Epilogue
I stood there speechless and awestruck, my throat tight, my heart pounding. Next to me was a Medal of Honor winner, the President of the United States, numerous United States Senators and Congressmen, the Virginia Governor, Virginia State Legislators, and other dignitaries of every description and importance. There were the Secretary of the Army, Military Generals and Colonels, D-Day veterans and others who had fought in World War II and later wars. And there were young adults, and school children—all together, over 20,000 people gathered from near and far.
It was June 6, 2001. The place was Bedford, Virginia, the occasion, the unveiling of the National D-Day Memorial. This was the D-Day celebration I and so many others had dreamed about and worked so long to achieve. Before my eyes, the fruit of our labor rose up: the elegant architectural carpet of multi-colored granite; the Overlord Arch representing victory, 44 and a half feet high; the 12 colorful flags symbolizing the victorious Allied Nations; the bronze plaques for every military unit that contributed to the Allied victory; and the plaques depicting the name of every soldier, sailor, airman and marine who died on June 6, 1944, a day that changed the course of world history.
I turned my eyes to the figurative, heroic-size bronze statuary representing the men who had valiantly stormed the beaches. Warmed and glowing in the late spring sun, their bodies and faces looked so real, I could almost hear them breathe. The men they represented had waited all too long for public recognition for their sacrifice. I was painfully aware that the overwhelming majority had been cut down in their youth. Twenty had come from my hometown of Roanoke just 30 miles away; 19 had come from Bedford, which lost more of its sons per capita on D-Day than anywhere else.
Bedford was thus the perfect site for the National D-Day Memorial, a 25-million-dollar venture to rival any war memorial anywhere else in the world. Its unveiling was a swirl of excitement --- rousing tunes by a military band, liturgies, speeches, smiles, back-slaps and handshakes. And yet, as I watched the military fly-over from Langley Air Force Base, as the Naval chorus from Washington broke into song, a sense of peace came over me. At long last, the armed forces of D-Day, their families, and their friends could take comfort that their fallen sons and comrades were receiving the honor they deserved. The long march had come full circle.
The last leg of the journey, the building of the memorial, had begun as a concept in 1987. It was a pie-in-the-sky dream I could not shake. It was a dumb idea many of my D Company cohorts couldn’t or wouldn’t embrace. Their stance continued into the 1990’s. "Hell, we’ve had three wars since then," some of them said. "Forget the damned thing! Bury it!"
I couldn’t understand their logic. Or perhaps I should say I no longer could accept it. As the philosopher George Santayana wrote, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
And yet I, too, had long been one of the silent. On July 13, 1945, I was suddenly separated from the service, discharged at Fort Meade, Maryland, with a few dollars in my pocket and the khaki uniform on my back. I was suffering mental as well as physical wounds, but there was no one to counsel me. I was a civilian again, but I was not comfortable socializing with other civilians. I was 20 years old, with an 11th-grade education and no skills other than soldiering. I was left alone to find my way home to Roanoke, Virginia.
In my mind, I never left the army, but I had to get on with my life. In this, I was luckier than many of my comrades, for I met a wonderful young woman, Margaret Leftwich, who agreed to become my wife. In 1947, we settled down to raise a family in Roanoke, where I worked for the Roanoke Times and World News.
Without Margaret’s love and understanding, and the stability of family life, I dread to think what I might have become. There was no treatment for "Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome." It was simply called "battle fatigue." Those of us who had returned from the war were left to tough out what it meant to have survived.
The years rolled by, our hair grayed and thinned, waistlines grew, and many of our Company D associates developed health problems. Our generation smoked cigarettes and drank hard liquor. Many of our men who had hiked halfway around the world became sedentary. We didn’t like to exercise. We traveled to the beach or went to swimming pools, thinking that sunshine was good for the skin. Many were disabled by wounds, drank and smoked too much, and died prematurely. The war still took its toll, long after it was over.
Rarely did anyone talk about the war. The media were silent, our children uninterested, and we ourselves sought to forget. Some of my buddies did join veterans’ associations—the American Legion, Veterans of Foreign Wars, Disabled American Veterans, and the 29th Division Association --- but I was not among them, although I was often invited to join. And yet, whenever one of my D Company buddies called on the phone, or came through Roanoke, I was always glad to see him. Reunions were not discussed.
