A bad rehearsal.

• Author: Wilkinson, J. Burke
• Position: Normandy Invasion, 1944

FROM THE PERSPECTIVE of half a century and through the nostalgic tints of commemorative ceremonies, the success of the Normandy Overlord invasion has assumed an air of inevitability. This summer's anniversary procession made inspirational stops at all the D-Day ports of call: the five invasion beaches: Gold, Juno, Sword, Utah, Omaha; the Rangers' seizure of Pointe du Hoc; the airborne assault at Ste. Mere Eglise. In some danger of being lost amid the ritual was the boldness, the fragility, the risk of the original undertaking, and the awful foreboding that had driven Eisenhower to draft--and carry in his wallet for a month after D-Day--a statement in case of disaster:

Our landings...have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based upon the best information available...if any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone.

Eisenhower had good reason to worry.

The time was late April of 1944. Almost everyone in England knew or sensed that the invasion of Europe was imminent, although the location and actual date of the landings were highly classified. Those who knew the details were said to be "bigoted;" even this code name was itself top secret. The British authorities were convinced that the Americans talked too much, and in London assigned a group of attractive girls to see how much we did talk. One senior American Army officer, attending a party at Claridge's Hotel said, "On my honor the invasion will take place before the sixth of June." A furious Eisenhower shipped him home on the first plane. He was reduced in rank, and retired soon afterward.

The whole of England was in the grip of invasion fever. American officers, like myself, who had been bigoted tended to lunch and dine alone for fear of blurting out secret information. Yet everything we did and thought was conditioned and underlined by the war. A walk with a gift through a stubble field, an afternoon with a gun along the river, a visit to a dog breeder who was proud of his dogs--even peaceful pursuits like these were colored by the never-forgotten fact that we were part of a vast machine of destruction. Such pastimes were like sporting prints too heavily mounted, so that the massive frames and broad white borders dominated the small scenes themselves. The war was the frame and border of our lives.

I had been trained in Harbor Defense, and was serving as a naval officer on the staff of...