Memories from Normandy — Ebook
When I was asked to photograph Omaha Beach and its surroundings in September 2009, I had a flood of feelings weighing on my conscience. From low levels of anxiety to supreme excitement. In my mind, it would take nothing less than pure self-confidence to go over such hallowed ground. The very spot where once Robert Capa pointed his Kodak to the most ambitious operation to save civilization — D-Day.
With this raw state of mind, a still shiny Canon 5D Mark II in tow, I flew to France from Brazil. It was in the quaint countryside village of Caen where I met with my client, Nial Hanan, an Irishman, WWII aficionado, and battlefield tour guide with a pedantic insistence for accuracy. Our rendezvous happened to be in a charming local bistro. A polite grandpa came out of the kitchen to sit us and take our order with a big smile. With the table served, between bites of pasta and bread, we started talking about the Battle of Normandy. And we never stopped.
Several plates of food later, Nial pointed me to a ragged bag. "Open it, Rodrigo," he said. Inside, I found an American GI's helmet. "It's authentic," Nial assured me. I inspected it carefully and saw that there were no identifying marks on it. No company name. No numbers. Nothing. Perhaps it belonged to one of the 9,388 men buried at the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial? Or perchance it belongs to one of the thousands who approached the battlefront by landing craft, ultimately perishing into the black of the English Channel? I had no way of knowing. What I did understand was that I had to get this right, somehow. Some way.
The following day, we drove to the beach. Omaha.
With the helmet cradled in my hands and my camera bag slung over my shoulder, I ventured out onto the sands of Omaha Beach. The skies were steel gray and overcast, just as I imagined they were 65 years earlier.
And if there were other visitors, I didn't register their presence. Time seemingly stood still as I surveyed my surroundings. I looked north and allowed my eyes to take me as far as they could off-shore.
What must it have felt like to have been thrust unto the breach, as it were? I wondered if the men who did make it as far as the beach noted, as I did, the irony in the row of anti-landing craft hedgehogs? Did they understand what was at stake, or is that level of contemplation a luxury reserved for others?
Nial had an idea in mind. He suggested a new take on the iconic opening scene in the classic film The Longest Day. In it, we see a single GI's helmet resting on the sand, meant to represent the largest seaborne land invasion in human history.
I laid down, belly to the sand, close to where the ocean waves were lapping, and gently placed the helmet on the wet. I looked at this simple tableau and decided to let the pictures come. National Geographic legend William Albert Allard has insisted that he doesn't take pictures, but instead his photographs are gifted to him by the subject. As I placed my left eye on the camera's viewfinder this helmet gave me the image. I was a mere recipient. Through the lens I saw a glimpse of that decisive day in 1944.
As I look at this picture now, I can't but help but conclude that we are all humble recipients, beneficiaries of the sacrifices these men made 77 years ago, when they were all that stood between freedom and tyranny. That helmet represents more than D-Day and the Allies' victory over fascism. Maybe it's a benediction — a gentle plea for today's heirs of D-Day to honor the price that was paid for their freedom.
Rodrigo Bressane
Hertfordshire, UK
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