‘War is ugly’: For a French veteran, lessons from D-Day are enduring
OUISTREHAM, France — There were countless times on D-Day and in the fighting in Normandy that followed when Leon Gautier could have been killed or grievously wounded.
He and his comrades in an elite French unit were among the first waves of Allied troops to storm the heavily defended beaches of Nazi-occupied northern France, beginning the liberation of western Europe. The commandos spent 78 days straight on the front lines, their numbers dwindling from one firefight to the next.
Of the 177 who waded ashore on the morning of June 6, 1944, just two dozen escaped death or injury, Gautier among them.
Then, his good fortune ran out.
Back in England for some well-deserved R&R, an impatient Gautier jumped off a moving train. He injured his left ankle so badly that he was forced to sit out much of the rest of the war, which ended in Europe with Germany’s surrender in May 1945.
The now 96-year-old Gautier rolls up a trouser leg to show how the ankle remains painfully swollen three quarters of a century later, his story neatly encapsulating the lunatic and arbitrary nature of war.
In the huge D-Day invasion force made up largely of American, British and Canadian soldiers, French Capt. Philippe Kieffer’s commandos ensured that France had feats to be proud of too, after the dishonor of its Nazi occupation, when some chose to collaborate with Adolf Hitler’s forces.
Volunteering, as Gautier did, for Kieffer’s commando unit meant undergoing brutal and dangerous training. The men became so hardened that on D-Day they came ashore carrying four days’ worth of rations and ammunition, nearly 70 pounds in all.
Their initial objective was a heavily fortified bunker. Although the strongpoint was just a few miles away, it took them four hours of fighting to get there and take it. On the beach, they cut through barbed wire under a hail of bullets.
“We were being shot at, but we shot at them too,” Gautier said. “When we arrived near the walls of the bunkers, we threw grenades in through the slits.”
Gautier said not all of the newly liberated inhabitants of Ouistreham where they fought were pleased to see them, figuring the troops would soon turn tail and be replaced by vengeful Germans.
“I told them, ‘We’re not leaving! We’re here for good!’ ” Gautier said. “I don’t know that they believed me.”
Just three of Kieffer’s commandos survive. Gautier is the youngest. The oldest is 105. A 1943 photo of 70 of them, taken in Scotland where they trained, shows square chins and resolute looks under the green berets they made famous.
One of the benefits of longevity: Gautier has a great-great-great-grandson born, incredibly, on June 6, two years ago.
Gautier and his wife, Dorothy, were married for more than 70 years. She died in 2016 at 91. They met in 1943 when he was stationed in England.
Gautier says he doesn’t like talking about the war: “The older you get, you think that maybe you killed a father, made a widow of a woman. … It’s not easy to live with.”
Yet he has devoted much of his life since then making sure that lessons from the war aren’t forgotten by giving countless interviews, taking part in countless commemorations and helping put together the museum in Ouistreham that commemorates the commandos.
“The younger generations have to be told, they need to know,” Gautier said. “War is ugly. War is misery, misery everywhere.”