Hero Fund Blog

On 6 June, 1944, Allied forces began the largest amphibious assault in history. Among them were nearly 16,000 Canadian soldiers, who landed at Juno beach. Despite sustaining over 300 men killed in the first day of combat, Canadian troops advanced nearly ten kilometres, the most of any of the allied forces. 66 years later, Canadian Hero Fund volunteer Alain Bartleman went to Juno Beach to pay his respects to those men.

I went to Juno beach to pay tribute to those who had come before me. I wanted, on the rainy, muggy days prior to the sixth, to stand by the churning grey seas and look over the fields and beaches where my relations made the return journey to the land of their birth, and remember their sacrifice.  I wanted to see the places where Canadians fought-and died- for the peace of the world.  It was for these reasons that I went to buy a ticket, and found myself, notebook in hand, on the quais of the gare St Lazare on the morning of 6 June, 2010, to take the 33512 intercity line to Caen.  Heading from Paris to the beaches, would, in effect, be tracing in reverse the route taken by my forefathers nearly 70 years ago.

At the station that morning, the crowds milling around the train were full of energy despite the early hour. Half of them were men and women returning home from a weekend in the city. The rest were tourists, with only an infectiously anxious minority eager to visit the beaches and ruins of the greatest amphibious assault in history on the date of its anniversary.  As our train pulled slowly out of the station, I could feel the day’s excitement turn palpable as middle aged American men, dressed in polo shirts and dockers slacks, seated uncomfortably in the plastic-stuffed seats, turned to one another to whisper “did you hear about the flybys? I heard they’re to have F16s and the new Rafale.”  For two hours, these distributaries of the greatest generation discussed the paraphernalia of the day, murmuring softly before roaring in self indulgent laughter.

Arrival at Caen showed a city well prepared for D-Day tourism. A sparkling new train station, replete with coffee shops, well stocked bookstores and glittering computer terminals, was filled to the brim with tour groups. Most of the groups were composed of the same sort of men found on the train, brash, ebullient and giddy with excitement, along with their patient and endearing wives, who for the most part, chatted amongst themselves as their warrior-mates pointed and gawked at the impressive variety of period vehicles parked outside of the terminal.

I wandered over to the bus station. Greying French men, dressed in faded blue blazers, were hunched over by the weight of the medals upon their breasts. A few smoked cigarettes, the smoke blown away by the gusting sea winds.  All were still and silent, the majority staring at their shoes.  When the bus came, they duly filed aboard, paying their  [euro] 2.90 fare and sitting near the front.

Behind me were three men.  Two were Americans. One, Sean, with bleach blond hair, had just finished his music degree at the University of Northern Alabama, and wanted to see the sites were his grandfather had fought. Another, Dave, was a DEA officer fresh from Cornell.  He wanted to see Omaha before catching his afternoon train to Paris. A Canadian professor of accounting, on sabbatical, rounded out the crew.   Driving past the sun drenched Norman fields we rapidly passed by commonwealth cemeteries, meticulously maintained and recalling Brooke.  After every one of these cemeteries, two Dutch  tourists in front, otherwise silent, smiled  in condescension as the Young Americans respectively took off their hats and whispered  with pride about their fallen ancestors.  French army convoys their cargo beds filled with minted young men in full dress uniform, jammed in like cattle, roared by at periodic intervals. 

Leaving the bus, I arrived at a theme park named Courseulles sur mer. Middle aged men roaring around in Jeeps (most with American flags) and in full period uniform, gave no latitude about who ran the town.  This was their show. The periodic arrival of wailing period motorcycles, driven by uniformed men with a decidedly unmilitary flab  who spent the majority of them time in the town blowing whistles and attempting to direct the rest of their gang, merely added to the pandemonium.  For 10 euros one could get a picture with them, for another 5, a brief ride.  Thankfully they fell silent when the French procession- lead by the city’s Gendarmerie and Sapeurs, wearing the same ceremonial uniform they have held since Napoleanic days, marched , to the somber, militaristic accompaniment of the  of the chant du depart, mournfully across the old port city and into the Canadian memorial center a few hundred yards away.

That area, given by the French state to Canada, was about 200 meters along quiet boardwalks.  Bordered by a park on one side (Le Parc Juno Beach) and with a canal on the other, a hallowed silence reigned, broken only by the crush of the waves upon the beach, the cries of the gulls, and the wind coming in off the iron grey sea.  It was here that the French procession stopped, in anticipation of the mayor of Courseulles who arrived shortly thereafter.  After a few minutes, during which the crowd swelled to nearly 350, the memorial service began in full. 

- Alain Bartleman