BAYEUX, France — A hard truth was brutally plain as reporters gathered near the Normandy beaches, a global crime scene in vivid memory, to celebrate their living and mourn their dead. “Never Again!” is an empty promise in the heart of Europe and across an imperiled planet.

In this noble little city that miraculously escaped allied bombing, heart-stopping images and eyewitness accounts made reality crystal clear: humanity is nearly out of time to save itself. Vladimir Putin’s Ukraine onslaught is the worst of it. But there is so much else.

For 29 years, the annual Bayeux Calvados-Normandy War Correspondents Awards has singled out reportage by insightful old pros and gutsy young ones with new skills. This time, entries far surpassed that overworked word of the day: horrific.

The irony defies belief. America waded in to help stop genocidal Nazis from ruling the world. Now a far different country may soon enable a seditious, bigoted, lying, isolationist Trump-besotted minority to destroy a 234-year-old democracy when it is so badly needed.

Elections next month, already corrupted by treachery in Republican-run states, could make the world safe for murderous despots, a fascistic far right and oligarchs who abandon principle for profit. A massive turnout can sweep them into history. And, still, that would only be a start.

Climate calamities push ever-larger human tides to besiege closed borders. But the immediate challenge is conflict. The military-industrial complex Dwight Eisenhower foresaw has waged unwinnable war since the 1960s, full-on or by proxy, with scant regard for millions who suffer.

America, though hardly the only culprit, has the wealth and wherewithal to wage peace. When diplomacy and targeted aid fail, muscular military coalitions need to confront threats before they spiral out of control. Solid up-close reporting is crucial to get that right.

Bayeux winners this year were mostly fresh faces. Ukrainians depicted their own tragedy. A Burkina Faso freelancer described rape and terror in a former bright spot on a dark continent; she wept on a video link at the award ceremony, overcome that the world had finally noticed.

A Sudanese Spiderman enthralled the jury with a 19-minute television piece for the Guardian that ended with optimism. A single brave soul can inspire revolution against tyranny. But not without support from outsiders who care. We’ll get back to Spidey; please read on.

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AMPUS, France–My first encounter with the Queen ended with an Indian Ocean odyssey to polar opposite archipelagos: Maldives, still a medieval Muslim time warp hidden among coral fantasia, and Seychelles, then fun-loving islands where Sex on the Beach was not a bar drink.

That was in 1972 after a five-week visit to Southeast Asia in a world entirely from today. Elizabeth II and Prince Philip sailed on their yacht, Britannia. A few reporters flew ahead on a Royal Air Force transport. We had an awful lot of fun, but I don’t think the queen did.

Britannia tied up at Male, Maldives’ minuscule capital, in water clear enough to see parrotfish frolic on the sea floor. Instead of jumping in, the royal couple traipsed off to a fish plant, gamely ignoring the stench, and then hobnobbed with officials, schoolkids and the four resident Brits.

On that trip, and others like it in various far-flung places, I watched a purely symbolic monarch work hard to fortify humanity in a world bent on destroying itself. She dined with dictators, only subtly appealing to their better natures. In remote villages, she lit up lives.

Fifty years later, her impact can’t be measured. But her mark is indelible. People who waited 30 hours to file past her casket and all those who now gather in London for a last goodbye show her legacy. Great Britain, though diminished these days, still punches far above its weight.

This is no paean to a faultless queen. A costly archaic monarchy in a parliamentary democracy with a class-based society is no easy fit. And the House of Windsor has a lot of dark corners.

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PARIS – America’s ship of state is besieged by mutineers on board while it plows through melting ice floes and mined waters. It is in range of Russian nukes, buzzed by Chinese jets, and bedeviled by terrorizing pirates. This is no time to jettison a steady-handed old salt captain.

Leaders are judged by their moment in time. Considering what Joe Biden inherited and what he has managed to do so far at this perilous juncture in history, it is hard to recall a more effective American president. Yet a lot of voters want him gone.

He may slow down before 2024 and step aside. But hamstringing him months before midterm elections is a godsend to whomever the Republicans choose to finish Donald Trump’s mission to turn America into a selfish one-party kleptocracy run by ideologues and plutocrats.

Biden flashed steel last week, excoriating Republicans who now weasel their way toward authoritarian rule with tactics borrowed from Goebbels, Machiavelli and Bozo the clown. He called them semi-fascists. Trump’s House puppet, Kevin McCarthy, demanded an apology.

