I know we just celebrated Veteran's Day and don't wanna be soapy, but the significance of June 6, 1944, is a historical event I never want to overlook. I am deeply moved emotionally and greatly interested in the history of the day as told by the veterans of that day. Stephen Ambrose penned several books on D-Day and researched it tremendously. He wrote from an historical perspective as well as some books just relating the veterans oral history of their individual parts. In one of his books he wrote that it was a day that everyone remembered where they were and what they were doing when news of it broke. I started asking people of that generation what they remembered. My mom says she was cleaning the dishes and the word went through their neighborhood so very fast... She even showed me some of the WW 2 ration stamps and cards she had left over and stored away.
I was at work one day in an orthopedic clinic, taking care of a lady with a broken wrist. Her husband had already been very vociferous with expletives to our receptionist and scheduler because we could not treat her until her insurance gave us a referral. To do so would have negated the terms of her insurance. As I spoke with them, as I do all patients for which I am caring, I broached the subject of D-Day with this elderly lady, trying to help get her mind off the pain of a fractured wrist and to actually help with a soothing voice to prevent shock as we put a new cast on her. And it was a nasty break as wrists go. Anyhow, I asked her and she said she was just a girl, outdoors playing and the word went up and down her street in Dallas like lightening.
When I turned around to this rough, tough - even cantankerous - husband of hers, tears were streaming down his cheeks. I realized he had been there. He told me of his part as a “cox’un,” operating a landing craft, assigned to one of the many landing ships. His memory was one of how one of the bow lines holding a Higgins boat out of the water broke just after it was filled with men...and the sea was very rough due to the storm which had stalled the operation for a day. With tears dripping off his chin, he spoke of watching that boat beat all of those men to death, no survivors, as the ship rolled in the heavy seas... And for him, it was just a start. If you remember, several described how the surf would roll the bodies of American soldiers back and forth on the beach and how many there were. There are stories of how men did their duty only later to be called heroes - and many citations for medals were written in the weeks that followed.
I want to remember those men who - yes - "fought and died" on the shores of France, in Normandy, though many died in horrid fear and everyone was scared that day. I want to remember those who never got a scratch physically. None of them were left without scars or unchanged. Ambrose described what Lt. Spear told his frightened soldiers that their problem with fear was that they had not given themselves up for being dead already.
I want to speak of my respect for those men who died for the cause of freedom and liberty for the many folks back home, for their families, for their friends. But that day, many were fighting and dying for the men on either side of them with no time for thought on anything other then staying alive and keeping their buddies alive. Some died knowing they would, but knowing their buddies might live by their sacrifice. None wanted to die - but many never left Normandy, much less the beaches. Many more left as broken men, never to be physically whole. Some were just mentally broken.
I respect those men and those that preceded them on beaches in the South Pacific. I respect even those who were varmints amongst them, but rose to the occasion. I respect each and every one, whether their enlistment was voluntary or by draft. They responded to the call to protect their country and the cause of freedom. I also respect the men who had to do the ignoble jobs as well as those who simply worked somewhere far away from combat. They, too, did their part whether in a foreign place or never leaving American soil.
But today, I remember D-Day: the day when a mad dictator and his henchmen were dealt a blow on the ground, from which they could not recover, by free men who thought for themselves, not having to wait for an order. I remember. Yes, how I remember. I remember those brave, fellow Americans.
I was at work one day in an orthopedic clinic, taking care of a lady with a broken wrist. Her husband had already been very vociferous with expletives to our receptionist and scheduler because we could not treat her until her insurance gave us a referral. To do so would have negated the terms of her insurance. As I spoke with them, as I do all patients for which I am caring, I broached the subject of D-Day with this elderly lady, trying to help get her mind off the pain of a fractured wrist and to actually help with a soothing voice to prevent shock as we put a new cast on her. And it was a nasty break as wrists go. Anyhow, I asked her and she said she was just a girl, outdoors playing and the word went up and down her street in Dallas like lightening.
When I turned around to this rough, tough - even cantankerous - husband of hers, tears were streaming down his cheeks. I realized he had been there. He told me of his part as a “cox’un,” operating a landing craft, assigned to one of the many landing ships. His memory was one of how one of the bow lines holding a Higgins boat out of the water broke just after it was filled with men...and the sea was very rough due to the storm which had stalled the operation for a day. With tears dripping off his chin, he spoke of watching that boat beat all of those men to death, no survivors, as the ship rolled in the heavy seas... And for him, it was just a start. If you remember, several described how the surf would roll the bodies of American soldiers back and forth on the beach and how many there were. There are stories of how men did their duty only later to be called heroes - and many citations for medals were written in the weeks that followed.
I want to remember those men who - yes - "fought and died" on the shores of France, in Normandy, though many died in horrid fear and everyone was scared that day. I want to remember those who never got a scratch physically. None of them were left without scars or unchanged. Ambrose described what Lt. Spear told his frightened soldiers that their problem with fear was that they had not given themselves up for being dead already.
I want to speak of my respect for those men who died for the cause of freedom and liberty for the many folks back home, for their families, for their friends. But that day, many were fighting and dying for the men on either side of them with no time for thought on anything other then staying alive and keeping their buddies alive. Some died knowing they would, but knowing their buddies might live by their sacrifice. None wanted to die - but many never left Normandy, much less the beaches. Many more left as broken men, never to be physically whole. Some were just mentally broken.
I respect those men and those that preceded them on beaches in the South Pacific. I respect even those who were varmints amongst them, but rose to the occasion. I respect each and every one, whether their enlistment was voluntary or by draft. They responded to the call to protect their country and the cause of freedom. I also respect the men who had to do the ignoble jobs as well as those who simply worked somewhere far away from combat. They, too, did their part whether in a foreign place or never leaving American soil.
But today, I remember D-Day: the day when a mad dictator and his henchmen were dealt a blow on the ground, from which they could not recover, by free men who thought for themselves, not having to wait for an order. I remember. Yes, how I remember. I remember those brave, fellow Americans.
