France Archives • GloBelle Affairs

June 7, 2014

The Day They Came: Memorial Day In Normandy

A degree in history, documentaries, first person narratives, war movies, and living in Germany only partially helped me grasp the enormity of the D-Day mission. It took this Memorial Day trip to Normandy to fill the gaps in order for me to better understand what those brave young Americans went through to liberate Europe. Actually being on the beach where these American boys accomplished the impossible left me fueled with such an unexplainable sense of victory and pride in knowing that I’m a small part of this remarkable legacy.Did I ever mention I am a third, consecutive Armed Forces service member? My mom crossed the pond to visit me in May and I promptly booked a chartered tour with Interra- Reisen for the most meaningful Memorial Day of our lives. Bless her heart, nearly the day after landing in Stuttgart, Mama Belle jumped on a crowed tour bus, still jet-lagged, for this mother-daughter road trip adventure I won’t soon forget. It was spent not just remembering the heroic acts of bravery that occurred on the shores of France, but understanding all the events that would be known as D-Day.

Day 1:
The bus rolled out at 5:30 am. Mom and I promptly fell asleep until breakfast at a truck stop then back to sleep until we arrived at Giverny, France where the famous French impressionist, Claude Monet spent most of his life. How fabulous to stroll the wild, unruly gardens and the forever immortalized lily-pond that inspired the blinding artist. What amazed me was that his best works were made as he was practically blind just as Beethoven’s masterpieces were written while he was practically deaf. Proving any challenge can be overcome if you’re passionate enough to work through it.

The bus continued on the journey towards Normandy, stopping in Cean for the night. We spent the night in a forgettable roadside hotel similar to a Best Western. It was in a quiet, industrial area of town. There was an unimpressive steakhouse in walking distance. Outside the hotel was also a street car to take visitors in town where there was more lively activity and better selection of restaurants. If you’re saving on money, the outskirts of the town is the way to go. We had such a long exhausting drive and days packed, with a specific adventure that being in the midst the nightlife of Caen was not a priority.

Day 2:

After buffet breakfast in the hotel, we departed.

Biscuits, gravy, pancakes with maple syrup just doesn’t happen in Europe. You do get cold cuts of meat, pastries, and cheese.

Salmon and cheese are also part of the European breakfast but no scrambled eggs and toast.

Our chariot. significant because I have a friend with Monnier as a last name.

The first stop of the day was La Cambe German War Cemetery which contains the remains of 21,000 German military personnel killed between 6 June- 20 Aug 1944. Outside, an engraved stone states, “Kriegsgräber sind die großen Kommunikatoren des Friedens” or “War graves are the great communicators of peace.”

First noticeable difference of German war graves and American are the shape and color of the crosses. I think the dark crosses just add to the melancholy of the field whereas the rows of white crosses at American cemeteries are somber but still heroic.

The figures on both sides of the cross are symbolic of the parent who lost their children. Now they are looking over them. Burried in this mound are 296 Germans, only 89 of which are identified by name.

View from the top of the mound.

One German Solider known only to God. This man was likely to by young…around 22-years-old with hopes and dreams that were never fulfilled. He likely did not chose the cause or to fight but ended up here anyway. Although he was an adversary, and possibly took American lives, the loss of his life is still heartbreaking.

Here, a 24 year old boy is buried with an unknown counterpart.

Final line: “God has the last word”

Mama in the Garden of peace.

After the short pit stop at the cemetery we journeyed on to the village of Saint Mere Eglise where the Musee Des Troupes Aeroportees (the Airborne Museum) is located. While traveling between locations, we watched The Longest Day to set the tone for what we were about to experience.

History impacts you more when you can relate to it…or when you can see yourself in the stories. I have never been able to identify any element of myself in George Washington in the continental Congress. It is hard for me to envision myself as a heartless ruler like Nero or Christopher Columbus. I cannot relate to the violent gladiator culture pervasive in ancient Rome. But standing on Omaha Beach with my mom at this point in my life, American military history was made real. For the first time, being a beach-storming soldier was relatable. Just normal young, 20-something-year-old Americans who went through training, bonded with the members of their units, with hopes, and dreams, and were given a task to accomplish were shot and killed where I stood.

So June 6th
began and they came.

At 1 am the French night sky filled with 13,000 floating Paratroopers. Could you imagine being in a sleepy, little charming French town and seeing such a sight!? I was raised down the interstate from 101st Airborne “Screaming Eagles” stationed out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Recognizing their emblem in the Airborne Museum and knowing these boys trained in Kentucky formed a connection and sense of identity. Joining them in the sky was the 82nd Airborne out of Ft Bragg, the British 6th Airborne Division, and the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion. The young American men fulfilled the mission of liberating the village of Sainte-Mère-Église.