One of these buddies was George Kobe, another survivor of the D-Day landings, and a very special friend despite the fact that he had been a mortar man and I a machine gunner. During the war, the big blond and I always looked for each other during breaks in the action. It was like looking for your brother to see if he was alright. Both of us were promoted to staff sergeant during the bitter fighting at Saint-Lô. Later, George was seriously wounded on Hill 203 overlooking Vire, which left him with a permanent disability. I had other friends, but in combat situations, George Kobe had always been different.
I have George to thank for my first change of heart toward the idea of reunions. The first, informal D Company gathering took place in 1950, largely to please him. The big Polack missed his old army buddies, so he and his wife took off on a road trip to half a dozen states. Along the way, they spent a couple days in Roanoke with Margaret and me, and while they were here, I assembled the Roanoke D Company bunch for a night on the town.
George was a prolific letter writer, and he kept in touch with most of his beloved mortar men. On rare occasions he called me on the phone, but his multi-paged letters came every other day. Over time, he decided to get D Company organized. He was joined in this project by Vic Crimone, a former 1st Sergeant who had copies of the company roster. The two of them set about to update every soldier’s home address, city, and state.
Our first official reunion took place in Roanoke on Memorial Day weekend, 1982. George selected the site because most of D Company had been formed in Roanoke back in National Guard days, and the city was centrally located on the East Coast. George took the role of West Coast chairman and over-all honcho. When he enticed me to be the East Coast chairman, how could I possibly refuse?
Like many other D Company men, I was close to retirement. Our children had left home and I began to think about reestablishing old friendships. I found myself becoming interested in writing my remembrances for my children and grandchildren. Many of my former comrades were ill, and our memories had turned fuzzy. Getting together might help all of us to remember all of those names and places from the 1940s.
And so it was that I got involved. I printed up the first D Company newsletter, advertising the reunion: "Have you considered the possibility that the men you will be united with in Roanoke on Memorial Day weekend are the only people on Earth qualified to share the good and the bad times we experienced more than a quarter century ago?" I wrote. "Make plans now and I will see you there. 29 Let’s Go!"
Since our coffers were zilch, I booked the Thrifty Inn on Peters Creek Road in Roanoke. Thirty-seven former soldiers with 14 wives came along for the first-ever reunion, hailing from 11 states and the District of Columbia. We were off to a great start. The next year, we were overflowing when 50 former machine gunners and mortar men returned to the Thrifty Inn.
George did a bang-up job that year, moving Company D up into the major leagues. He produced a 12-page brochure that would have made a journeyman printer proud, and paid all of the costs out of his own pocket. There was one stipulation George always insisted upon: "Nothing is too good for ‘the D Company Champs.’" His pension was modest, and he lived frugally all year long so he could spend lavishly on his D Company buddies. We accused him of having a money tree in his back yard.
These company reunions were the first step in the last long leg of the journey of remembrance. Even now, over 20 years later, the exuberance of this beginning, and its positive effects on Company D survivors come through loud and clear in the write-up that followed our 1983 reunion:
The years melted like hot butter when we mustered for our second D Company Reunion. The talk centered on Fort Meade, Carolina Maneuvers, Jolly Ole England, the moors, Captain Schilling, "Blue Bill," Ivybridge, London and eight-day passes, 25-mile hikes, Spam, Ed Walton, "Slim" Callahan, "Fats" Williams, "Ajax" Bowling, air raids on Plymouth, Stonehenge, Weymouth, Duck Problems, the real McCoy, Jack Simms who ate two dozen bananas in order to weigh enough to join the army, and then paid the supreme sacrifice on D-Day, Lieutenant Verne Morse, Vierville-sur-Mer, Grandcamp-les-Baines, Couvains, Saint-Lo, Vire, Jack Ingram, Brest, "Razz" Jones, Stanley Koryciak, Romeo Bily, James Wright, Lieutenant Merle Cummings, submarine pens, George Johnson, a glimpse of Gay Paree, Belgium, Holland, closing the Aachen Gap, Wurselen, November Offensive, Lieutenant William Gardner, John Dylik, Tony Carusotto, Koslar, Julich, Lieutenant Vincent Labowicz, Munchen-Gladbach, "won’t this damn war ever end!", K-rations, burp guns, Lieutenant Wallace Riddick, 88s, Tiger Royals, the rest areas and the quick reunions to see who is still with us, how much longer can the luck hold, the lucky ones who got wounded (not the bad ones) and sent home, on and on ... lie . . . lie . . . and more lies, laughs, tears, vows to return to Roanoke and the third reunion of Company D, 116th Infantry, 29th Division.
