Memorial Day 2015
We're on the brink of Memorial Day weekend 2015. It's the beginning of summer activities. It once was the signal that we could wear white pants and white shoes. It begins our picnic and pool season. It's a three day weekend for working people. They may choose to travel somewhere or just kick back and loaf.
Somewhere along the line, many Americans have lost the real meaning of Memorial Day. They don't think about it being a day to remember and honor those who have given their lives in military actions around the world. They sacrificed their lives for our freedom. We fly our flag with pride this entire weekend. I've noticed that fewer and fewer homes have the American flag in front of their homes on patriotic days and that saddens me.
As a child, my family did not fly the flag. We lived in a third floor apartment so there was no place to display it. Even so, my parents did a good job of teaching me and my siblings to value and remember what our forces had done for us. I was a child during WWII so the enormity of the sacrifice made was fresh in the minds of young parents like mine. They knew we must never forget.
A couple of years ago, Ken and I visited the D-Day Beaches in Normandy and the nearby military cemetery. The experience moved me to write a personal essay which was then published in a Kansas City newspaper for seniors. That essay is below for you to read this Memorial Day weekend. Enjoy your activities this next three days but keep the meaning of Memorial Day in mind, as well.
By Nancy Julien Kopp
My husband and I were nearing the end of a river cruise in France which brought us from Paris
to Normandy ,
famed for its Norman cows and fine dairy products as well as being the place
where the Allied Invasion began during WWII. Our river ship docked at the final
port--Honfleur, a picture postcard kind of town. Now, we were close to the
highlight of the two week cruise that had begun in Paris . We’d spend a full day at the D-Day
beaches of Normandy ,
something Ken and I had looked forward to since booking months earlier.
At breakfast in the ship’s dining room that next morning, we
sensed an air of anticipation that had not been evident in our other
sightseeing tours on this trip. We were not the only ones looking forward to
this day when we would view the beaches where the landing took place on June 6,
1944. The ensuing battle resulted in the Allied Forces turning the tide of the
long-fought war that threatened so many, not only in France but other countries as well.
Being mostly senior citizens, the people in our tour group
knew the history of the battle well. One man had even been there with the
British navy shortly after the initial invasion. Only 16, he lied about his age
to join the navy and was among the first who arrived after the beaches were
taken. This now-elderly gentleman had spoken about his experience one evening
on the river ship. That morning, as the bus took us from ship to the beaches, I
watched this man who sat silently while we rode through the Normandy countryside. What thoughts were
going through his mind, what memories were returning one by one? I wanted to
ask but out of respect for what must have been an emotional time for him, I
kept my silence.
We filed quietly off the bus on that cold, wet March
morning. There was none of the usual chatter and good-natured teasing on this
day. We were a solemn, respectful group as we were introduced to our local tour
guide. Her scarf whipped wildly in the strong wind, and like us, she wore hat,
gloves and a warm coat. The skies were gray which somehow seemed fitting for
this place where the remnants of battle and death remained even these 69 years
after the fact.
The pillboxes where the German artillery faced the beaches
remain today. I slipped and slid down a muddy incline to see inside one where
parts of the big guns remained. Looking out to the beaches, I was immediately
struck by the incongruity of those in the pillboxes versus the men on the open
beaches on that summer morning so long ago. An old cliché seemed most fitting.
They were “sitting ducks.” I shivered with both the thought and the sharp wind
that found its way through my warm jacket.
The Allied Forces came to liberate France from
German occupation, to push the German forces back to their own country. The
Canadians landed at Juno Beach , the British at Sword and Gold Beach Omaha
and Utah Beach
Gnawing fear must have been in the belly of each man but
they surged forward with many falling on the beach. More than a thousand died
on Omaha Beach
As the tour guide talked, I thought of the men I knew who
had fought in this war of so long ago—my uncle who had been an Air Force pilot,
my best friend’s uncle who had endured the hardships of a prison camp, and my
dad’s cousin whose plane blew to pieces before he could escape. I thought of my
father-in-law who served in Paris
after the liberation and came home safely thanks to the courage of the men who
fought on D-Day, those who carried General Eisenhower’s order with them. “Full
victory—nothing else.”
Our tour guide told us of a U.S. Army veteran who had been
on another of her tours. On the morning of the invasion, he was in a landing
craft that held 32 men. 31 of them were violently seasick. By the time they
landed, they were covered in vomit with no choice but to rush the beach and
dodge the artillery fire. That was only one of nearly 7,000 boats that hit the
five beaches early that morning. I shivered yet again but didn’t know if it was
because of the cold misty rain or the stories she related.
Our next stop was the Normandy American
Cemetery France granted
use of the land, in perpetuity, as a permanent burial ground. We walked through
the immaculate grounds, viewing the choppy waters of the English
Channel just beyond. Nearly 10,000 American soldiers are buried
here, a Latin cross or a Star of David marking each grave.
We gathered in the light rain at the Memorial area which
features a 22 foot statue called “The Spirit of American Youth Rising From the
Waves.” A representative from the cemetery addressed our group before leading a
short ceremony to honor those who had sacrificed so much in this place. Everyone
faced the wildly waving American flag, hand on hearts. Cold raindrops mixed with
the warm tears that fell as I listened to a recording of our national anthem
followed by a volley of gunshots and finally the playing of “Taps.” The lump in
my throat would allow me no words, nor were any needed.
As the group dispersed, Ken and I walked to the edge of the
cemetery close to the sea. The rain had finally ceased. We gazed at the gray
sky and the gray water, empty now save for the ghosts of 69 years earlier. We
have heard about the Normandy
Beaches
At home, we fly our American flag with pride every June 6th
to honor those who fought and those who didn’t come home. After visiting Normandy , that day will
take on even greater significance. Veterans of the D-Day battle dwindle year by
year. Before long, there will be none left, so it will be up to the next
generation and the next to keep the memory alive. It is my great hope that this
year’s 70th Anniversary will spark some interest among all ages for
this commemorated day.
©2014
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