In April 2001, during a trip to France, Henry and I took a tour
of Normandy and paused in emotional awe as we gazed upon the endless grave
markers from the D-Day invasion. We stood on the precipice and watched the
churning waters of the English Chanel below us.
The rough sea looked like the interior of an agitating
washing machine. We wondered how anyone survived the invasion. The remnants of
German bunkers dotted the hillsides, and we explored and reminisced and prayed.
The rainy, windy weather finally drove us to seek shelter in
the visitor center. A pleasant young man sat at his desk and welcomed us to
rest. Henry told him the story of his B17 buddies who died during a raid over
Europe and the young soldier asked “What were their names?”
Henry told him the pilot, Herman’s
name, and the young man turned to his computer. After a few clicks, he said
“They were shot down on March 25, 1945 and are buried in Belgium. I can give
you the name of the cemetery and the location of the graves.”
Henry didn’t answer.
“We can go there to visit their
graves if you want.” I said, and when I looked at him, silent tears streamed down his cheeks.
“No,” he
said, “I’d rather remember them alive.”
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