About twenty years ago I toured Normandy by bus with my mother and youngest sister.
We were somewhat disappointed to find the France of Normandy was not the France of our dreams. It looked nothing like the pictures we had seen of the Cote d'azure or the Loire Valley and I have lingering impressions of a cheap tour, shoddy 'industrial estate' accommodation and ordinary, fast food. All my life I had looked forward to French cuisine but sadly 'cuisine' it was not.
We were somewhat disappointed to find the France of Normandy was not the France of our dreams. It looked nothing like the pictures we had seen of the Cote d'azure or the Loire Valley and I have lingering impressions of a cheap tour, shoddy 'industrial estate' accommodation and ordinary, fast food. All my life I had looked forward to French cuisine but sadly 'cuisine' it was not.
There were, however, some interesting surprises between naps.
The flat monotonous landscape was suddenly broken by a beautiful medieval village built on a pointy rock jutting out of the sea and sand. It was, of course, Mont Saint Michel, entrenched in my school girl memory from the poem 'Lepanto' by G K Chesterton.
"...St. Michael's on his
Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships."
We climbed to the abandoned cathedral at the pinnacle of the rock and suddenly I realized where we were. 'It's St. Michael!' I said to my mother along with the first few lines of the poem. We stood in awe, with tears in our eyes and recited it together as we gazed at the golden angel atop the spire.
'Lepanto' was written in 1915, a year into the First World War. St.Michael's statue had watched Don John of Austria's ships going to fight the 'infidel' at Lepanto in 1571. G K Chesterton drew parallels between the two wars.
Saint Michael watched again as World War 2 descended on France in 1939 and not far away, in 1944, allied troupes began their assault on Normandy.
From Mont Saint Michel our bus took us to Omaha Beach. There was much nap time between stops but I do remember saying to my sister 'A military cemetery? Why would I want to visit a military cemetery? Don't you know those places glorify war? Don't you know war is about the exploitation of the poor and the oppressed? I don't want to glorify obscene massacres!'
I sat at the back of the bus, a conscientious objector, determined not to participate. I decided to have a nice rest while the others walked along rows of death, taking photos like obedient little American propaganda puppets. 'Have a nice day!' I shouted and as they disembarked mother wagged her finger at me.
Finding a book in my suitcase I began to read but after a while I became restless and peered through the window to see where my mother and sister were. A row of perfectly trimmed cypress trees blocked the view. So, I decided to go for a walk and use the opportunity to, at least, stretch my legs.
A short pathway meandered along manicured lawns which led to an impressive curved colonnade with a large brass statue at its centre. Curious, I stood in front of it and read the inscription along it's rim.
"This embattled shore, portal of freedom, is forever hallowed by the ideals, the valor and the sacrifices of our fellow countrymen."
'Lepanto' was written in 1915, a year into the First World War. St.Michael's statue had watched Don John of Austria's ships going to fight the 'infidel' at Lepanto in 1571. G K Chesterton drew parallels between the two wars.
Saint Michael watched again as World War 2 descended on France in 1939 and not far away, in 1944, allied troupes began their assault on Normandy.
From Mont Saint Michel our bus took us to Omaha Beach. There was much nap time between stops but I do remember saying to my sister 'A military cemetery? Why would I want to visit a military cemetery? Don't you know those places glorify war? Don't you know war is about the exploitation of the poor and the oppressed? I don't want to glorify obscene massacres!'
I sat at the back of the bus, a conscientious objector, determined not to participate. I decided to have a nice rest while the others walked along rows of death, taking photos like obedient little American propaganda puppets. 'Have a nice day!' I shouted and as they disembarked mother wagged her finger at me.
Finding a book in my suitcase I began to read but after a while I became restless and peered through the window to see where my mother and sister were. A row of perfectly trimmed cypress trees blocked the view. So, I decided to go for a walk and use the opportunity to, at least, stretch my legs.
