[Weekly Compilation of Presidential Documents Volume 30, Number 23 (Monday, June 13, 1994)]
[Pages 1240-1241]
[Online from the Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]

<R04>
Remarks on the 50th Anniversary of D-Day at the United States Cemetery 
in Colleville-sur-Mer, France

June 6, 1994

    Mr. Dawson, you did your men proud today. General Shalikashvili, Mr. 
Cronkite, Chaplain, distinguished leaders of our Government, Members of 
Congress, members of the armed services, our hosts from France, and most 
of all, our veterans, their families, and their friends:
    In these last days of ceremonies, we have heard wonderful words of 
tribute. Now we come to this hallowed place that speaks, more than 
anything else, in silence. Here on this quiet plateau, on this small 
piece of American soil, we honor those who gave their lives for us 50 
crowded years ago.
    Today, the beaches of Normandy are calm. If you walk these shores on 
a summer's day, all you might hear is the laughter of children playing 
on the sand or the cry of seagulls overhead or perhaps the ringing of a 
distant church bell, the simple sounds of freedom barely breaking the 
silence, peaceful silence, ordinary silence.
    But June 6th, 1944, was the least ordinary day of the 20th century. 
On that chilled dawn, these beaches echoed with the sounds of staccato 
gunfire, the roar of aircraft, the thunder of bombardment. And through 
the wind and the waves came the soldiers, out of their landing craft and 
into the water, away from their youth and toward a savage place many of 
them would sadly never leave. They had come to free a continent, the 
Americans, the British, the Canadians, the Poles, the French Resistance, 
the Norwegians, and others; they had all come to stop one of the 
greatest forces of evil the world has ever known.
    As news of the invasion broke back home in America, people held 
their breath. In Boston, commuters stood reading the news on the 
electric sign at South Station. In New York, the Statue of Liberty, its 
torch blacked out since Pearl Harbor, was lit at sunset for 15 minutes. 
And in Newcastle, Pennsylvania, a young mother named Pauline Elliot 
wrote to her husband, Frank, a corporal in the Army, ``D-Day has 
arrived. The first thought of all of us was a prayer.''
    Below us are the beaches where Corporal Elliot's battalion and so 
many other Americans landed, Omaha and Utah, proud names from America's 
heartland, part of the biggest gamble of the war, the greatest crusade, 
yes, the longest day.
    During those first hours on bloody Omaha, nothing seemed to go 
right. Landing craft were ripped apart by mines and shells. Tanks sent 
to protect them had sunk, drowning their crews. Enemy fire raked the 
invaders as they stepped into chest-high water and waded past the 
floating bodies of their comrades. And as the stunned survivors of the 
first wave huddled behind a seawall, it seemed the invasion might fail.
    Hitler and his followers had bet on it. They were sure the Allied 
soldiers were soft, weakened by liberty and leisure, by the mingling of 
races and religion. They were sure their totalitarian youth had more 
discipline and zeal.
    But then something happened. Although many of the American troops 
found themselves without officers on unfamiliar ground, next to soldiers 
they didn't know, one by one they got up. They inched forward, and 
together, in groups of threes and fives and tens, the sons of democracy 
improvised and mounted their own attacks. At that exact moment on these 
beaches, the forces of freedom turned the tide of the 20th century.
    These soldiers knew that staying put meant certain death. But they 
were also driven by the voice of free will and responsibility, nurtured 
in Sunday schools, town halls, and sandlot ballgames, the voice that 
told them to stand up and move forward, saying, ``You can do it. And if 
you don't, no one else will.'' And as Captain Joe Dawson led his company 
up this bluff, and as others followed his lead, they secured a foothold 
for freedom.
    Today many of them are here among us. Oh, they may walk with a 
little less spring in their step, and their ranks are growing thinner, 
but let us never forget; when they were young, these men saved the 
world. And so let us now ask them, all the veterans of the Normandy 
campaign, to stand if they can and be recognized. [Applause]
    The freedom they fought for was no abstract concept, it was the 
stuff of their daily lives. Listen to what Frank Elliot had written

[[Page 1241]]

to his wife from the embarkation point in England: ``I miss hamburgers a 
la Coney Island, American beer a la Duquesne, American shows a la Penn 
Theater, and American girls a la you.'' Pauline Elliot wrote back on 
June 6th, as she and their one-year-old daughter listened on the radio, 
``Little DeRonda is the only one not affected by D-Day news. I hope and 
pray she will never remember any of this, but only the happiness of the 
hours that will follow her daddy's homecoming step on the porch.''
    Well, millions of our GI's did return home from that war to build up 
our nations and enjoy life's sweet pleasures. But on this field there 
are 9,386 who did not: 33 pairs of brothers, a father and his son, 11 
men from tiny Bedford, Virginia, and Corporal Frank Elliot, killed near 
these bluffs by a German shell on D-Day. They were the fathers we never 
knew, the uncles we never met, the friends who never returned, the 
heroes we can never repay. They gave us our world. And those simple 
sounds of freedom we hear today are their voices speaking to us across 
the years.
    At this place, let us honor all the Americans who lost their lives 
in World War II. Let us remember, as well, that over 40 million human 
beings from every side perished: soldiers on the field of battle, Jews 
in the ghettos and death camps, civilians ravaged by shell fire and 
famine. May God give rest to all their souls.
    Fifty years later, what a different world we live in. Germany, 
Japan, and Italy, liberated by our victory, now stand among our closest 
allies and the staunchest defenders of freedom. Russia, decimated during 
the war and frozen afterward in communism and cold war, has been reborn 
in democracy. And as freedom rings from Prague to Kiev, the liberation 
of this continent is nearly complete.
    Now the question falls to our generation: How will we build upon the 
sacrifice of D-Day's heroes? Like the soldiers of Omaha Beach, we cannot 
stand still. We cannot stay safe by doing so. Avoiding today's problems 
would be our own generation's appeasements. For just as freedom has a 
price, it also has a purpose, and its name is progress. Today, our 
mission is to expand freedom's reach forward; to test the full potential 
of each of our own citizens; to strengthen our families, our faith, and 
our communities; to fight indifference and intolerance; to keep our 
Nation strong; and to light the lives of those still dwelling in the 
darkness of undemocratic rule. Our parents did that and more; we must do 
nothing less. They struggled in war so that we might strive in peace.
    We know that progress is not inevitable. But neither was victory 
upon these beaches. Now, as then, the inner voice tells us to stand up 
and move forward. Now, as then, free people must choose.
    Fifty years ago, the first Allied soldiers to land here in Normandy 
came not from the sea but from the sky. They were called Pathfinders, 
the first paratroopers to make the jump. Deep in the darkness, they 
descended upon these fields to light beacons for the airborne assaults 
that would soon follow. Now, near the dawn of a new century, the job of 
lighting those beacons falls to our hands.
    To you who brought us here, I promise we will be the new 
pathfinders, for we are the children of your sacrifice.
    Thank you, and God bless you all.

Note: The President spoke at 5:58 p.m. In his remarks, he referred to 
Walter Cronkite, master of ceremonies, and Maj. Gen. Matthew A. 
Zimmerman, USA, Chief of Chaplains.