D Day - 80 years on

As I sit at the desk in my little flower shop this morning, I find myself thinking of two of my grandfather's brothers, both of whom landed on the beaches of Normandy. One landed on Omaha Beach, the other on Utah Beach. My own grandfather might have been there too, but unfortunately, we will never know for sure. We never had the chance to ask him, and his army records were destroyed in a fire 51 years ago when the records office in Missouri burned down.  

One can only imagine what must have been going through the minds of those brave men - boys, really - on this very day eight decades ago and the traumatic experiences they must have endured in the following days. It would have been hard enough for those born on British shores, but my thoughts are with the Americans, as my relatives were from the other side of the Atlantic. They had already left their homes months or years before, finding themselves in unfamiliar lands before being shipped off again. They weren't afforded the luxury of a goodbye kiss from their wives, although I assume many, like my own grandfather, found sweethearts here and managed to steal a kiss from them. I may have had British relatives over there, but I was never told about anyone. Like many from that generation, the war wasn't really discussed.

Did they know the scale of the operation they were to become a part of? I think perhaps not at the beginning, as so many were training in different parts of the country with their own units. I believe the majority had no idea of the magnitude until they saw the vast number of boats crossing the channel. Young men from all walks of life took part - rich, poor, straight, gay, brash, and shy. On that day, they were all equal. They all had a part to play, a job to do, a life to lose.

I think about that a lot. How many men died so that we might live freely? How would they feel if they were to see the world we live in today? The surviving servicemen must often wonder whether it was all worth it. Watching their friends and family die, only to see the world as it is today - no safer, and not really any freer.

I won't speak for all young people today, as there are many incredible ones out there, but the thought of many of them being called up for action to defend our shores and our liberty fills me with unbelievable dread. The idea of reinstating National Service seems good in principle, but it will likely attract only those who are already exceptional. The thought that our future might one day rest in the hands of those who are less than exceptional is beyond comprehension.

Times change, of course; things move on, we progress - or at least that's what we're led to believe. For now, at least, the brave men, women, and children of past conflicts are remembered, mostly with the respect they deserve. However, there are still some who lack respect for anyone but themselves, and that’s the hardest part for me. My generation will most likely be the last to actively honour those men. Generation Z may make some effort, but by the time we reach Generation A, I fear those brave souls may be relegated to history, much like the Crusades or the Wars of the Roses - events that have faded into the eternal annals of history.

I wish we, as a nation and as a world, could help future generations understand the importance of not forgetting. In forgetting, we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes. Both sides made many mistakes during World War II, but D-Day, this very day, June 6th was the day that helped change everything, the day that helped win the war and free those who were occupied.

On June 6th, 1944, those brave boys stormed the beaches, facing offshore contraptions covered in barbed wire that many got caught in, leaving them vulnerable to enemy gunfire with no hope of escape. The weather was foul. They walked off the landing craft into rough seas and a hail of bullets. They watched their friends, family, strangers take bullets and die right in front of them. Eye-witness reports describe the sea turning red from the amount of blood spilled. Can you even begin to imagine the utter horror of such an experience, knowing that any second it could be YOU? Can you imagine today’s gangs, thugs, and generally despicable individuals, who have no thought for anyone but themselves, being brave enough to do such a thing? Then, once they finally reached the shore, they still faced an uphill battle. 

I sat on Omaha beach back in November 2013. Just a few days prior to Remembrance Sunday. There was just me, the friend I travelled with and a family of four a little further along the beach. There wasn't a cloud in the sky; the tide was out, the sky was a little grey and the sand a beige colour, with waves gently lapping off the shore. If it hadn't been for a couple of pieces of Mulberry Harbour still visible, and the few gun turrets dotted about, you would never know anything had taken place. It was just a beautiful crisp autumn day. 

Even though I knew what had happened I found it so hard to imagine how it must have been on that day. I pulled images from deep in my memory, along with new ones I had seen whilst visiting the American Museum at Omaha to try and visualise it. I was able to get some kind of sense but never in a million years would I ever be able to see it as those who finally made it to shore had. How they would have been looking back at the waves crashing over their dead friends/family. Watching boats being shelled, men being blown out of the water. The blood, an inordinate amount of blood. No wonder so many survivors never wanted to talk about it. 

Then something really strange happened, something all six of us on that beach heard. I can only describe it as an exploding sound. All of us - the family still further along than we were, my friend on his way up the cliff to check out one of the gun turrets - looked in the same direction, expecting to see smoke rising. I stood up to get a better look, wondering what the hell was going on. Had a plane coming in from the opposite direction crashed? Had someone dropped a bomb, or come across an unexploded hand grenade, or mortar, which had just triggered? There was nothing: no smoke, no screams, no sound other than the sea water lapping onto the beach. The family made their way over to me, and through their broken English and my atrocious French, we ascertained that all of us had heard the sound and described it the same way. It was a shared experience that left us all puzzled and a bit unnerved, especially given the history of the place.

My friend carried on up the cliff, the family left (still as bemused as I was) so I took a walk onto a raised platform; it was like a pier, but only about thirty feet long and in the middle of the beach. Standing there, looking out to sea still pondering what the noise could have been, I then had what I can only describe as a bullet whizz past my ear. I actually felt the breeze from it. I knew the sound from the movies I've watched, especially those with a five, or seven D surround sound system, but this wasn't coming from a speaker, in a cosy room as I sat on a comfortable seat. I was on a beach, a beach shrouded in history, a beach where bullets would have flown past the ears of, into and through people. It was, hands-down, the most surreal moment of my life. 

Was I still reeling from the explosion sound and imagined it? Put me through a lie detector a thousand times and I will tell you the same thing; to me it was as real as I am right now typing this. Did I experience some kind of timeslip, or enter a vortex for what would have been less than three seconds? I can't answer those questions because I don't know; what I do know is what I heard. There is no rational explanation for it. 

Yes we remember them today, but we should remember them each-and-every day. We have what we have, are able to lead the lives we lead, because they (along with their parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles in previous wars and for all the years before - and after - the D Day landing) put their lives on the line for us. They died so that we may live. We must never forget.