Exactly one year ago, my father and I stood on the shores of Omaha Beach at 6:30 a.m. The soft rays of sunrise were just beginning to appear, and the air was chilly and harsh. But the dozen of us or so who had made the trek to the beach that early in the morning were rewarded with a feeling of triumph. Seventy-five years ago to the minute, thousands of American, British, and Canadian troops waded ashore under heavy machine-gun fire in the largest invasion force in history in an attempt to liberate Nazi-occupied Europe. D-Day had begun.
During the first week of June every year, Normandy citizens celebrate their American liberators of the D-Day landings that happened in 1944. They unfurl flags, hang banners, and welcome thousands of Americans who make it to France for the festivities. Other than the rebuilding of whole towns in wake of the bombardments that occurred during the fighting, the region has changed little. The hedgerows still exist, where heavy firefights occurred, and small towns have kept their rural French charm.
My father and I were lucky to experience this one-in-a-lifetime moment. We met D-Day veterans and heard their stories of heroism. We spoke with French locals who have passed down their gratitude to their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. We saw thousands of French citizens dress up in authentic WWII-era gear to role-play as their American liberators. It was incredible to witness both the appreciation and excitement of those who participated and those who came to see it.
It might be cliché, but this really was the trip of a lifetime. On such a special anniversary—and one which sees the dwindling number of remaining WWII veterans—it was truly an amazing experience to share with my father. Few can say they were in Normandy during the 75th anniversary, and even fewer can say they were on the beach at the exact minute that those brave men went ashore seventy-five years ago. I can say I’ve done both.