The August sky was bright. Clear. Blue. The odd sea bird flew over head. I could see the White Cliffs through the heat haze. Far off. Ghostly.
The sand was warm. A few children making sand forts. Some on the tidal flats clam digging. Towels spread out on the beach. Sun bathing.
Families walking the promenade. A merry go round mounted by laughing kids. Parents at tables sipping wine and smoking cigarerttes. Probably Gitanes.
We are on Juno Beach near Courseulles-sur-Mur. Sipping wine. Strolling the beach. Picking up rocks. Picking up the past. I can’t imagine the chaos that went on here 66 years ago. The roar of naval shells overhead; incoming German artillery crashing and slashing into the beach. Pretty coastal homes being smashed to smithereens. (Ugly condos border the beach now)The rattle of small arms and machine guns. The crack and crunch of mortars and grenades. Paths
leading from the beach -- busy with the living, the dead, the wounded.
The soft August wind swept across the beach grasses. Swaying like a regiment of phantoms on the move.
My grandson looks at me. He is thinking the same.
Back to Caen. A train to Paris. Next day I head off home. He heads back to Afghanistan.
Juno Beach. . . Afghanistan. . . . . and it goes on.
The sand was warm. A few children making sand forts. Some on the tidal flats clam digging. Towels spread out on the beach. Sun bathing.
Families walking the promenade. A merry go round mounted by laughing kids. Parents at tables sipping wine and smoking cigarerttes. Probably Gitanes.
We are on Juno Beach near Courseulles-sur-Mur. Sipping wine. Strolling the beach. Picking up rocks. Picking up the past. I can’t imagine the chaos that went on here 66 years ago. The roar of naval shells overhead; incoming German artillery crashing and slashing into the beach. Pretty coastal homes being smashed to smithereens. (Ugly condos border the beach now)The rattle of small arms and machine guns. The crack and crunch of mortars and grenades. Paths
leading from the beach -- busy with the living, the dead, the wounded.The soft August wind swept across the beach grasses. Swaying like a regiment of phantoms on the move.
My grandson looks at me. He is thinking the same.
Back to Caen. A train to Paris. Next day I head off home. He heads back to Afghanistan.
Juno Beach. . . Afghanistan. . . . . and it goes on.