This quiet town was taken without much force by Germans in 1940. But four years later on D-Day American paratroopers took the town back with glory due to its strategic location making it the first liberated French town.

This is the church in the middle of the town where the storied American hero, John Steele, got his parachute stuck on the spire on his way down. He hung there for two hours before the Nazis took him prisoner. Of course, being the American BA that he was, he escaped and took some 30 Nazis prisoner and killed a few. Other paratroopers who got stuck on trees and poles were not so lucky to be taken captive and were just killed on the spot. I can just imagine the night sky filled with floating warriors ascending on the charming ancient town.

A dummy still hangs from the ancient church, memorializing John Steele.


It is humbling to remember these were just regular 20-something year old boys given a daunting mission, knowing that the world was depending on them to succeed.

Lieutenant Colonel and Lieutenant embracing their heritage.

On our journey we stopped at the Liberty Milestone of Utah Beach then spent a lot of time exploring Omaha Beach.

Then

Today

It was surreal to be standing on the same beach where the gory, graphic opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan took place. I could envision the images from the movie on the beach where I stood. The landing craft, barbwire, cliffs, Carnage-littered shore, the dunes, the smell of it all, the sounds of agony, the bunkers where the barrage of German machine guns mercilessly rattled toward the Allies. All the dismal obstacles mounted against them, and somehow they emerged triumphantly.

What I refused to imagine was seeing the friends I’d trained and partied with disemboweled and scatted about. Or being the one in charge of leading troops that were decapitated or going into shock right in front of me and not being able to do a thing about it. I imagine the thoughts that would be going through my head would be something like — “My goodness (maybe some profanity) the slaughter has been going on for an hour and somehow I’m still alive. Why am I still alive?”

Seeing the beach I could understand the description “the longest day.” When would the day end? D-Day was just the first day of Operation Overload. Devastation would continue all summer!

This Memorial Day, my mom and I stood in the same hopeless space where so many Americans fought for their lives just to get ashore. Today there was no hint of the gruesome events that occurred on this very spot just almost 68 years before. The skies were blue. The landscape was lush. The day was warm with a chilly breeze. Birds sang their beautiful song. The waves gently rolled in, and mom and I had a baguette sandwiches picnic on the dunes. A picnic in a former war zone— Imagine that.

Then we visited the American Cemetery at Colleville sur Mer overlooking Omaha Beach.

The trees were intentionally groomed this way to symbolize the lives cut short.

The last stop on our unforgettable journey was Pointe du Hoc where the Rangers made their dramatic landing. Although this Operation took place before all others, we saw it last to accommodate business hours of the cemetery and Airborne Meuse.

Within ten minutes, the young Brits surprised the German guards and took the Ranville and Bénouville Bridges (the latter was later renamed Pegasus Bridge in honor if the British Airborne Solider) disrupting the Nazis’ ability to pursue a counterattack. When more Nazis showed up 2 hours later, Maj Howard held it down.

We sojourned to Arromanches to see the remains of the artificial port then Benouville to see the Pegasus Bridge, where British air-troops landed. In the evening we rested in the lovely village of Courseulles sur Mer, where we dinned on a typical seafood dinner in one of the cozy restaurants before retiring to our hotel.

There were two more days of the tour that guided us to an excursion to Le Mont Saint Michel then of course, you cannot road trip France without going to Paris. However, my pilgrimage to Normandy was the most eventful and meaningful. Disorganization, confusion, and incomplete or faulty implementation of carefully drawn-out plans lead to such pain, destruction and heartbreak followed with courage and determination and resulting in glory and triumph. Seeing how a place so horrific could be turned into something beautiful called to mind Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. ‘The Inferno’ was the war, followed by the finale of today. Out of all the despair and devastation comes hope, renewal, and beauty. Misery, regardless of how bleak and dismal, regardless if you can see the end in sight or not, doesn’t last always.

Mont Saint Michel visited later during the extended weekend. Click to start planning your Normandy weekend.

I believe all service members need to make a pilgrimage to Normandy at some point. The beaches are a standing monument of America valor. I have accomplished some pretty cool feats but whether crossing the finish line of a marathon, or the stage at graduation with distinction, I have never been more proud than I was crossing this battlefield. This was an accomplishment that reached far greater than myself. It happened 70 years ago but still impacted me and the history of the world.

admin

Staying With Strangers In Strasbourg

My momma is going to want to jerk a knot in me when she reads this post. But seeing as though she is a thousand miles and an ocean away, I think it is safe to tell this tale and remain knot-free (for now). So here goes!