But although we were meeting and talking among ourselves, D-Day was fading from public memory. Those of us who remembered our buddies who had died storming Omaha Beach were not prepared to allow that to happen.
The year of our third reunion, 1984, was the 40th anniversary of D-Day. This nice, round number presented a significant opportunity to jolt public memory and recall the events of the war, and particularly the sacrifice of so many men from my local area. Company A of the 116th Infantry, originally part of the Virginia National Guard, had been formed in the 1930s at the Bedford Courthouse Armory. On D-Day, the company landed on the Dog Green Sector of Omaha Beach in the first wave: 91 men were killed and most of the others were wounded, many severely. It was reported that when the sun set at the end of that momentous day, only 15 A Company soldiers were left to fight.
Since I worked for a newspaper, The Roanoke Times & World News, I was in a position to remind the editors that the D-Day anniversary was eminent. I asked the executive editor what he planned to do. "Nothing," he said. "There is no demand for that."
Really? I thought. Roanoke lost 20 men that day, and Bedford lost 19, and many other men from the region were permanently maimed. Company A of the 116th Infantry, which hit Omaha Beach first, sustained some of the highest casualties. And what about their families? Weren't they part of the casualty statistics?
My efforts at the newspaper failed that year, for these imploring arguments fell on deaf ears. Meanwhile, those few 29ers who could afford it made plans to revisit the beaches and cemeteries in Normandy, where President Ronald Reagan would speak in honor of the 40th anniversary of the invasion. This was the first return to France for the vast majority of veterans on the trip. Many were overwhelmed as they stood on Omaha Beach. Feelings of terror, grief, and horror mingled with amazement at what they had accomplished and gratitude to be alive. This occasion, too, was an important step, both in public recognition and private remembrance.
Those of us who could not make the trip were invited to Washington, D.C., to attend the reorganization of the 29th Division into a "light infantry" division. The new 29th contained highly mobile combat and combat support units. These consisted of the 116th Infantry Brigade, based in Staunton, Virginia; and Maryland’s 58th Infantry Brigade, based outside of Baltimore. Both were Army National Guard existing commands.
With help from Milton L. Aliff (Lieutenant Colonel USA, Retired), former H Company, 116th supply sergeant Harry Richardson organized a bus convoy to the nation’s capital for former 29th Division combat veterans and their wives. Off we went, expenses paid, for a day of ceremony. Virginia State Police escorted the two buses into Lafayette Park, where military bands, marching units, color guards, and reviewing stands were reserved for us. Someone said that there were more generals and colonels assembled at the ceremony than at any other time in recent history.
D-Day veterans were recognized by Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger, who announced the 29th (Light) reactivation, and shook each veteran’s hand. Afterward, we were feted at a Northern Virginia restaurant, and watched a training film depicting the role of the 29th Division on D-Day. Maryland Adjutant General, Brig. General James F. Fretterd, spoke briefly about D-Day and history. Photographs were taken of everyone before we departed for our respective hometowns.
To my knowledge, this ceremony in 1984 was the first time that an important government official individually honored D-Day veterans. Most of us appreciated the recognition. Our government acknowledged the survivors, and we remembered the dead. But what about the larger American public?
In 1987, I retired from the newspaper, and wondered what I would do with the rest of my life. I was in good health and did not wish to play golf or go fishing every day. It was clear to me that the signal event of my life, the largest air, land, and sea battle in history, had been all but forgotten by everyone except those who participated in it. Schools skimmed over World War II and D-Day. Students were left ignorant of how and why the United States became a world power and the leader of the Free World.
