Spring '08 Writing Contest Winner

  For Us the Living
By C.J. Rauch

            Ready with my compass, plenty of Google Maps, a fresh baguette, and a rationing of chocolate oatmeal cookies, I set off. I found myself in the French village of Carentan, situated near the English Channel in the French region of Normandy. The small town of 15,000 residents holds the distinction of sitting roughly in between two of the most famous beaches in the U.S. or France. Their names are Utah and Omaha Beaches.

            I was traveling that day by bike. Yes, train is perhaps the best way to get around Europe, but the so called "paths of iron" only go so far. The bicycle I had rented would take me from the sleepy town of Carentan for a distance I would later calculate to be about fifty kilometers. I would also later discover that I shared part of my route with a leg of the 2008 Tour de France -- but that was not why I was traveling that day.

            As I entered the last traffic circle out of the village, I saw the green sign pointing in the direction of a small town, Sainte-Mère-Église. A truly historic town, it was the first French town to be liberated from the Nazis after the Allied invasion. I had a reason to visit later, it is the ville jumelée, or sister city, of a small American town: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

            I rode past countless emerald pastures, hearing choruses of cows around me in a steady drizzle. The words of one my French friends echoed through my head, "The region was devastated by the Second World War. In some towns, only the centuries old church survived -- some were not even that lucky. The invasion left its mark on the area." Every now and then, I would ride by testaments of these facts when I would pass an old house that had been reduced to rubble. Nature had reclaimed much of the land over fifty long years.

            Soon, I reached Utah Beach. The French will translate "D-Day" and "landing beaches" into "Jour-J" and "Plages du débarquement," respectively. However, perhaps due to the spread of Franglais, or perhaps as a nod to the Americans, they do not translate "Utah Beach." Unlike the nearby cemetery, the museum is not on ground given to the U.S. Governemtn. At the same time, there is a very distinct American feel to that hallowed ground.

            The museum was a typical museum. From the windows, I could see the English Channel meters from the abandoned Nazi defenses. Many of them still litter the area decades after the conclusion of the war. The exhibits on display were what you would expect to see. There were electronic maps, old uniforms, even artillery. At the same time, there was a special feeling in that place. Many of the visitors were clearly American veterans -- some possibly their first visit back in sixty-four years. I did not know any of them, nor do I personally know anyone who fought there in June, 1944. But at the same time, I felt so connected to them. Even now, looking back at the sight of an eighty-five year old man slowly succumbing to tears wrenches at my insides.

            All of a sudden, the rain came down hard against the windows of the museum. My gaze turned towards the windows, and fell on the great monuments standing by the sand of the beach. Plaques cast in bronze, French and American flags, and a memorial General Eisenhower stood in the rain. Instantly, my mind flashed to Gettysburg. I realized that this land was the Gettysburg of World War II. In fact, I would later see how many dozens of people quoted lines from the immortal Gettysburg Address in the guest book. It makes sense, as there, too, thousands of men "gave the last full measure of devotion."

            As I read the guest book, my usual stoic self was replaced by someone who wished there were a box of tissues by the book. Stories of bravery, fright, loss, survival, and most of all, remembrance seemed to come alive to the landscape of the beach. There were entries in English, French, German, Dutch, Chinese, and more. Most ended with a brief sentence of gratitude, often employing some knowledge of the French language, even if only the word, "Merci." At least once every page was written, "The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here." Lincoln's words seem to still rang true and strike a chord with many.

            Partly so that future generations could experience the emotions I felt, I reached into my pocket to make a small donation to the museum's donation box. I pulled out a Euro coin, and saw it was one struck in France. On the reverse of the coin was blazoned the motto of the French Republic, "Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité." Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. As I was inscribing the guest book myself, I noted how what had happened on the sand of that beach was the very fruition of that motto.

            I took nothing but a handful of pictures from the afternoon's bike ride. Pictures may fade with time, the sand from the acclaimed beach may wash away, the veterans may not be surviving, but I can attest that the emotions from that consecrated ground will be intense for decades to come. As I rode on that afternoon, the words to that immortal address sting rang out in my head, "It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced." I could not help but wonder how many more landing beaches we would have to have.