Not just another day, but D-Day on Juno Beach. 70 years ago today Canadian regiments of mostly 18-20 year old boys ran up a rainy, stone strewn beach that had been carefully calibrated for the highly efficient German machine guns over the previous 4 years. With no cover the boys of The Queens Own Rifles of Canada and several other regiments staggered out of the water that wretched morning towards the train station, their objective 200 yards ahead, as the waiting guns raked across them.
My father Charles Dalton, a 34 year old major and considered an old man, led from the front of B Company, while his brother, Elliot 28 appointed at the last moment, did the same with A Company. How either survived was a matter of extreme luck for many died as the doors of their landing craft opened or in the cold water. My father made it to the wall below the station where he managed to take out a pill box machine gun only to take a head wound from the other nearby. Covered in blood he kept shouting “Move Up” to those behind him, many of whom could not. Unbeknownst to him his brother had been wounded also.
Both were told the other did not survive, only to be stunned later on to find themselves next to each other in an English hospital. Dad received the DSO from General Montgomery later in Holland after his recovery, for his D-Day actions. My uncle got his “gong” for bravery in the battle for the Netherlands.
They rarely spoke of that day, with only a sad, distant look around their eyes as if remembering those boys who followed them, never to return. These were the lads they had trained with for years, all volunteers. Canada’s was the only volunteer army in the war.
The hardest part Father thought, were the letters they both had to write afterwards, to the parents and young wives of the “fallen”, just words to explain the inexplicable and awful. It was Victory at great cost and the brothers never forgot the faces.
So ended the Longest Day.
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