Tip: If this story is truncated in an email, readers can click on "View entire message" and they'll be able to view the entire post in their email app.
I’m publishing my Epilogue that I originally wrote in 2014. I found it fitting to revist it again ten years later and share it with our readers. This year marks the 80th Anniversary of D-Day. I’m still moved by my experience and enternally grateful to the men and women who served in WWII.
Writing my first successful book has been a fantastic emotional journey for me and one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I've spent countless hours in search of my father's war, visiting European sites, meeting historians, and talking with people who are knowledgeable about World War II. Because I travel to Europe every month for my work as an automotive technology and lighting design consultant, more than half of the book was written on location in England, France, and Germany. I was able to coordinate my work schedule with my book schedule and visit all the places where my father spent time during the war. This has given me a special perspective, bringing me much closer to my father and his experiences. Along the way, I forged many new and lasting friendships.
On a day in May I am amazed to receive a phone call from my good friend Noel Sarrazin, who is president of the 30th Infantry Division, European Association, and lives in Mortain, France. He informs me that he has placed my name on the master list of special dignitaries for the Sixty-Fifth Anniversary of D-Day commemoration ceremony on Omaha Beach. Noel has decided that I qualify for a special invite, telling me to expect a joint invitation from American president Barack Obama and French president Nicholas Sarkozy. I am thrilled and honored to realize how much my new French friends admire my father and my passion for writing his story. A few weeks later, just as Noel has promised, I receive my invitation from the White House via e-mail. It is a terrific moment.
I begin to plan my trip, deciding to devote four days to the festivities in Normandy. My first stop will be in Mortain, where my dad's fellow 30th Infantry soldier and good friend Frank W. Towers, an energetic ninety-two-year-old, is going to be awarded the highest honor France can bestow on a U.S. citizen, the Legion of Honor Medal.
Arriving in France, I pick up a rental car at the train station in Caen. I head for Mortain, navigating for several hours along narrow and winding roads through the beautiful French countryside. I am filled with excitement as I approach Mortain, a town I've grown to love over six visits in just two years. I can't wait to see the many new friends I've made there. I push the accelerator to the floor and shift my car into fifth gear, easily accelerating up the steep tree-lined hills. The music of Lonesome Dove is streaming through the car's speakers, adding to my good mood. It occurs to me that the sentinel of impressively large trees creating a beautiful canopy of vegetation over my head must have survived the great battle of Mortain over sixty-five years ago. I enter the center of town, its quaint buildings lining the road tightly, and turn toward another steep hill that will take me to Hill 314, where my father became a prisoner of Nazi Germany.
Today I am meeting Noel Sarrazin at a joyful celebration on the top of Hill 314, next to the chapel (now a monument) where my father came to pray and found the religious relic he carried throughout the war. Here 950 men from the 30th Division gave their lives to liberate France from Nazi Germany. Frank Towers was instrumental in erecting the beautiful black marble monument in honor of the men of the 30th Division.
The Legion of Honor Medal is pinned to Frank's lapel, and the 300 people gathered on the hill begin to cheer. Frank has spent the last forty years of his life fostering good will and keeping the bonds between America and France strong. Now France is honoring him for his heartfelt efforts.
After the ceremony, Mortain resident Michel Paysant pulls up in a restored World War II U.S. Army jeep, complete with every amenity, and offers me a ride. I bang my knees as I jump in, amazed by the extremely tight fit between the seats and the dashboard. I can't believe how small the inside of the jeep is. We pull away from the chapel and the crowd, and soon I am on my father's journey. The ride is rough and bumpy, even on smooth ground, but the old jeep easily picks up speed. We arrive at the parking area overlooking the farmhouse and well where my father was taken prisoner. I try to imagine what it must have been like for my father as he sat in his jeep on August 6, 1944, just moments before his unfortunate encounter with the Nazis.
