Abeam Normandy, France, Enroute to Lisbon

16 September 2012

We are now about halfway between the south coast of England and the beaches of Normandy, France, with two days in front of us before we arrive in Lisbon. These are the same waters the Allied forces crossed 68 years ago the night of June 5-6, 1944, on their way to liberate Europe from the Nazis. And they’re the same waters William the Conqueror crossed 946 years ago on his way to “liberate” England from the treacherous hands of the pretender, King Harold. I experienced a little of both those historic crossings during the past 5 days in France.

We arrived in Antwerp, Belgium, early Monday morning (9/10), pulling alongside a dock that is at the foot of one of Antwerp’s main streets. Sometimes we dock quite a ways from the key sights of the ports we visit—in Galway, we didn’t dock at all—and other times, we tie up in the heart of things. In Antwerp, we were in the heart.

On Monday, I escorted my intercultural communication class on a field lab to Brussels. Field labs are a new requirement for SAS. In the past, we faculty were expected to contribute at least one recommended field trip in one of our ports where a sight, historic or otherwise, is somehow linked to the curriculum of a course we’re teaching. But while we could highly recommend these trips to our students, we couldn’t require attendance. I even had to cancel a visit to the South African Parliament three years ago when only 3 people signed up for the visit. This year, it’s different. These field labs now are required for course completion, constituting 20% of the course content. So they’re all a “go.”

The field lab was a visit to the European Commission, which is the executive branch of the European Union government. In a sense, it was like visiting the White House, except, in the case of Europe, 27 “presidents” preside over the commission—one commissioner from each member country—with a rotating chair among the members.

The day was enjoyable and educational, though more talk and less walk than I had envisioned. I thought we’d take a walking tour of the Commission building, rub elbows with some high-level European officials, dine among the commissioners as they discussed how to handle the ongoing economic crisis, and spend a little time listening to and asking questions of Commission staffers involved in the day-to-day business of communicating among the 27 EU cultures.

We did take a brief walking tour of magnificent old Brussels and its 16^th-Century market square, enough time to try a delicious Belgian waffle smothered in very rich milk chocolate. And we had lunch in a Commission cafeteria, though one sequestered in a corner of the visitor’s center, not in the middle of the action. Then we sat through 2 hour-long briefings by representatives from the Directorate General for Communication and the Directorate General of Education and Culture. The content was very interesting, particularly the discussion of the economic matrix that’s trying to contend with the extraordinarily complex crisis the EU finds itself in; and the discussion of an educational program called “Erasmus,” which sends as many as 80,000 EU undergraduate and graduate students each year on exchange programs to universities in EU countries other than their own. It was a fascinating look into this grand European experiment, which, if it holds together, will almost certainly change Europe into a much more culturally homogeneous continent. And, if it succeeds, it will likely achieve the EU’s primary purpose: preventing another catastrophic war among the member countries.

So the lab was fascinating, but I—and my students—would have preferred a little more action and interaction. Still, a worthwhile day.

On Tuesday, I picked up a rental car from the Antwerp Budget office—a manual transmission Opal with a diesel engine (the Europeans are much more into diesel fuel than we are, largely because it costs much less than gasoline: about $7/gallon for diesel, at least a dollar more for gas.) The drive from Antwerp to Bayeux, France, took about 6 hours, most of which was spent in a light drizzle and thick overcast, so I wasn’t distracted from deciphering road signs by the passing Belgian and French countrysides and cities.

I arrived in Bayeux, Normandy, France, without having missed a turn, thanks to my Garmin navigational device, which I had preloaded with maps of Central Europe and addresses of my destinations. I call the device “Big Vi” (the model is a “nuvi”), and she did a magnificent job of navigating me to the town. Getting me to the Hotel Churchill, however, was a challenge. Big Vi hadn’t been told about some of the one-way streets in Bayeaux, and she kept trying to turn me down streets that would surely have led into the arms of the gendarmes. Finally, I had to shut her off and follow my instincts to the hotel entry.

The Hotel Churchill is a charming place, filled with artifacts and photos from the days immediately following the Allied landings on the beaches just a few miles north and west of town. The staff is very friendly, reflecting the attitude of most locals in the region. They grew up raised by parents and grandparents who had spent 4 years under Nazi occupation and who still welcome US, Canadian, and British visitors as if it were 1944. Bayeux is a very French village, but English is spoken everywhere and is the common language heard most often on the streets.