Then a minor miracle occurred: on December 4, 1987, a former Roanoke journalist reawakened the local public to D-Day. A story written by feature writer Brian O’Neill appeared in The Roanoke Times & World News. The article suggested that D-Day veterans deserved a permanent acknowledgment of the unique contribution that Virginia made on D-Day. Another newspaper employee, Steve Stinson, added a crucial suggestion: "It would make a fascinating exhibit," he said. "We’re talking film clips, live remembrances . . . a statue, too." This article was the germ of an idea that evolved into the $25 million D-Day Memorial in Bedford, inaugurated in 2001 by President George W. Bush.
After the article appeared, I asked my friend Milton Aliff what he thought of a D-Day exhibit at the Roanoke Valley History Museum. Milton had served on the committee for the recently unveiled Roanoke War Memorial. He suggested the head of the committee should be William B. Bagbey (Commander USN, Retired) who had just completed a stint as Chairman of the Board of the History Museum, and knew many old-line Roanokers. Bagbey’s former father-in-law, the late C. Francis Cocke, had been appointed in 1942 to head the local World War II Memorial Committee. Its mission, to build a suitable memorial to the men and women who had lost their lives during the war, had unfortunately never been realized.
This modest D-Day exhibit was the next step in public recognition. The museum’s executive director, Ms. Mitchell Bowden, said if the exhibit drew enough visitors it might stand for six months. We began the arduous task of raising funds from downtown business friends; in the end, $7,000—almost half of the needed funds—was donated by a philanthropic friend and history buff.
All this while, the idea of a statue had never left my mind. I envisioned it at the time as a modest, life-size soldier with a replica 29th Division patch on his left shoulder, standing guard somewhere downtown. Commander Bagbey and others insisted that D-Day was much too important, and that we should plan a more robust memorial.
Again we went to work, forming a committee to make the memorial become a reality, with Commander Bagbey as Chairman of the Board. We needed enthusiasm, funding, and some very good people. Anyone willing to serve was considered. A request was presented to Roanoke City Council that Mill Mountain, a scenic mountain owned by and contained within the city, be considered as the memorial site. After a year of wrangling, a special committee appointed by the City rejected the idea. By 1993, we still had no memorial, and figured the idea was DOA—dead on arrival. Then, again, a miracle happened.
June 6, 1994, was the 50th anniversary of D-Day. Public acknowledgement still was weak, but with half a century now gone by, the Department of Defense had decided on a "last" great commemoration for D-Day veterans. Many veterans and officials would be gathering in Normandy for the anniversary. I, for one, wanted to be there. The 29th Division Association assembled 150 veterans and their families --- ten busloads --- to make the trip to France.
The most important event of the trip for me, and for the future of the D-Day Memorial, turned out to be a 45-minute stroll that I took with President Clinton on Omaha Beach. I had received a phone call from the White House, informing me that I had been selected to represent the 29th Division as one of three escorts for the President at Omaha Beach. Also selected were Captain Joe Dawson, who led G Company, 16th Infantry, 1st Division ashore in the first wave; and Staff Sergeant Walter Ehlers, 18th Infantry, also of the "Big Red One." Ehlers, a Medal of Honor recipient, lost a brother on D-Day, and later received a battlefield commission. Dawson, who introduced President Clinton at the main ceremony, was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross.
How did they choose me? Ken Ringle, feature writer for The Washington Post, had written a story that someone at the White House undoubtedly had read. That story included an interview with me, and it caused my phone to start ringing. Calls from old army buddies, long-lost friends and relatives soon were followed by reporters from newspapers, television stations, and magazines from around the country and even from abroad. Suddenly, everyone seemed to be interested: reporters from The Los Angeles Times, USA Today, People, U.S. News and World Report, Newsweek, The Discovery Channel, ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, Ouest France News, and Paris Match Magazine, to name a few.
We arrived in Paris on June 1, and were bused to the Ibis Hotel Normandy in Saint-Lô. While I wa unpacking my things, someone paged me. Brent Blakely of the White House staff had left a message for me to call ASAP. Donald M. McKee, the 29th Association National Commander, Colonel Alvin Ungerleider, D-Day veteran of the 29th’s 115th Infantry, and I were to meet at the Colleville Cemetery at 19:30 hours for a D-Day Ceremony rehearsal. National Commander McKee was selected to greet the President at the helicopter pad, and Colonel Ungerleider was to help the President lay a wreath.
