The Biggest Price of All.
Eerily quiet.
That’s the first sensation that strikes you. The wind is subdued despite your being essentially surrounded by ocean. It is a cemetery in an out of the way place, île de Noirmoutier, a small tidal island spitting distance just off the south west coast of France in the Vendée.
And at this hour, there are no visitors. Anne and I entered on a whim, curious and adopting that comportment, the slow, meaningful strides, etc., that cemeteries invariably bring out. We were exploring. I ventured off alone, a party of one in deep reverie. Till I hit a separate, almost private area, set apart, venerated, with 2 meter high ocher splashed walls dominated and watched over by a massive tree.
I was propelled within by the ethereal calm and by catching sight of three small marble coffins, one alongside the other, a quick read relayed the full impact: Tiny children. One family. Gone. Permanent marmoreal sadness.
I digested this and, suddenly thankful for whatever potential that laid in store for Anne and I, veered towards an evenly-edged, modern doorway. Nearing it I sensed something different — the newness of it grabbed me and I paused. Turing left, as if impelled by an abrupt breeze, I noticed an all too immaculately arranged series of identically sized white stone headstones. Noirmutier or not, one thing stood out clear as day: the names were all in English.
I stood back, absorbing …allowing the engraved imagery to wash over me. 28 simple graves aligned with unerring precision. What I assumed to be the military precision of this small area was jarringly and suddenly contrasted with the rest of the cemetery beyond; fading flowers drooping from tipped over vases like some tornado-ravaged park. Pale, discolored photos in cracked white enamel frames. Small almost powdery low, rusted metal fences, some bent, others missing rails. Hobos teeth.
But inside the soldiers area the gravel around each grave almost shimmered, obviously new. Clean and well maintained. Two cylindrical rows of graves bordered by neat cement curbs. No weeds, no garbage, leaves, branches…and, no photos.
I wondered if the calm, the tidiness, and the serenity was perhaps a welcome counterbalance to whatever calamity they faced in their final moments in the skies around France. Far from home and a lifetime ago. The noon sun was high and the clean white tombstones beat back the sun’s glare with a vengeance. Had to squint hard to see past the harsh glare.
Did the area know we were here, could it sense our presence?
The first name I see is E.E. Hooper, Flight Sergeant, Air Gunner, Royal Canadian Air Force. Age 21. August 5th 1942. I picture myself at 21, flipping burgers at Bob’s Big Boy …worrying if I’d have enough money to take Brenda out on a date. Different times. Oceans and oceans between us.
“Hey Hooper” I say within (thinking he might have been called this by his buddies, like me and mine do).
“I don’t know you Hooper, hey, might not have even liked you, but I’m here and thinking about you now. Wondering. I feel for you Hooper. For what it’s worth, I truly appreciate what you did. So, a big belated thanks.”
A gust of wind sweeps across my face, followed by a mournful groaning behind me. I turn towards an impossibly large tree and see a sizable, human-sized branch dangling down, rubbing against the trunk. I’m suddenly aware of this tree, its full scope, and think it probably dates to when the soldiers died. It may have watched, a silent sentinel, as they lowered Hooper into his space. It may have, even, over time…
I’m unsure of souls but feel the need to wander towards this tree.
My hand reaches out and pats its rich bark. The groaning stops.
I head back to the graves, stopping in front of another.
“An Airman Of The 1939–1945 War”
“Royal Canadian Air Force June 17th 1940.”
And below a simple yet elegantly carved cross, the words,
“Known unto God.”
Suddenly it hits, and hard. That last line. …and, no-one else?
Some of the graves bear neatly chiseled names, others, don’t. Does death lessen the impact, the loneliness, the hurt, of not having a name? Did his being buried with his mates help? I can’t imagine and he, that ageless, nameless RCAF Airman, could have ever imaged his fate. I share a few internal words of thanks with him, too. He gets a huge thanks, too. I don’t quite feel comfortable with him having no name, so, temp basis only, I decide to call him Stevie. (A bud of mine, long gone).
I can better relate to ‘Stevie’ and assume no-one will mind.
“It wasn’t for nothing, Stevie.” And, then I head off.
Anne is almost aside me. “Stevie?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes scan the tombstone. Her head, nodding slowly. She takes my hand. We head off.
It’s heartening to know that, decades after their sacrifice, people still care deeply enough about these young men and have acted on that recognition by creating and consecrating a small swath of special earth, a place within a place of memory, where their contributions stand apart. And not forgotten. Known. Maybe if Hooper and Stevie knew this, that they would not in fact be forgotten and that for many decades some visiting tourist– for no particular reason (or…?), would stop and spend time recalling and valuing their brief yet packed existence, their lives and fates, maybe it would’ve offered them a small measure of joy. Maybe.
As we head down the lonely road for a late lunch I think again about Hooper & Stevie. And all the others who I might not have liked. Or, may have.
Maybe I should try and write a few words about an isolated, seemingly forgotten patch of hardscrabble earth that holds the remains of 28 souls who paid an in comprehensibly big bill.
Be the least I could do.