This year, 23 of us went. Some of the fellow descendants present were American soldiers who marched in formation in the parade, shoulder to shoulder with French and British military — together bearing the French, American and British flags, side-by-side. So moving! This year, the village had erected an impressive marble monument with an image of the B-24 and the airmen’s names. They displayed the propeller from my grandfather’s plane and photos of the plane and crew. We walked in the parade like celebrity guests of the village that delivered us to the memorial, adjacent to the 13th-century church and village hall. On that day, the French Union of the Soldiers and Victims of War issues a speech to be read in every village, every town, every city, by two school children at the exact same moment, everywhere in France.
Carrie Jones Ross and her mother, Noni Diamantopoulos, on the front page of a French newspaper.
There were nearly two hours of somber remarks (due to extra time for a translator). White-haired eyewitnesses with canes and comfortable shoes recounted once again the details of watching the plane go down in a field through their classroom window. Upon hearing my grandfather’s name read aloud with the others’, I crossed myself and broke into tears, once again feeling a wave of pain for my grandmother’s ceaseless loss. The village mayor looked at my face in the moment I lost my fight against the torrent of tears, and he suddenly ruptured into tears of his own.
An elderly woman who strangely seemed to cling to me through much of the ceremony tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a hand-written note. It read: “I was born in 1945 in Signone near the place where the plane fell. My mother often told me about it. My father was a prisoner in Germany and she took care of the farm [and] helped her father. She had two children 12 and eight years old.” Wow. Just wow.
A marching band belted out a French horn-accented rendition of God Bless America and dozens of school kids sang all the verses of the La Marseillaise, the French national anthem. Vive la République! Vive la France! Vive l’Amérique! The ceremony was triumphantly underscored by a gut-twisting ring of the 13th-century church bells during a moment of silence when three replica WWII planes flew overhead in V-formation with perfect timing, punctuated by an audible gasp of participants. French finesse.
Following the ceremony was a giant banquet in honor of the Americans. The mayor approached me with a translator to inform me that my tears brought him to tears as well, and he wanted to know what had moved me so deeply in that moment. I told the translator how I felt about my grandmother losing the father of her young child, and the only man she ever really loved. I was deeply moved to know the remembrance of my family’s loss was not for naught to this village. The translator, the mayor, myself and everyone listening to our conversation got teary as well.
A woman with her hand-written note.
That evening, we were featured in several French news broadcasts and the next morning, we appeared on the front page of several French newspapers. Don’t fall for the myth that the French hate Americans. They do not. America and France are allies. At least in Saint-Léonard-en-Beauce, where they remember those who died to keep their country and the rest of the world free, we are.
Hello Carrie,
I volunteer at a World War Two museum in New Hampshire. I have always been fascinated with the different aspects of World War Two due to the family connection. My great uncle was Kenneth Hall (tail gunner in the Star Valley), my granddad (Albert Hall) served in the 26th Yankee Division and my other granddad served in the Navy in WW2. Our family recently informed me of Uncle Kenny’s plane and unit information. Prior, I was only told that he was killed during the war. I really want to attend the next May 8th memorial in France and other information that you have would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.