Party in the American Sector

Dear Old Bolds, Friends, and Family,

Travelling is much more of a challenge these days.  Charley’s health is more fragile, and medical supplies and medications fill additional suitcases, which need to be packed, unpacked, and sherpa’ed at each new location along with the professional video camera, my suitcase and backpack full of electronics. Time to write?  Only now, in the aftermath.

Where were we?  Ah, Belgium, then Dunkirk, and Paris.  After picking Graham up from Paris, we settled in our secluded, beautiful, and modest chateau B&B just outside of Bayeux, and started our Normandy tour.

The First Day was the American Day.

As usual, we laid flowers with our French friends on the graves of B-24 TROUBLE crewmembers. The staff at the American cemetery is always so kind as to bring us out with a small golf cart, a pail full of Omaha Beach sand, and a wet sponge. As our escort filled in the engraved names with the sand and carefully wiped away the excess, the sunlight turned the sand into gold, gleaming against the white marble. Arnaud and I laid the flowers down together, and Graham and Charley honored our men with salutes.

When we had fulfilled our solemn and heartfelt obligation, we drove nearly an hour towards Utah Beach, out to a field in the country where we could watch young paratroopers from America, England, Germany and France jump from airplanes into nearby meadows. We then joined them in Ste. Mere Eglise under the hot sun.

In the British sector, there are commemorations, ceremonies, and remembrance.  In the American sector, we have those.  But it also gets a little wild here. Ste. Mere Eglise unleashes a massive party, including the reenactors camped out nearby.  The city blocks off the entrances to the center square, smoke from roasting meat rises from restaurant stands arrayed around the church, and parking demands creativity and imagination. We finally found a spot almost a kilometer away from the center of town, but neither Charley nor Graham would consent to be pushed in the wheelchair. As we made our way laboriously towards the town, a boisterous crowd grew.  Scouts found us and brought us to our HQ, a table outside the Spot Bar held by our Belgian friends. To refresh ourselves after our march, we partook of adult beverages and chatted with new British friends while watching paratroopers flirt with pretty girls.  I wondered for a while if it might all be too much for the veterans, but they fed on the energy, especially Charley, who was in his element.  Inside the bar, an American veteran reigned supreme, surrounded by a group of enthralled young American servicemen.

After everyone was sufficiently quenched and fed, several authentic WWII running Sherman tanks and other era vehicles pushed through the streets. Such a scene would be unimaginable in the US, where safety regulations, police cordons, and other litigation-avoiding precautions would prevent people from reaching out and touching the tanks.  Not so in France, where you can experience these beasts up close and personally. The crowds were so packed, we smelled them and heard them, but we could barely see them or get near them for the cheering masses on all sides.

While attendance at events in the British sector seems to be waning, the numbers of people coming to the American sector for D-Day is exploding. Call it the Band-of-Brothers Effect if you will, but 16 years after the release of the mini-series the enthusiasm, gratitude, and appreciation only seem to be increasing.  The mood is invigorating, to put it mildly. Even though we possess a dislike of crowds and a certain amount of faint cynicism, we were swept away and thrilled by the moment despite ourselves.

This was pure, unbridled basking in the glory, and none of us could resist it, not Graham, and certainly not Charley.

We slowly made our way back to the car, and to a restaurant on Omaha Beach for dinner. Later at our lovely hotel, as I descended into sleep, I wondered if we would be back next year.  If we do go, we may decide to stay in the American sector instead of Bayeux.

The 93-year-olds want to be where the action is.

Sending you much love,

Heather