We arrived at the Cemetery to find Colonel James R. Chambless in charge of military protocol. He was well organized, with plenty of help. The Colonel acted the part of the President; after a few dry runs, we performed a dress rehearsal. It was approaching 23:00 hours, and all of us were hungry and tired. All downtown and hotel restaurants were closed. Our dinner that evening was stale, leftover bar peanuts.
At 09:00, June 6th, the big day, the White House driver met us at the hotel, precisely on time. The preliminary ceremony was not until 14:30 hours, so why did we need such an early start? We soon found out.
The driver’s instructions were to proceed through Bayeux. Our military vehicle immediately ran into gridlock traffic, and encountered many checkpoints. We sat for over half an hour while a vehicle in front of us received a security clearance. McKee had a Michelin road map and ordered the driver to turn around. By traveling the back roads, we arrived at the cemetery with time to spare.
About 14:15 hours, we vacated the hospitality tent. Our names were printed on the backs of metal chairs in the front row. The preliminary portion of the program began with soothing band music. It was cold, windy, cloudy, and threatening rain. The front-row seats across the aisle were reserved for the official presidential party.
The Master of Ceremonies was Walter Cronkite, who began by describing to the hushed throng how he flew over the fleet in an American bomber early on D-Day. Following remarks were made by Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Army General John M. Shalikashveli and Captain Joe Dawson, who then introduced President Clinton.
The President's message was a stirring tribute to all D-Day veterans. "On these beaches the forces of freedom turned the tide of the twentieth century," he said. "Let us not forget when they were young, these men saved the world!"
After the speeches, the President's handlers whisked Dawson, Ehlers and me to the path leading to the steep steps down to Omaha Beach. Clinton began to exit, shaking hands with the front row veterans and those bold enough to reach over the front row for a touch and a handshake. First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton was the first to reach the three escorts. She shook hands and thanked each of us for serving our country. She said to me, "Thank you so much for what you did." I replied, "Thank you, Mrs. Clinton, for coming."
Brent Blakely reminded me that I was to walk on the President's right, Dawson on the left, and Ehlers to the left of Dawson. When the path narrowed at the steps, I was to step back and let Ehlers move to the President's right. While walking, we were to talk about our respective roles on D-Day. Brent introduced each of us to the President.
Clinton led the entourage of handlers and Secret Service. Shaking my hand, he looked into my eyes and said, "Thank you for what you did." I replied, "Thank you, sir." He moved to the others, shaking hands and thanking them as well. Then each of us assumed our assigned positions, walking slowly down the path.
Secret Service and TV cameras were hidden along the pathway. Every blind bend in the path was covered by the Secret Service, and by newspaper and TV cameramen. CNN and The New York Times were conspicuously present. We were informed that other television cameras were aimed from a small ship in the channel.
After descending the steps, I assumed my original position to the right of Mr. Clinton. He grabbed me by my elbow to steady me along the uneven path to the sand. At the edge of the sand, there were beach shingles laid out to read, "OMAHA BEACH 1994." Major General Matthew A. Zimmerman, Chief of Army Chaplains, concluded the walk with a prayer.
As we walked across the loose sand to the waiting Humvees, Mr. Clinton held my left shoulder for a moment and removed a shoe, shook sand from it, then did the same with the other. Captain Dawson pointed up the hill, to where he and his rifle company were the first to penetrate the enemy defenses.
Arrangements had been made to transport us back to the cemetery separately. As Brad directed us to our respective vehicles, President Clinton said he would ride with us. He leaped into the back of the Humvee, and sat on the railing of the vehicle. The President instructed me to ride up front with the driver. The driver, a staff sergeant, said, "Will you be all right, sir?" The President replied, "Go ahead. I'm okay."
It was a very bumpy ride plowing over the loose sand and rough shingle. We followed the Colleville Exit Draw road, which was the route the "Big Red One" had opened up for traffic 50 years before. Halfway up, a formation of army troops were standing at attention. An officer ordered, "Present Arms!" The President saluted from the back of the truck.
He then jumped over the railing and into the formation of eager, smiling soldiers. He moved easily from one trooper to the other, shaking hands and asking questions: "Where are you from? Do you like the army?" He obviously made a big hit, and seemed to be enjoying himself. We left him talking to his men and women in uniform.
