"Omaha Beach, Normandy I am standing in a German cement bunker having walked through a large gaping hole caused by an incoming shell that must have instantly killed the handful of defenders. The bunker is on the beach, about 50 yards from the sea at high tide, and an afternoon mist is rolling in from the north. The scene is eerie and chilling, and 74 years on my heart goes out to those defenders. There are ghosts all around us. I try to put myself in the place of the very young, or old, Wehrmacht soldiers inside the bunker as they face the 6,700 or so ships that loom suddenly on the horizon. There is no time to think as naval heavy guns unleash projectiles weighing as much as two tonnes, and let up only as the landing boats are approaching. The odds are overwhelming; the defenders have been caught by surprise. They have a couple of heavy machine guns and, most likely, a Panzerfaust — bazooka — and limited ammunition. In no time the beach has been blasted to smithereens, and now landing boats are hitting the shoreline and men are charging, knee-high in water. Overhead, Allied planes are attacking the German rear. There are no Luftwaffe airplanes anywhere in sight. The soon-to-be-entombed small band fire their weapons and stand their ground, until their pillbox is blasted open and they fall to a man. It might sound strange me writing in The Spectator from a German perspective, but fair’s fair. I asked my companions which side they'd choose, and all of them agreed that the attacking forces had a better chance of survival than the defenders. Spielberg and his ilk have shown the landing parties to be sitting ducks, but this is real history, not Hollywood bullshit."