The adventure part of this tale began when I was dinning alone in an outdoor café in Strasbourg. This was my first time in France and first international trip that started in Germany. I never heard of the town until I read in a local travel magazine that it was a great weekend getaway for Stuttgarters. So I seize the day…or the weekend rather, and with nothing but a carry-on-sized suit case and a GPS, I jumped in a rented Benz and headed out.

Two hours later I arrived and wasn’t sure what I should do next.

It was lunch time so why not jump line at the McDonald’s drive thru? Well, for one, I had a considerable language barrier that I did not consider. I didn’t speak a lick of French outside of Frère Jacques and voulez vous coucher avec moi and being in the drive-thru, I couldn’t point to what I wanted or play charades to explain that I wanted Chicken McNuggets and a McFlurry. But with a mix of my newly acquired Schwabbish dialect of German and English…the McD’s hostess delivered my culinary request.

They asked if I wanted American fries. Well, of course I want the fries McD’s sells in America…this is what I got. French fries isn’t a thing apparently. You have Frites and American Fries. No French Fries.

I used the GPS to guide me to the attractions. I spent the day moseying around the river, parks, and neighborhoods just imagining what it would be like to live and work in Strasbourg. Strasbourg has railway streetcars that remind me of the ones in New Orleans that ran through the neutral ground (median). Then it dawned on me, they call it the French Qarter for a reason. Of course when the French came and settled that area of America they’d bring their architecture and city planning style with them.

As the sun began to set and I began to get hungry again, I stumbled upon the heart of Strasbourg. So this is what the fuss was about. This charming, historic, little town on the French and German border is what I’d imagine would happen if France and Germany got married and had a baby. Apparently, the city has been on both sides of the French and German border multiple times through the centuries due to wars. Street signs are written in both languages.

The architecture looks like the real life illustrations of a German fairytale. Down the cobble stone streets I could hear both French and German being spoken but in all the shops I was greeted with, “Bonjour Madam.” I thought for sure they had to be the nicest people ever and the pleasant greeting was just for me! Later, I gathered saying, “hello ma’am” to everyone was just common courtesy here.

So that brings me back to where this story began, at an outdoor picturesque café in La Petite France district of Strasbourg. It was evening. I was hungry and sitting at a candlelit table for one. One of the most pleasant differences of dining in France as opposed to dinning in Germany is the menu. I couldn’t speak a lick of French, but French is the language of food! I understood every bit of that menu. Pinot Noir, boeuf, brie, hollandaise sauce, béarnaise sauce, al gratin, crème brulee…with the french treatment.

Well, a few tables away was a delightfully rowdy bunch of French men enjoying the first weekend evening of September. As I finished my meal of steak and potato at my candle-lit table set for one, the most boisterous of the bunch, calls over to me in French. I’m mid-sip of my white wine. I smile as I do when I have no idea what’s going on and shake my head. He says something again and I tell him I don’t understand. So he tries again in English, “Come on, I am not asking you out on a date.” Well, since he wasn’t asking me out on a date, those were the magic words. I’d spent all day in silence, with just me and my thoughts, I could use some company. I was hoping one of them would be named Henri for the sole reason it was the name of the pigeon Fievel sang “Never say Never” with in American Tail. No such luck. When I relocated with my wine to their table I introduced myself to two men named Claude, Jean, and Ali. Ali, was the loud one. What amazes me is that, while Americans tend to get tripped up by my name, often renaming me something more familiar to them, the French allow my name to roll over tongue with grace, dignity, and ease. It does have French roots. They were all older than me, probably by 10 years or more. And so the discussion began.

I noticed there are three common conversation themes when I speak to European men:

1.
Their support for President Obama

2.
Why is this American girl doing in Germany

3.
The black girlfriend they once had a long time ago.

This post-dinner conversation was no different. It started with a mini lesson in french…all the guys giving me essential French phrases…essential including flirty French phrases. They came to understand how little of their language I knew. They tried to teach me phrases in French that I could use on my French-speaking American beau. I loved how they pronounced his last name the way it should be pronounced vice the American corruption of it. Then we started in on political affairs which was nice because that’s why I was going to school and I could get the French perspective. Now, I do appreciate a lively debate so long as it stays on the topic at hand and does not turn into attacks on the individual. The conversation segued into quantifying the level of racism in America in comparison to France and Germany. It all started when I talked about how much I loved Germany and they talked about how horrible Germans were back in WWII. I do not like absolute terms. Clearly not all Germans are Nazis. I had grown so much in love with my new hometown I felt like Germany needed defending. I just had not experienced the racism in Europe that I had in America, granted I spent more time in America. The French men were in agreement that France was racist and Germany was more so. I explained my German Great-Grandfather who came to America and married a black woman and had eight babies with her. And hey, being a Nazi then could have easily been a means of survival. But with this conversation I could tell the WWII grudge still existed. In America I feel that we’ve more or less forgiven and forgotten. Of course we don’t have the memories or pictures of Nazis marching down our Pennsylvania Avenue in DC like the French have of Nazi troops marching down the Champs-Élysées.

