Return to Normandy 2001, Part 2

We've seen the photos of Caen--utter destruction. There are before and after photos, before the bombing of 1944 and after the bombing. More than 75% of all the buildings in Caen, 10,000 in all, were destroyed. Thankfully, the famed twin abbeys built by William the Conqueror and his queen Mathilda were spared the destruction much of the city suffered. We marvel in the light of the next day at the human spirit that would rebuild this city from the ashes and heaps of stone that our troops saw as they liberated the French people from the death grip of Hitler's Nazi war machine.

Caen lies on the banks of the Orne River, which was of strategic importance to the Allies. The success of the invasion required that bridges over the river and road and rail lines intersecting it come under the control of the invaders. As we cross the Orne, my thoughts turn to the men of the 552nd, and I wonder if the wet, green hills, the river filling its banks, the narrow street would look familiar to them today. Caen fades from view as we move northwest on the E-46 toward Bayeux (home of the famed Bayeux Tapestry depicting the Battle of Hastings) and the historic beaches.

Enroute and near St. Lo we encounter France's magnificent memorial to General Eisenhower. Yes, I know, we usually refer to dignitaries by their highest achieved rank--in his case President--but this memorial clearly is to the General Eisenhower, not the President Eisenhower. It is striking, sited at the center of a traffic circle, backgrounded by a classic arch and a small but tall stand of dark green trees. The General towers above you, at least ten feet tall, in full uniform--Eisenhower jacket, of course--and posed as though he is overlooking the field of battle, hands on hips. Our hearts swell with pride as we stand beside this towering bronze image.

In St. Lo I am overwhelmed with thoughts about the 552nd Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion. Daddy has mentioned St. Lo many times. Did they drive their trucks on this very road? I can almost see the convoy, olive drab, splattered with mud, the gun barrels pointed menacingly skyward, poised for the deadly aim of the gunner. The sky is gray, and the wind is cold. I feel the cool drizzle on my face and think of the men in the boats that stormy June day.

The stone wall of an ancient castle set on a high rock bluff rises on our right in the midst of the commercial district of St. Lo. A vacant flagstaff stands in front of a monument at the base of the bluff. We stop to investigate. It is a memorial to les victimes of the bombardment on June 6, 1944. War medals in bas-relief flank a sword and a shield depicting a rearing stallion. We cross another river and continue to read about the boys who became men on a foreign shore in that month of June. The verdant countryside with its steep, rolling hills and pastures delineated by hedgerows begins to give way to a plateau with fewer trees. We are nearing the sea.