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Ross Boulton's avatar

A Letter to the Secretary of War

Mr. Secretary,

You stood on a field of graves and called the wrong people the invasion. You did it on purpose, and you did it with the whole world watching.

You climbed a bluff above Omaha Beach — ground bought with the bodies of people who crossed an ocean to fight a fascist regime — and you used it to warn the living about boats. Spain. Italy. Greece. Bulgaria. *Boats and men arrive.* You did not say the word *migrants*; you only pointed. You took *stormed*, the word that belongs to the dead buried there, and aimed it across the Mediterranean at the frightened and the drowning. You took *invasion*, which on that ground means liberation, and handed it to people in rafts. You needed those graves to give your fear some weight, because it has none of its own. So you went where the graves were.

And this was not one ugly sentence that got away from you. Last December your own administration put it in writing — a national security strategy warning that Europe faced “civilizational erasure,” that the continent would be “unrecognizable” in twenty years. You did not improvise on that bluff. You read your homework out loud over a cemetery. *Stormed. Invasion. Dangerous ideologies.* The men buried on that ground died in a war against a regime that talked exactly that way. You have the threat aimed backward, sir. The danger at that cemetery was not in the water. It was at the podium, in the good suit, reading from the wrong side of the war. The man who tells you he is guarding the door is the one already inside the house.

But here is what you should not be allowed to walk past, and it is the reason I am writing.

You did not know who was buried near where you stood. Three of the women under that grass served in the 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion — the only all-Black, all-female unit America sent overseas in that war. Mary Bankston. Mary Barlow. Dolores Browne. A fourth, Elizabeth Richardson, was a Red Cross volunteer, twenty-seven years old when her plane went down.

They crossed the same water you stood there pointing at. They arrived by ship, from across the sea, into a war that did not want them and a country that would not let them eat at its tables or ride in its cars. They came anyway. They cleared a mountain of mail — millions of letters the Army had given up on — in three months, half the time they were handed, working around the clock in cold warehouses so some mother in Ohio could hold her dead son’s last letter. *No mail, low morale.* That was their motto.

They are the invasion you mean. Women crossing an ocean nobody asked them to cross, unwanted, to carry other people’s grief the last mile home.

They went when no one asked them and no one wanted them. That is what those beaches are for. They are buried there still — Bankston, Barlow, Browne, Richardson — yards from where you stood, and you spoke right over them, and you never knew their names.

I thought somebody should say them out loud.

A granddaughter

Marka Ormsby's avatar

I don't know who is charge of the D-Day remembrance at Normandy, but it seems ill-advised to have a member of the Trump administration speaking at all. Especially Pete Hegseth.

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