On D-Day.

Written in haste, but full of admiration.

The human body is a wonderful thing. It is waterproof, flexible, blessed (in some cases) with a formidable brain and capable of resisting all sorts of things, some by accident and others entirely on purpose, and if we really are all designed in God’s image then God must be very happy with his (her/they/them/etc) work. And it is because the human body is so technically flawless that bullets are so popular. Because a bullet can do things to a body that can literally take one’s breath away. They can pierce and rupture and slice and shatter with a grim efficiency that even the most industrious butcher would marvel at, and they can deliver an ending faster than the fastest cancer could ever imagine. Funny things, bullets, but not so funny you’d be laughing for long. And that’s what must have been going through a lot of peoples’ minds on the evening of the 5^th June 1944. That must have been one hell of a sleepless night: for the soldiers and the loved ones alike. You can hide and run and grit your bloody teeth but if a bullet has your name on it then sooner or later it will find a way to make it’s point. No wonder we still remember D-Day, and quite right too, because in another 10 years I doubt there will be soul alive that still does. Not properly. Not as in “honestly, I was there, I took a bullet in the lung”.

Like it or not, what happened on D-Day doesn’t come close to the horrors that were already deeply imbedded on the eastern front as the two biggest genocidal egos of all time lined their men up against each other and sent them into battle, wave after wave of precious life rendered worthless as they swashed and sluiced past each other, every man woman and child knowing that at some point someone would have to win and that, more worryingly, someone must also lose. The bodies that feed the worms between Berlin and Moscow are probably the most stark and vivid example of the lunacy, futility and idiocy or war that you could care to suggest, but it doesn’t take anything away from what happened on June 6^th1944 as a huge patchwork army from all corners of the globe prepared to give up their dreams of dappled sunshine and green fields so pregnant with promise to become part of another gamble, another role of the dice and another step into a deep black void with so many possible turns but only one acceptable exit. Christ knows how I’d be feeling if I had been there, but you can bet your last farthing the last thing I’d be feeling would be happy.

As far as I know my granddad on my mum’s side serviced Lancaster bombers in the war, which puts taking your car in for an MOT and a wiper blade replacement into firm perspective. He died when I was very young, so I never got to ask him about it, and for that and lots of other reasons he is the one relative I never knew that I would most like to meet one day. If all that heaven nonsense turns out to be true he’ll be there, but I might take some time to squirm my way in through the front door. My other granddad was at the retreat from Dunkirk and then served in Italy and North Africa, very kindly donating an eye to the cause and adopting some shrapnel in return. He was a fine, sturdy man, as beautifully flawed as any other, and my love and respect for him, indeed both of them, are boundless. I am glad they both made it through to the other side of the war and went on to live happy lives with their stupendous wives, no doubt more grateful that they made it through when so many others didn’t. Yesterday I heard old servicemen say that the real heroes never came back from the war but to me my two grandads were heroes, like all the others. The way I see it when it comes to war is that you either do your job or you don’t, and then you just have to worry about which side you’re on.

I had wet eyes last night, as I stayed up to watch the D-Day commemorations. The BBC has been awash with even more of such content today, but because it’s being presented by the likes of Jeremy Vine and Dermot O’Leary I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on too much. Last night’s big event was a service from the war cemetery in Bayeux, a town which Kirsty Young insisted on pronouncing incorrectly (possibly in an effort to appear highbrow, but which succeeded only in making her sound like a pretentious prat, wearing inappropriate shoes). As with all these sorts of things (think royal funerals) it managed to combine moments of immense emotional gravity mixed with laughable, even uncomfortable displays of postmodern wetness and all-inclusive social compliance. What D-Day really needs is a model of simplicity – a stark reminder of our sometimes outstanding military heritage and a reflection on the passing of time, the ultimate frailty of the human condition and the almost unbearable levels of heroism and bravery and poignancy that can be conjured up when a moment in time calls for selflessness and unquestioning, even when sometimes belligerent, sacrifice. The marching and the band and the lights all bore this justice; as did the solemnity and brevity of what Princess Anne brought to the occasion, judging the situation to perfection. This was about loss and tragedy, as well as glory and triumph soaked with an understandable melancholy. Blood, sweat, guts and no short supply of balls (from any gender you care to suggest).

Of course, because it’s the BBC it is riddled with patronising observations and cotton wool cladding which almost makes the D-Day landings sound like a weekend in Skegness. The use of a newly commissioned, ever so carefully flaccid poem and an equally limp song from, for some reason which I can’t put my finger on, Jack Savoretti, were thoroughly unnecessary and I see no reason why we have to put up with child friendly light drone displays when we surely should be able to muscle up something a bit more, well, muscular. But maybe that’s the point. There is no muscle anymore. Or sinew or bone or cascading intestines. The power and the terror and the message of the war has been almost completely lost in time. If we went to war now we wouldn’t last five minutes, and that’s not intended as a slight against our armed forces; I just strongly doubt that we’ll have the will, let alone the might, to tussle with all the insanity and moral dereliction that could creep out of the night and snatch us unannounced. It is of paramount importance that we remember D-Day, as we should remember all war, but perhaps it would be better to watch the marching band and then just listen to the silence. A silence to cherish. A silence to gather our thoughts and a silence to count our blessings and think about what it will sound like when all hell is let loose again on the other side of this little island’s garden fence. A silence when silence will be the most sought after sound for all of the rest of time. Because one thing is for sure: we won’t not be a war again forever. So thank you, to everyone that did their job the last time around – and may you last forever, somewhere. Enjoy the silence while it lasts.

G B Burton. 06.06.2024.