After a phone call to the tour company, we bided time at the Place de Quebec, chatting with some American tourists. Eventually, a van emblazoned with “D-Day Tours” came around the corner, and out popped the guide saying my last name. Vincent, our very French guide, was clad in cargo pants and a bomber jacket, and we soon learned his military history. In stereotypical French style, he made gestures with his hands – even when he was driving – and spit came flying out of his mouth as he talked. Due to my lower stature, I often felt moisture on my face and tried not to get too grossed out. Our fellow tourists for the morning were a nice American couple. They had signed on for the full day, but time wise and financially, we could only afford the half day. (Meridith had already seen most of the sights on her high school trip several years ago.)
We barrelled down an old Roman road headed towards the coast, and flew past an ancient road marker before we arrived at our first stop, a Canadian cemetery. Standing in a Canadian cemetery, you are actually on Canadian soil. The plants are all indigenous to Canada. British soldiers were buried with the insignia of their unit or division on their headstone. Canadian soldiers have the simple honor of the maple leaf. I can never visit a war cemetery without crying. I wander and read the headstones and epitaphs of young men who never made it home to their moms, sisters, brothers, wives, fathers, and children. At the base of each stone is a message from the family and even sixty years later, their loss seems almost tangible. Each cemetery has a guest book for visitors to sign. I am always at a loss for words and can only write a meagre “Thank You.” There isn’t much more that I can say.
There were five beaches that were a part of D-Day. The US forces took Utah and Omaha to the West. British forces took Gold in the center and Sword in the east. Our Canadian forces had Juno beach in the middle of the British beaches. Due to weather, the operation had been bumped back a day so troops had stayed an extra in the overcrowded ships and vessels. They were weak when they stumbled on those beaches to make history.
We stood on Juno beach beside an old German bunker, now decorated with Canadian memorials and our beloved maple leaf. I tried to imagine sixty one years ago when my countrymen landed and faced an unsuspecting German army. The yellow sand has drifted up so that the once tall at the beach’s edge is only a couple of feet high. The waves rolled in as they have for millennia.
There is a town called Courseulles-sur-Mer, the only port on Juno beach. Its capture was pivotal to the D-Day effort, and the task was no minor one. My Saskatchewan high school education had neglected to teach me a very relevant piece of history. This difficult task was achieved by none other than the Regina Rifles and the Royal Winnipeg Rifles. Prairie boys, some of them from my local area, had taken on a huge job and miraculously succeeded.
If you ever find yourself in Courselles-sur-Mer, there is one museum which you must visit: the Juno Beach center (http://www.junobeach.org/). Opened only two years ago to honor the Canadian veterans, it documents not only the efforts of the soldiers themselves, but also the effort at home. It was strange standing in another country and be reading a piece of my own history. On display was a pennant from Medicine Hat. It was all tastefully done with multimedia and interactive displays. In the final room, there is a memorial. If you look up, the names of all of Canada’s World War II dead slowly scroll by. It would take a couple of days at the center to read all the names. When I was there, it was on the letter S. I had wished it was on the final Zs because I have reason to see the very beginning.
When French Canadian soldiers went into the French towns for the first time, the local residents were quite confused. Before their eyes was someone whose uniform looked very British, but yet they heard their native tongue.
In the days following D-Day, the Allies set up two artificial harbors: Mulberry A (for the Americans) and Mulberry B (for the British). Huge concrete pieces were hauled across the channel, ingeniously designed for the task at hand. A storm destroyed Mulberry A so Mulberry B was used for everyone. Incredibly, pieces of it still exist out in the water on Gold beach.
That was all we had time to see, but what did see on our tour meant so much to me. A part of it comes simply from being a patriotic Canadian. Another part of it is that after seeing so many of the horrible affects of the war on Europe, it was nice to see something victorious. But the part that brings it closest to home is my Great Uncle Dick, a man who I never met, but still lives on in our hearts as a beloved family member. From what I know of him, I would have loved him. Since Aadlands live almost forever (Uncle Teddy is still quite the character at 97), I would have known him if he hadn’t felt the duty to go to war.
