ON THE BEACH

the war ended for me some fifty four years ago and I thought, at the time, when I hung up my uniform, that part of my life would be relegated to a state of obscurity as well. but, as the fiftieth anniversary of the invasion of northern France approached, it seemed like a propitious time to fullfill a covenant I had made with myself, so many years ago, to visiit the graves of friends who sleep eternally above that small piece of ground where the most crucial battle of the war was contested. I did, in fact,return to the scene of that incredible day when the entire world held it's collective breath while a few young men from two diametrically opposed political philosophies slugged it out on a beach running red wth the precious blood of too many innocent young men.

It was a chapter in my life that a merciful God has obliterated from my conscious memory but has permitted me to comprehend in a manner that will forever remain a part of who I am in terms that I can abide.

until recently, I was able to live compatibly with this ghastly experience to the extent that it remain in the dstant past with only passing references upon demand. I thought I was in complete control of this phase of my life and the debilitating emotions that invariably accompany the recollection of particularly unpleasant events. sadly, I was to learn that we are never in complete control of the diverse, compelling factors that control and influence our lives.

against sound advice, I went to view a motion picture that centered, in large measure, around the invasion of northern France. I did not think that events portrayed in a ficticious motion picture could have such a profound effect upon emotions buried these many years. I had seen many accounts of the D Day invasion, both documentary and contrived but nothing, until now, approached the authenticity of this film. in all other portrayals, there were no photographers on the beach during the initial assault phase to accurately record the utter chaos and carnage that prevailed. somehow, speilberg was able to capture the confusion, heartbreak and fear that was everywhere. if you were there, this film brought you immediately back to a point in time you would rather not relive. I thought the scars had been healed with the passage of time in excess of half a century. I should not have gone but wiith all the hype this motion picture generated, I knew I was going to have to see it.

from the very first opening moment of the film, in that sanctified place overlooking the battleground where a few brave men made history on that fateful day, the tears started flowing, unashamedly, and continued for three hours. I was unwillingly transported back to a terrifying time when survival was tenuous and the outcome doubtful. I never really thought I would survive that terrible day in hell and the fact that so many of us did, was in itself, miraculous.

hollywood makes films these days that are so realistic you can almost smell the cordite and the stench of death.* they have also replicated the act of dying to an art form that permits one to see a man's life blood draining from his sacred body. this may add graphic realism to a film but to anyone who has witnessed the death of a close friend under such barbaric conditions, I think this much realism borders on the obscene. furthermore, I vehemently resent the exploitation of the sacrifices these people made purely for the sake of a commercial endeavor, designed primarily as a means of generating revenue. people like mr. speilberg, enjoy a singular distinction in that they can and do, through their access and utilization of the media of motion pictures, influence the way the rest of us view the world around us. it might be argued that there is a message imparted from this motion picture. mr speilberg proclaims that this is an anti-war film. If this be true, then I believe this film should be shown in all our secondary schools, free of charge. to my knowledge, this has not been done.

people who know of my circumstances, once again are reviving these old moments that I would prefer to remain in obscurity. God has permitted me to relegate these times to their proper place in a mostly forgotten history. I am extremely uncomfortable being placed in the role of a hero. my son, and all those who have fallen in defense of their country are the true heros. I have said many times that the only heros to have emerged from this battle are buried in those lonesome, solitary graves above the sands where they died. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. If you ask any veteran who actually crossed that beach on D Day about his motivation, he will tell you his one pervasive thought was to survive. a rather young, naive television reporter asked me if I was thinking of how I was liberating the oppressed people of Europe as I was storming across the bloody sands of Omaha. I responded with, "yeah lady, that and how the hell I was going to save my own sorry ass".

the only consuming passion I felt at the time was finding cover from the murderous enemy fire. we were pinned down with nowhere to go with the tide coming in and the enemy well entrenched before us when colonel George Taylor put this thought to us. "men, in a short while, there will be only two kinds of people on this beach, those who are dead and those of you who are about to die." since the incoming tide did not present any prospect for long term committments, there seemed to be no alternative but to go forward. we won that beach purely on the instinct of survival. sure, up and down the beach, incredible act of individual bravery were being performed but these feats alone did not win the beach. the beach, for the most part, was won by green frightened kids, facing combat for the first time. opertional plans were largely discarded since combat teams were scattered all over the 7600 yds of omaha beach. fire teams were formed by ranking NCOs. there was very little organizational cohesion with no overall chain of command. chaos and confusion ruled the day. these men did not want to die so they went forward because there was no going back.*

this motion picture has raised a level of comprehension in a generation of young people to whom the war was just something old people talked about. it made them aware that a small group of people, largely, younger than themselves, brought to the world a small flicker of freedom that blazed into liberation for many who despaired that they would ever again experience the exquisite sensation of living free from the yoke of oppression. and there is a whole dwindling generation of people who are grateful that you understand and appreciate the sacrifices that were made on that memorable day in history. but don't call call me a hero. don't make me out to be something I am not. I did nothing more than a whole lot of other frightened people did on the beach that day, and that was to survive. the only hero in this family is my son and his name is on, "TheWall".

* (I have frequently been asked, "what single episode or event stands out above all others in my mind of that terrible day in hell". as I've previously stated, most of what had occurred has been mercifully relegated to an obscure place in the nether regions of my mind. what remains is a melange of isolated incidents that have been merged into an homogenous concentration of inter-related events which individually have no relative significance but when taken in context can shatter the complacency of a saint. but one thing that is ever prominent in my conscious memory is the overall, pervading stench of death. no one in my command,including myself, had ever been in combat and were for the first time, exposed to death and the horrible residue of battle. after the initial shock of seeing the dead and dying, you are assaulted with an unforgettable combination of alien odors. blood, offal, excrement and the sickly, sweet stench of charred flesh, which can only be human. throw in gunpowder and the smell of fear, oh yes, you can smell fear, and you have a nauseating mixture that lingers on every battlefield, since man first chose to take up arms against his neighbor. It permeates the atmosphere and clings to your clothing, skin, and hair. you cannot wash it away and you have no change of clothes. you cannot escape it, it follows you around as a constant reminder of your own fragile mortality. but worse of all, it invades your soul and remains, forever, a part of something you would rather not have to suffer. sights and sounds become tempered with time. pictures in your mind become dim and sounds lose their resonance. but the smell of an inert mass of decaying protoplasm is foremost in any return to that time when mankind suffered it's most profound indignity. perhaps that is the reason why veterans are reluctant to discuss the war and I will say no more about it.)

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