A French Poem Eleven thousand soldiers lay beneath the dirt and stone, all buried on a distant land so far away from home. For just a strip of dismal beach they paid a hero's price to save a foreign nation they all made the sacrifice. And now the shores of Normandy are lined with blocks of white: Americans who didn't turn from someone else's plight. Eleven thousand reasons for the French to take our side, but in the moment of our need, they chose to run and hide. Chirac said every war means loss, perhaps for France that's true, for...