Uncle Dick Aadland
Richard (Didrick in Norwegian) Aadland was born in Norway over a hundred years ago. After a stint in North Dakota, the family moved to the Shaunavon area where several more children were born. Dick’s baby brother is Poppa, my mom’s dad. He enlisted in the forces in 1943 and was shipped overseas in 1944, joining the Regina Rifles in Belgium. He died in 1945 while fighting in the Netherlands, close to the German border. He may have missed fighting in D-Day, but some of the men who he spent his final days with risked their lives on Juno Beach.
When I was in Antwerp, we watched the sunset over the Scheldt River as we sat beside a memorial to Canadian soldiers. When we were in Krakow, a Dutch man declared that he was liberated by the Canadians. A lump goes up in my throat knowing that that memorial commemorates Uncle Dick. In a way, that Dutch man was liberated by Uncle Dick. And now somewhere in the Netherlands under a headstone bearing a maple leaf like the ones in Normandy, his body lies. And once again, I can only say, “Thank You.”
If anyone is interested in the history of the Regina Rifles, local veteran Don Rapley highly recommends a book (which my family has and I have begun to read.). Look to Your Front . . . Regina Rifles by Gordon Brown and Terry Copp, published by the Laurier Centre for Military Strategic and Disarmament Studies, Wilfrid Laurier University, 2001.
Once our tour was over, we stopped by the British cemetery in town. Several different nationalities are represented there. How many countries in the world suffered from the hate that began World War II?
We had to wait until the tourist office opened. The French take such long lunch hours. We had planned on taking a ferry across the channel, but were having troubles getting straight answers about transportation to the ferry terminal. The lady at the tourist office told us what she knew. But the whole experience was rather frustrating.
Trying to figure out info is even more frustrating to due to the lack of accessible internet in rural France. I think that tiny towns in Laos and Vietnam are more internet friendly. While using the expensive internet at the post office, Meridith received news about Obed. Meridith’s brother and sister in law were expecting a child. Their friends’ daughter is fond of the Biblical story of Ruth and dubbed their unborn child “Obed.” While sitting on a plastic chair in a French post office, Meridith learned that she was now Aunty Meridith because of the birth of Morgan Elle. She was delighted that Morgan was healthy, yet disappointed that she was unable to be there for the event because Morgan made her debut into the world a couple weeks either. And unfortunately, even Mer’s parents were out of the country when their first grandchild was born! But we got to see a picture of the little angel and I know that Aunty Meridith had a very good time holding her just a few days later. (Coincidentally, Morgan was born on the 12th, the travel day when Mer was feeling ready to be home.) We decided to celebrate Morgan’s birth by going to see Bayeux’s most famous sight.
Bayeux has been famous for an extremely long time for a treasure it possesses: a really big tapestry. It is about 70 meters long and Mer said it looks like the one at the start of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. (I don’t think I’ve ever watched that entire movie. I have seen Robin Hood: Men in Tights though.) The admission was SEVEN EUROS! That is over ten dollars Canadian. We decided we didn’t need to spend that much to see a rug.
About this time, we found out that the shuttle I had planned on taking to the ferry terminal no longer ran. They had neglected to tell us that, but were willing to converse with the tourist office lady in French. In addition, taxi prices jacked up after seven o’clock. So basically, if I wanted to make the ferry that night and not pay twice as much for a taxi, I had to leave right then. I was half an hour late to take the night train from Paris to London. Because I needed to be in England the next morning, I had to leave ASAP and the ferry was the only remaining option. I had plans of my own in England and Mer wanted to go to Brighton, but not on the night ferry so we had to split up. When I arrived in the train station at the next town, I got a friendly taxi driver whose English was only slightly better than my French. But he knew where to take me. I arrived at the ferry terminal with over four hours to spare so I sat and read most of Meridith’s copy of Pride and Prejudice. Then I boarded the boat at 11:30 pm and made myself at home in my chair. The boat was quite fancy with a cinema and several restaurants and shops. I didn’t care because I was so tired, and soon joined the other people in my room and slept on the floor. When I awoke, I was in England.
And it was in England that I became an Aunty too. (No, my brothers didn't sire any children.) But first I had to take a bus to London and another one to Durham, way in the Northern part of England.
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