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They were just kids, mostly, in some cases still in their teens or barely out of them.  The odd NCO might have been in his early to mid-20s, but the great majority of 14 thousand Canadian men at Juno were boys, really, with high school not long behind them – and the possibility of instant death just ahead.  There would have been knotted fear in their guts, but they went ashore anyway, straight into the muzzles of German guns. 

Juno was Juno Beach in Normandy, and it was the designated landing area for the 3rd Canadian Infantry Division on D-Day, June 6th, 1944.  The youngsters fought hard and well, but at a cost: 340 of those kids were killed, 574 wounded, and 47 taken prisoner by the Germans.  But Overlord, which was the operational code name for the invasion of Europe by the Canadian troops, together with American and British forces, established the allied toehold in occupied territory.  It would be another eleven months, though, before the allies finally won the war, and forced the unconditional surrender of the Nazis and their jackboots.  The total number of Canadian dead in the European theatre, before the killing finally stopped in May, 1945, was 5002, which was a grim reaping for a nation then so small, and so comparatively young.  After all, it had been by war’s end a mere 78 years since Confederation.

This day – June 6th, 2011 – is the 67th anniversary of D-Day.  It has passed with barely a media word, hardly a phrase, just an occasional paragraph here and there to acknowledge what was surely a pivotal day in Canadian and world history.  “Lest We Forget” seems to have lost meaning for contemporary media editors and commentators, and I think it has unquestionably left the mind and conscience of an entire generation of younger Canadians for good – if in fact it was ever there. 

The Normandy cemeteries, the crosses standing “row and row” seem to be of no consequence to us, any more.  But they are to me – and their apparent irrelevance, now, to nearly everybody in our country is worrisome to me, and sad, and disheartening. 

The D-Day veterans who remain with us are a dwindling corps, well into their 80s and in many cases past 90.   To all of them I say Carry On, Men:  you know what you did, you know the price, you know the memories which have darkened and perhaps fractured your souls for the past 67 years – and you need to know that some of us still care. 

It bothers me, a lot, that most of us seemingly do not.