True, Biden misspoke. There is nothing semi about it. Fascism is now the most looked-up word on Websters: “A political philosophy…that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by dictatorial leader.”

It adds “forcible suppression of opposition”; for instance, a murderous insurrection or such recent savagery as a barrage of calls to Democratic congressmen threatening to cut off their wives’ and children’s heads.

Trumplicans replied in typical funhouse-mirror distortion. Here is Tucker Carlson: “Yeah, (Republicans) are a threat, says the guy with the blood-red Nazi background and Marines standing behind him. It's a complete outrage…totally immoral."

The only red was in the bricks of Independence Hall in Philadelphia, where colonials drafted the Bill of Rights, which Republicans – you know, red – seek to suppress. A pair of ceremonial Marines signaled that “Sleepy Joe” was out of his basement and loaded for elephant.

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WILD OLIVES, France—Jean-Jacques Sempé died Thursday at 89 just up the rutted road from this patch of Provence mountainside that I owe entirely to him and his sidekick-wife Martine Gossieaux. His fabled drawings and books say it all. To those, I can only add sacre Sempé.

In the 1980s, Gretchen Hoff, my then sidekick non-wife, came up with a perfect cover idea for “Mission to Civilize,” a book I was writing on how France civilized the world, like it or not: a Sempé version of that Joe Rosenthal photo of GIs planting an American flag on Iwo Jima.

I wrote him. He jumped at the idea, and we went to visit his Haut Var hideaway. We almost gasped at the raw beauty as the road wound up from Draguignan among soaring pines and leafy oaks, past an old stone hamlet, to a mile-long track among ancient olive groves.

Jean-Jacques was at work on a vast white board. On that, and at his soaring roofed Saint Sulpice studio in Paris, he gave the world Petit Nicolas, a whimsical modern-day Petit Prince, nearly an album a year of his dessins, about 100 New Yorker covers and so much else.

But it was the man behind his oeuvre that loomed so large. Over long dinners with friends, his eyes actually twinkled as he lanced gentle barbs and played with words. In serious moments, his grasp of human irony and geopolitical folly ran deep.

I sometimes translated his captions but to my burning regret couldn’t make time for a book idea he had. Just back from an Associated Press reporting trip to Soviet Eastern Europe, I told him about how workaday families resisted heavy-hand authority with humor and strength.

At a park in Prague, I had searched frantically for the notebook that had dropped from my back pocket. A bearded young guy in hippie gear got up from a bench and handed it to me. He was a “homeland security” goon, keeping watch on local Czechs and foreign journalists.

Those Sempé eyes lit up by another 1,000 watts. He wanted us to go back to capture anguish and absurdities behind a rusting Iron Curtain.

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PARIS — If you’re a reporter on the job, authoritarian rule gets starkly real when goons with badges clap you in restraints, shove you into a van, strip you for a cavity probe, and then lock you in a cell incommunicado with no idea of what to expect next.

Foreign correspondents accept the risk. “It’s traumatic,” Jon Lee Anderson of The New Yorker once told an interviewer and then added: “I’ve been grabbed a few times, but I haven’t had to live as a kidnapped hostage in fear for my life for weeks or months—only a few hours.”

I’m less sanguine about it after ugly experiences in Africa and Central America. Bad luck or a tragic misstep can take a heavy toll. Most often, you can persuade someone up the chain of command to turn you loose. But that sense of injustice and impotence burns deep.

I always felt a wave of relief as wheels touched down at JFK after working in dicey places. Police in America, as departmental credos say, are meant “to serve and to protect” all citizens. Courts and review boards are supposed to hold them to account for any excesses. It is different now.

The Second Amendment is fast overshadowing the First. Law officers at times act as private thugs for big-money corporations. Individual cops are often swayed by personal or political prejudice. That ballyhooed “day in court” can go badly with overzealous prosecutors and partisan judges.

This is a national crisis. During police crackdowns in the Trump years, a protest sign evoked that post-Holocaust verse which ends: “Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.” It read: “First they came for the journalists. We don’t know what happened after that.”

My pal Alan Weisman faced exactly what that first paragraph describes in Minnesota last year while covering a protest for a Los Angeles Times op-ed about Line 3, a Canadian company’s pipeline that threatens waterways, aquifers and traditional Indian tribal rice fields.

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