Proud to be American

I, like many Americans, have always been under the impression that the French hate us. Sure, the French government voices a strong opinion against American politics, but do the French people really dislike Americans?

Today is June 7, 2009, and the small towns off the Normandy coast of France are still celebrating the liberation of their towns in 1944. For four days now, I have toured towns like Ste Marie Eglis, Bayeux, and Saint Lo where the French are commemorating the brave fight that started with a treacherous landing on the beaches of Normandy on June 6th. It is thought that this could be the last big anniversary in which American vets will be able to make the trip over to France. World War II survivors are passing rapidly, and the ones that do make the trip are battling every health problem imaginable to keep their old hearts beating.

The local French approach these veterans they see hobbling around, dressed in their original uniforms, and thank them profusely. Many ask them to sign something, a picture of their town on liberation day or a journal account from a relative during the time. These vets are treated like celebrities, and here, Americans are heroes.

I spoke with a few men that landed on the beaches on D-Day in the past few days, and I saw the destruction wrought on the ancient buildings of the area. On this anniversary, some of the men chose to be near a church, or a town square, where they stood holding a French flag on liberation day 65 years ago. Veteran Marion Gray embraced me and quoted text from his published accounts of his experiences. As a soldier and a medic, he did things that a surgeon today cannot perform legally. He told me that for 50 years, he never spoke of the war; no one even knew that he was ever in the service. That’s a common thread that weaves through these men. They are only recently, at the urging of their relatives, telling their stories.

The question that has been on my mind for days is what made these men willingly risk their lives for the liberation of France. D-Day was a massacre, and many knew it before they arrived on the beach. The Germans looked down from a bluff, the perfect place for defense, onto approaching soldiers, many of whom never even made it across the sand. Now, my intention is not to get into the details of the day, exactly what happened, strategy, and outcome. Instead, I wonder what was going through the minds of these men. Marion told me that before he unloaded from his carrier onto the LST boat, his commanding officer told the crew, “Look to your left and look to your right. You may not see this man again.”

And the men still charged. Back then, officers had their ranks painted on their helmets, and the Germans targeted them first. So these American men, without direction, took it upon themselves—loaded with willpower and fueled by an anger told and pounded into them—to carry out their mission. They were boys, turned quickly into men. For most, this was their first time away from home. And this is how they met the world…with bloodshed.

I don’t know what kept these men motivated to liberate a country they’d never seen and people they’d never met. Perhaps it was the motivation to stay alive. Perhaps it was human compassion.

Twenty-five firework shows lined the beaches of Normandy to celebrate what the Allied Forces did during those bloody days. I stood right under one, sparks landing on the streets near my feet. Needless to say, it wasn’t shameful to be an American.