Remembering Normandy – A Grandson’s Story

By Mark Primmer

 “As the numbers of this, our Greatest Generation, dwindle, we ask ourselves how are we to honor them? How can we ever truly thank them? … There is only one answer: To take the torch from their failing hands and carry it high.” Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s words put a lump in my throat, a lump that would last the rest of the day. 

There I was, sitting alone, with some 8,000 others, on a sunny June 6 afternoon at the American Cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer, France watching and listening to four heads of state pay tribute to the sacrifices of soldiers who 65 years ago charged into the teeth of withering German fire on the beaches code named Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword. Oh, how I wish Grampie could have been there with me.

After almost nine years of living in Paris, I had yet to go to Normandy during D-Day commemoration week. I had visited there twice before when we first moved to France, and both times I was deeply touched by the memorials and the museums. I remember tracing on the map where Grampie, Everett Tapp, had come ashore on Utah Beach on 10 June 1944 (D plus 4) with his unit in the 9th Infantry Division. 

Then I received an email message in late May this year that caught my eye. It was from the US Embassy – in invitation from US President Barack Obama and French President Nicolas Sarkozy. Why me? I asked myself – feeling fortunate at receiving such a message. It was a mystery how I had been invited. My wife thought it was because I had served almost 10 years flying in the US Navy, and now being in France ‘they’ had put the two together. Perhaps it was due to my work at the OECD, an international organization headquartered in Paris. Regardless, there it was in my inbox, and there began my journey back to Normandy. I was thrilled. 

With this prospect of attending the D-Day commemorations, I began to recall the stories that Grampie had told over the years. He had repeated them with a certain regularity that is common in older age. With his passing three years ago just after Memorial Day, I got in touch with my family in hopes to re-kindle our collective memories. 

I also contacted the Sons and Daughters Auxiliary of the 9th Infantry Division Association to see if they knew of anyone from the 9th that would be going to Normandy. I thought it would be nice to connect with others who also had a special feeling for the red and blue Octofoil emblem that Grampie had worn. Unfortunately, they were not aware of anyone attending the commemoration ceremony this year. To my surprise, they then asked if I could help them by being their representative and to place a suitable wreath for them at the ceremony. Wow, what an honor. My going to Normandy now took on a larger significance than I had first imagined – it was now a mission.

Everett Tapp was my step-grandfather, but he will always be Grampie to me. It was during a 9th Infantry reunion trip to Europe in 1970 that he met my widowed grandmother. They were married the following year – I was their 8-year old ring bearer. His three daughters and son from a previous marriage were not that much older than I, but they were my aunts and uncle. Over the years, our families developed strong bonds, and we have enjoyed many good times together. Aunt Pat shared some of her memories with me a few days before this year’s ceremony, including one of my favorite Grampie stories:

“Regarding the German prisoners that he guarded, one prisoner advised dad that his mother lived closed by and would dad allow him to visit his mother with his promise to immediately return to dad's encampment. Dad's soft heart ruled his decision to allow the prisoner to visit his mother, but dad told him if he did not return to imprisonment under dad's guard, dad would shoot his comrades. Dad tells of the prisoner returning with his mother beside, and as a gesture of her gratitude they carried a bucket of fresh berries to give to dad.”

Empowered with this and other stories, I felt my going to Normandy was somehow unique. I tried to organize a wreath laying, speaking with both the embassy as well as the American Battle Monuments Commission. But the heavy security for the heads of state (the fourth being British Prime Minister Gordon Brown) precluded any such action. Instead I made a sign for use in photos, which read “Honoring the sacrifices made for freedom by the men of the 9th Infantry Division – from the Sons and Daughters Auxiliary.” I would put this to good use.

Arriving at the Paris train station early on Saturday morning, the 6th of June, I soon realized that I was getting into something bigger than I could have imagined. The platform was packed with people of all ages all heading to Normandy, lots of energy and noise. We were loaded onto buses in Caen, the staging point for our trip to Colleville-sur-Mer. Being commemoration week and for security reasons, the French authorities had closed the roads leading the cemetery area – it was not possible to arrive by private car.

Upon arriving, we had a good hour before we had to be in our seats for the start of the ceremony and arrival of the Official Party. For those that have not been there, it is a place like no other. A solemn peace exists there. Perched on the cliffs of the Normandy beaches, overlooking the English Channel, it is a green park filled with white Crosses and Mogen Davids commemorating the lives of 9,387 of our military dead, most of whom lost their lives in the D-Day landings and ensuing operations. As I wandered around the cemetery reflecting on the bravery of all those who fought to defend freedom during those days in 1944, I found several crosses marked with the 9thDiv, and took some photos. 

A reporter saw me with the sign I made and asked me what I was doing. I told him about Grampie and the Sons and Daughters Auxiliary. He took some notes, adding to his collection. Seeing the pages of “other stories” in his notebook, I began to lose my sense of uniqueness. I was one of many; in fact I was one of over 8,000 stories wandering the grounds. I spoke with other people, hearing about their relatives, their friends, their reasons to be in Normandy.

I thought about all of this during the National Anthems and the Invocation. Even during the speeches. President Sarkozy reminded us that France would never forget the sacrifices made by the Allies in liberating his country. Prime Minister Brown pointed to the sacred ground around us, recalling that the landings were a breakthrough toward victory and the start of a new world. President Obama spoke to the veterans of that landing and how they are why we still remember what happened on D-Day, how they remind us that human destiny is not determined by forces beyond our control. 

Afterwards, four veterans were presented French Legion of Honor awards, and then the four heads of state and Prince Charles of Britain laid the one wreath for the day. 

There were several times when silence fell over the crowd, and you could hear the sound of the waves rolling in on the distant sands. The 21-gun salute then jolted us with its thundering tribute to the fallen. I couldn’t help thinking how these explosions paled in comparison to the noise on the beach 65 years ago.

The sky was beginning to cloud over; more than just the smoke from the guns. Not a person moved, nor noise could be heard when the bugler sounded Taps in one of the most emotion filled renditions I had experienced. The ceremony ended with a flyover by French, British and then American jets. When the designated American pilot pulled up sharply over the cemetery to create the missing-man formation, his after-burners roared as he climbed straight upwards until disappearing into the heaven like clouds.

All that was left was the departure. We waited until security advised that the Official Party had cleared the grounds before we were allowed to move around again. I was able to go up and have my photo taken next to the ceremonial wreath (on which I had placed my sign for the 9th Div). A little while later, as we were climbing back on the buses, a light rain began to fall. The evening train back to Paris was silent. 

I reflected on the story President Obama told about one veteran, a man named Jim Norene, a member of the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 101st Airborne Division. The night before the ceremony, after visiting this cemetery for one last time, Jim had passed away in his sleep.

“He came for the reason articulated by Howard Huebner, another former paratrooper who is here with us today. When asked why he made the trip, Howard said, ‘It's important that we tell our stories. It doesn't have to be something big, just a little story about what happened – so people don't forget.’

So people don't forget.”

Saturday, June 6, 2009 will remain very special to me. It was an important day of remembrance, and I was indeed privileged to join the 8000 others, who had their own special reasons for attending the Commemoration Ceremony in Normandy. Each one of us has a story to tell.

Grampie, my story today is for you. It is my honor to pass on ‘your story’ to others, so that we may never forget.

May your torch never fade.