J U N E 6: D – DAY, EIGHTY YEARS ON
By Jack Woodville London
I was honored to be a part of the memorial services and celebrations in Normandy, France, on the 80th anniversary of the D-Day Landings of June 6, 1944. My role was to speak at the Brittany American Cemetery in Montjoie-Saint-Martin / Saint-James, to speak at the Normandy American Cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer, to be an invited guest of Mayor Emmanuelle Lejeune of Saint-Lô, for that city’s service of remembrance, and to be a part of the festivities and events in Sainte-Mère-Église, on June 8, 2024.
To prepare, I spent an enormous amount of time studying the two cemeteries and learning something about who is buried in them. The United States suffered more deaths on D-Day than in the attack on Pearl Harbor. By the end of the liberations of Normandy and Brittany some 90 days later, more than 29,000 American soldiers, airmen, sailors, and nurses had been killed in northwestern France and its adjacent seas and skies. Four thousand four hundred ten men and women are buried in Brittany American Cemetery, with another five hundred missing who are remembered on a terraced wall between the chapel steps and the graves. There are 9,388 buried in, and another 1,557 remembered on The Wall of the Missing in the Normandy American cemetery—the best known and most visited of our American cemeteries in Europe.
To begin my preparations, I used the American Battle Monuments Commission (ABMC) site and database to browse names in each cemetery. I searched by date of death, by unit number, by state or country where the hero entered service, and of course, by name. I studied the landings themselves, of course, and the principal battles of the two liberation campaigns. I avoided the most notable burials, the Medal of Honor recipients, and the names of the famous, then began to parse my way through the heroes about whom no one writes or makes movies. I eventually created a spreadsheet of dozens of names, supplemented by names on a plaque from the wall of the rebuilt church of Graignes where, I knew, 17 American doctors, medics, and wounded who had surrendered were executed by the Waffen-SS on June 11, along with the village priests and all the other adults over age 12. I learned where the men and women I chose came from, what they did in service, and where they were killed. Then I began to prepare my remarks.
On June 4, Alice and I flew into Rennes, France, and drove to the B&B farm cottage we had rented. It was located between the two cemeteries. It was in the hedgerows of Normandy and every path we drove or walked was part of the battleground of the war. On June 5, we drove to the Brittany American Cemetery, just to study it, to get a feel for the tranquil and graceful setting, and to find the graves and names of many of the people in whom I had become interested. The towns, villages, and many American groups had already laid wreaths in the chapel and workmen were putting out American and French flags, but otherwise the cemetery was empty on the 5th. We had the luxury of wandering unhindered for as long as we wished. We experienced what I expect is felt in American military cemeteries— an overwhelming sense of grief and loss at the endless rows of crosses and stars. After several hours we drove back to the B&B and tried to come to grips with the overwhelming sense of place and time. Then I began to panic.
The remarks I had prepared were heavy on how hellish it was, what heroes the soldiers were, duty, honor, country, don’t forget them—things one hears at any patriotic event. In other words, they were boring and sounded like me giving a lecture. I threw my notes away.
The next day, June 6, at the cemetery, I was preceded by the playing of Amazing Grace by a band composed of American high school students from across the country. Just before me, a choir of retired Chicago police officers sang a hymn to the fallen. My talk was not long.
I spoke about the realization that every single grave cradled someone who, before dying for our country, had been unique, with their own story of the special things in that person’s life that had made them who they were. I spoke specifically about a boy who had played third base in high school, about an accounting clerk, and then a college professor. I mentioned a bit actor in the Blondie movies of the late 30s and 40s. I then compared our being in the cemetery to walking through a library with 4,910 books, each a remarkable story, but in which the last chapter of the book was ripped out.
Their average age was just under 20 years.
