This is the airfield in France that my grandfather was stationed at for one month in the Second World War.
Yesterday morning, fresh off the plane, I set foot on this hallowed ground.
It's hallowed because it has been through a few iterations over the last 77 years or so.
The Luftwaffe took this airfield from the French, and then the Yanks wrestled it from the Luftwaffe.
Now it's back in French hands, with a sweet little memorial to all the Americans who helped restore France to its own devices.
I was pretty excited to see the memorial at the modern-ish yet teeny tiny airport plopped in the middle of a French meadow, but when I saw the cluster of old buildings almost hidden across the meadow I truly jumped for joy.
I had to scour dirt roads and gates, but found my way into this WW2 portal, thanks to my own tenacity and the help of a good friend.
I don't know exactly where my grandpa would have worked here, but I know he was on this land in 1944, in good company with the men who flew bombing raids over Europe.
I love you Grandpa, and I'm proud to be the granddaughter of a great man, who served in such a noble cause with so many of the Greatest Generation. ❤️✌️