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.

June 6...a day to remember

The season began with Bobby Kennedy announcing his candidacy for President of the United States. Unfortunately that was the high mark of the Spring of 1968. Just over two weeks later, Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis; next came more than a month of the worst urban riots this country has ever seen; a month after that Bobby Kennedy was murdered in Los Angeles when he all but wrapped up the Democratic nomination; and then the country fell into a long demoralizing protest over the war in Vietnam that went on for years.

Spring is supposed to be a rebirth and a rejuvenation. Bobby Kennedy’s run for President was just such a breath of fresh air. We were ready for a change and it was clear that Bobby could deliver.

My first encounter with him had come earlier in my Capitol Hill internship as part of something called the White House Seminars. I was on the steering committee and each week during the spring and summer months, all the interns would gather to hear from various members of the amazing cadre of advisors that had been assembled by President Kennedy during his all-too-short term. Bobby was on the list as Attorney General and that initial engagement was electric. He was a whirling dervish. He was everywhere and hardly drew a breath while he was connecting with everyone in the room. There was a glimmer of recognition when we shook hands as he remembered his involvement in bringing my father and our family to Washington, DC, but that’s another story for another time.

Now Bobby Kennedy was going to be President. We just knew it. From my office in the Rayburn House Office Building, I had frequently connected with his staffers and, as I got to know them, it was an easy decision to join the Capitol Hill Supporters for RFK. The group was informal because we couldn’t be seen as political in our government positions. We met in nearby pubs and apartments while we were reviewing campaign strategies and speeches. Our opinions, along with many others, were constantly being sought on a host of relevant issues including the war.

Not five years earlier, his brother Jack had been assassinated in an earth-shaking event that changed our country immeasurably. Bobby constantly reminded us that a mere 8 years before, he was a campaign manager and, therefore, knew and appreciated all the work we were doing to help him get elected. Working on his campaign made it easier to cope with the volatility of the times. It definitely kept us moving in the right direction. Even when the orders came to report for military service, my father’s life-long commitment to the Army seemed in perfect concert with the fact that Bobby and his brothers had all served as well. You don’t have to want war to feel compelled to protect your freedoms. I never questioned it.

Just before Bobby headed to the west coast in May for the Oregon and California primaries, he stopped by the Capitol Hill apartment where we were meeting. He was there for half an hour. He read parts of speeches on civil rights, poverty and the war that he wanted feedback on. We had heard his words before but now the messages were very finely tuned. To the group, he said, “I’m a little concerned about Senator McCarthy in Oregon (note: McCarthy upset Bobby there) but Cesar Chavez and California will put us over the top.” He shook hands with each of us as he left with thanks for our efforts. “I’m told your father is doing a great job at the Pentagon,” he said to me. The rush of pride had to be noticeable. And then, he was gone.

Certain dates become landmarks in our history. “Black Thursday” when the stock market crashed on October 29, 1929, was indelible to my grandparents; The attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941; D-Day, June 6, 1944, when allied troops, including my father, landed in Normandy; of course, September 11, 2001; all dates ingrained in our learning. We celebrate the birthdays of some our great leaders but lately I’ve noticed that the dates when our leaders have been struck down are beginning to blur. Abraham Lincoln was shot on April 14, 1865, Good Friday, and died on April 15 (OK, I looked that one up!); JFK was killed on Friday, November 22, 1963…even this date has dulled in the minds of the current generation; Martin Luther King was gunned down on Thursday, April 4, 1968, and I’ve written about that day and those immediately after; and a serious attempt on the life of President Reagan occurred on Monday, March 30, 1981 as I was on my way to a client meeting in Austin, Texas, when we heard the news on the new upstart cable television network called CNN.

Tuesday, June 4, 1968, was a run-of-the-mill day on Capitol Hill. I did some research and writing on two education bills that were being presented for committee review. Lunch was at the Rayburn Building cafeteria for some of its famous bean soup. The Capitol Hill group met briefly at the end of the day for a quick rally before we all headed home to watch the primary results come in from California. Nothing was really instant then. There wasn’t even much instant reporting because live coverage was very limited. Although there were voting machines, it felt like every ballot was being counted by hand, maybe literally one hand, and it took forever. It was after 2am eastern time on Wednesday, June 5, that Bobby Kennedy was declared the winner in California. Bleary-eyed, I watched him give his victory speech on my little black & white television just before 3am. All I could think about was Bobby becoming President. Things would be right in the world again.

I left the TV on while I got ready for bed. Suddenly there was a commotion, screams and shouts of “Bobby’s been shot!” It was frightening. I woke up my parents and the vigil began. I think we really knew he would not recover but we held on to that slender thread of hope throughout the entire day. Reports came periodically and we would try to work in between but our minds couldn’t function clearly. The office was a tomb. No one could leave the conference room where there was a television and radio. We all drove home in silence and it wasn’t until the early morning hours on Thursday, June 6, when word came that he had died.

Such emotional times those were. Bobby’s funeral would be in New York while I was driving to the Midwest to attend college graduation ceremonies. I came right back to DC feeling the need not to miss a moment of the requiem. A week later, I went to the gravesite at Arlington Cemetery. Near his brother, in the green grass, was a simple white cross and marker. It seemed so right. I shot a couple of pictures (one above) because the crowds were gone. It was an intense moment. It was hard during those times to keep mustering the strength to feel good about our country. But we had to try.

So you can place Thursday, June 6,1968, on the list of dates to remember from our times. We lost ground in our quest for peace and equality on that day but the example had been set. We just have to keep trying.