With the Memorial Day weekend fast approaching, I am posting a revised version of a short article I wrote for my dad's Army association newsletter, Flak, in June of 2007. I hope that if you are not already planning to attend a ceremony honoring our military dead that something in the following words may encourage or inspire you to make the effort and attend a Memorial Day weekend ceremony. If you have children or grandchildren, it will be a great opportunity to demonstrate your respect for our military. Perhaps, they will follow suit on future Memorial Days.
A Baby Boomer's View of the Military
When the editor of the Flak asked me if I--as the child of a World War II veteran--would write an article on my view of the military, I eagerly accepted his offer. Not only am I a baby boomer child of a veteran, I am also the wife of a Vietnam vet, and myself a "veteran" of the Sixties and the corrosive culture that period helped sire. Given the opportunity to share my thoughs and feelings about the military, I jumped on it.
Although I have lived in a military town, San Diego, for almost a quarter century, it did not take close proximity to endear the military to me. It has been my love of learning history and personal experience that have given me eyes to see the vital importance of the military to a nation's--or a group of nations'--survival.
Of course, as history has repeatedly shown, strikingly during the last century, the use of military force for imperialistic or malevolent reasons perverts the ethical defensive purpose of the military. However, Americans can be proud that as our nation has matured, we have generally used our military only in defense of our own freedoms or those of our allies and cannot reasonably be called imperialists.
The American military forces have been and continue to be organizations and individuals that we Americans can look to with admiration and pride. They exhibit all the attributes Americans have traditionally sought to emulate and to instill and encourage in their children: honor, integrity, discipline, duty, skill, self-sacrifice, justice, mercy, and more.
So, how do I feel about the military? I feel love, righteous pride, and gratitude for those who have served in the past, for those who serve now, and for those who will continue to step forward and serve. I also feel pain--for their wounds and youthful deaths. I feel suffering for the losses they endure and the horror they witness. I weep with the families and friends whose precious ones are gone or whose wounds are debilitating.
These losses, though, are not empty. They are heroic and life-saving. Again, as in the lives of that "Greatest Generation," we are witnessing what the courageous few are willing to do for the many: to suffer privation and intense discomfort, to risk and even lay down their lives that their fellows may live in freedom. I am reminded of the Biblical words engraved at the memorial at Utah Beach in Normandy where American soldiers stormed the Nazi fortifications in history's greatest invasion:
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. (John 15:13 KJV)
I give thanks for the men and women of the American military, and I pray for their safe return to their families.
Showing posts with label Utah Beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Utah Beach. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Return to Normandy Part 5
The first assignment the 552nd Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion received when they reached the shores of Utah Beach was to move to the La Londe airfield, the first airfield established by the Allies during the invasion, and provide artillery cover against German bombers and strafers. We want to see this airfield and Ste. Mere Eglise, the village made famous by the movie The Longest Day and the town in Normandy Daddy most often mentioned.
I ask the same museum employee who gave me the certificate for Daddy if he knows where the La Londe airfield is. He says he knows it well. I am happily surprised and relieved to get his hand-drawn map with directions to the airfield, which he says is close by. We say our goodbyes to the museum staff and load our memorabilia into the car. The narrow road carries us past small black and white street signs with the names of members of the 1st Engineers who were killed making the way for those who would follow.
The directions take us right to the La Londe "airfield"---a pasture. It was a pasture in 1944, and it is a pasture in 2001, but it is a special pasture, and it has been memorialized by the 552nd Association. We take a picture of Haley and I beside the monument holding Daddy's photo. The monument reads:
LA LONDE
First U. S. Army Air Corps Airfield in France
12 June to 25 July 1944
Protected by the 552nd AAA AW BN (MBL)
Colonel Benjamin M. Warfield, Commanding
By Courtesy of Association Members
June 1970
In Ste. Mere Eglise we see the world-famous church steeple and a dummy dressed in paratrooper garb dangling from it, bringing back memories of the scene in The Longest Day in which the actor Red Buttons portrays John Steele, the paratrooper who actually lived this frightening experience.
We have dinner in a creperie across from the church square and read the inscriptions made on the wall by D-Day veterans. The owner gives me permission to add Daddy's information to the wall. I write: Roy Moore, 552nd AAA BN, D-Day+8, Utah Beach, his hometown, and today's date, April 11, 2001, and note that the inscription is made by his daughter, with my name. We partake of something else for which Normandy is renowned, apple crepes and sparkling apple cider.
I ask the same museum employee who gave me the certificate for Daddy if he knows where the La Londe airfield is. He says he knows it well. I am happily surprised and relieved to get his hand-drawn map with directions to the airfield, which he says is close by. We say our goodbyes to the museum staff and load our memorabilia into the car. The narrow road carries us past small black and white street signs with the names of members of the 1st Engineers who were killed making the way for those who would follow.
The directions take us right to the La Londe "airfield"---a pasture. It was a pasture in 1944, and it is a pasture in 2001, but it is a special pasture, and it has been memorialized by the 552nd Association. We take a picture of Haley and I beside the monument holding Daddy's photo. The monument reads:
LA LONDE
First U. S. Army Air Corps Airfield in France
12 June to 25 July 1944
Protected by the 552nd AAA AW BN (MBL)
Colonel Benjamin M. Warfield, Commanding
By Courtesy of Association Members
June 1970
In Ste. Mere Eglise we see the world-famous church steeple and a dummy dressed in paratrooper garb dangling from it, bringing back memories of the scene in The Longest Day in which the actor Red Buttons portrays John Steele, the paratrooper who actually lived this frightening experience.
