Martin did the research on booking our tour to Normandy, and he absolutely went the perfect route in choosing Oliver with Normandy44 Tours. We were traveling with our two boys- 10 and 14 and they will tell you this was their favorite part of our whole trip to Paris and France; and I agree. You can read my full review of the tour HERE.
We took the train from Paris, which I believe would be much better than traveling in a van full of strangers, and Oliver met us at the station- perfectly on time. As we arrived, Oliver mentioned that the gray, misty and muddy day was very much like the weather on that day in June, 1944. It was damp, wet, a bit chilly, and definitely muddy from the previous days’ rain.
He wasted no time getting the tour started- we boarded the van and began the drive down the small streets of that little town. Oliver talked as he drove, and we just tried to take it all in. We made our way to our first stop by way of a small one-way farm road, and Oliver remarked that we were lucky there wasn’t a tour bus coming the opposite direction to share that little road. I was thankful for that.
The first stop was a group of German bunkers, known as Longues Sur Mer, still housing disabled cannons- set remotely away from the sea with a large field in front of it. Not where I thought we’d start, or even what I expected- so far from the actual sea. But it became immediately obvious that Oliver would take us off the beaten paths that we saw the other tours exploring. He explained that this area housed anything but the “top brass” of the German artillery. These guys were the youngest, oldest and least shiny of the bunch. This was important, because actually, this was one of the first lines of the defense against the allies, these cannons could fire far enough into the ocean to attack the incoming fleet.
We were given time to explore these areas; and this was the moment we realized we had NOT come with adequate footwear for this task. We slipped and slid down the top of the green, grassy hills built around the cannons, and I just prayed prayers I wouldn’t end up fanny down in the mud. Of course, this was a kid’s dream, and we left our first stop with tennis shoes covered in mud (I should add- one kid had brand new, fancy kicks covered in mud).
We drove on through the village- and as we wound through the little town, I asked how many civilians were killed during these battles- approx. 25,000 was the number he gave. I marveled at the idea of having your homes centered in the middle of this awe-inspiring conflict. The town has stayed much as it was- the locals have left it as both a tourist sight, but also to remember. It’s amazing to me how you can sense the rich reverence of the War, of the people in Europe. We have no clue here in the US. I suppose there’s no point of reference when it’s not in your own backyard.
Our next stop was Omaha Beach. Shortly thereafter, a group of US plain clothes soldiers arrived on the beach, lighting cigars. I think this is a rite of passage for them- to come here and remember the sacrifices. Our guide, while great- was apparently allergic to cigar smoke and shooed them away, and I immediately bristled. No one has more right to be there than they.
Nothing can really prepare you for the vast expanse of exposed beach that these men had to cross. The best I can describe it- would be if you’ve ever been to California’s Santa Monica Pier. I remember visiting that beach on our honeymoon, and I laughed and laughed because it took me so long to cross it from the parking lot to reach actual water. I was used to warm, North Carolina Atlantic beaches that are eroding by the moment- and you’re pretty much there when you step out of the car. So, this beach, at low tides was pretty much not that. Oliver explained that the German cannons were not facing directly out to sea, but pointing left and right on the diagonal along the sea line. So as these guys were coming up the beach- they could not look into the barrel of the cannons and know where fire was coming from- no- the cannons were strategically placed so that no matter where a man entered the beach- he was immediately in the cross fire, coming from left and right.
The men on those boats entering Normandy were not necessarily Marines, either. One such boat had National Guardsmen- not trained or skilled or even knowledgeable of “Sea legs” so they exited those boats- sick as could be; fighting against the sea, fighting to stay alive before they even got their socks wet; only to face one of the most bare, expansive beaches I’ve ever seen- with just small concrete x’s (used to keep enemies away at high tide) as barriers.
It was fitting that after that visit- we toured the American cemetery. My kids have never been to Arlington National Cemetery, so they were not prepared for, but were awed by how the crosses and Stars of David went on for rows, and rows and rows. We walked among them, and I noticed how the dates went on for months, and months- it didn’t stop at D-Day. The fighting went on, and on, and on. Brothers, buried side by side; rich families and poor- but all equal in their ultimate sacrifice.
The next stop was Pont du Hoc. This one was even more terrifying to me. These soldiers had to scale the side of a sea cliff, under fire- to overcome their enemies. As I walked along this sea wall, I marveled to Martin that it was absolute, concrete miracle that the Allies won this day. The odds, the overwhelming obstacles were so many. The bravery and courage that it must’ve taken these men to knowingly charge in, and win- I am still at a loss for words. 
Our next visit was one of my favorite stops. Angoville au Plain was a little church where two medic paratroopers, realizing they had landed in the wrong location, rallied to set up a “hospital” for wounded Allies, Germans, and citizens of the town. They saved 85 lives there; and it is now covered in stained glass honoring the US Paratroopers from that day. I could write a whole blog about this little church, and my feelings there. We also toured Utah Beach, Sainte Mere Englaise, and finally the German Cemetery. We toured the last because my husband is German, and war takes lives of many- both willing and unwilling. They are all brothers, husbands, sons and fathers.
We returned to Paris that evening, by train. Tired, worn out, completely muddy, and completely changed by what we had seen that day. My kids will talk about it for years to come. I learned that day that war is an art, even a grisly science; but that you also need a bit of luck and a lot of God’s face shining on you.
My kids stripped off their shoes, as did I; and I grabbed paper towels to begin peeling off the mud of the day. As I wiped it off, tears came to my eyes. I thought about how those survivors must have felt- maybe wiping mud, and sand, and blood from the day off their shoes, their clothes, their faces; and trying to wipe it off their hearts. We threw our shoes in the washing machine, and they came out almost as good as new. That would not happen for them. I know now why they call them the Greatest Generation.
Every living veteran I know would implore you to not thank them, the living, this Memorial Day. They would simply ask that you remember the ones that are not here- this is their day to be remembered. There’s another group of men and women out there fighting a war that has gone on for many years. I heard last night, it’s the longest war in the history of the US. Let’s not forget them this year. Let’s remember the fallen this Memorial Day; and on Veteran’s Day- please remember the ones who are wiping the mud of the day off their hearts.
With respect to the fallen, and love to the survivors,
The Hueneke Family