Now it's my turn to drive. Changing seats, I instinctively push the clutch to the floor and shift into first gear. Soon we are passing the farmhouse, and it looks much as it did in 1944. I can see the well my father visited, its long pump handle towering over the thick meadow grass.
The scenery here is breathtaking, and the early evening sunshine and warm temperatures are the same weather conditions my father experienced when he was taken prisoner. I am about as close as I'm going to get to his experience. I pass the farm and realize that it was on this spot that my father took his last breath as a free man for nine months. My eyes begin to well up as I savor this special adventure in honor of my father.
We drive back to the chapel, where the crowd is thinning. Noel and a group of French dignitaries invite me to join them in a champagne toast to Frank Towers and all the men of the 30th Division. Frank turns to me, raises his glass high, and toasts my father's memory and the event that forever changed his life. I am humbled and feeling very proud of my father.
The next day I return to Paris for a business meeting. As soon as it ends, I drive back to Normandy for more D-Day festivities. On the afternoon of June 5, I arrive at Noel Sarrazin's stunning French farmhouse. I feel like I am driving up to a photo in Better Homes and Gardens magazine. We are quickly off to Utah Beach for the evening's events. Arriving near Utah Beach, I am totally amazed to see hundreds of U.S. Army jeeps, all-terrain vehicles, trucks, and tanks, all restored and in perfect condition. Thousands of people are streaming into the area dressed as U.S., British, French, and Canadian World War II soldiers. The air is filled with fun and anticipation, and I have an eerie sense that we are all back in June 1944.
I walk among the crowd, camera in hand, and observe ten World War II vets who stormed onto this very beach sixty-five years ago. All have made the long trip across the Atlantic, and every one of them, beaming with pride and excitement, is being treated like a hero. It is a magic evening. I am introduced to Helen Patton, granddaughter of General George S. Patton. My father served under (way under) General Patton. Helen's presence and her commitment to keeping her grandfather's spirit alive in Western Europe is inspiring. When I speak with her, I can clearly see the fire in her eyes and the passion she has for freedom. She is proud of her grandfather and everything he stood for.
The evening ends with a spectacular fifty-mile-long fireworks display extending along the Normandy coast, from the Cotentin Peninsula to Caen. As I look in either direction I see fireworks exploding over each of the five beaches that the Allies landed on all those years ago. I close my eyes and listen to the thunderous bombardment, trying to imagine what it must have been like to hear the explosions on the beaches in 1944. I am completely safe and enjoying a wonderful social evening. But I'm thinking about the men who came here to liberate France, facing utter peril and putting their lives on the line. I open my eyes to once again take in the beauty of the fireworks. I remain in awe of the vast reach of the effort put forth on that day sixty-five years ago. I am so proud to be present at this occasion.
The day I've been waiting for, Saturday, June 6, finally arrives. Noel and I leave his house with his wife, Marie-Claire, and daughter, Anne, and travel to Caen to board a bus for the trip to the American Cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer. We are on our way to the Sixty-Fifth Anniversary of D-Day commemoration ceremony. When we arrive, I gaze at the 9,387 stunning white crosses that dot the graves of the American soldiers who lost their lives on June 6, 1944. I am overcome with emotion. Men like my father came here and unselfishly risked everything, because freedom was worth dying for. My father was incredibly lucky to survive.
Now, sixty-five years later, the wind is slight, the sun burns brightly, and the smell of flowers permeates the fresh ocean air. I take my seat with the other 7,000 invited guests, wishing my family could be with me. I pull out my iPhone and text-message Colleen and our youngest son, Patrick, to tell them I'm here and the location of my seat so they can look for me on TV. Within seconds, Patrick connects and we begin to share this experience together.
A steady stream of dignitaries pours onto the enormous stage. The leaders of the Allied nations─France, England, Canada, and the United States─are all present. Joining them are about seventy vibrant veterans, including Frank Towers. Anchored just off the beach are two large U.S. Navy ships. They are here to protect President Obama and his fellow world leaders. Sadly, times have changed, and those ships are on guard against terrorism. I speculate that most of the people attending the ceremony believe these war ships are here in honor of the day and that nobody is thinking about terrorism.
