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Illustration by Drew Shannon
“Were you seasick?” I asked.
“I was too scared to be sick,” my dad answered.
I was asking about crossing the English Channel from Southampton to Normandy, France aboard the HMCS Prince David in the early morning of June 6, 1944. D-Day. The sea was rough. The waves, high. The stakes – even higher.
Norman Bland was 21 years old that day. He had been overseas since the beginning of the Second World War, from the age of 16. I am certain that was not permitted so his Army records must show a false birthdate. He spent time in England, Belgium, France and Holland. He likely learned to smoke and drink during this time. No doubt he charmed a few young ladies with his bright blue eyes, blond hair and impeccable manners. He also did and saw the unimaginable.
As children, we loved to hear Dad’s war stories. He taught us songs that we weren’t allowed to sing at school: We are, we are, we are, we are, we are the Engineers. We can, we can, we can, we can demolish 40 beers. When he wore his dress uniform I got to pin his wide panel of decorations on his lapel, making sure it lay perfectly straight when he wore his jacket. I made sure his shoes were polished and his gloves were bright white.
Our family would go to the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto for the Warrior’s Day Parade and watch Dad march in perfect step with his mates. During cold November weekends before Remembrance Day, we gathered at the local Legion, were issued a box of poppies and dropped at some corner or storefront for an afternoon to sell poppies. I was around 11 years old and don’t recall much supervision during these outings, but there was never trouble. Just frozen fingers and toes. It didn’t matter, though. When we finally returned to the Legion, there was always hot soup and we were proud to support Dad.
Dad was typically over-refreshed after returning home from Warrior’s Day or Remembrance Day events where he’d spent an afternoon with fellow Veterans. He would sit at our dining room table and tell us about jumping aboard the landing craft on D-Day. As the ship dipped down, the landing craft lifted up in the rough water. The jump had to be timed perfectly. Some men didn’t make the jump and were lost before they even landed on the beach. He told us how he “hacked his way through a human wall of flesh,” dragging his wet equipment behind him. He could never forget the sounds from that day. The guns – TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT – all day long. He heard men crying for their mothers. He saw the sea wash up red. If we asked a question, we might get an answer. More often than not, he would say, “That’s enough,” and go to bed. Sometimes, my father suffered from night terrors and would wake up screaming.
I had a complicated relationship with my father. I was proud of his service but I loathed his drinking. I knew he was intelligent but also bigoted. He was popular and had a lot of friends, many of whom he would bring home for a nightcap and I hated the noise and booze and cigarettes. Growing up, he tried to parent me and teach me things but would end up frustrated. I was not meticulous enough. “No, no, Norm,” he would scold if I wasn’t painting or sweeping just right. If I injured myself, he would shout at me, making me cry harder. My mother used to say, “He’s just excited.” Looking back, I realize he was likely anxious. Living a life with PTSD.
I was the last family member to see my father alive, to hear his last words. In 2001, I visited him at the Sunnybrook Veterans Wing, which had been his home for some years. When I entered his room, his nurse was feeding him some soup.
“Is this one of your daughters, Norm?” she asked him. Although it was difficult for him to muster the breath to speak, he did.
“That’s the baby.”
When he went to sleep that afternoon, I left. Dad didn’t wake up.
As fate would have it, I had a trip to Europe planned that year. An idea came to me. My father had left his innocence on that beach at Bernieres-Sur-Mer in 1944. I thought it would be fitting to take him back to that place. My mother agreed.
After toting my dad all over England in my backpack, I made the journey to Paris, rented a car and drove almost three hours north to Normandy. Standing on that beach and looking up from the water to the town as my father and so many other soldiers did to see some of the buildings still standing from June, 1944 was overwhelming.
The beach was quiet. The sea was calm. Thankfully, there was a breeze and with a brief goodbye, I raised the bag that held Dad’s ashes and let the wind take him away. I stayed until he settled and, as the tide came in, I knew he would be happy to spend eternity there.
Normanne Bland lives in Peterborough, Ont.