Back in New
York and digesting the five glorious days I spent in Normandy. What was the fighting all about, you
may ask: Was it about equality, cultural diversity, man’s dignity? All liberal
catchphrases these days. Liberty and freedom are also big words now, but all I
see are massive central governments with arbitrary powers à la Brussels and
Washington, D.C. Normandy promised us a lot but, as far as I’m concerned,
delivered little. If freedom of speech was nonexistent in Germany in 1940, the
arbitrary powers vested in political correctness make it just as rare in London
and New York in 2018.
Our stifling
culture of PC now makes the sacrifices of those young men who fell in Normandy
seem, well, not in vain, but hardly worth it. The material and spiritual
degradation of the postmodern West—the porn, the violence, and the greed—are
not worth the life of a single Green Jacket, GI, or Panzergrenadier. Call me a
cynic if you like, but after visiting the graves of the young American,
British, Canadian, and German soldiers, grief was replaced by rage at what
we’ve done with our precious victory. We are now all prisoners of a stifling
cultural uniformity that punishes those who trespass as quickly and as
mercilessly as any Gestapo visit ever did. Qualities such as virtue and
civility are now seen as irrational and harmful, and PC humbug reigns supreme.
“After visiting the graves of the
young American, British, Canadian, and German soldiers, grief was replaced by
rage at what we’ve done with our precious victory.”
I’ve already mentioned our führer
James and the king of LNG Peter, and mein kamerad Tassilo,
the rest being John Moore, a very successful businessman; Matthew Westerman, of
the Imperial War Museum; Martin Houston, an oil and gas tycoon; Robinson West,
a Washington insider; and Tom Harley, an Aussie international fixer on his way
to Saudi Arabia, whom I instructed to tell “that fat towelhead MBS to stop
murdering Yemeni children through starvation,” and who answered me that “I will
make sure to use just such words for the maximum effect.” All nine of us are
history buffs, and we sure learned history down to the smallest detail for five
days.
Operation
Cobra, launched by the Americans at the end of July, created the decisive
breach in the German lines. Fifteen hundred B-17s and B-24s churned up the
landscape with saturation bombing, and fighters with napalm joined in the
cataclysm. Panzer Lehr was literally pulverized, 45-ton Panzers flying through
the air as if they were toys. General Fritz Bayerlein, whose life was saved by
a miracle, answered headquarters’ orders not to retreat with the following:
“None of my men will retreat a single inch as they are all dead.” Still, the
Germans held out in pockets set up on the Coutances–St. Lo road. The Normandy
hedges, tall and thick, helped the defenders set up and move, set up and move.
“Better than concrete,” said a grenadier.
Now Patton’s
time had finally come. He landed in Normandy, told someone who warned him about
snipers to “get lost,” took command of the Third Army, and launched into the
fray. A hundred thousand men followed. The Germans could only look at the
thousands of men and wonder what if. At the start of the Normandy campaign the
Germans had 2,400 tanks; after 77 days of war they had…24. You do the math.
When the
weather closed up, the Wehrmacht counterattacked and breached Allied lines time
and again. When the sun shone, Wehrmacht Kaput. Back in Berlin, Goering was
enjoying his morphine, incidentally. What moved me the most was reading the
ages of those fallen soldiers of all sides. I picked two out of 11,000 at the
German cemetery at Marigny: Grenadier Christian Herrmann, 17 years old, buried
in the same grave aside Sven Wieckmann, 18. Dark stone crosses for the Germans,
slabs for the British, and white crosses for the Americans, all lined with
evergreen oaks, made a magnificent resting place, with the opening words of the
“Battle Hymn of the Republic” carved on the bottom of the statue of a naked
warrior guarding the dead.
By Aug. 11
Kluge’s counterattack is over as typhoons flying in pairs pick off the
remaining Panzers. The Poles are massing in the Falaise Gap, sweeping up
Germans who are now finally surrendering en masse. Our group stood at the
corridor of death, as it is known, on the banks of the River Dives, imagining
the Panzers scrambling to break out of the pocket while taking constant fire
from around and above. Everything’s ripped up and slashed open. Our final view
is that of the bronze statue of General Maczek, the Polish hero who lived to be
102 and who sealed up the Falaise in the final battle after 77 days.
A half a million casualties, 200,000 dead—what price
Normandy? Sixty-seven hundred dead per day, more per ratio than in the Somme. Dead horses
everywhere, dead men and destruction. The sounds of battle are mortar fire,
slow; artillery shells, faster; heavy artillery, much faster. Detonation brings
earth-shattering time to press one’s face to the ground and pray it stops, then
another chilling howl and more destruction. That’s war, not Hollywood bullshit.
All the beautiful
thoughts about dying for a cause quickly disappear. Aerial bombing leaves men
out of their minds, some tearing at their brains before falling dead. Heroes
like George W. Bush, Dick (nine deferments) Cheney, Bill Clinton, Mohammed bin
Salman, and others of their ilk send young men to fight. I want to revert to
the good old days, when leaders led from the front—you know the type: Achilles,
Leonidas, Alexander, Miltiades, Ney. But I’m wasting my time. Shoot anyone over
30 who wants war.
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