And So It Is
In the early morning hours of June 6, 1944, Allied forces landed upon the beaches of Normandy in the greatest seaborne invasion in recorded history. The success of the invasion allowed the Allies to secure Normandy which lead to the liberation of Western Europe and the eventual downfall of Nazi Germany. The human cost of this triumph was staggering.
My paternal grandfather was among the thousands of enlisted young men during World War II. His army division was bound for the shores of Normandy to take part in the great invasion. He was 22 years old. Mere weeks prior to his company’s schedule departure it was discovered that my grandfather could type. Though intelligent and witty, he was a southern Tennessee farm boy; how he had acquired this skill I have no idea. The rarity of such a typist was of value to Army. He was pulled from his company and appointed to serve as a "secretary" to an officer. Separated from his company - the young men, the brothers, he had trained with - my grandfather objected to his reassignment. He wanted to serve alongside his fellows wherever the war would take them. He was advised gently but firmly that he would not want to be among the invading forces. His company departed without him, and many of them gave their lives in the invasion. June 6, 1944, saw my grandfather, without the sands of Normandy at his feet, survive another day.
He did serve in the European theater. Following the invasion, he arrived in France and later moved into Germany where he acquitted himself with honor during the liberation. In the end, he came home to Tennessee, to his young wife and two small children (one of whom is my father). He worked his farm, had three more children, became a respected member of his community as a craftsman and builder, and had an acclaimed career in the state’s park service. He told stories to his children and grandchildren of a war in far away places.
Had he not been able to type, perhaps his life would have ended that early June day - June 6. Yet, he was spared the beaches. His life moved forward, his years passed, he laughed, cried, loved and lost. And June 6 came again. Sixty-three years beyond the shattered quiet of Normandy morning, he drew his last breath. I stood at his side. Me, a not even dreamed of being that long ago day, and I gave him my love and my thanks and wished him rest. I am grateful for his journey and I am most thankful for the portion of it which I walked with him.
My paternal grandfather was among the thousands of enlisted young men during World War II. His army division was bound for the shores of Normandy to take part in the great invasion. He was 22 years old. Mere weeks prior to his company’s schedule departure it was discovered that my grandfather could type. Though intelligent and witty, he was a southern Tennessee farm boy; how he had acquired this skill I have no idea. The rarity of such a typist was of value to Army. He was pulled from his company and appointed to serve as a "secretary" to an officer. Separated from his company - the young men, the brothers, he had trained with - my grandfather objected to his reassignment. He wanted to serve alongside his fellows wherever the war would take them. He was advised gently but firmly that he would not want to be among the invading forces. His company departed without him, and many of them gave their lives in the invasion. June 6, 1944, saw my grandfather, without the sands of Normandy at his feet, survive another day.
He did serve in the European theater. Following the invasion, he arrived in France and later moved into Germany where he acquitted himself with honor during the liberation. In the end, he came home to Tennessee, to his young wife and two small children (one of whom is my father). He worked his farm, had three more children, became a respected member of his community as a craftsman and builder, and had an acclaimed career in the state’s park service. He told stories to his children and grandchildren of a war in far away places.
Had he not been able to type, perhaps his life would have ended that early June day - June 6. Yet, he was spared the beaches. His life moved forward, his years passed, he laughed, cried, loved and lost. And June 6 came again. Sixty-three years beyond the shattered quiet of Normandy morning, he drew his last breath. I stood at his side. Me, a not even dreamed of being that long ago day, and I gave him my love and my thanks and wished him rest. I am grateful for his journey and I am most thankful for the portion of it which I walked with him.