Last summer when I started walking with clenched-teeth determination to lose weight, I chose to listen to the theme from The Longest Day on my ipod. It has, of course, a good, strong tempo, as do a lot of songs; it also was a reminder to me of those soldiers who came ashore at D-Day – they were facing a more than possible death, not just heat shimmering from a sidewalk. I felt there would be no way I could quit with them in my mind – their song in my ears.
And it worked. This year I briefly considered walking to another song, one that was upbeat and happy – maybe One Top of the World, but I felt I owed it to those soldiers and all the others who have gone in harm’s way. So it played in my ears two days ago and yesterday and today. Today, though, I thought a bit about my father who came ashore at Normandy shortly AFTER D-Day. It was February and he was dying, would be dead in just days. For the first time he mentioned that time to me: He said his group came through St. Lo and the people threw flowers at them “because they thought we were real soldiers, but, of course, we weren’t.”
By the time I reached this part of my memory, I was almost home. Tears were stinging my eyes and my throat was tight . . . I could have used a few more blocks before I went inside. I composed myself in the vestibule and came out here . . . to write this.
My dad never talked about the war. At his funeral we learned that he had survived three airplane crashes. Three! And he was the sole survivor of one of them. He never told his kids about them, or much about what he did in the Army Air Corp (he was a navigator in B-17s). I think he lost a lot of good friends.
My father never served. He had polio and couldn’t run. He was in school at MIT and graduated top of his class. He refused to go to his graduation because (as he said later) he was only top of the class because all the “good men” were off fighting and dying. It pained him that he was spared, he felt like a slacker. He wasn’t, of course, but he always felt responsible for the losses of his friends. Thinking they were there, perhaps, where he should of been.
I thank you and your family for their service.