I spoke briefly about the enormous suffering our French allies experienced, not just the Resistance but the farm wives, the bakers, the village priests and postal workers. Indeed, those would be like the ones who had welcomed us and helped with shelter, information, and directions on this day. I ended by asking everyone present to do three things: (1) to find one name in that cemetery and learn that person’s story; to adopt them and remember them; (2) to not think of D-Day as a relic of a heroic age but to remember how easy it is for an autocrat to seize the reins of power and bring us to the edge of destruction; and, (3) to practice democracy so that each time you vote, thank that hero who is buried in that cemetery for their sacrifice so that you could vote.
It took a while to get myself back together after that. We stayed for hours visiting with participants while we recovered our composure, then drove to Saint-Lô. Saint-Lô’s June 6 celebration is hard to grasp: the US, with some help from Germany, completely destroyed it in the war. At least 3,000 citizens died in the American assault, most from bombing. But Saint-Lô wanted American liberation more than it wanted Nazi occupation. Eighty years later, its event was truly patriotic: children’s choirs sang the national anthems and other patriotic songs. Those young people took part in the wreath laying at the foot of the cliff where the city was demolished. The mayor read the names of the city’s martyrs to German executions and gave a speech that emphasized peace and reconciliation. Then we joined in a cocktail reception on the banks of the Vire. We were happy to be there and happy that, once more, France welcomes Americans. You probably know what happened next: Presidents Biden and Macron changed their plans, and ours. They decided to meet again on June 7 at the Normandy American Military Cemetery, thereby co-opting our public ceremony, of which my second speech would have been a part. The French military, police, and security sent about 16,000 people to close the roads (and the beaches) and to secure other areas, then attend the rushed-up service in the Normandy American cemetery. No one was allowed to travel within twenty miles of the sites. We stayed put. One bus of visitors had accidentally gotten down to the beach near Vierville; it was quarantined by the security service and all the people on it spent the day on the detained bus.
Finally, on June 8, we were part of the public celebration of Sainte-Mère-Église. The town is located just inland from Utah Beach. It was the first city liberated in France. You may remember it from the story of the American paratrooper who was snagged on the church tower and swung back and forth during the invasion, watching the battle. Sainte-Mère-Église is the most patriotic American town I’ve ever seen. Its population of 2,000 swelled to about 15,000 between June 5 and June 9. The United States Army erected a World War II army camp on the edge of town and installed tents, tanks, jeeps, halftracks, AA guns—a fully replicated camp. All 15,000 French and European visitors walked through the army camp, studying everything in it and chatting relentlessly with the American soldiers chosen to man it. There were parachute drops from C-47s and a tank circuit in a nearby field. The town center was overwhelmed with cafes, bars, and pop-up beer stands to serve everyone. I estimate that 14,000 of the visitors waved American flags and about half of them wore some piece of American military clothing. American bands played on a stage in the town square, in front of the church where Sergeant Steele swung in his parachute. There was a parade, and I was given a jeep!
The crowd was the most enthusiastic in my experience and memory. It lined the parade route of about one and a half miles, applauded endlessly, took countless pictures, and welcomed we Americans who had come to pay our respects and join in what is now their festival. One woman even ran out into the street and gave me a kiss (okay, it was Alice, but the crowd didn’t know that). I have never before been a part of anything like it.
It was one of the greatest honors of my life to be a part of the 80th Anniversary of D-Day in France. I have nothing but gratitude for the opportunity I was given. It would not have been possible for me but for my having been a part of MWSA and for the support and encouragement you have given me. My express thanks go back many years, and include past presidents Bob Doerr, Joyce Faulkner, and Dwight Zimmerman, current president Val Ormond, and founder Bill McDonald. If I continue in that vein, I will eventually name all of you, so let me pause there and thank all of you. I believe almost all of you know me personally. I am grateful for your friendship and support, and I thank you for letting me represent you on this occasion. Let me finish with this: if you wonder how I was chosen to be a part of the 80th anniversary of D-Day in Normandy, let me be honest: I was lucky. But the harder I worked, the luckier I got. You can do it, too.
See you in San Diego.