An American girl at Omaha

I think I was in the 5th grade when my Grandaddy finally spoke about his experiences in WWII. I had a school project and he sat down with me and a tape recorder to tell me his stories. I was young and unappreciative. And I was most definitely not worthy of hearing the stories he had to tell.

Today Jason and I visited Omaha Beach, Pointe du Hoc and the American Cemetery in Normandy, France. To bear witness to the conditions of the "beach", have memories return from conversations with my grandfather about when he stormed the beaches for D Day and view the ultimate sacrifices of thousands of boys and men who never returned home was humbling.

I do not cry much. I told Jason that this day trip was more for him bc I did not have the appreciation.

I was wrong. I cried. I said a silent prayer and took in all that the museum and thousands of white crosses laid out before me had to offer. 9,000 crosses, actually.


My grandfather survived the invasion of Normandy and the reoccupation of France in 1944. Now I understand why he drank constantly upon his return to the united states. I cannot fathom what a sober life would be like if I watched my friends and comrades die in battle. Actual battle. Not the kind we have today where it is distances and machines. I mean the kind where you see a mans face as you pierce him with a bayonet or shoot him with a gun in your hand.

The nightmares and images that would haunt your sleep would be enough to drive anyone to a bottle to numb and block it out. I'm not saying it was right, but now I can better understand. A family and daughters to raise would be something to block the memories, but the images would always be there in your head as constant reminders.......



I am glad we went.