Remembering D-Day and My Visit to the Normandy Beaches

Today is the 80th anniversary of D-Day, commemorating the Allied invasion of France on June 6th, 1944. It was the breakthrough needed, the beginning of the ending of WWII. The following was written in 2013, published in 2014. I repost it as a reminder of the horrific price we pay for wars. My visit to Normandy left a deep impression on me. I hope young people today still learn of this part of history in their classes. 

Remembering D-Day on the Normandy Beaches

By Nancy Julien Kopp

Today marks the 81st Anniversary of D-Day when Allied troops landed in Normandy. It was the beginning of the end of WWII. I think it is worth commemorating each year. The essay below features my visit to Normandy in 2013. 

Visiting the Normandy Beaches

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. Our American troops came ashore at both Omaha and Utah Beach. Paratroopers landed first followed by amphibious landing craft manned by Navy and Coast Guard personnel. Thousands of men with one goal—take the beaches and move on.

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 alone. Others continued to dodge the constant gunfire and scaled precarious cliffs to reach the German strongholds. 

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 and Memorial, located not far from the beaches. In gratitude, the government of 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 and D-Day for most of our lives. We’ve seen pictures, watched movies depicting that day. But being there and hearing the personal stories brought reality like nothing else. What struck me as we walked silently back through the cemetery was that we humans didn’t learn from the horrors of WWII. We’ve continued to send our young men and women to fight in multiple wars since. 

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.

D-Day Thoughts and Memories

Today is the 75th anniversary of D-Day, a monumental day in the history of WWII. It was the turning point, the beginning of the end when thousands of Allied troops stormed the beaches as German soldiers in bunkers shot and killed unfathomable numbers of these brave men. We have been privileged to see much of the 75th-anniversary ceremonies and tributes on television and in newspapers this week. 

My husband and I visited the site in Normandy and the cemetery in 2013. I feel privileged to have had that opportunity when we traveled from Paris to Normandy with a tour group. It is a place, once visited, that you will never forget. The travel essay below was published after we returned home. Early this morning, Ken put our flag outside to commemorate this day. 

Remembering D-Day On The Normandy Beaches

By Nancy Julien Kopp

As we approach the 70th anniversary of the D-Day invasion of Normandy, our visit there in the spring of 2013 keeps coming to mind.

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. Our American troops came ashore at both Omaha and Utah Beach. Paratroopers landed first followed by amphibious landing craft manned by Navy and Coast Guard personnel. Thousands of men with one goal—take the beaches and move on.

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 alone. Others continued to dodge the constant gunfire and scaled precarious cliffs to reach the German strongholds. 

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 and Memorial, located not far from the beaches. In gratitude, the government of 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 and D-Day for most of our lives. We’ve seen pictures, watched movies depicting that day. But being there and hearing the personal stories brought reality like nothing else. What struck me as we walked silently back through the cemetery was that we humans didn’t learn from the horrors of WWII. We’ve continued to send our young men and women to fight in multiple wars since. 

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

Note: On Memorial Day weekend I posted a piece about our visit to a WWII American cemetery in the south of France. The southern invasion was less publicized but just as important.  

     

Fourth of July When I Was A Kid

I'm posting a memory piece for today that I also posted last year on July 4th. Some of you will have read it then and for others, it will be new. It's about the way we celebrated this holiday back in the 1940's. It was a simpler way of life, a slower pace, but it had a lot going for it. Maybe it will trigger memories of your own childhood celebrations. If it does, write about it for your family memory book. 

Independence Day In Chicago--What We Did and What We Learned

By Nancy Julien Kopp

Come back with me to the1940’s era in Chicago. During the first few days of July, my younger brothers and I walked to the neighborhood Woolworth’s store to buy a very important item for our Fourth of July celebration. We had to make our purchase no later than July 3^rd, for all businesses closed on Independence Day.

We walked on the creaky wooden floor, smelling the penny candy lined up in glass cases near the front door. Straight to the back of the long aisle, we found rolls and rolls of colored crepe paper--red, white, and blue, of course.  We bought several rolls with money we’d saved. Once home, we stashed our purchase for the next day.

    

The first thing after breakfast on the Fourth of July, we clambered down the three flights of stairs from our top floor apartment to the basement where our bikes were kept..  Bump, bump, bump—up the steps from basement to courtyard we went with our two wheeled bikes. Down went the kickstands, and out came the rolls of crepe paper to decorate. We wove the colored streamers in and out of the wheel spokes, and fastened more on the handle-bars, then stepped back to see which looked best. Decorating our bikes for America’s holiday left an indelible impression of patriotism in us.

