D-Day: An Untold Story

by Craig Bennett*

June 6, 1944: a day that will live not in infamy but in whatever constitutes its precise opposite. The story of the largest amphibious invasion in history is well known, even to those of us who are not big fans of military history, as I am not. But I gained a ton or two of additional respect for it back in 2001 when I visited the landing beaches of Normandy, where the invasion took place.

After I became divorced, most of my trips to Europe were to hike in the mountains of Switzerland, Austria, and once in Romania. But of all the European countries that I had visited, I had become most enamored of France. Normandy, however, was a part of France that I had not seen; and when I had an opportunity in 2001 to go there as a tourist, I decided to take it. The tour was offered as part of the alumni travel program available through my graduate alma mater and offered an itinerary designed to appeal to such a constituency. It seemed too good to pass up—and it was. But the stop on the tour that became the most meaningful to me was one that I did not expect to have that effect.

Our bus headed north from Lisieux, our “base” for the tour. As we drew closer to the intended destination, there were traffic circles surrounding things like a statue of Gen. Dwight Eisenhower or an American Sherman tank. In the village near the beaches, many of the stores and restaurants had decals on their doors or in a corner of their windows with brief messages like, “Welcome, American friends.” And then, of course, there were the beaches themselves.

We disembarked from our tour bus right about at the head of Omaha Beach, which was the code name for the area where the bulk of American forces would land. There was a large concrete gun emplacement just a short distance from where the bus parked. And as I looked from there down the expanse of beach beyond, I was stunned to realize that there was nothing there. Not a single place to hide. Not a single structure or the remnants of one to provide a bit of shelter. Far down the beach there appeared to be a fairly wide border of some sort of sedge—low, thick, tangled growth offering little or nothing in the way of cover. But that was it. The gunner in that concrete bunker had a clear sweep of the entire beach for what seemed like several hundred yards.

It was sometime later that I saw the movie “Saving Private Ryan.” I’ve never been in combat, and I’ve never found a reason to regret that. But the opening scene of that movie, where Tom Hanks and the men under his command make their way from the water’s edge to a rendezvous point somewhere inland as part of the June 6 invasion, is as close as I ever hope to get. The unimaginable chaos, cold panic, deafening noise, and terrible urgency that enveloped every soldier on that beach are beyond imagination.

As I mentioned above, I’m not a particular fan of military history; but I am nearly always interested in the stories of ordinary people who are caught up in the uncontrollable turmoil of historical events. Consequently, when I saw Mary Louise Roberts’s D-Day through French eyes listed in one of the book catalogs I receive, I ordered a copy. The book contains excerpts from diaries and journals, correspondence, and newspaper and magazine articles written by French citizens living in the villages, towns, and countryside near the invasion site in June of 1944. When we read histories or watch movies depicting such events, we don’t usually find much information about the personal experiences of such people.

Because of the poor weather conditions, many innocent civilians lost their lives as “collateral damage” when Allied bombers dropped their payload well before or after reaching their target, unable to see what was beneath them clearly enough to avoid such disaster. There were still plenty of Nazi soldiers in the area, as well as French collaborators. When loyal French citizens were caught harboring or aiding American paratroopers who had been ordered to jump too early or too late (because of the same visibility problem faced by the bombers), landed hard and were injured, or wound up nearly drowning in nearby swamps, lakes, or ponds, they were immediately shot. In some cases, whole towns were bombed by friendly forces because they had become Nazi strongholds. Irreplaceable buildings dating back many centuries were destroyed. Husbands and wives lost spouses, parents lost children, and children lost parents. Families were tragically reduced in size, and countless friends and neighbors were gone when finally the smoke cleared and the dust had settled. And yet, the French celebrated. Joyously. This was the day they had been awaiting, hoping and praying for, through four long years of Nazi occupation. Many tears were shed, of both joy and grief.

And finally, the American cemetery, a stone’s throw from the beaches themselves, and immaculately maintained. So terribly many crosses, along with the occasional star of David, all in arrow-straight rows gleaming white in the sun. A friend of mine and his wife had been there several years before, arriving just about at sunset when taps was being played and the flag lowered. He’s not a super-patriotic, flag-waving boor by any means; but he told me that he couldn’t help feeling a lump in his throat on that occasion.

June 6, 2024 will mark eighty years since D-Day. Eighty years without a European war. But the specter of that has once again risen on the horizon as Russia continues to pound away at Ukraine. And the anxiety is compounded by the situation with Israel and Gaza, in which Iran is threatening to become involved. China is backing North Korea; North Korea is rattling its nuclear sabre more loudly all the time. Parts of Africa are in their customary turmoil. The political animosity current in our own country is like nothing I’ve seen since the nineteen-sixties. And the life of the world goes on pretty much as usual, headed right toward… what?

I can’t help thinking of a snatch of lyric from a popular song of the nineteen-sixties, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” The last stanza, somewhat abbreviated, asks, “Where have all the young men gone / Long time passing?” And the response is, “Gone for soldiers, every one.” But the final refrain is the key: “When will they ever learn? / When will they ever learn?” And as I think back on that cold, windy, thoroughly inhospitable day in Normandy eighty years ago and try to comprehend the enormity of what occurred there, I have to ask myself, “When will we ever learn?”

* Craig H. Bennett, author of Nights on the Mountain, and More Things in Heaven and Earth, available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, and at the Firefly Bookstore in Kutztown, PA

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