[Congressional Record Volume 140, Number 68 (Thursday, May 26, 1994)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Printing Office [www.gpo.gov]
[Congressional Record: May 26, 1994]
From the Congressional Record Online via GPO Access [wais.access.gpo.gov]
REMEMBERING D-DAY
______
HON. HENRY B. GONZALEZ
of texas
in the house of representatives
Thursday, May 26, 1994
Mr. GONZALEZ. Mr. Speaker, I rise today to commemorate the 50th
anniversary of D-Day. The landing of Allied troops at Normandy on June
6, 1944, was an event of historic magnitude. Not only did it mightily
turn the course of the war in Europe toward Allied victory, but in so
doing it played no small part in setting the stage for the entire
history of the second half of the 20th century.
In remembering this event as we head into the next century, it is
vitally important that we keep in mind that this was a victory in the
fight against the intolerance, violence, and malevolence of fascism.
The history of the 21st century is not yet written. It is imperative
that we remember history and maintain our vigilance lest such a great
evil rear its ugly head so forcefully again and we are faced with
descending into the horrors of such a war another time.
We must also recall that the course of history on June 6, 50 years
ago was swayed by the brave, honorable, and dedicated actions of
individual servicemen from the United States and countries around the
world. While thousands were involved, they all played their own part in
giving of themselves--often with the ultimate sacrifice of their own
lives--for the greater good. It is to the dedicated and brave service
of these individuals that I believe we should remember and commemorate
``the longest day'' today.
In this spirit, I am submitting here for inclusion in the Record a
recent article by Walter Adams on his return visit to the site of the
Allied landing. Dr. Adams served in the 83d Infantry during WWII and
fought in the liberation of Europe from Northern France to Germany. He
is now the Vernon F. Taylor Visiting Professor of Economics at Trinity
University in San Antonio. His article ``Return to Normandy,'' appeared
in the spring 1994 edition of Trinity, the magazine of Trinity
University.
Return to Normandy
(By Walter Adams)
It wasn't professional travel. Nor was it a vacation.
If anything, it was a pilgrimage. To remember. To reflect.
To contemplate. To gain perspective on the most cataclysmic
event in my life.
But, above all, to commemorate that brave armada which
assaulted the monstrous fortifications of Normandy as a first
step on the long road to the liberation of Europe from Nazi
oppression.
This year will be the 50th anniversary of that June 6,
1944, which marks an incomparable feat in military history.
No doubt, it will attract crowds of tourists, sightseers,
curiosity seekers and a rapidly diminishing group of veterans
who survived ``the longest day.''
To avoid what may well degenerate into a commercial
extravaganza and televised circus, I decided to go last year,
in the quiet of September, accompanied by my wife, Pauline. I
wanted to walk the beaches, visit the memorials, and pay my
respects one last time at the cemeteries dotting the Norman
landscape.
My trek started at the Pegasus bridge, a vital link across
the Orne River, taken shortly after midnight of June 5, by
Major Howard's glider troops of the 6th Royal Airborne
Division. The house next to the bridge--the first to be
liberated in France--still stands. Today, it is a combination
snack bar/museum/souvenir shop. I dropped in to browse, I
selected sixteen postcards, counted them out ceremoniously to
the handsome middle-aged owner, and inquired light-heartedly
whether I was entitled to a quantity discount. Without a
change of expression, she carefully checked the number of
cards and, noting my army fatigue uniform (which I wore
throughout the trip), asked if I was there in '44. I
explained that I was in the American sector, on Utah Beach,
and that I did not land until D+13.
``But you were part of the liberating force?''
``Yes.''
``In that case, please take these cards with my
compliments--in appreciation of what you and your comrades
did.''
Overcome by this unanticipated gesture, I couldn't hold
back the tears. (For the moment, I didn't even feel
embarrassed.) In subsequent conversation, it turned out that
the house next to the bridge had belonged to her parents,
that as a little girl she witnessed a German officer choking
her mother and since that liberation she has been fighting
``the bureaucrates in Paris'' who want to demolish the bridge
and replace it with a modern structure. Her mission, she
felt, was to keep alive the memory of what the brave men of
the Pegasus Division had done on this fateful night 50 years
ago.
sand of utah beach
In the town square of Sainte-Marie-duMont, just off Utah
Beach, I stopped for information at a small restaurant/hotel.