I am dreaming once again, imagining I am here on June 6, 1944. I pretend that the navy ships I am looking at offshore signal a successful invasion. Squinting my eyes, I try even harder to imagine what it must have been like to see the overwhelming maze of ships, convoys, and soldiers. I cannot even come close to visualizing that scene. I stop daydreaming and turn my focus to the presentations and speeches.
British Prime Minister Gordon Brown is the first speaker, and his comments strike a positive note with me: "On that June morning, the young of our nations stepped out onto these beaches below me into history. As long as freedom lives their deeds will never die." His words remind me of how young my father and the other soldiers were when they came here. Those young adults were not as sophisticated as the young adults of today. They were being asked to lay down their lives for something they probably did not fully understand. My father hadn't a clue about what he was about to endure when he arrived on the shores of Omaha Beach on June 11, 1944.
Brown continues speaking, giving examples of heroism, bravery, and honor. I feel my father's presence with me at this special event. I am able to somehow visualize him on the LCI with my wife's uncle John McGuckin. My father would be nervously anticipating the impending landing and his departure from the LCI. I am certain he would have said something nice to the LCI captain before departing from the craft. It was just his way. I can see my father walking across the beach, heading for the front lines of battle. He probably looked down at his sea-soaked boots, now coated in sand, and wondered how long it would take for them to dry. I depart from my reverie to hear Brown say: "We remember those who advanced grain of sand by grain of sand to win this war."
Now firmly back in the reality of this day, I listen to the other speeches. I am feeling totally in sync with my father and connected to his memory. President Obama takes the podium to give the keynote address. My mind is no longer wandering as he says, "For three centuries no invader had ever been able to cross the English Channel into Normandy. And it had never been more difficult than in 1944. . . . The sheer improbability of this victory is part of what makes D-Day so memorable."
I turn my head to scan the beautiful American Cemetery. Each of the 9,387 marble crosses displays both an American and a French flag. I am amazed that the cemetery staff took the time to do this. Every detail of today's event has been precisely planned and polished. I am so honored to be here. I'm still thinking about those dual flags and what they represent as I recap in my mind my special relationships with the people of France's Normandy region. I've grown to love this enchanting area of the world─it has brought me so many new friends. I wonder what my father would think if he had lived to see the passionate interest I've taken in his war. My passion began, I realize, on that night many years ago when I overheard my father crying as he made a haunting comment to my mother about having been a POW. From that night on I was hooked. It would take my father's death, followed by thirteen years of talking about him with my mother, and, finally, her untimely death, to bring my passion to fruition.
A thunderous twenty-one-gun salute closes the hour-long presentation. I look around and fail to see a dry eye anywhere. Tears stream down my face as I watch four jets representing each of the Allied countries soar above us. Three of the jets split off in different directions and head toward the horizon while the fourth aims straight up into the atmosphere, to be swallowed by the sky. I can feel the pride and emotion in the air.
Now I am rousted out of my seat and told to proceed to the dignitary area near the back of the stage. My heart is beating with excitement as I move through the thousands of people trying to get a close-up of the heads of state. I am separated from Noel and his family and end up with another group of French and American friends. The crowd suddenly opens up as I approach the dignitary area. I am pushed ahead to stand directly in front of the line of presidents, prime ministers, and royalty. Feeling ever so star-struck, I find myself less than five feet from Barack Obama, Nicolas Sarkozy, Gordon Brown, and Prince Charles. Moving into the line a bit farther away is Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper.
My cue to move closer comes when a Secret Service agent approaches and places his hand on my shoulder, asking me to step up to meet the honored guests. President Obama greets me, and I extend my hand. He asks why I am here. My training as a business professional comes to my aid as I recount my father's entire war story in the time it takes for an elevator to travel one floor. To my delight, President Obama is clearly interested in what I have to say.