All of us had post-ceremony media appointments. I am not sure who all spoke with Joe and Walter; Don had an interview with CNN's Larry King; Al with CBS; and I with CNN’s Frank Sesno and CBS’s Dan Rather. All of the networks were situated in temporary broadcast booths overlooking the 9,387 white crosses and white stars at the American Cemetery. Dan Rather and I had a casual interview as we slowly walked through the immaculate cemetery, between the crosses and stars.
I can only hope that the 50th anniversary of D-Day meant half as much to President Bill Clinton as it did to Walter Ehlers, Joe Dawson, all the other D-Day veterans, and me. That unforgettable stroll down the beach with two bona fide World War II heroes and the most powerful leader on earth changed me forever, and will always remain a highlight of my life. The walk brought back chilling memories of 1944 that will never go away. All the attention focused on the anniversary also gave me hope that others might finally be willing to remember as well.
Five months later, on a happy November 11, 1994, Veterans’ Day, that hope came true. On this date we officially announced that Bedford, Virginia would be the site of the proposed D-Day Memorial. Although we had feared the project was DOA, we had never given up trying, and the preceding months had been full of activity aimed at funding and securing a site.
During the bleak, uneventful years of struggle, three of our board members had died. Others had quit in frustration. I, too, became very tired and considered quitting. And yet, as time went by, our generation’s veterans also began to incite new interest, especially in the public school system. Demand was rising for classroom visits and talks about the causes and the possible prevention of another world war.
I did not quit the board, but carried on with a handful of other dedicated individuals. Finally, we had our breakthrough. We had heard that the Bedford City Council might offer a memorial site with amenities within the city limits. Then a letter from Bedford Mayor Michael Shelton and Bedford County Commissioner of the Revenue Lucille Boggess stated their interest in the project. Mrs. Boggess had two brothers killed on D-Day and she was especially eager to have the memorial located in Bedford. Mayor Shelton had received permission from the Bedford City Council to persuade the D-Day Memorial Foundation to move its operation to Bedford.
The package of incentives included a quiet 20-acre hill that overlooked the city and the scenic Blue Ridge Mountains. The view featured the stunningly picturesque Peaks of Otter eleven miles distant. A pot sweetener worth $250,000 was offered, giving free use of city utilities, security, and limited upkeep. Accepting the offer was a no-brainer.
This was not a step, but a giant leap forward towards the construction of a permanent national D-Day memorial. The offer enticed Roanoke City Engineer and Explore Park executive, Richard B. Burrow, to accept the important executive director job. Another indispensable professional was a (then) little-known Roanoke architectural firm, Byron R. Dickson & Associates. Four Star General William B. Rosson was a jewel of a find who added unbelievable prestige to the venture. Not only did he help tremendously with fundraising, keeping an eye on what was promised and seeing that the promise was kept, it was he and Byron Dickson who suggested the height of the monument be raised to 44 feet, 6 inches --- 6/6/44.
The project took work and a lot of money. We met with many influential people, driving to Richmond to speak to the Virginia General Assembly and to Washington to meet with our legislators. We also spoke to students, church groups, the DAR, Ruritans, Rotary, Lions and Kiwanis --- anyone who would listen, and many folks who would not. At times, I thought we would have to give up, and I did, indeed, come close to doing so. But in the end, the cause prevailed. On June 6, 2001, as the monument was unveiled and my heart swelled with emotion, I knew it had all been worth it, and far more. The symbolism of the monument and all it conveyed struck me anew with gratitude and awe --- gratitude to the thousands who gave their lives on D-Day, and awe at their towering achievement.
Nearly three years later, as the 60th anniversary of D-Day was approaching, I received an invitation to participate in a documentary to be aired regionally on ABC and over most of Europe on June 6, 2004. I again packed my bags for the trip to the battlefields of France. This trip, however, was a joy ride compared to some other journeys I had made abroad.
The big Boeing 777 eased down on the runway at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, at 11.35. France Channel 2 Public Television had scheduled for me to be the principle interviewee. Eric Ellena of French Connection Films, the producer, director, and over-all manager, had arranged for (government owned) Channel 2 to underwrite the expenses for my nine-day trip. He and his crew were attempting to capture on film the effects of D-Day and the war on my life. I didn’t sleep a wink the entire flight over.