I brought up Josephine Baker and Bessie Coleman who came to France for opportunities they wouldn’t have in America. But they were the crème de la crème of course France will accept the best, Ali explained. Which is why I felt accepted in Europe. “Your father is rich and you are attractive!” Ali raised his voice with his French accent. I’m not sure what brought him to the rich conclusion. Possibly assumed because I had the opportunity to study abroad. Or maybe because we discussed my parent’s occupations. I also wasn’t sure if I was being accused of something. I didn’t have the heart to tell them my mother was the military service member.

“If you were a grand women… like 100 kilos, people would not be so nice to you,” Ali said. “If I were white and 100 kilos they would not be so nice.” I retorted back. “This is true,” Claude #1 laughed. “This world is not Disney Land!” Ali tried to make me see his view.

Ali had just buried his father in Northern Africa. I asked if he had black children. He had to ponder this question. His friends hesitantly said no. I wondered if the hesitance came from the children being more northern African Arab than they were sub Saharan African and they weren’t classified the same way. I would have classified Ali as white…although he had a name that would have most assume otherwise. Goodness, such confusion comes from trying to categorize people into three boxes.

Cafes outside the cathedral

Just then, Ali answered a phone call with his artist friend. I could hear him say magnific and Noir American. Claude translated Ali’s end of the conversation, “He says you are beautiful.”
“And black” I finished. Yes, I recognize the word Noir. I watched Claud’s face light up. Even though he knew I couldn’t speak a lick of French, he forgot maybe I would know a word or two.

Our discussion brought amusement to the restaurant host who watched with a smile. Turns out the owner of the restaurant/hotel was Ali’s friend. He spoke to the host in French obviously ordering something. Moments later the host returned with desert! They tried to explain what it was but I could not understand. “Your father,” he explained. Oh, It’s called a colonel. Same word but for some reason, Americans started pronouncing it (and in Kentucky, spelling it) “Kernel”. It’s lemon sorbet with vodka and it is delightful! A traditional treat I wouldn’t have known about if I kept to myself.

It wasn’t long before I learned I was debating with French attorneys! We talked for three hours. Eventually, the patrons of the sidewalk cafes began to dissipate as meal time entered its final hours. We decided to continue our conversation at Claude #1’s house. Being the independent American woman that I am, I tried to pay for the colonel. “In France, this is not possible,” Claude #1 said. Well, so much for that; we were not in Holland (As in going Dutch…I’m attempting to make a joke). Yes, I am aware of the dangers that lurk when a little, young American girl to go off into the night with three unknown French men in an unfamiliar city. Trust, I was texting my whereabouts to everyone I knew. We turned a few corners of the old town, and wound up not too far away from the Cathedral.

The topics of racism, social justice, and international politics had been put to bed. When I walked into Claude’s designer’s dream of a house, the conversation turned all about architecture and interior design. Outside, was all historic and unassuming. Inside, we were in a New York City worthy modern loft. After relaxing, we hit she streets. They trio took me to Les Aviateurs, an American-style bar. I’m not sure how this bar differed from any other bar other than it being decorated in old aviation paraphernalia.

The night dragged on our conversations slowed. Our final discussion of the night was about Marvin Gaye. Apparently Ali had seen the American musician perform in Paris and was disappointed to learn his father had killed him soon after. Ali still seemed quite upset about this. There was no excuse he said. The guy didn’t believe in God or his will. They think I don’t smoke because I’m American and Americans don’t smoke.

beautiful views along the river

Ali basically invited me to stay with Claude #1 saying there was no reason for me to pay for a hotel when I have friends in Strasbourg. Oh yes, I know there were risks involved. So many things could go terribly wrong. I sent texts to co-workers, classmate and friends back in Germany to let them know my address just in case something should happen to me. I so took the offer. After experiencing this town as the locals do, I retired in the hip modern loft.

view from the bedroom I stayed in.

why not spend the night here!?

rooftop terrace view

I know, I know, Americans gasp in horror of me staying in the home of strangers but as the quote goes, a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet. The world is not a big bad scary place as American news would want you to believe. I’m aware there are some dangerous men out there but I won’t regard every stranger as a threat until proven otherwise. There’s a benefit to traveling alone. You tend to find yourself in situations you would not ordinarily land in had you traveled with a crew of fellow adventures. And most times, it works out better than planned and makes for an interesting story later. I got some interesting perspective through conversations I wouldn’t have engaged in had I been in a group. I got the local tour of the old town, and got an insider’s view on lodging. By traveling with only an idea and not a plan, my weekend trip turned out better than expected.

admin