common sense – and respect – not to damage themselves or the site.

Before leaving Pointe du Hoc, we stop to read the inscription on the Rangers’ Monument at the cliff’s edge. It stands on top of the ruins of a firing casement, soldiers’ bodies still buried beneath the massive concrete structure.

Sainte-Mère-Église

As we enter the quiet village of Sainte-Mère-Église in the late afternoon, it’s easy to imagine the scene that took place here on the night of June 5th/6th. A stray incendiary bomb had hit a villa on the broad village square, and the entire town had awoken to the sound of the bells in the church tower, an alarm signal. As the bewildered townspeople came out into the square and began battling the raging fire, they saw a strange spectacle. Hundreds of white parachutes were suspended above the town, illuminated by the flames below as they gently descended. Unfortunately, the villagers were not the only ones to witness the descent of the American 82nd and 101st Airborne; the Germans garrisoned in the village had been roused by the alarm as well, and they opened fire on the parachutists as they came down.

This event was made famous by Darryl Zanuck’s film The Longest Day, of course, but what I hadn’t realized was that the movie was filmed Sainte-Mère-Église. In fact, a number of villagers played bit parts in it. At one point during the filming, Zanuck had to prevent onlookers from throwing stones at the "German soldiers" (actually French extras in Nazi uniforms) who marched into the village square. Although it was 1961, the residents of Sainte-Mère-Église still bore a grudge.

There’s movie trivia like this and a great deal more at the Airborne Museum just off the village square. We’re ending our day, as we began it, with the Airborne. Two great airborne operations – one to the east undertaken by the British and one to the west by the Americans - were the prelude to the D-Day invasion. As mentioned in the entry on Pegasus Bridge, the British airborne assault quickly achieved its objective, made possible in large part by the accuracy of the glider and parachute landings.

The incoming American Airborne troops were beset by bad weather and heavy firing from anti-aircraft guns. Parachutists were dropped miles from their landing zones and wandered lost through the countryside, separated from their companies. The pilots of the C-47 "Dakotas" dipped and zig-zagged to avoid being hit; in some cases they signaled their ‘sticks’ (groups of parachutists) to jump at too low an altitude for their parachutes to deploy. Others were dropped into fields the Germans had flooded as a form of coastal defense. Many men drowned, sometimes in as little as two feet of water, as they struggled with their parachute harnesses and equipment in the darkness.

Isolated, spread out, and confused, the elite Airborne troops still managed to achieve many of their objectives, though in most cases it took longer than had been planned. Despite the slaughter that had occurred in the square, Sainte-Mère-Église was taken within four hours. Then, outnumbered five-to-one, the Americans held the town. Private John Fitzgerald of the 101st Airborne recalled:
A sight that has never left my memory. . . was a picture story of the death of one 82nd Airborne trooper. He had occupied a German foxhole and made it his personal Alamo. In a half-circle around the hole lay the bodies of nine German soldiers. The body closest to the hole was only three feet away, a grenade in its fist. The other distorted forms lay where they had fallen, testimony to the ferocity of the fight. His ammunition bandoleers were still on his shoulders, empty. . . Cartridge cases littered the ground. His rifle stock was broken in two. He had fought alone and like many that night, he had died alone.
At the Airborne Museum, it feels not as if we are in a museum but instead have been given a glimpse into living memories of the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions. Like many museums in the area, symbolism weighs heavily in the design of the buildings and layout of the exhibits. One building houses a Waco glider surrounded by dozens of glass cases containing artifacts, photos, and memorabilia. Each piece of equipment carried by the paratroopers is displayed, each type of K ration or phrase book. A ‘stick’ of mannequin paratroopers inside the Waco glider wears authentic uniforms and insignia, while the other building houses a Dakota C-47, its wings painted with the black and white D-Day ‘invasion stripes.’