Just as I finish my summary, one of my nearby friends announces loudly that I am writing a book about my father's incredible war experiences. President Obama looks directly at me and says, "Is this true?" "Yes," I tell him, "my father entered World War II on D-Day plus five and was captured in France by Nazi Germany. He was marched 1,325 kilometers to a Stalag prison camp in Germany," I continue, "where he endured nine hideous months as a POW. After two failed escape attempts, he was finally liberated by the Allies." President Obama responds, "Wow! I'm honored and I thank your father for his service to his country. When your book is finished, I would certainly like to read it." "Yes sir," I reply. "I will make sure you receive a copy."
I continue to travel down the line, telling my story. I come to Prince Charles, and the line stops ahead of me. I have a few extra moments with the future king of England. He has heard my previous comments and inquires about my book, expressing his interest in reading it.
I eventually break away from the crowd, feeling deeply satisfied with my day. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected to meet the leaders of four nations (not to mention a member of British royalty) and have any of them ask about my book and express an interest in reading it. While I mull this over, the crowd parts in front of me and suddenly I am standing in front of actor Tom Hanks. "It's a pleasure to meet you," I say, reaching out my hand. Hanks asks my name and says he's heard about my book and wants to read it. I tell him I would be honored to send him a copy, and we talk about the movie Saving Private Ryan, which I have seen many times.
I finally reconnect with Noel and his family, and together we find Frank Towers and our other friends. We stand at the back of the stage, sharing with one another our favorite moments of the day and talking about the famous personalities we've met. To the right of us we see President Obama's helicopter. Soon the president and first lady approach it, and, after they say a few special goodbyes, Michelle Obama enters the helicopter, followed by the president. Turning toward us, he bids us farewell and disappears from sight. The helicopter door closes and its engines begin to roar. It takes off with two others that serve as decoys, lifting away from the cemetery grounds. We are all waving goodbye. My awe and excitement are not abating. Nothing can ever compare to this day.
I am going to quote what was, for me, the most significant part of President Obama's speech that day:
"We live in a world of competing beliefs and claims about what is true. It is a world of varied religions and cultures and forms of government. In such a world, it is rare for a struggle to emerge that speaks to something universal about humanity. The Second World War did that. No man who shed blood or lost a brother would say war is good. But we all know that this war was essential. For what we faced in the Nazi totalitarianism was not just a battle of competing interests. It was a competing vision of humanity. Nazi ideology sought to subjugate, humiliate, and exterminate. It perpetrated murder on a mass scale, fueled by hatred of those who were deemed different and therefore inferior. It was evil."
My father would understand these words if he had survived to take part in the sixty-fifth anniversary of D-Day. From June 1944 until May 1945 he personally witnessed and suffered under that competing vision of humanity described by President Obama. My father was a simple man who only wanted the opportunity to lead a happy and fulfilling life. From my perspective, he succeeded.
I now fully understand why my father refused to tell me the nitty-gritty details of his war experiences. If he had chosen to do that, especially when I was very young, I believe I might have grown up continuing the cycle of hate. After all, it was my father who those bastard Nazis were abusing. But Dad was very wise and skillful at handling my questions about the war. He'd convince me it was no big deal and that we had plenty of other things to discuss together. Thinking back, I am very impressed that he had the foresight and sensitivity to respond to my questions in this way.
Because of his experiences, my father understood life and its purposes better than most. Several years ago I came upon a quote by Marie Beyon Ray that perfectly sums up my father and captures the essence of the way my parents raised me: "Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand and melting like a snowflake."
The day my father was liberated from the POW camp he left hating behind and began living. This is the legacy he has left to his children and grandchildren.
Did you know my book a updated digital version of Hidden Hell will be re-released in July 2024. Look for more future information on our Portraits of US site.
Leave a comment
Share PORTRAITS of US
