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Over the past few weeks, while covering the D-Day commemorations and celebrations in Normandy, I found myself getting emotional.
I've been thinking about Jim Bennett.
Jim was my husband's grandfather. In his family, he was known as a Renaissance man: an investment advisor who liked to build boats, bake donuts in a wood stove, and grow giant zucchinis. He was also a World War II veteran who served in the Canadian Artillery and landed on June 6, 1944, at what became known as Juno Beach.
He led a force of around 100 men in a tank, the tracks of which are still visible today on the sidewalks of Currs-l'Mer.
After the Normandy landings, he was stuck in the fighting in Caen for weeks. The city had been devastated by bombings, and molten lead was dripping from the buildings. He didn't like to talk about the war. One of the few stories he told was about Victory in Europe Day. He stayed by the barn and rode his horse along the coast to remind himself he was alive.
He never returned to Normandy: His visit in 1944 had been hellish, he said, and he saw no need to visit again.
I wish he had done so. I think it might have been therapeutic for him. I'm sure he would have been overwhelmed by the reception that awaited him.
As a Paris-based correspondent for The New York Times, I spent nearly a week in Normandy covering the 80th anniversary of June 6, 1944, the day that 156,000 Allied soldiers landed on the Nazi-occupied beach and surrounding countryside, then marched inland, marking a watershed moment in the war.
Among my stops was the runway of tiny Deauville airport, where a Delta flight was scheduled to land with 58 U.S. veterans. On June 3, it was like a miniature amusement park: There was an honor guard, an army band playing 1930s swing tunes, and a local re-enactor group dressed in authentic World War II uniforms. While I waited, I wandered through the crowd, doing interviews. Every French person I spoke to was moved to tears, partly because the moment evoked their own family war stories, but also out of pure gratitude.
Christelle Marie, a teacher at a nearby elementary school who brought her class, broke down in tears as she recounted growing up near Juno Beach. She said she would often see older men wandering the shore, searching for the exact spot where they had come ashore and witnessed the deaths of their comrades.
The enormity of their pain and loss was etched in her mind. “The duty of remembrance is so important,” she said, weeping. “It's an honor to be here.”
She is 47 years old and was born decades after the war.
How did Jim take her words? Did they ease his pain at all?
Throughout the small towns and villages, there was almost fanatic adoration for the 200 or so returning World War II veterans, as if they were aging rock stars at a concert.
I had just finished writing an article about the little town of Saint-Mère-Église and its connection to the US paratroopers when I noticed a veterans' parade on the town's packed calendar. I drove back there to watch it, and found a parking space in a distant farm field. From afar, the small central square looked like an ant's nest. Thousands of people were packed in, shoulder to shoulder.
I later asked 99-year-old Jim O'Brien what the crowd experience was like, and he replied: “It was overwhelming. I'd do it every day.”
But Henry Korinek Jr., 98, told me it was too much for him. “I'm a shy guy,” said Korinek, who goes by HJ. Korinek flew 37 missions over France, Belgium and Germany as a bomber tail gunner. This was his first time in Normandy since the war.
I thought again of Jim, and how he would have responded to this love and gratitude. One Thanksgiving dinner, as I was asking him about the war, his wife asked what on earth we were talking about, huddled together in conspiratorial conversation. “Katherine was asking about sex,” he replied, eliciting a hearty laugh.
I doubt he would have been happy to receive so much attention for something he did during a war he tried so hard to forget, but perhaps the experience was a comfort to him.
Jim passed away in 2009 at the age of 90.
On June 6, I went to a ceremony at the American Cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer to hear President Biden speak. The sun was bright and full. The graves of 9,388 soldiers were lined up in rows on the lawn surrounding us. One veteran said he saw his former comrades waving at him as he looked at the graves.
Of course, the stars of the event are the veterans. Many of them have thick knitted scarves around their necks and blankets draped over their shoulders. For many, it's clear that this will be their last stay in Normandy. Their average age is 100.
French President Emmanuel Macron awarded 11 attendees with the French country's highest honor, the Legion of Honor.
As they all struggled to their feet, Macron pinned a large medal with a big red ribbon on each veteran's chest, then took hold of them by the shoulders and leaned down to give each of them “la bize” kisses (two) on the cheek.
I wasn't the only one crying in the press area.
Everyone in the crowd wanted to kiss them.