This day is also my birthday. And the day my best friend's father died in Normandy--Hugh Melrose. And the day another palymate's father--Ervin Tournear- landed on Sword Beach. Even as a little kid, this day held deep memories for me. I always knew it was important beyond my birth.
My own father, a marine, operated an amphibious tractor in the South Pacific. He managed to get in on Iwo Jima, Saipan and Tarawa. Our next door neighbor, Elvie Gray, was lost in the Battle of the Bulge. Another neighbor, Carl Soden, was stationed at Pearl Harbor on that Sunday morning in history. My father in law, John Thomas Smith, a radio gunner, flew missions over Germany, too many. He was a changed man after the war. An adult friend's father, Forrest Burdue, was hidden out in a church basement after his tank unit was attacked at the Battle of the Bulge. A French girl hid him and smuggled him milk and bread. She didn't speak English. He didn't speak French. He thought she was about 12-14. The girl's name was Denise. Every girl in that family has the middle name Denise to this day.
I knew these guys. They didn't bluster. They didn't brag. In fact, sometimes they cried. They were ordinary, every day dads. They mowed the lawns and yelled at us for leaving our bikes in the drive. Sometimes they drank a little too much, around a kitchen table on a weekend, talked war, but only when they were with each other.
That's how we, the kids of the fifties, the baby boomers, learned about heroism. It's not bluster. It's not about glory. It's about respect for the weak. It's about taking a little girl to one side and telling her about the people who died to make her birthday safe. It's about doing what you have to do, every day of your life and not bragging, not whining.
My friend who lost her father on Normandy, lost him when she was four. He also left 6 month old twins he had only seen once. My friend was raised by a feisty widow who had to scrape and struggle all her life. My own grandmothers made huge sacrifices during the war. My dad--the son of a deceased vet WW1, was the sole support of the family but refused to take a deferment. My grandmother said that they had a big garden, chickens and a small WW1 pension so they could get by without her 17 year old son's paycheck. My maternal grandfather served as a mechanic in the Army Air Corp, even though he was nearly 40. My grandmother and great grandmother managed the farm ground and raised my mom and uncle. But that's another story--so proud of our dads and our moms. --s6