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TIME: Almanac 1995
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<text id=94TT0805>
<title>
Jun. 20, 1994: D-Day:Still Brave at Heart
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1994
Jun. 20, 1994 The War on Welfare Mothers
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
D-DAY, Page 42
Still Brave at Heart
</hdr>
<body>
<p> On Normandy's beaches the past returned to infuse the
present with new meaning
</p>
<p>By Hugh Sidey/Normandy
</p>
<p> The last great cantonment of those who fought D-day and,
as President Bill Clinton said, "saved the world" is a rich
piece of history now--camp broken, tears, embraces and bugle
calls fading into other memories. Those tens of thousands of
veterans who went one more time to Normandy to hear the
thunderous echoes from the hours that shaped their souls and
mortally wounded Hitler's monstrous evil are home or headed
there to confront age and infirmity, and ultimately to yield to
the death they evaded on June 6, 1944.
</p>
<p> There was a beautiful sadness about the moment. The
serenity of the thin crescent of beach as it lies today was seen
by those on excursion boats in the English Channel and by
Clinton at dawn from the deck of the U.S. aircraft carrier
George Washington. More than one water-borne spectator sensed
how fragile the whole D-day operation must have been, successful
finally by its audacity and the spirits of young servicemen
sustained by the singular strength that comes from freedom.
</p>
<p> This memorial event defined democracy and liberty anew for
a wondering world bogged down in complexities and cultural
doubts. Scholars like Stephen Ambrose, author of a new book on
D-day, put the meaning in simple but heroic terms: "The greatest
event of this century." Some might argue, but not the men who
struggled ashore through the slaughter and their individual
terror.
</p>
<p> More than he realized, Bill Clinton may have typified a
younger generation's response to this intense lesson from
another world, another war. It was as if he had long been an
indifferent son, blanking out for decades a nation's old war
stories, then waking suddenly to the heroics of a dim past and
wanting to go back to nurture the memories and understand them
better.
</p>
<p> By any measure, the President's speech commemorating the
veterans' sacrifice at Omaha Beach was one of sensitivity and
grace. Earlier, he paid tribute to the Rangers who had climbed
the forbidding cliffs at Pointe du Hoc with ladders and
grappling hooks. He stopped by Utah Beach before arriving at
Colleville-sur-Mer, where nearly 10,000 Americans from all of
Europe's battlefields are buried. The hand of Providence seemed
for once to touch Clinton, who has had his share of ceremonial
glitches. Just as he began to speak the sun came out, etching
in breathtaking brilliance the white crosses against the tender
green landscape.
</p>
<p> Nor was Clinton unmindful of adversaries--and an ally--who did not attend the commemoration. In some of the most
exquisite language of the day, he turned their adversity into
glorious emancipation. "Germany and Italy, liberated by our
victory, now stand among our closest allies and the staunchest
defenders of freedom. Russia, decimated during the war and
frozen afterward in communism and cold war, has been reborn in
democracy."
</p>
<p> Though in the company of host President Francois
Mitterrand and other Allied leaders, including Queen Elizabeth
II, Clinton made certain that the men who fought the battle were
at his shoulder all day. None was more gallant than hulking Joe
Dawson, the captain of G Company, 16th Infantry Regiment, who
was the first officer to bring his shattered unit to the ridge
above Omaha. Dawson used his native sense and energy to bring
order and purpose out of chaos and confound the disciplined Nazi
machine. D-day was a battle won by ones and twos and struggling
gaggles of men who came out of the sea and moved inexorably up
the small trails to defy Hitler's belief that they were too soft
and self-indulgent to defeat his supermen.
</p>
<p> Down on the beach with Dawson after the ceremony, Clinton
stared out over the peaceful water, imagining the cauldron of
50 years ago. He bent to touch the sand, perhaps a ritual of
consecration for the simple virtues that propelled those young
soldiers across such a distant fire zone: beaches are for
families and picnics and laughter.
</p>
<p> It was intriguing in this epic commemoration how most
veterans could recall in minute detail that first 24 hours, then
found memories hazy as they went inland for fighting that would
continue for a year. Ambrose's interviewees could give the exact
size of the foxholes they dug, when they first relieved
themselves after the long and tortuous journey to the beaches,
or where they first hit ground, rolling beneath their billowing
parachutes.
</p>
<p> Richard Winters of Hershey, Pennsylvania, a first
lieutenant in the 101st Airborne, came back to the outskirts of
Ste.-Mere-Eglise and could identify every building, every wall,
every swell of land where he had landed. Jesse Franklin of
Concord, New Hampshire, a military policeman sent to Omaha Beach
to direct traffic, recalled that there was no traffic to direct.
He hugged the sand on the orders of Colonel George Taylor,
commanding the 16th regimental combat team of the First
Division. Looking up, Franklin saw the colonel caked with sand
and mud to his shoulders, bawling the now famous charge: "There
are two kinds of men on this beach: the dead, and those about
to die. So let's get the hell out of here!" The colonel went up
the ridge, but Franklin stayed to do his job, taking refuge in
a captured German bunker.
</p>
<p> Even as the vets fade away, the D-day anniversary may
evolve into a continuous celebration of liberty. On the sunny
afternoon last week when the modern paratroopers leaped from
their huge C-130s near Ste.-Mere-Eglise, the hundred thousand
spectators on the ground were in a picnic mood. Most of them
were French families with grandfathers and kids, American flags
tucked behind their ears and in their hair. They lolled on the
grass, cheering the flawless parachute patterns. Such meaningful
fun will doubtless endure.
</p>
<p> This time his men had to push Major John Howard, 81, over
Pegasus Bridge in a wheelchair as they marched to lay a wreath
on the monument marking the landing of the British glider troops
l6 minutes into D-day. They were the first Allied soldiers on
the ground, and they captured the bridge in a few minutes, a
distinction they do not want to lose in the crowded annals of
history. Every year since, they have come back to give a
champagne toast on the minute for their small but stunning
victory. The champagne is courtesy of the French villagers, just
as it was on that fateful morning of what is now known as "the
longest day." May the annual toast go on as long as freedom is
cherished and champagne is at hand.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>