Still Brave at Heart

By HUGH SIDEY/NORMANDY

The last great cantonment of those who fought D-day and, as President Bill Clinton said, "saved the world" is a rich piece of history now -- camp broken, tears, embraces and bugle calls fading into other memories. Those tens of thousands of veterans who went one more time to Normandy to hear the thunderous echoes from the hours that shaped their souls and mortally wounded Hitler's monstrous evil are home or headed there to confront age and infirmity, and ultimately to yield to the death they evaded on June 6, 1944.

There was a beautiful sadness about the moment. The serenity of the thin crescent of beach as it lies today was seen by those on excursion boats in the English Channel and by Clinton at dawn from the deck of the U.S. aircraft carrier George Washington. More than one water-borne spectator sensed how fragile the whole D-day operation must have been, successful finally by its audacity and the spirits of young servicemen sustained by the singular strength that comes from freedom.

This memorial event defined democracy and liberty anew for a wondering world bogged down in complexities and cultural doubts. Scholars like Stephen Ambrose, author of a new book on D-day, put the meaning in simple but heroic terms: "The greatest event of this century." Some might argue, but not the men who struggled ashore through the slaughter and their individual terror.

More than he realized, Bill Clinton may have typified a younger generation's response to this intense lesson from another world, another war. It was as if he had long been an indifferent son, blanking out for decades a nation's old war stories, then waking suddenly to the heroics of a dim past and wanting to go back to nurture the memories and understand them better.

By any measure, the President's speech commemorating the veterans' sacrifice at Omaha Beach was one of sensitivity and grace. Earlier, he paid tribute to the Rangers who had climbed the forbidding cliffs at Pointe du Hoc with ladders and grappling hooks. He stopped by Utah Beach before arriving at Colleville-sur-Mer, where nearly 10,000 Americans from all of Europe's battlefields are buried. The hand of Providence seemed for once to touch Clinton, who has had his share of ceremonial glitches. Just as he began to speak the sun came out, etching in breathtaking brilliance the white crosses against the tender green landscape.

Nor was Clinton unmindful of adversaries -- and an ally -- who did not attend the commemoration. In some of the most exquisite language of the day, he turned their adversity into glorious emancipation. "Germany and Italy, liberated by our victory, now stand among our closest allies and the staunchest defenders of freedom. Russia, decimated during the war and frozen afterward in communism and cold war, has been reborn in democracy."

Though in the company of host President Francois Mitterrand and other Allied leaders, including Queen Elizabeth II, Clinton made certain that the men who fought the battle were at his shoulder all day. None was more gallant than hulking Joe Dawson, the captain of G Company, 16th Infantry Regiment, who was the first officer to bring his shattered unit to the ridge above Omaha. Dawson used his native sense and energy to bring order and purpose out of chaos and confound the disciplined Nazi machine. D-day was a battle won by ones and twos and struggling gaggles of men who came out of the sea and moved inexorably up the small trails to defy Hitler's belief that they were too soft and self- indulgent to defeat his supermen.

Down on the beach with Dawson after the ceremony, Clinton stared out over the peaceful water, imagining the cauldron of 50 years ago. He bent to touch the sand, perhaps a ritual of consecration for the simple virtues that propelled those young soldiers across such a distant fire zone: beaches are for families and picnics and laughter.

It was intriguing in this epic commemoration how most veterans could recall in minute detail that first 24 hours, then found memories hazy as they went inland for fighting that would continue for a year. Ambrose's interviewees could give the exact size of the foxholes they dug, when they first relieved themselves after the long and tortuous journey to the beaches, or where they first hit ground, rolling beneath their billowing parachutes.

Richard Winters of Hershey, Pennsylvania, a first lieutenant in the 101st Airborne, came back to the outskirts of Ste.-Mere-Eglise and could identify every building, every wall, every swell of land where he had landed. Jesse Franklin of Concord, New Hampshire, a military policeman sent to Omaha Beach to direct traffic, recalled that there was no traffic to direct. He hugged the sand on the orders of Colonel George Taylor, commanding the 16th regimental combat team of the First Division. Looking up, Franklin saw the colonel caked with sand and mud to his shoulders, bawling the now famous charge: "There are two kinds of men on this beach: the dead, and those about to die. So let's get the hell out of here!" The colonel went up the ridge, but Franklin stayed to do his job, taking refuge in a captured German bunker.

Even as the vets fade away, the D-day anniversary may evolve into a continuous celebration of liberty. On the sunny afternoon last week when the modern paratroopers leaped from their huge C-130s near Ste.-Mere-Eglise, the hundred thousand spectators on the ground were in a picnic mood. Most of them were French families with grandfathers and kids, American flags tucked behind their ears and in their hair. They lolled on the grass, cheering the flawless parachute patterns. Such meaningful fun will doubtless endure.

This time his men had to push Major John Howard, 81, over Pegasus Bridge in a wheelchair as they marched to lay a wreath on the monument marking the landing of the British glider troops l6 minutes into D-day. They were the first Allied soldiers on the ground, and they captured the bridge in a few minutes, a distinction they do not want to lose in the crowded annals of history. Every year since, they have come back to give a champagne toast on the minute for their small but stunning victory. The champagne is courtesy of the French villagers, just as it was on that fateful morning of what is now known as "the longest day." May the annual toast go on as long as freedom is cherished and champagne is at hand.