A D-Day Story

Sullivan’s Steak House was crowded, as most suburban shopping center restaurants are on a typical Wednesday night. My father told me how much he liked it so I said let’s go to dinner there. The older my father got, the more he seemed to want to talk to me…or maybe I just wanted to hear more of what he had to say, as I got older. Regardless, we had some really good conversations over dinner in his later years. And on this night, the subject turned to our military service and then to D-Day.

The draft caught up with my father in 1942 and, after going into the US Army, he was accepted into Officer Candidate School. He did his training and ended up in Buzzard’s Bay, Massachusetts at the entrance to Cape Cod. He was preparing to be sent overseas to the European Theater of World War II. He never told me whether he chose the field artillery or it chose him but that’s where he ended up, as I did when it came my turn to serve. We had that in common.

My mother and he were teen-agers when they married right out of high school. Being newly-weds, they were able to be together in Massachusetts before my father left for England. At the end of 1943, he shipped out to Portsmouth, England, in the First Army’s 204^th Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion, which he helped form. By February, 1944, he said there were so many US and British troops along the southwestern coast of England that they had to stay in private homes and businesses.  The Brits were happy to see them but it was definitely a strain on everyone.

                                                                                                               

Dad was in charge of a unit that would follow the ground troops onto the beach. They were to provide cover from the German Luftwaffe that they were sure would show up very quickly.  They conducted exercises every day, setting up as fast as possible and preparing to fire in rapid succession. It was tiring and stressful but the consensus was clearly to get on with it. He did say they were well fed in England. Not a lot of meat but the cottage pie was a true delicacy (my English friend Julia makes the best I’ve ever tasted!).

While prepping for the invasion, Dad did see the Third Army’s General Patton one time. Patton and his bull terrier, Willie, were riding down the main street of town standing in the back of a jeep, shouting, laughing and cheering at the troops and locals. Dad said he thought Patton might have been a bit tipsy. “He just seemed too happy.” Months later, he saw Patton one more time on the battlefield in Belgium with quite a different opinion of the encounter. “This time he was all fight.”

By the end of May, they knew the invasion was imminent and beginning June 1, every day could have been the day. D-Day was first scheduled for June 5^th but the weather was so bad it was delayed until the 6^th. Late the night before, they boarded the ships for the 100 mile trip across the channel to Normandy. Dad said they painted “Thank You” to the Brits on the roads as they left town for the harbor.

While loading on the boats, Dad said that troops were already quoting from Patton’s famous speech, given to his armored division earlier in the week.
“Men, all this stuff you hear about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of bullshit. Americans love to fight...” Supposedly, Patton never wrote down “The Speech”. Accounts from soldiers who heard him have been used to reconstruct it. The version we’ve all heard George C. Scott give at the beginning of his Academy-Award-winning portrayal in the Patton movie is said to be a very reasonable facsimile. Regardless, Dad said the “Bullshit” line was on everyone’s lips as they boarded the boats.

The overnight crossing was rough but Dad didn’t get sick…probably because he had not eaten anything that day due to the level of stress. The infantry landed in the first wave and then Dad’s artillery moved in to ward off German fighter planes and to fire on the gun emplacements on the top of the bluff above the beach. Dad said there was blood in the water and bodies covered the beach when they disembarked. The smell of gun-powder was thick in the air. He had what he thought was a panic attack but pushed through it by getting the guns set up.

It took three days to  secure Omaha Beach before they moved on into the countryside. He said time was a blur and he didn’t remember sleeping, although he was sure he did. D-Day was the beginning of a six-month march to drive the enemy back to Germany. His side bar stories were fascinating including his commandeering of a German motorcycle which he used for some time…until he crashed it on a bridge abutment and broke his nose. And he remembered vividly going past Flanders Field “where poppies grow” while fighting across Belgium. My grandfather taught me the World War I poem about the rows of crosses on a blanket of poppies when I started school. The red poppies became a symbol of comrades lost for war veterans on Memorial Day and Dad pressed one into his field manual to bring home.  I still have it.

Dad’s unit was part of the First Army.  Its commanding general was Omar Bradley, portrayed by Karl Malden in the Patton movie, which I've watched so many  times I can mouth the words. According to Dad, Bradley wasn’t as visible a leader as Patton but he was devoted to his troops. He congratulated my dad personally on his battlefield promotion while crossing into Germany. Bradley took the “first” in First Army to heart. Among Dad’s war souvenirs was a tactics book with an inside cover that read “First ashore in Normandy…First into Paris…First into Germany…First across the Rhine…First to meet the Russians.” The First Army was definitely the sharp end of the spear, as they say. And Dad was very proud of that.

We closed down Sullivan’s Steak House that night and continued the conversation on the drive home. I wish I’d had my reporter’s notebook with me, but I fortunately I did write a lot of this down later in my journal. It’s the only time my father really ever opened up about the war and D-Day. It is a cherished dialogue that I will carry with me forever.

When my mother passed away a few years ago and we were taking care of her belongings, Jane found a postcard that I had never seen in a dresser drawer.  It’s hand-painted and oversize. The artwork depicts England and the British Parliament along with the US and the White House, sending many war ships to France. They converge in 1944 on Paris and the Arc de Triomphe with “A Merry Xmas” on the banner above.  Part of Dad’s handwritten message on the reverse reads, “…This is the best I could do for a Xmas card, but all my love comes with it. I passed through this arch…a few months ago (when we liberated Paris).” It’s signed “Love, Johnny” and, in all my years, I never heard anyone call him “Johnny”…not even my mother.

But “Johnny” did come marching home and I’m very glad he did. He taught me so much. He set the bar very high and showed me how to clear it, with room to spare…or to run around it, if that was the best course. There’s so much to say about “The Greatest Generation”. D-Day was not just the beginning of the end of World War II.  It was the beginning of a new era in our country and the world. We began to grow…faster, stronger, better. Now that we have all been through a time that is close to the depression that my parents experienced, perhaps we’ll gain the strength, fortitude and compassion to face what the future holds for us. I hope so.