Attracted by my uniform, and assured that I had participated
in the invasion force, the proprietor (a man about 40)
regaled me with stories about June 6. The town, he said, was
liberated by the Screaming Eagles of 101st U.S. Airborne
Division, and its inhabitants--let by their parish priest--
guided the paratroopers to the German sniper nests infesting
the area.
He proudly pointed to the memorial plaques recounting
diverse incidents in the town's liberation. Then, suddenly,
he asked me to wait a few minutes. He had a souvenir for me.
He returned with a small wine bottle which he had just filled
with Utah sand: ``This is a token of our appreciation. It
will help you remember.'' (I didn't have the heart to tell
him that I had already collected sand from each of the
beaches--British, Canadian, and French, as well as American.)
an interesting debriefing
Perhaps our most curious encounter was with Owe Svenson, a
used car salesman from Sweden. Born in December 1944, he had
a obsessive interest in a war that neither he nor his country
experienced first-hand. Now he was in France to see for
himself, systematically visiting the several beaches,
ravenously exploring the monuments and memorials. Waiting for
us at the exit from ``La Madeleine'' museum on Utah, he
expressed outrage that I was asked to pay the (very modest)
admission charge to the museum.
He asked permission to take my photograph--then another
together with Pauline. Then he invited us for coffee and
proceeded to debrief me as if he were a military intelligence
officer. Did I land on Utah? With what unit? In how many
major battles did I participate? How old was I at the time?
What did each of the decorations on my uniform signify? And,
finally, how difficult was it?
My division, the 83rd Infantry, I told him, relieved the
101st Airborne south of Carentan. Our first mission was to
capture Periers (not the Perrier of sparkling water fame)--a
village some 12 miles away. Fighting from hedgerow to
hedgerow, literally yard by yard, it took us nearly a month
to reach our objective.
The cost? Some 5,000 casualties, including killed, wounded,
or captured. And after Normandy? Four other major campaigns:
Northern France, the Rhineland, the Battle of the Bulge, and
Germany. How many men of the 83rd Infantry survived from Utah
to V-E Day, I couldn't tell him. Svenson was genuinely
appalled. When we took our leave, as if to make amends, he
gave us his address and telephone number: ``Visit me any time
you want. Don't worry about the cost. Everything will be on
me.''
Touching, Telling
These random, unplanned encounters were emotional--and
revealing. To a wide variety of people, in different walks of
life, the events of 1944 were more than stale history. There
was a feeling among the many, almost exclusively European
visitors to the beaches and little museums that something of
transcendent importance had occurred there half a century
ago.
Equally touching and telling were the memorials that are
ubiquitous in the area. Every kilometer on the road from Utah
to St. Lo to Avranches, the Voie de la Liberte 1944
(liberation route), displays a red-white-blue road marker
indicating the distance from the landing area.
In the town square of Sainte-Mere-Eglise, in front of its
famous church, stands a stone monument with the stark
reminder: ``On 6 June 1944, the paratroopers of the 82nd and
101st U.S. Airborne Divisions liberated this District.'' Near
Ouistreham, on Sword Beach (British), the exploits of
Commandant Kieffer, leader of 177 French Commandos, are
commemorated:
``With their British brothers-in-arms, they conquered this
beach to open the road for the liberation of Europe.''
At Pointe du Hoc, on a sheer 200-foot cliff, which the 2nd
U.S. Ranger Batallion had to climb with ropes and ladders
(under withering fire) to knock out a 155 mm gun battery that
commanded ``bloody'' Omaha, a stark granite stalagmite stands
in mute tribute.
A nearby sign post records this ``mission impossible'':
``Pointe du Hoc
``Strongest German position on the invasion front in
Normandy
``It had to be taken
``The success of the landings in the American sector
depended on it.''
gripping memorials
Inevitably, there is a memorial to George ``Blood and
Guts'' Patton, the Allied general most admired by the
Europeans. It is a majestic obelisk, flanked by a pair of
American flags, erected on soil brought over from every state
in the Union. It stands in the middle of a major thoroughfare
in Avranches, and records the exploits of the most brilliant
tank commander on the Western front.
One of the most gripping memorials, perhaps, is the tribute
to Major Thomas D. Howie (age 36), located in St. Lo, the
crucial road junction that had to be captured before the
Allies could break out of the deadly hedgerows of Normandy.
Major Howie had wanted to be the first American to set foot
in St. Lo, but was killed one day before the town was taken.