    

Other kids in our building worked on bikes, too. We rode all over the neighborhood, up and down alleys and sidewalks showing off our fancy bikes, not caring how high the temperature might be.

We spent the rest of the day like any other hot, sultry summer day. We ate popsicles to cool off, walked to the park where families sat on the lawn with picnic lunches and waited for the sun to go down. Dad had gone out earlier to one of the only businesses open—the fireworks stand. Money was usually scarce in our family, but Dad always found some extra to buy firecrackers and sparklers for us. No doubt, he enjoyed them as much as we did.

    

Darkness finally descended over our city, and once again, we hurried down the three flights of stairs. Not just kids this time, but our whole family. We gathered in the alley beyond the apartment courtyard along with several other families. Only Dad lit our firecrackers, although I’m sure my brothers wanted to try it. One I loved was a pinwheel which Dad stuck into a telephone pole. When he lit the fuse, the entire thing whirled round and round, throwing sparks in every direction. Little firecrackers on the ground did nothing but make popping noises, but the Roman candles gave us the real show. Big noise and showers of colorful sparks which delighted us. And finally, Dad lit sparklers we held. I loved whirling them round and round, watching the designs the sparks made. All too soon, they burned down to the end and we rushed to get another until the boxes were emptied.

    

We knew why we decorated our bikes, why people went on picnics and why we had fireworks on the Fourth of July. Our parents talked to us every year about what it meant to have Independence and how a war several years before was fought and won to ensure that we lived with freedoms like few other nations. We grew up knowing there was a serious side to the holiday. Even so, it was a special day we looked forward to every summer.

Any Soldier--Any War

The following is a repeat of a Veterans Day essay published last year. Today we remember and honor those who have served in many conflicts throughout our country's history. 

Any Soldier, Any War—Maybe You Know Him By Nancy Julien Kopp Some call it Veterans Day while others say Remembrance Day. They are the same day commemorating the same wars, the same men who gave their lives fighting for what they believed in. Some volunteered while others got drafted, but most carried an unseen banner of the country they loved right next to their heart. One young man left mother and father, sweetheart and friends. Gone were his carefree summer days, spent with boyhood chums. Schoolbooks lay forgotten, dust settling over the covers. Baseball bats and marbles, toy cars and lead soldiers tumbled into a box, saved for the next generation. A letter jacket hung in the closet, placed there by a boy. Would a man return to claim them?  The boy who braved the high school football field turned into a young man whose hands trembled as they quickly wiped a tear from a cheek the first time he went into combat. Knees quaked and his heart beat double-time until training of both boot camp and a lifetime before that kicked in. That little unseen banner of his country fluttered right over his heart bringing calm and a determination to do all deemed necessary.  He fought in scorching heat and bitter cold, through fields of flowers in spring and myriad fallen leaves in autumn. He battled on both daytimes and in moonless nights. In the quiet times, thoughts spiraled backward to home, to Mom and Dad, and Christmas trees, and baseball games on the radio, and to turkey dinners and ice cream sundaes. He fingered a treasured photo of Carol, the girl he loved, and swallowed the lump in his throat that rose whenever he studied her face. He’d taken the picture on one of the last days before he left for the army camp. A wisp of her dark hair had blown across her forehead, and her hand looked poised to sweep it back into place. She’d posed with her free hand on a hip and a quirky smile on her face, as though she might make a wisecrack at any moment. He slipped the picture into his pocket when the thunder of guns drew closer.  He adjusted his helmet, gripped his rifle in both hands, and scanned the line of trees ahead. Was there some soldier from the other side creeping closer? Did he, too, think of home during a lull in the fighting? Did he slip out a photo of the girl he loved? Wasn’t he fighting for his country, too? The insanity of it all sometimes swept over him like a wave crashing on the beach. Countries disagreed and made war, but only the men who fought were lost. Some soldiers died, while others lived to carry the horrors of war forever, to hide them deep within letting them surface only occasionally. Yes, men were lost, but the countries rose again from the ashes like a phoenix to grow strong, to wait for the next generation, to wage war yet again. He promised himself to never forget his fallen comrades, the towns and families they’d liberated, the good that evolved from the scathing waste of war. He’d march in every Veterans Day parade until his legs would carry him no more. And he’d wipe a tear from his cheek when other boys left childhood things to cross the sea and fight the next enemy. He’d wear the poppy in his buttonhole right over the unseen banner that still fluttered across his heart. For God and country, he would remember with both pride and regret for those who did not return.