Men of the 101st, the 'Screaming Eagles', don war paint
before loading into a C-47 heading for Normandy


On our way out of the museum, just before it closes, I buy Greg a ‘cricket,’ a simple noisemaker the Airrbone men used as an identifying signal in the early hours of June 6th. One click was to be answered by two. It produces quite a distinctive, carrying sound.

Needless to say, before we’ve traveled a mile from Sainte-Mère-Église, I’ve confiscated the cricket.

May 29, 2004: The Final Muster

The build-up has been massive; week after week we’ve been bombarded with stories and rumors, but now at long last it’s the big day.

No, not the invasion of Normandy – the dedication of the WWII Memorial in Washington, D.C.

Thousands of veterans are converging on the Mall to mark an occasion that has been a long time coming. As long-time Washington area residents, we’ve seen one monument after another go up on the mall: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial, The Korean War Memorial, The Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, the Vietnam Women’s Memorial.

For 17 years, plans for a World War II memorial were mired in bureaucratic wrangling. It took a cadre of dedicated advocates and some Hollywood clout – Tom Hanks throwing his Saving Private Ryan weight behind it – to cut through the red tape and give the project the green light.

Oh sure, there have been any number of nay-sayers and critics. Columnist Jonathan Yardley derided the monument as "ghastly," while architects, art critics and civic planners have bemoaned the "sterility" and "cold formality" of the seven-acre monument.

But on the morning of the dedication, I step outside to retrieve the newspaper and minutes later decide to go to the dedication. I’ve read something that prompts me to go: while 16.4 million Americans served in WWII, there are fewer than five million who remain alive, and they are dying at the rate of over a thousand vets a day. This will probably be the last time they gather in any significant number.

It’s an absolutely gorgeous spring day, atypically cool and without a hint of humidity. Normally, I shun the Mall from Cherry Blossom Festival time to October, until the crowds thin and the weather cools. But today is different; there’s something in the air, an aura of expectation and buoyancy.

I have seen the battlefields of Normandy. Now it is time to meet the men who fought there.

A Most Unusual Metro Ride

I get my first inkling that something big is happening when I pull into the Metro parking lot in Rockville. Normally on a weekend this vast parking complex is deserted, but today it looks nearly as full as on a weekday. I’m lucky to find a spot.

The station is thronged with out-of-towners trying to make sense of the finicky fare card machines. "Press this button here," I tell a panicked-looking woman who has inserted her money and now stands helplessly gazing at the confusing mass of instructions. She thanks me, moves to the turnstile, and inserts her ticket the wrong direction. I smile to myself, remembering that a few weeks earlier I had been the out-of-towner in New York, invariably inserting my fare card incorrectly. "The other way," I tell her, and the turnstile swings open.

The Metro car is full of couples and families, many clustered around a central figure wearing a uniform or VFW cap. Some are in wheel chairs, others carry canes, while a few sit ramrod straight in their orange upholstered seats, eyes front. There are Vietnam vets, Korean vets, and Desert Storm vets, but above all Word War II vets. I sit in front of two men, one elderly and the other roughly my age. The younger man leans forward and asks how long it takes to get downtown. We strike up a conversation.

The older man was at Pearl Harbor, the younger in Vietnam. When another man hears "Pearl Harbor," he joins in the conversation. Then another. And another. All throughout the car, strangers are suddenly talking, laughing, shaking hands, and joking with one other.

In my purse, I’m carrying pocket packages of Kleenex. I thought they might come in handy.

On the Metro, I realize this won’t be the solemn occasion I’d expected.

Ordinary People, Extraordinary Times

One of the first people I meet on the Mall hails from Curtis, Ohio. "My family’s from Ohio," I tell him, and we begin a long, rambling Ohio-style conversation. Turns out he’s brought a buddy from Curtis to Washington to attend the dedication ceremonies. "Come on over here and I’ll introduce you to him, " he says.


