Up the long path, inside the bunker wedged into the cliff, did you see the star etched into the stone wall, crossed out, a swastika drawn in? Facing la Douve from the lookout one can almost see the seasick, dead reckoning, the first wave at zero hour jumping from the landing crafts into the crashing sea, a cockcrow-sky lit with tracer flare. Now you’ll find cigarette butts, beer cans, condoms strewn where someone with a Polaroid and Swiss Army knife drove out for a goodtime and a snapshot. Did they ever hear a soldier’s account? He said: the dead were left on the beach below crisscrossed, the way one would stack cordwood, dregs and wreckage washing back along the water’s edge.