His men of the 2nd Battalion, 116th Regiment, 29th Infantry
Division, loaded his body on the first jeep to enter St. Lo
and thus made his wish a sentimental (however macabre)
reality. The memorial, erected by the French, stands in a
square renamed in his honor.
they rest in peace
Nothing, of course, can approach the emotional impact of
Normandy's military cemeteries. On beautifully landscaped,
meticulously tended tracts, designed in parade-perfect order,
are the identical headstones that mark the graves of
thousands of young men--men whose lives and hopes were
prematurely terminated, men who today would be my age.
There is an air of tranquility, even serenity that exudes
from their resting place--belying the violence and brutality
that sent them to their deaths. The American markers include
only name, rank, unit, home state, and date of death. The
British and Canadian also contain age and a message from the
family. On the Canadian cemetery at Beny-sur-Mer: ``In memory
of my dear husband and our only son. May he rest in peace.''
and ``Bon Jesus, donnez lui le repos eternel.'' In the
British cemetery at Ranville: ``Deep in our hearts his memory
is kept.'' and at Bayeux the all-too-frequent: ``A soldier of
the 1939-1945 war known unto God.''
In these hallowed places, one gets a sense of intimate
cameraderie, pervasive equality, and democratic unity. At
Beny-sur-Mer, where all markers are imprinted with the Maple
Leaf, an Anglo from the Winnipeg Rifles lies next to a
Quebecois from the Regiment de la Chaudiere. At St. Laurent,
my comrade from the 83rd Infantry Division, Lieutenant Engene
Zender from Wisconsin rests close to Private-first-class
Lawrence Slutzker from New York. Killed in the same battle,
one lies under a cross, the other under a Star of David. ``E
pluribus unum!''
There are 16 British cemeteries (19,137 graves)
interspersed on Normandy's peaceful landscape, two Canadian
(5,007 graves), and five German (58,172 graves). We did not
visit all these sites. Most of our time was spent at St.
Laurent, the American cemetery on the plateau overlooking the
steep bluffs of bloody Omaha.
american cemetery
The memorial structure consists of a semicircular colonnade
with a loggia housing battle maps at each end and a large
bronze statue in the open area formed by its arc. A circular
chapel in the graves area contains the inscription, ``They
endured all and gave all that justice among nations might
prevail and that mankind might enjoy freedom and inherit
peace.''
Behind the memorial structure is the Garden of the Missing.
Its semicircular wall records the names and particulars of
1,557 soldiers, sailors, and airmen from 49 States, the
District of Columbia, and Guam. Their memory is preserved
along with that of 9,072 servicemen, 4 women, 3 Congressional
Medal of Honor recipients, and 307 Unknowns whose remains are
interred at St. Laurent. (At the request of their families,
some 14,000 others were brought home for burial.) Remembering
them is an obligation for those of us lucky enough to have
survived. It is also a catharsis.
what did it mean?
On the long flight home, I tried to assess the meaning of
World War II. Did it make any permanent difference in the
course of world affairs?
Wasn't total victory soon followed by the Cold War, Korea,
Vietnam, and assorted police actions? Isn't the world still
beset by tribalism, nationalism, and ideological
confliction--Asia, Africa, Latin America, and Eastern Europe?
Has human nature been transformed? Have we learned to
sublimate our instincts of aggression and bestiality? Or, as
the cynics suggest, is war an inevitable part of the human
condition that can be expected to recur with unfortunate
regularity in one generation after another?
I like to believe that liberating Europe from Nazi
oppression (and East Asia from Japanese hegemony) was not a
sterile adventure. I like to believe that defeating a
megalomaniac regime, intent on world domination and the
extermination of peoples not belonging to the ``master
race''--a regime capable of perpetrating the holocaust--was
an unavoidable necessity and obligation. I like to believe
that keeping the hand of an Adolf Hitler away from the atomic
trigger was an achievement of capital importance.
Assessing the impact of the war on my personal life was
less problematic. It taught me, above all, the evil of
ideological bigotry and a racial hatred.
When I witnessed its consequences in the concentration
camps we liberated--the most notorious at Mauthausen in
Austria--I recalled, and never since forgot, the warning of
Pastor Martin Niemoeller. ``When they came to get the Jews, I
said I was not a Jew. When they came to get the Communists, I
said I wasn't a Communist. When they came to get the
Socialists, I said I was not a Socialist. When they came to
get me, it was too late.''
After seeing--first-hand--the ultimate in man's inhumanity
to man, I vowed that for the best of my life I would stand up
and speak up against injustice. Looking back, I hope I have
been true to that pledge.
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