My room was typical for a 3-star French hotel: about the size of a large walk-in closet, just large enough to accommodate the queen bed and a tiny desk. The bath was smaller even than the bathroom of my cabin—that’s tiny! But the room did have a window that opened above the courtyard entrance. So, sleeping with the window open, I was greeted each morning at 5am by the smell of the fresh-baked baguettes, croissants, and other warm treats coming from a local boulangerie. Then, at 8 each morning, the bells of the Bayeux Cathedral woke the town with the hours’ chimes and a short serenade.

I had come to Normandy to visit the beaches and the battlegrounds. And I spent Wednesday and Thursday driving from the far eastern seaside village of Arramanches, where the British built the first deepwater port to resupply the Allies following the invasion, to the village of Saint Mere Eglise, a few miles inland from the westernmost invasion site, Utah Beach.

Arramanches, which sits in the middle of what were Juno, Gold, and Sword beaches on June 6^th, still contains remnants of the mooring docks a mile or so out from the beach. And the wreckage of one unloading dock sits partially crumpled on the beach just offshore from the village’s main street, looking like a massive swim raft that had broken loose from its tether and washed ashore. I spent Wednesday morning, about an hour, walking around Arramanches, then drove west toward Omaha beach.

I had thought I’d visit the American cemetery last, after visiting the beaches and the battlegrounds. That seemed to be chronologically appropriate. But the Cemetery sits above and at the eastern end of Omaha Beach, so I arrived there first and was drawn in. I’m glad I was because visiting the cemetery made the later visits to the beaches much more powerful.

The American cemetery is a perfectly manicured tract of land—many acres in size—that sits directly above Omaha beach. Anywhere else, a site like this would carry enormous pricetags and be where the wealthy would come for relaxation and play, sitting on their verandahs, sipping gin and tonics, enjoying the endless, wide beach below and the water of the English Channel to the north. Here, it’s a holy site—holy and haunted.

The cemetery is owned and maintained by a US government commission, a division, I’m guessing, of the US Park Service. The Park Service also maintains the monuments on the National Mall in Washington, which now—finally—includes a World War II monument. That monument is, of course, dedicated to the triumph of WWII. Standing among the 9,000 crosses and stars of the cemetery reminds one of its tragedy. How many potential Presidents, CEOs, Jonas Salks, Michael Jordans, and Steve Jobs are buried above Omaha Beach? How different would the world be if those 9,000 had returned?

So visiting the cemetery before visiting the beaches and other sites was the right thing to do. It provided the appropriate filter for seeing where these men—mostly men—died.

I spent about 90 minutes walking through the cemetery, then drove to Saint-Laurent-sur Mer, the village that sits in the middle of the 10 miles, or so, of beach stretching from just west of Arramanches to Point du Hoc, the outcropping between Omaha and Utah beaches. At Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer, I was able easily to walk out onto Omaha.

The morning of June 6^th, the invasion hit the beaches at 6:30, an hour after low tide. The Allied commanders felt having the tide out would allow the Higgins boats to get closer to the sand before they dropped the front traps to disgorge the troops. But the low tide also meant that the soldiers would have to cross as much as 700 meters of flat beach before reaching the protection of the dunes at the edge of the beach. At Omaha, those 700 meters became a killing field. The Germans, including a reinforced division that Allied intelligence hadn’t learned of, was waiting with mortars and machine guns. The casualty rate at Omaha was over 50%. One solider later said that anyone who stayed on the beach was in one of two categories: already dead or soon to be.

The tide was low on Wednesday, just as it had been on June 6^th ’44. I walked to the water’s edge on the sand—very fine, golden sand, much like we see on the eastern shores of Lake Michigan. Looking out, I tried to imagine what the Germans saw as they looked out at the largest armada ever assembled bearing down on them. Then I turned and looked back at the dunes, rising 50 feet or more above the beach, providing perfect cover and a perfect view of the entire expanse of beach. Again, I tried to imagine what that sight must have looked like to 18-year-old soldiers as their comrades were being mowed down on either side. The only refuge were the dunes, over 7 football fields away. The fact so many of them made it, overwhelmed the defensive sites, and eventually established a beachhead is miraculous.

I hated to leave Omaha—I had had the same feeling when I visited the Gettysburg battlefield a couple of years ago—but I wanted to see Pointe du Hoc before heading back to Bayeaux. That was my last stop Wednesday.

