Hallowed Ground

Although this isn't the post I promised about the SF airport experience, and its placement here is a departure from the chronological presentation of the trip, some things merit a move to the front. If any part of the trip to France merits a move to the front for Memorial Day, it is a discussion of the American Memorial at Coleville-sur-Mer--Omaha Beach. Those crosses in that vast expanse of white and green mark the graves of the Americans who found themselves moved to the front, the front of the war, the front of the battle for Normandy.

Our trip had been utterly delightful to this point. We spent the night in Bayeux, about five miles from the coast. We enjoyed one of the best breakfasts that it has ever been my privilege to eat. It was no struggle at all for me to consume two freshly baked croissants (nearly the size of footballs) with two cups of rich hot chocolate, along with fruit and cheese, and nearly a liter of cold apple cider along with the bacon and eggs that the young Cuban cook, who spoke English better than French, insisted on preparing for us. Following the delicious repast, that petit-dejeuner which was anything but petit, we walked in the garden of our hotel Le Maison Bayeux, while we waited for the Bayeux Tapestry Museum to open. I had selected the hotel for its proximity to the museum, and its serene garden.

Oh, how I wished that we had had more time to spend in Normandy! My heart weeps just thinking about it. If I have any regrets about this trip, it is that it was altogether too short.

I had kept my expectations for the tapestry museum quite low. How much excitement can you expect to generate from one long remnant of old cloth? The answer to that is: Plenty! To say that the tour of the tapestry was awesome undersells the experience. I would gladly do that again. We got so excited that we even bought some things from the gift shop, including  manly shirts for my son, son-in-law, and myself. We really would have liked to have obtained a replica or two of scenes from the tapestry. We did not, however, want to open up a home equity line of credit to obtain the them.

We chased the excitement of the Bayeux Tapestry with a thrilling drive to the American Memorial at Coleville-sur-Mer. I'll have to expound on the adrenaline rush that comes with getting behind the wheel of a small car on French roads at another time. My wife eschews the term "adrenaline rush," favoring instead phrases like, "dodging the Grim Reaper," "flirting with disaster," or "Let me out, now!" She's quite the comedienne.

The first thing that I noticed about the memorial was the parking. I know that seems trivial, but after having driven around a town the previous day for at least a half hour looking for a parking place, I appreciated the big American-style parking lot at the memorial. There was a short line to enter into the building. When we got near the door, a French couple in front of us was attempting to get the door to stay open. They moved the small pylon which stood behind the open door to the front of the door...it didn't hold. They tried a variety of things...all ineffective. I finally stepped up and pushed the bolt down at the bottom of the door, and wedged a 20 centime piece in a crack in the concrete, letting the bolt rest against the coin, holding the door open. The coupled seemed pretty pleased with my solution. I was congratulating myself on a fine display of American ingenuity. Then one of the attendants stepped out and said the door wasn't supposed to stay open. It had to close. I pocketed my coin while the attendant put everything else back how he wanted it.

As with every other place that we went, bags had to be searched, and we had to pass through a metal detector. My wife passed through fine. I set the machine off. After I had removed all of the metal from myself that I could think of, I tried again...it still went off. Altogether I think I tried about 4 times. The attendant then asked me the question that nearly got me banned from the memorial. It wasn't the question itself, but my potential response that could have led to the ban. I'm not that old. Although the old-fat-and-bald train has welcomed me aboard, it hasn't left the station. So when the attendant said, "Have you had a hip replacement?" if I hadn't suppressed my instinct to hook a thumb in his eye and deliver a series of gut punches in response, I think I might have been banned from the memorial. Fortunately, I'm not overly sensitive about such things.

Eventually, I got in. The memorial is a somber place. I cannot think about it now without a surge of emotion. Within the building are many bits of written information about the men, the campaign, the materials that they carried, etc; films relate the stories of individual soldiers; some were killed on the beach; others survived that cauldron of fire to succumb later during the campaign amid the hedgerows and towns of Normandy. There is a hallway, which I believe was called the Hallway of Sacrifice; it passes into a room that highlights some of the personal stories of those buried at the cemetery. As you pass through the hallway, the names of those buried are read aloud. To experience the memorial is to appreciate their sacrifice, to be touched by their struggles, to resolve that they shall never be forgotten.

The cemetery overlooks Omaha Beach. While the memorial evokes an emotional response, the cemetery invites contemplation. Looking from the endless rows of white markers upon the green sward to the beach below inspires a reverence for this ground hallowed by the blood of common men engaged in an uncommon effort.

On the western side of the garden is a half-moon colonnade with a sculpture in the center, American Youth Rising from the Waves. The rear of the colonnade contains a quote from Eisenhower honoring those who fell in the war: TO THESE WE OWE THE HIGH RESOLVE THAT THE CAUSE FOR WHICH THEY DIED SHALL LIVE.

My wife and I got through all this without crying out loud. But when we talked with an older gentleman who asked my wife what she thought of it, her voice broke as she answered. Her father had participated in the attack at Omaha Beach. He had survived the war, and had told her about many of his experiences.

A bunch of French school kids carrying flowers through the cemetery provided an interesting sight. The legacy, the memory, lives on. As we were leaving, my wife spoke with them. She acquired a habit of speaking with strangers whenever I would go to the restroom. We met some nice people that way, including Jeff and Elizee from the United States. Jeff said that he had been to the memorial three times over the years. I can see why he returns.