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death just beneath every step you take.
Then it hits you.
A series of slightly submerged concrete bunkers,
encased by walls almost two feet in thickness, crumpled
and half buried in the loose, sandy ground just beyond the
trail, placed seemingly at random. Gun turrets everywhere.
You look, but you can’t fully comprehend. This was the
Nazi stronghold, a fortified wall of deathly resistance, the
“Atlantic Wall.” There was much more. Hidden trenches
with mortars and machine guns, the beaches strewn with
obstacles and mines meant to destroy, main, kill.
Our guide, an older Brit fellow with an acute sense of
history and dramatic flair, takes us to another would-be
Nazi stronghold. And another and another.
Later, it’s a short drive to the official D-Day memorial a
few miles away, a well-manicured $30 million memorial
financed and maintained by the U.S. government that
opened in 2007 – to never forget what happened and
what it means.
At precisely 4 in the afternoon, we watch in reverent
silence as the American flag is lowered to the trumpeted
sounds of “Taps.”
Then it hits you again.

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