Omaha Beach

Bleak. Quiet. Only sound here is the wind and the constant roar of the ocean. the sound from the sea seems never to rise or fall, it is just an endless, unchanging sound. People walk quietly and mostly look straight down. There is never the sounds of gaiety here, no sounds of happiness. There are no sea shells here. No gulls ever fly over this beach. Rocks lie in ordered rows like dead soldiers awaiting burial. This is Omaha Beach.

Private Ryan had a rough time here. We have that on good faith. Other people had worse. There was a bad day here a long time ago, a long time ago, back some 65 years or so. A long day. The allied invasion here was one of the most incredibly prepared and beautifully designed endeavors ever planned by mankind. It made the great symphonies of the world seem squeaky and confused in comparison. The great universities of the world seem amateurish in comparison. Nothing ever was done as well as this great military accomplishment. And it went so wrong. What went wrong was sometimes good for those who went wrong with the wrong, otherwise it was not good at all. It went bad but it worked.

Today the cliffs fade in the salty fog, like they have done for a long time. A few people seem to be absorbed in their thoughts. But it is quiet here. Always quiet we are told. This was the response to Hitler. It was war. War against Hitler. War against civilization and against people. War against mothers. War against children. War against the world.

Sometimes the planet can be hit so hard that it rings. Like a bad blow to the solar plexus, it can hurt for a long time. It can ring and resonate and pulse and pound and hurt so hard that there can be no help. It still hurts. All you can do here at Omaha is to sit at the beach and hold its hand as it cries.