I t was a late January day when I visited the Canadian War cemetery at Beny- sur-Mer in France. It is not far inland from Juno Beach in Normandy, France. The sky was overcast. It was chilly and blustery. Gusts of wind stirred the branches of the Canadian maple trees, growing in a row along the perimeter of the cemetery, the buds of which were swelling with new spring leaves. Intermittently cold drops of light rain touched my face.

A low wall, constructed of light-brown bricks, fronted this hallow place. As I walked through the entrance , I sensed that I was treading on consecrated ground. All around there seemed to be an aura of peace and serenity, but, at the same time, in my mind, I heard the sounds of battle, perhaps the din of many battles in one. I could hear the thunder of artillery, the sputtering of machine guns, the siren-like noise of "moaning minnie" mortar bombs, the clanking of prowling tanks and the swoosh of out going and the whistle of incoming artillery shells landing with sharp explosions.

I passed through the sanctuary, a place where one could sit and ponder the events of those long-ago days. I stepped into the cemetery proper. I stopped and gazed, in awe, at the scene before me, the tall cross of remembrance in the center surrounded by row upon row of headstones. The grounds had been immaculately cared for, the grass cut and trimmed around each plot where roses and other small neatly shaped plants grew. I continued on, my head bowed with great melancholy. I noticed the ages shown on the stones were, for the most part, in the 17 to early 20's range. How young we were back then, so long-ago - another life time, part dream, part nightmare.

W hen I reached plot 9, I walked along row D until I came to grave 7, the grave of my brother. I stood and viewed the etchings on the head stone which consisted of the maple leaf and the words: H39159 Sapper J. E. Sawdon-Corps of Royal Canadian Engineers-6th of June, 1944, age 22 - (engraved cross and the words): "Yea though I walk through the Valley of Death I will feel no evil". I knelt at the side of Jim's grave, emotions rising within me, tears in my eyes, as I prayed for a few moments.

J im was one of 359 (this number may vary depending on the source of the information) Canadians who fell on D-Day, their blood soaked into the sand and the soil of France on that historic day. Brave men gave the greatest gift it is possible to give to their fellow-men and to their country, their lives.

J im was the eldest (age 22) of three brothers, including my self ( the youngest of the three), on active service with the Canadian Army. Another brother was too young for active service. Jim was a member of the 6th field Company of the Royal Canadian Engineers. He landed on Juno Beach, June 6, 1944 with men of the Royal Winnipeg Rifles. His task was to clear the beach of obstacles. While doing this he was instantly killed by machine gun and mortar fire. Perhaps his height of six feet, five inches made him an easy target.

W hile kneeling at Jim's grave, my thoughts went back to my school days. I recalled that Jim was a great baseball player and excelled as a pitcher. During practice I would catch for him. "Pitch the ball down the alley", I would call to him. He would blaze in a strike leaving the palm of my hand stinging with pain even though I caught the ball in a well-padded mitt. My fondest memory of him was when I watched him pitch in a senior game. He struck out the opposing players one after another. He pitched a perfect game.

A s I left the cemetery it struck me that its location was isolated on top of a hill, but in close proximity to the village of Beny-sur Mer. Then I reflected that this is as it should be, a place where tranquillity may prevail. Before leaving I looked back at the array of headstones. I thought to myself: "What a waste of lives". Then I quickly realized that this great loss was not in vain. It had to be done. A brutal regime was attempting to take over the world and had to be stopped so that freedom could live again.

A s a tribute to all who rest at Beny-sur- Mer and other war cemeteries I end this narrative with a few words composed by Sir Walter Scott: