NORMANDY, France — More than 100 people shuffled into place. Still, silence soaked the moment.
The whitecaps beat the beaches below as Old Glory rippled in the brisk Normandy wind. The pristine white headstones, both crosses and Stars of David, stood tall in contrast to the lush green grass.
Taps played.
I grabbed my wife’s shoulder. The man next to me wiped a tear from his welling left eye. No one moved except for the woman lowering the American flag, hand over hand she did so as the stars and stripes descended the towering pole surrounded by more than 9,000 dead. Sniffles joined the horn, waves and whipping breeze.
It’s been 82 years since tens of thousands of the greatest generation stormed the beaches I walked on Friday, and every single person assembled paid respect. No chatter. No chomping on concessions. No text messaging. Everyone stood tall and looked forward. Chills lifted every hair on my arms for what must have been the eighth time of the day.
They saved the world.
I can’t imagine those young men, my tour guide suggested the average age was 24, knew exactly the gravity of what they were doing that day. Perhaps Churchill, Eisenhower or Montgomery adequately communicated it, but to know eight decades later, it would be among the most significant landmarks on earth had to have been difficult to grasp as the waves chopped and misty rain surrounded them all on the fog-smothered morning of June 6, 1944.
I visited Sainte-Mère-Église where John Steele parachuted onto a church. We visited Utah Beach and the town of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont where Michel de Vallavieille, a townsmen, was mistaken for a German soldier and shot by Allied Troops. He was then taken back to a UK hospital and cared for before returning to his town where he would serve as mayor from 1949 to 1991. He founded the Utah Beach museum. His son is the mayor today.
We stood in German bunkers on Pointe du Hoc and peered through the holes where they peppered the Higgins Boats unloading American Troops.
Omaha Beach, the bloodiest of them all, was gorgeous by my eye. I ambled down a comfortable ramp and put my feet on the sand. It was settled, firm, damp from the high tide that was rapidly receding. It was hard to imagine the 40 yards of shore ahead of me was reportedly nearly 300 yards when the Allies stormed that beach.
It was quiet.
I looked out at the whitecaps making their way upon the shore relentlessly. As quickly as one group reached the sand, another followed. And another. It looked so seamless, so peaceful. I considered the stark contrast of D-Day. I couldn’t possibly grasp it. But I tried.
As my wife and I loaded into our tour van with our three new friends and guide, we cruised up the hill toward the cemetery. It was an easy exit from the beach.
The rain-soaked, blood-stained soldiers at Pointe du Hoc ascended a 90-foot cliff to get off, some in less than 15 minutes. Every soldier who made the shore on Utah or Omaha (and the other three I did not visit) had to charge up the hill toward additional resistance, some more than others. They just kept pushing.
We slowly made a pair of turns and poured out of the van into the American cemetery. Our guide informed us that more than 40 pairs of siblings were laid to rest at the top of the hill. My wife wiped her cheek. We have two boys under our roof back home.
One name not buried on that breathtaking plot of land is Robert A. Palmer Sr. He was airborne that fateful June day, but he made it home. Eleven years later Robert A. Palmer Jr. was born. I came next, 33 years more.
My dad’s greatest regret is not talking to his dad about his combat experience. I share that. What we also share are cherished memories with a hero who lived to be 79-years-old after being shipped off to Europe to defeat Hitler as a young man.
I couldn’t help but think about the 13 amazing years I got with him while I walked those bunkers, beaches and backroads. My pride swelled. I haven’t hugged D-Daddy in 21 years, but I felt him on Friday. I could hear his unmistakable laugh, the ice rattle in his drink and my grandmother giving him grief.
I didn’t ask a single person, but I bet there were plenty who felt something similar Friday as that flag was lowered. If they didn’t, maybe they were just there to pay respect or took the time to visit one of the most important sites in human history.
As we drove off, we left those pearly gravesites and crashing waves behind. The flag was folded respectfully and walked away. The crowd dispersed.
It’s rare to hit the pillow and know the day you just walked will stay with you. It did Friday. That sentiment of remembrance goes for every soldier that stormed those beaches.
Never forgotten.
