The D-Day story I never told — until now

I always smile when I hear Vera Lynn sing The White Cliffs of Dover.

It takes me back 25 years to a bus ride through the Normandy region of France. I'd been chosen by Veterans Affairs Canada to accompany a group of old soldiers who had taken part in the D-Day campaign. We were there to mark the 50th anniversary of the invasion on June 6, 1944. 

The bus driver popped in a cassette of Dame Lynn and the vets launched into a singalong of wartime favourites. For me, that moment set the tone for the trip.

I pushed stop on my machine. To this day, I have no regrets about turning off my tape recorder.

It had been several long days of wreath-laying, plaque-unveiling and flag-waving, all in honour of these aging Canadians. 

Throughout, there'd been moving stories and memorable events. There was the elderly French woman who ran up to show the veterans a polished regimental pin a Canadian soldier had given her after driving the Germans from her town.

There was the gregarious veteran of the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion who'd been full of jokes until he watched a paradrop recreation near the bridge where he'd landed in the early hours of D-Day, and broke down talking about a friend who'd followed him out the plane only to be gunned down by the enemy.  

But the most remarkable story among the dozens I reported for CBC Radio was one I've never told until now, 25 years later. 

Commotion on the bus

It was several days after the D-Day anniversary and the veterans had just taken part in a ceremony in the town of Falaise, marking a key Canadian victory in August 1944. 

I was seated at the back of the coach when a commotion broke out at the front. I heard raised voices, and many veterans were standing in the aisle and gesturing. 

Two older German men had boarded the bus. One was very emotional, speaking quickly in German as the other translated into English. 

We learned he was a German veteran who had travelled to France to deliver an apology 50 years in the making. He told the Canadians he realized he'd never be welcome at an official commemoration, but wanted to speak to his former adversaries nonetheless.

A debate broke out among the veterans. Several wanted to let the German man speak, while others insisted he get off the bus.

It was a microcosm of the international debate that had led up to the 50th anniversary events, with heated chatter among politicians and pundits about whether, as a sign of reconciliation, then German chancellor Helmut Kohl should be invited to the ceremony.

I grabbed my tape machine and followed the Germans off the bus, along with a few Canadian vets who wanted to hear what this man had to say.

A tearful apology

Through his translator, the German explained that he had driven a Panzer during the Germans' failed attempt to hold onto Falaise. He broke down as he described how his tank had fired on 12 Canadians as they crawled from a slit trench alongside the road, killing them all — 12 young men who, like him, had had their whole lives ahead of them. He said he was sorry for what he had done.

The Canadian veterans listened, and when the man finished speaking they shook his hand and said they accepted his apology and appreciated the effort he'd made to track them down. The German hugged one of the veterans in a tearful embrace.

The whole time, I'd been standing with my microphone held between the Germans and the Canadians gathered there outside the bus. As the German began to apologize, I began to feel I was intruding in something that didn't belong to me.

I pushed stop on my machine. To this day, I have no regrets about turning off my tape recorder.

This time, as the bus pulled away, there was no music and very little talk as we drove in silence to the hotel in Deauville.

I didn't hear anyone mention the German again, but the next day the driver popped a cassette in and once again the veterans on the bus burst into song. 

It was Vera Lynn, and this time the tune was We'll Meet Again.