Pointe du Hoc juts into the English Channel between Omaha and Utah beaches. It’s a cliff probably a couple of hundred feet high that provides a panoramic view up and down the coast, so it was a perfect place for a German gun position—in fact, several gun positions. The positions are still there, and I was able to explore down into the old reinforced bunkers, where the German defenders lived and worked leading up to the Allied invasion. The bunkers are cold and stark, but they have a somewhat burned smell, and the timbers reinforcing the concrete roofs are charred, probably from the flame throwers of the Army rangers who scaled the cliffs on June 6^th and overwhelmed the German positions. I spent the last hour of my touring day wandering among the bunkers and bomb craters above the beach and Channel.

On Thursday, I drove first to Sainte Mere Eglise, 15 to 20 miles west of Bayeau. Sainte Mere Eglise is best know as the town where many of the airborne troops who were supposed to drop in behind the German lines were mowed down as winds scattered them far from their intended drop zones. One airborne soldier, John Steele (played by Red Buttons in the movie The Longest Day), landed on the church tower in the middle of town, his parachute having entagled on a spire. He hung there for several hours, playing dead, until finally he was cut down by the Germans and taken prisoner. To commemorate Private Steele, the town has hung a parachute replica from the tower, complete with an effigy of the unfortunate soldier. Steele became a hero to the town and returned several times before he died in ’67.

After visiting a very fine museum at Sainte Mere Eglise, I drove to Utah Beach, the western most invasion site. Here, the German defenses had been bombed and shelled thoroughly before the US troops landed, so, unlike Omaha, the casualty rate was much lower, and the Americans secured a beachhead within a few minutes of landing, taking many of the shell-shocked German defenders prisoner.

Today, Utah looks very similar to Omaha—a very wide expanse leading up to 50- to 100-foot dunes. But it’s more active; Omaha is a decidedly more somber place. While I was on Utah, one end of the beach was the site of a sailing school, with small boats going into and out of the very chilly waters. Bathers were setting up chairs at the other end of the beach. And even a pair of trotting horses raced up and down the beach in the 30 minutes I stood in the sand.

Above the beach is an excellent museum of D-Day history, a museum that would do the Smithsonian proud. It even contains a rebuilt B-26 bomber, the aircraft that was instrumental in wiping out the German defenders before the invasion.

I left Utah Beach—my final D-Day commemoration stop—around 3:30 Thursday and drove the 30 minutes back to Bayeux.

A few words about my experiences when I wasn’t touring beaches and battlefields. Bayeux’s cathedral was built in the 11^th century, before the Norman invasion, and is a magnificent building that towers over the town. I walked through and down into the catacombs, where you can smell the centuries. The bishop who presided over that diocese was William the Conqueror’s religious sponsor and invaded England with the Norman troops.

Not far from the cathedral is an old church that now houses the Bayeux tapestry. Much more than a decorative wall hanging, the tapestry is 70 meters long and about 15 inches high, a continuous, embroidered cartoon telling the tale of William from his first being asked by Edward to assume the throne of England to his coronation in Westminster Abbey in 1066. It’s a wondrous and entertaining piece of art and history—and I say that as someone who doesn’t usually spend time looking at wall hangings.

On Friday, I took a drive to Deauville, a seaside resort that my neighbor, Monique Mace, had recommended I see. The drive through the villages of eastern Normandy was fun and interesting, the city itself was a very attractive tourist destination, complete with a casino that looks like it belongs on a cliff in Monaco, overlooking the Mediterranean. It was a pleasant day, though far less memorable than the two days I spent on the beaches.

Friday afternoon, I returned to the Hotel Churchill to spend a couple hours grading student papers—the work continues—then went to a tiny restaurant called La Rapiere, down a narrow side street of Bayeux, where I enjoyed a meal almost as memorable as the previous two days had been. In France, It’s hard to go wrong with food, but this meal—salmon, sauces, tomato soup, puff-pastry hors d’oevres, apple ice cream, calvados, wine—was a memory keeper. And, of course, the ambiance was perfect. I’ll include photos the next time I get a strong internet connection.

I drove back to Antwerp Saturday—a warm, sunny day, which allowed me to enjoy the countryside I’d missed on the drive to Normandy. I spent an hour walking around downtown Antwerp before reboarding the ship and getting back to the work of lesson planning and paper grading. Yet more to do.

I’m going to have to shorten these!