A short pathway meandered along manicured lawns which led to an impressive curved colonnade with a large brass statue at its centre. Curious, I stood in front of it and read the inscription along it's rim.
"This embattled shore, portal of freedom, is forever hallowed by the ideals, the valor and the sacrifices of our fellow countrymen."
Hmmm. Quite well written I thought and stood there for a moment absorbing its meaning and then...as I turned... a sea of thousands of startlingly white crosses lay before me; each one the grave of a fallen soldier. The sight of those many acres of crosses, planted in well manicured lawns, filled me with awe and I found myself quietly brushing away tears.
One grave in particular tugged at my heart. The inscription read, 'Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God'.
For the next hour or so I wandered among those humble monuments, feeling grief for those who lost their lives, while struggling with many worrying and contradictory thoughts. I was sharply aware that the atmosphere of peaceful silence at Omaha Beach cemetery, engendered by simple, ordered rows of white crosses, neatly trimmed gardens and respectful people, lay in stark contrast to the bloody and chaotic suffering of soldiers who were slaughtered as they landed and fought there on June 6th 1944. That awful day, many young men and boys became the fodder of guns and canons. It was, indeed, a place of massacre.
Into the Jaws of Death: Troops from the U.S. 1st Infantry Division landing on Omaha Beach – photograph by Robert F. Sargent
I've told this story many times in the past twenty years and I still think of it each Anzac Day. It isn't that I now condone war but rather that I've experienced something new about the complexity of being human. What strikes me most, is how little we seem to have learnt from the history of wars gone by.
Recently I watched a program called 'Shakespeare Uncovered' in which Jeremy Irons hosts an exploration of Shakespeare's plays: Henry 1V and Henry V.
These plays tell the story of a battle fought during the One Hundred Years War between France and England. YES. France and England were at war for one hundred years! That's how enormously stupid we humans can be.
At the end of the program, Jeremy walks through the countryside and says something like: 'Four hundred years ago Shakespeare wrote two plays about the horror of war. He told the story of a battle fought between the French and the English in 1415 at a place in France called Agincort, which is not far from here.
At Agincort, thousands of French and English peasant soldiers, spilled their blood for the ambitions of their kings. They were cut down, drowned in the mud and trampled by their fellow soldiers and horses.' Then he turns a corner and walks through a sea of white crosses. '...and in four hundred years it would seem to me, we have learnt very few lessons about war.'
The Battle of Agincort by Donato Giancola
Gallipolli
I met up with my mother and sister at Omaha Beach later that day and they poked fun at my tears. When I tried to explain the complexity of my response my sister said 'Oh, you just can't admit it. You were wrong!' Well, I guess in a way I was wrong. I now understand the value of visiting such places and that it can be a powerful and moving experience. My visit to Omaha Beach ( Sainte-Honorine-des-Pertes, Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer, Vierville-sur-Mers ) was emotive and disturbing and served to enhance and broaden my overall understanding and appreciation of the impact of war and our various global psychological and political responses to it.
What amazes me is that we do forget so easily that war is an all encompassing violation and tragedy that effects many, many thousands of people directly and the rest of us indirectly. Despite the fact that we've all witnessed the horror of recent wars on our screens, our leaders still send young and old people alike, to die on foreign battlefields of misery.
And now, some countries are vying to equip themselves with nuclear weapons, supposedly to arm themselves for a war that no-one, no country, no government or ruler can possibly win. If one country is nuked, then we're all nuked. Why are we destined to keep repeating this nonsensical horror and how can we stop it before it wipes out the human race and probably most other species as well? Why are we not asking ourselves these questions and why aren't we all voting for policies of peace and disarmament?
Why aren't our governments modelling our countries on those with strong policies on peace, non-violence, disarmament, human rights ( along with other species ) and the Earth as our life support system. Those countries that have these tenets enshrined in their constitutions and/legislation are the most prosperous, healthy and happy countries in the world. Surely that's something for all Earthings to aspire to and definitely something we should all contemplate on ANZAC Day.
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