We have dinner in a creperie across from the church square and read the inscriptions made on the wall by D-Day veterans. The owner gives me permission to add Daddy's information to the wall. I write: Roy Moore, 552nd AAA BN, D-Day+8, Utah Beach, his hometown, and today's date, April 11, 2001, and note that the inscription is made by his daughter, with my name. We partake of something else for which Normandy is renowned, apple crepes and sparkling apple cider.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Return to Normandy Part 4
As we move away from the front of this poignant memorial to those who landed on Utah Beach that historic day and for many days to follow, we see one last striking site. In a classic example of the American spirit, a bench-style monument includes the names of cities that were yet to be liberated or conquered along with their distance from Utah Beach. We see one of particular note: Berlin 1100 km.
The grass-covered dunes rise gently behind and beside the museum building, hiding the panoramic view of the water that will open to us as we walk down the wide sandy path. A low sturdy sign confirms the location, Utah Beach. The beach is wide and flat, and the gray sky produces an almost monochromatic scene of gray-green, dunes, sand, surf, ocean. We look out to the water and strain to see what isn't there. We turn and look up to the top of the dunes. The view for the Germans, the view for the Americans. We imagine the scene over those days of the invasion, with the thousands of vessels, men, tanks, trucks, the death and destruction, and the triumph.
I have carried along with me an enlarged photo of Daddy taken during the war in his uniform so that--even though he couldn't be with us in person--he is in a sense here with us. James takes a picture of me holding the photo of Daddy as we stand on the beach with the flags flying high on the dunes behind us. He takes another one with the ocean in the background, showing not only where the 552nd landed on that D-Day+8 but where they came from.
We return to the building and tour this truly important museum, spending considerable time in the gift shop, choosing books and memorabilia to bring back to Daddy and other family members, as well as Haley's history class. When the museum store employee learns that my father was in the D-Day invasion (I have shown her the photograph I brought along), she asks me to wait and disappears for a few minutes, returning with a young man dressed in suit and tie. He questions me about Daddy's service in the war and then tells me that the citizens of Ste. Marie du Mont have a certificate and medal to present to any veteran who participated in the D-Day invasion.
I could not be more thrilled. The prospect of returning home with a physical expression of the gratitude of the French people to my dad for his service is very exciting. The certificate is completed with Daddy's name and pertinent information and given to me to carry home. The medal is to be shipped at a later date, and in fact arrives in Daddy's mail in Longview, Texas a few months later, a large and beautiful commemorative medal, honoring the participants of D-Day.
In the museum one item stands out above all the others. It is a hand-written note accompanied by a dry and fading bouquet of flowers, both of which have been left in memory of the fallen at Utah Beach. My French is rusty, but a close translation reads:
Our bouquet is modest, but it is made of the wildflowers that you
saw when you arrived on our French soil.
You gave your life for our liberty. Our daddy told us.
Thank you. Each time we can come back, we will bring flowers for
your monument.
It is from three children: Marian, 10 years old, Gerald, 9 years old; and Aurora, 6 years old. The date is hard to read but appears to be 6 Juen 1973. I struggle to control my weeping. A girl's dress made from red, white, and blue parachute cloth hanging nearby seems a fitting punctuation to the letter.
The grass-covered dunes rise gently behind and beside the museum building, hiding the panoramic view of the water that will open to us as we walk down the wide sandy path. A low sturdy sign confirms the location, Utah Beach. The beach is wide and flat, and the gray sky produces an almost monochromatic scene of gray-green, dunes, sand, surf, ocean. We look out to the water and strain to see what isn't there. We turn and look up to the top of the dunes. The view for the Germans, the view for the Americans. We imagine the scene over those days of the invasion, with the thousands of vessels, men, tanks, trucks, the death and destruction, and the triumph.
I have carried along with me an enlarged photo of Daddy taken during the war in his uniform so that--even though he couldn't be with us in person--he is in a sense here with us. James takes a picture of me holding the photo of Daddy as we stand on the beach with the flags flying high on the dunes behind us. He takes another one with the ocean in the background, showing not only where the 552nd landed on that D-Day+8 but where they came from.
We return to the building and tour this truly important museum, spending considerable time in the gift shop, choosing books and memorabilia to bring back to Daddy and other family members, as well as Haley's history class. When the museum store employee learns that my father was in the D-Day invasion (I have shown her the photograph I brought along), she asks me to wait and disappears for a few minutes, returning with a young man dressed in suit and tie. He questions me about Daddy's service in the war and then tells me that the citizens of Ste. Marie du Mont have a certificate and medal to present to any veteran who participated in the D-Day invasion.
I could not be more thrilled. The prospect of returning home with a physical expression of the gratitude of the French people to my dad for his service is very exciting. The certificate is completed with Daddy's name and pertinent information and given to me to carry home. The medal is to be shipped at a later date, and in fact arrives in Daddy's mail in Longview, Texas a few months later, a large and beautiful commemorative medal, honoring the participants of D-Day.
In the museum one item stands out above all the others. It is a hand-written note accompanied by a dry and fading bouquet of flowers, both of which have been left in memory of the fallen at Utah Beach. My French is rusty, but a close translation reads:
Our bouquet is modest, but it is made of the wildflowers that you
saw when you arrived on our French soil.
You gave your life for our liberty. Our daddy told us.
Thank you. Each time we can come back, we will bring flowers for
your monument.
It is from three children: Marian, 10 years old, Gerald, 9 years old; and Aurora, 6 years old. The date is hard to read but appears to be 6 Juen 1973. I struggle to control my weeping. A girl's dress made from red, white, and blue parachute cloth hanging nearby seems a fitting punctuation to the letter.
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