It was very hot on that day, June 6th 2004, as I looked down upon the proceedings taking place on the grandstand, which had been hastily erected for this special event.
We had been there for several hours, waiting patiently for the 10:00 a.m. ceremony to start. One by one the world leaders came forward to give their speeches, all very typical and expected. It wasn’t until they were finished that the true reason for us being their hit home. Queen Elizabeth had been brought in by helicopter at exactly 10:15 a.m. and whisked away at 10:45 a.m.
The announcer said that the vets would now make a silent, private, pilgrimage back to the beach which they had stormed on that fateful day sixty years ago. I was sitting in the top bleacher seat so all I had to do was to turn my body to the right slightly and I could see the clear span of Juno Beach and a ghostlike image of hundreds of brave Canadians wading in the ocean, waste high, with their rifles held high above their heads. Those who had already made it to the beach lay still as the waves crashed over their lifeless bodies. My thoughts were suddenly brought back to reality as a thunderous applause erupted. The vets were now making their way out of the area and towards the beach.
We had been told to stay in our seats during the entire ceremony yet the card worn around my neck stated that I had a security level of seven which was the highest level; then why can’t I be down there I thought. This is it; it is now or never. I thought about all of those times when I was investigating Camp-X thirty years ago. Stop, you can’t go in there. Or, no nothing exists about that subject. Or, better yet, there was no such place.
I got up from my seat and started to make my way down to the main level when I asked the usher, whom I just happened to know as she was one of our high school students, where the washrooms were. Once she had let me passed, I made an about turn and headed toward the line of vets but quickly found that I could not get close because of the crowd. My only hope was to get inside the secure area, which was roped off. I lifted the rope and casually made my way to the line, a trip that was made easier due to my uniform that I was wearing which was the same as one hundred and fifty others in our group. I got there just in time to shake the hand of the first vet in line. I thanked him and proceeded to thank each and every one of them. They were each genuinely humbled by the enthusiastic reception that they were receiving. The whole experience was very moving knowing that the majority of these men would not be back for the seventieth anniversary ten years from now.
Of the two hundred or so men in uniform, most simply smiled and said nothing, that was except for two of them. The first one looked at me, shook my hand with a firm grip and said, “Why didn’t you do this sixty years ago?” I said with a tear in my eye, “I’m sorry.” The other man came by with a big grin on his face as I put out my hand to shake his. I looked down at him and I could feel my head drop; he had no hands. He looked up at me and asked, “Have you been to the beach yet?” I replied that I had. He asked, “You didn’t see my hands did you, I lost them there sixty years ago.” as he laughed. I just patted him on the back and smiled back at him. I managed to shake every single hand except for his.
The Next day we had some “downtime” and several of us (Rik Davie, Chris Janusitis and Adam decided to go visit the old part of Rouen which dated back to the seventeen hundreds; quaint little streets barely wide enough to drive a small car on them, (which they did). As we turned a corner I noticed a wreath lying on the sidewalk by the door in front of the store. I was fortunate that an elderly couple were walking by at that very moment. I knew from my experience with investigating Camp-X that there was a good chance that they likely knew the story about it.
In my broken French, I asked them why it was there. The lady explained to me that she had been at that exact site one day when a German military vehicle pulled up in front of the store and screeched to a halt. Several soldiers jumped out of the back of the truck and an officer got out of the front passenger side and rushed into the store. Seconds later the soldiers dragged the “Deputy” out of the store and pushed him up against the window. The officer followed and holding the “Deputy” by the neck, he proceeded to release his Luger from its holster. Quickly placing the Luger to the side of the man’s temple, he pulled the trigger. The soldiers and officer then got back into the vehicle and drove away leaving the man’s lifeless body in the street for the locals to deal with.
It was at that point in time when my mind flashed back to the beaches of Normandy, Canadians streaming off of the landing crafts, that I realized just why those brave soldiers so easily gave their lives.
Lynn Philip Hodgson
Author, Inside Camp-X