In honor of Veterans Day - Im posting Katelyns essay that she wrote after visiting Normandy in 2012. Take a moment to read it..... Heroes - by Katelyn Cooper The memory of thousands of men lie on Omaha Beach, thousands of men who will never say goodbye to their loved ones, who never returned home. Thousands of men gone. As I walk along the path, I pass hundreds of craters and blown up bunkers. Inside, it was so dark and cold, and along the wall were thousands of holes, bullet holes, created by the allies. As I went deeper into the bunker I could imagine the Germans sitting here waiting for something to happen, waiting to kill. The wind felt like knives as I walked along. I could see the Germans standing there watching the allies coming in on the serf. Waiting. Watching. I could see the first bullet fly, then the rest follow. I could see the bullets hurling towards their targets, some missing by an inch, others finding there mark. Men were falling left and right. I could hear the cries of their friends as more soldiers hit the sand. It was too much. I had to get away, away from the pain and suffering, away from the sadness. This place of misery and woe, sadness and grief, inspiration and power, is called Pointe Du Hoc. I could hear the men crying out to me for help, help that I couldn’t give them. I felt their pain as they lay there in the cold hard sand. Waiting for death to swallow them. Waiting for the pain and misery to end. As more bullets rained down on the men I wanted to scream, shout, do anything to stop this madness. But my voice wouldn’t work. The words had gotten caught in my throat. I couldn’t speak. I could only watch as this unfair battle raged on. Then time slowed down. I saw one man. I saw him raise his gun and pull the trigger. I saw the bullet slide through the air with ease heading for an unsuspecting soldier running towards the cliff face. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. I saw the soldier look up just as the bullet hit him squarely in the chest. He was thrown backwards into another soldier and both of them fell into the water. They didn’t get up. As I left Pointe Du Hoc, the cries for help got louder in my ears, but there was nothing I could do. I sat there looking out over the water. The whole time I was thinking. “Why?” I couldn’t understand why such a horrible thing had to happen. So many lives were lost. Too many. I thought of the families at home, waiting for a husband, brother, son, or father who would never return. At Omaha Beach there is a museum. Inside there was a long hallway that was completely empty, except for a sound system that was playing a woman’s voice as she read the names of all the men who died in the Battle at Normandy. As I walked through the hallway the voice seemed to drill into my skull, shouting the names. I felt like their deaths were my fault. I felt like I did back in Pointe Du Hoc, like the men were crying out to me and I did nothing. I just stood there, staring, barely breathing. But this was worse. Much worse. I could see the men behind the names, as their corpses lay there on the beach. I could see their families as they heard the names themselves. Children were weeping, wives were sobbing, as the names of their loved ones were read. At the cemetery, all I could see was white. The white that represented the death of men who ended their lives so that others could live. Hundreds of crosses standing tall holding the memories of those who were lost with honor and pride. As I walked through the lines of crosses I felt like I had known these people. I felt like I had watched them die. I felt like I had helped them die. The longer I walked between the lines of fallen men, the harder it was to breathe. These men were heroes, these men were legends, and I didn’t even know their names.
Posted on: Mon, 11 Nov 2013 01:43:55 +0000
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