It is a sobering feeling to stand on Omaha Beach. It is as if one does not belong.
Sitting here in this farmhouse, rain beginning to beat against the windows, I’ve been struggling to find the words befitting what I saw today. I don’t want to reach for profound, as any words I might find will fail to capture the quiet dignity of such a hallowed place.
Myeline insisted on a full blown breakfast, though I ate alone. Fresh croissants, home made jam, honey from Provence, apple juice from Normandy (they take pride in their apples), salted and unsalted butter, creme caramel, yogurt, almonds and raisins, and hot tea. I was more than fortified for the ride.
The weather was dry, but cold. I broke out the scarf and, for the first time, gloves and a sweater beneath my coat. I fought a bit of a headwind as I rode south
It was a long bike ride. About 75 kilometers or just shy of 50 miles, which normally would not be much, but on a foreign bike , in long pants, a peacoat, and my man purse naggingly falling to my side, it was s a bit of a struggle.
Several not surprising things strike you when walking the cemetery or the beach below. The cemetery, if such a thing is possible, is a beautiful place. The lawn is immaculate as you would expect it to be and each grave marker appears so brilliantly white it would seem the marble is regularly polished.
There are so many of them. And all so young. Many of the markers have no name at all and simply read ” Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to god” I saw many from the 101st Airborne, a renown division of paratroopers to whom my son Samuel Lear Jackson belonged and saw combat in a much later war. It is the division made famous by Stephen Ambrose’s book and the HBO series “Band of Brothers.”
“This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered,
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers . . .”
Walking down from the cemetery to the beach, you can’t help notice it was so, so far from the water’s edge to the bluffs with no nowhere to hide. It is extraordinary that anyone made it to the bluffs, let alone climbed to the top.
I happened upon a young French couple and their two small children. They asked me to take their photograph and reciprocated. I asked their little girl to join me in the picture. She was understandably frightened, but on her folks’ insistence she braved it.
That a young family might take a Sunday walk in such a place is altogether fitting and what I would think, had those young men been asked, they would have preferred as a testament to their valor and sacrifice.
"Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost" 