I rarely take pictures when I’m on vacation, preferring to capture the places I see in my mind. I was following my pattern years ago when I visited Normandy, France, the site of one of the bloodiest battles of World War II. Here on D-day more than 12 thousand Allied troops lost their lives. Standing there overlooking the quiet beach it was hard to imagine the deafening sounds of gunfire and screams when the first waves of Allied soldiers met the barrage of deadly German gun fire.
“Bodies being blown to bits. Parts of men flying through the air like birds.” Recollections from a diary by Sargent George Davison from Waynesburg, Pennsylvania. Davison’s presence on Utah beach was long overlooked, as were the 1200 African-Americans who fought and died there. The military was still segregated; Davison served in the all black 320th anti aircraft balloon barrage battalion. French professor Elise Mills unearthed his story. Mills’ curiosity was piqued by the absence of African-American soldiers in stories about the troops on the beach. Mills said she was surprised not to see any pictures of black people in D-day memorials or in museums, or in archives. But, African -Americans not only served, they served with distinction. France recognized Boston’s own Marvin Gilmore for the Legion of Honor award, the country’s highest civilian honor.
On the day I stood on the grounds of Normandy, I didn’t know about the extent of this D-day historical slight. But I knew black women and men who were in the military during World War II. While a lot of them were relegated to support services --food provisions, sanitation, ammunition handling --some like George Davison and Marvin Gilmore --were on the front lines. And many came home inspired to fight for their own rights becoming foot soldiers in the modern civil rights movement.
I’ve thought a lot about my moment at Normandy as today’s Memorial Day holiday approached. Thought about the black soldiers forgotten there. Thought about how this annual recognition of all those who paid the ultimate sacrifice can often feel disconnected to the routine of barbeques and a long weekend. A day I have often mouthed the right words, but didn’t feel the spirit.
I don’t have photographs of me standing on those hallowed grounds, but I do have a clear mental picture. I remember the breeze across my face as I stood where many had died, surprised to realize tears were rolling down my cheeks. I felt at once sad, and proud and very American.
