(Editor’s Note: This is the third and final installment of the Eurotrash series) OMAHA BEACH, NORMANDY, FRANCE. 5:30 P.M. SATURDAY.
More than half a century ago, Allied troops stormed the beaches of Northern France and emerged victorious in what proved to be one of the most devastating battles in the history of warfare. Many soldiers gave their lives here to defeat Hitler's Nazis, making it possible in this new millennium for me to roam freely across the rolling green hills and immense sand bunkers of Normandy with my fellow man — in this case, Dead Air Dave — and to joyously proclaim, “Man, I just hit the piss out of that five-iron!”
Yes, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing is sacred, some scum-sucking greedhead greased the corrupt local zoning board a few years back and got permission to build a golf course just a chip shot away from the site of the most historic battle of World War II.
Remember the gruesome depiction of the D-Day invasion at the outset of Steven Spielberg's epic “Saving Private Ryan”? Turned your stomach, didn't it? Now think about all those young GIs paying the ultimate price in blood so that fat, rich white guys could desecrate the ground with putters.
You can't miss it, even if you want to. The road to the American Cemetery at Normandy is littered with billboards exhorting visitors to “Golf Omaha Beach.” When I first saw one, it was damn near all I could take. And my initial disgust gave way to all-out fury when I learned golf carts weren't included in the exorbitant greens fees.
Now believe me, by no means am I trying to belittle the sacrifice my forefathers made at Normandy, but when it comes to golf, it's all about impressing other people with the courses you've played. You think guys fork over $300 to play Pebble Beach because they enjoy duffing balls into the ocean? Of course not. They pay to play there so that for the rest of their lives they can tell less fortunate hackers that they played Pebble Beach. And tell me, how many golfers you know have played Omaha Beach?
I rest my case.
ARROMONCHE, A FEW MILES NORTH OF OMAHA BEACH. LATER.
Tipping a few beers with a group of American World War II veterans making their first visit to Normandy since the D- Day invasion. Rather than being somber and forlorn as you might expect, these guys are quite ebullient... seems time really does heal all wounds.
“This place is beautiful,” says a man with a big furry white mustache, “although I don't remember it being that way back then.”
No shit, you think. His remark is met with a chorus of here-here's and the clink of toasting beer mugs.
“Hard to believe what went on down on those beaches,” adds another.
Here-here!!! “It's a damn miracle we all made it out alive,” says yet another.
More here-here's and mug clinking. “Yep, a goddamn miracle.” Emphatic here-hereing and clinking. “I remember being dug in near the water with bullets whizzing overhead thinking I was going to be stuck in that bunker forever,” says the man with the furry mustache.
“Tell me about it,” I mumble with disgust. Silence. Then greater silence. Followed by absolutely no sound whatsoever.
“Well,” I finally chortle, nervously, “I got caught in a bunker on the eighth at Omaha Beach and wound up making triple-bogey on the hole. And you guys thought YOU had it tough out there!”
Ta-dum-dum!!!!
PICCADILLY CIRCUS, LONDON.
VERY LATE, FRIDAY.
So as you can see, it was truly a tumultuous ride across the European continent. After several rounds of drink — on Yours Truly, of course — the old American GIs at Arromonche forgave me, chalking my seeming disrespect up to innocent precociousness.
Actually, it was my usual nervous reaction to something actually significant. Sometimes we use humor to deal with what we can't understand, and sometimes we use it to deal with things that we understand perfectly damn well. (Told you I was reading a lot.) By midnight at Arromonche, I knew all the words to “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah” and was made an honorary member of the 58th Armored Division.
From Normandy, Dead Air and I headed north and spent several uneventful, yet extremely relaxing days at the beachfront hamlet of Etretat as guests of the Benedictine company.
Crossed the English Channel in the Mini via Eurotunnel (take that, Air France!) and arrived in London in time to catch my all-time favorite musical hero, Joe Strummer of The Clash, walking a little dog across Trafalgar Square.
Should I stay or should I go? Go, I suppose. Back to the states for a respite, then off to Fiji to cover the Eco-Challenge adventure race. Expect a similar report on the heels of that great passage, assuming snakes, orangutans or the indigenes don't do me in.
Until we meet again, keep reaching for the ground...
Dan Dunn is a Freelance journalist living in Santa Monica.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on September 2, 2002. Read the original PDF.