I don’t know if you’re like me, every time I watch the ceremonies commemorating D-Day, the Normandy landings, it turns me inside out. There are ceremonies, over the course of a year, to highlight major sections of History, they are often long and redundant, but these come to me every time.
First, there is the place: the seaside. This unchanged place. This unchangeable place. We don’t change the horizon. We don’t change infinity. There is the beach, too. This golden carpet that leads to the earth, that leads to the country. This sand similar to the sand trodden by the soldiers who came to disembark, 80 years ago. This immaculate place which was stained with their blood. This blood that the sea washed on the shore, but which is now part of the tide, forever. In each wave that joins the Normandy bank, there are the lost souls, there is their offering.
And then, and above all, there are the survivors, the ghosts. Those who walked in the water, those who ran on the beach, those who made it to the top. Those who gave the World back to the world.
The veterans present last Thursday were between 99 and 107 years old. The men of the century. Before them, king, presidents and dignitaries come second.
American veteran Ed Berthold read the letter he wrote to his mother the day after D-Day:
“Wednesday evening, June 7, 1944
Dear Mom,
A few lines to tell you that we are all fine. We were on mission 10 of D-Day. We experienced extraordinary things…
I just received my ration for the week, there are American candies now, Oh Henry, Babe Ruth, Mars and Planters peanuts! I hope you’re doing well.
Love,
Ed »
He has just participated in the Allies’ greatest victory and he is thinking about the candy he is going to eat. A tit-ass. It took some tough guys to free Humanity.
On CNN, reporter Christiane Amanpour, holding the hand of Jack Larson, a 101-year-old veteran, asks him if he remembers what it was like on June 6, 1944. He replies:
“I had water up to my chin. Our pilot landed us in too deep water, but he was only 17 years old.
—You were children…
— Yes, we were children.
—Did you know what you were fighting for?
— Yes, we knew that. Each of us knew it. We were all ready to give our lives to kick Hitler’s ass out of Europe.
—And you did it.
– We did it. I lost friends. We’ve all lost friends. But we were soldiers. We were ready for that. »
We don’t achieve enough. These old gentlemen, they were flos, kids, to whom we owe our life today.
On France 3, we meet a Quebec veteran, Léopold Thibeault, happy to see Juno beach again, a week before his 105e birthday. The French reporter thanks him for what he did here in 1944. Léopold replies: “That’s very nice of you. »
There is no heroism without modesty.
PHOTO ADRIAN WYLD, CANADIAN PRESS ARCHIVES
Quebec veteran Léopold Thibeault and Justin Trudeau, in Courseulles-sur-Mer, Normandy
On TF1, a resident of Sainte-Mère-Église, Henri Jean, who was 10 years old at the time, said: “I remember those days, minute by minute. It remains engraved in my head. On the morning of June 6, it was quite calm. We crossed the square with my father. And I saw an American soldier, his parachute was hanging in the top of the tree, his feet were a meter from the ground, at the level of my nose. He seemed enormous to me, at the end of his harness. I touched his boot. The body swayed slightly. He was dead… “
On the BBC, we replayed the reflections of English veteran Harry Billinge, during a previous commemoration:
” Do not thank me. And don’t tell me I’m a hero. I am not a hero. I was lucky. I am alive. The heroes are dead. It was hell. A friend of mine died in my arms. He was the father of a 6 month old child. I found where he is buried, in the small cemetery of La Delivrande, and I put a cross on his tombstone. All D-Day veterans, we love each other more than anything. We were at the bottom of the hole together. They are wonderful men. My generation saved the world and I will never forget them. »
Harry Billinge was not there on Thursday. He died in 2022. He was added to the heroes.
How many veterans will be present at the next major commemorations, in five years, in ten years? How will we feel when only heads of state remain to tell us about their exploits?
I’m afraid it will leave us lukewarm.
I’m afraid we’ll forget them. And let us forget that it is possible to do what they did.
Because that’s the question we all need to ask ourselves.
Would we have done it?
Would we do it?
Is there still a generation ready to sacrifice itself to save the world?