When we arrived from the car lot to the park entrance, we were welcomed by armed security who appeared to be French military. My back stiffened and eyebrows raised as I took in their expressions. The presence of these men silently but powerfully reminded all who entered that this was a place deserving the sincerest respect and deepest honor. I pulled the children into me and quietly but sternly explained to them the significance of where we were. Eyes wide, they nodded their understanding and we passed through security into a large, bright and sunny lobby dotted with immense photographs of soldiers and battlefields. Along one wall were computer monitors and keyboards for looking up the location of specific graves. You could search by state, name, unit number and more.
By the time I'd reached the far end of the lobby, to what I thought was the entrance to the grounds and cemetery, I was fighting back the tears. But the doors were actually just a wall of glass, and the traffic pattern turned sharply left and down a flight of stairs.
Below, underground was, by contrast, a dimly lit but nonetheless elaborate gallery of artifacts, photographs, statistics, video footage and written stories depicting the chain of events, personal accounts and tributes of the men who fought on the ground no more than 500 meters away. To say this was moving doesn't do it justice. I wiped away a steady flow of tears as I read about the heroic acts of countless American men and women. At the end of the gallery another sharp turn led through a long dimly lit marble-lined hallway. A soothing female voice announced name after name after name. I wondered to myself how long one would have to stand in the hallway to hear the names of all 9,387 men and women who gave their lives near this place and were buried above.
The hallway opened up suddenly, to a large, cathedral-height rotunda majestically labeled "The Hall of Heroes." Glass plaques formed a fluid circle around the room with head shots of smiling young men in uniform. Under their names were labels identifying those whose bravery saved lives and those for whom that bravery cost them their own. In the center of the room, enclosed on three sides was a wordless memorial.
Vivienne and my mom stood close to one another inside the glass enclosure, heads bowed and hands folded. My mom later explained Vivi had asked her, "Nana, what is this?" And when my mom explained, tears in her own eyes, this was a special place to say a prayer for the men and women who gave their lives for freedom, Vivi responded accordingly and my mother followed suit.
After their silent "amen," Mom and I took a deep breath, grasped hands and headed toward the doors that led to the beach and graves beyond. My eyes locked with the soldier standing guard. As we passed, I whispered a quiet "merci" hoping it would convey the deeper gratitude I felt for the tribute this place was to my country and fellow countrymen.
The path led us along a beautiful coastline, rolling with hills down to a gorgeous sandy beach, the forest at our back.
It was breathtaking in it's beauty and serenity even without the knowledge of what took place here 68 years ago. But looking down the slopes to the waves below made the courage of the men who stormed this beach so tangible my insides hurt.
Rather suddenly, the forest behind us gave way to perfectly manicured fields with rows upon rows of crosses and stars.
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| This cross reads, "Here rests in Honored Glory a Comrade in Arms known but to God." These graves of unidentified soldiers were spread throughout the grounds, surrounded by their fellow heroes. |
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| The rosary hanging on this cross of a soldier from Massachusetts reminded me that although I don't have a personal connection with anyone here, each cross is connected to someone, somewhere who misses them. |