"Smokes" fought under General Patton in Europe and is full of stories. "Yeah, old 'Blood and Guts' Patton," he reminisces. "Our blood and his guts!" We all laugh at the old saw, though in Smokes’ case it’s more than a joke. He’s still got a bullet in him somewhere, "But it didn’t kill me then, so I don’t think it’s gonna now." Smokes is an electrician. "Where were you when I couldn’t find anybody to rewire my old house?" I ask him. His buddy chimes in, "You shoulda had Smokes! He did my son’s place for just the cost of materials and a few beers. Started early every morning and worked till ten at night!" He shakes his head, admiringly, "That’s Smokes for you."

Over at the "Arsenal," a crowd is gathered round a Sherman tank . A bear of a man in khaki is explaining the tank’s features, but he stops when he spots a vet with an 82nd Airborne patch on his uniform. "Come on up, sir," he says, and the crowd parts. Just then a woman races up to the vet. "Dad, you won’t believe this! Look who’s here!" She points to the young man beside her. "It’s Bob’s grandson!"

The WWII vet looks momentarily confused, then a smile spreads across his face as he turns to the young man and puts his arm around him. It’s clear that "Bob" didn’t make it here today, but that this, to the vet, is the next best thing.

Throughout the crowd, I spot people carrying photos of WWII vets or wearing T-shirts or pins emblazoned with the image of one. An extended family, all in identical T-shirts printed with a fresh-faced soldier’s face on them, proudly push the older version of the soldier along the gravel path of the mall. A young man wears his grandfather’s uniform. "He couldn’t be here, but, boy, he sure would’ve liked this," he muses.

Behind the vast Reunion Tent, the equipment buffs are admiring a row of vintage army jeeps. One stands out: splattered with mud, loaded with duffel bags and boxes, with Chianti jugs strapped to the side. Inside, there’s a crate labeled ‘PROPHYLACTICS’, Hershey bars, a pair of silk stockings, a garter belt, "Yank" magazines, and muddy boots. On the hood in a cage, a stuffed hen wearing a miniature helmet presides over a clutch of Army-green eggs. A captured Nazi flag is mounted on the front bumper.

"Doc," the jeep’s owner, put together the display as a tribute to his WWII days in Italy. I ask him about the mud. "Oh, it was muddy," he says. "It rained and rained." Although the mud on the jeep isn’t original, that certainly isn’t true of Doc’s purple heart, irreverently fastened to the front of the chicken’s cage.

Granite, Marble, and Gilt

All along the Mall, huge video screens have been placed before several vast seating areas. At 1:30 sharp, the dedication begins. Tom Brokaw gives a speech, culled from his book, The Greatest Generation, followed by Tom Hanks narrating a piece about the new memorial. Then a great whoop goes up when Bob Dole, one of ‘the boys’ to this crowd, gives his speech. Finally, all rise for the Commander in Chief. Bush receives a restrained reception compared to Dole. Some vets, I notice, stand respectfully but don’t applaud.

When the dedication ceremony is over, I make my way down the Mall toward the Memorial. This area had been open during the ceremony only to those with tickets available only to dignitaries, vets, and their families. It’s a long walk, past the Washington Monument and Jefferson Memorial, moving against a huge crowd. Normally, this sort of slow-moving assembly makes me impatient, but the presence of the vets and their families puts it into perspective. They’ve waited a long time for this. Surely I can wait a bit, too.



Down by the memorial, I meet Ed Matz, who enlisted when he was "seventeen years old and a day" and went around the world on a light cruiser "from Boston to San Francisco." We talk for several hours in the shade of the Memorial’s granite columns, watching the crowds go by. A young woman asks Ed to sign a copy of Brokaw’s book. Another vet and his wife stop and join the conversation for a bit. Groups of people come and go, everyone talking unselfconsciously, openly. We’re all Americans, after all. Especially today.

As the sun starts to set, Ed says, "I’m hungry. Wanna go get something to eat?"

I think to myself, ‘Now’s my chance.’

But Ed’s an old hand, and he beats me to it when it comes time to pick up the check.