How can I ever possibly describe the excitement and emotion of that whirlwind experience? That night, the elegant Paris Four Seasons Hotel offered free lodging, meals, and full amenities to D-Day veterans; at 6 p.m., Eric escorted me to the hotel conference room, which was arranged for interviews with each of the many journalists from radio, television, and the printed press. The regional director of the Four Seasons opened the event with a champagne toast. Invited guests included Eric Ellena, Le Capitaine Philippe Metzger, and several other members of the French Ministry of Defense. Waiters hovered, serving wine, hors d’oeuvres, and more champagne. As far as I know, I was the only American and D-Day veteran. The number of interviewers was unexpected, but I tried to answer all their questions.
And this was just the beginning. The next day, Eric took me to the American Omaha Beach Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, where journalists from Cityzen TV and Ouest France News fixed a microphone on my jacket and followed as we walked between the white marble crosses and stars, musing about D-Day. Afterward, at Omaha Beach, we met journalists from La Voix du Nord and Midi Libre newspapers. Later still we drove to Cherbourg, to be present when the mayor unveiled an art museum. At the reception, German D-Day veteran Franz Gockel and I were interviewed by many reporters. A Cherbourg hotel provided free accommodations, and I went to bed early for a change.
The following days featured visits to Saint-Lô; La Madeleine Chapel, a medieval stone sanctuary donated to the 29th and 35th Infantry Divisions; and Couvains, where Ray Moon, of the 115th Infantry Regiment, joined the party and helped retrace the steps made a few days after D-Day. We parked the cars and began a hike down a sunken road that brought back dark memories of 1944.
Doctor Claude Paris, our host in Couvains, was the son of the wartime mayor of the village. He wanted me to find the wagon path that led to the partially demolished church. I believe we found the spot where I gave first aid to the wounded German paratrooper. The sunken road with the opening where the German paratrooper lay, and the church steeple, now restored, were just as I remembered them. A local print photographer and reporter were on hand to record the occasion. Afterward, Claude invited us to his home in Saint-Lô for drinks and more talk.
June 5, at St. Jean de Savigny, 29th Division veterans and friends gathered at a Wall of Remembrance ceremony; and then came the trek to Ste.-Mère-Eglise and the program sponsored by Channel 2, with Michel Drucker as moderator. The town was swarming with mobs of red bereted airborne veterans, re-enactors, and history buffs from all over Europe, Canada, and the United States.
I again was interviewed with Franz Gockel, German veteran of Omaha Beach. Drucker, speaking for the audience, wanted to know if former enemies could now become friends. Both of us said we could. The program was broadcast live for ten hours in France, and shown in 205 countries around the world. Outside the Ste.-Mère-Eglise church, nearly 4,000 spectators watched the event on a giant television screen.
The biggest day of all, June 6th, began very early for us. Because of the large crowds expected, the tight security, and the congested drive from Saint-Lô to Colleville, we were advised to leave Saint-Lô at 6 AM. I caught one of the 29th Division busses to Colleville, where I was escorted to the VIP section, in the third row, near the presidential podium. The first two rows were reserved for the presidential and White House dignitaries. Roanokers Hugh Wills of the 30th Division and Allen Levin and Chuck Neighbor of the 29th were seated nearby.
On the backs of the special reserved chairs in front of me, I read many important names: Secretary of State General Colin Powell, Presidential Advisor Doctor Condoleezza Rice, Chairman Joint Chiefs of Staff General Richard Myers, a Four-Star Marine General, First Lady Laura Bush, Presidential Advisor Karen Hughes and her husband, director Steven Spielberg and actor Tom Hanks, among others.
These luminaries drew applause as they were escorted to their seats some 30 minutes early. Then two identical helicopters appeared, hovering behind us: a roar of applause preceded President George W. Bush and French President Jacques Chirac, who were escorted by bodyguards to their seats on the stage.
The program was extremely moving. It included the rendering of honors, an invocation, the laying of memorial wreaths, a salute to the fallen, speeches by Presidents Bush and Chirac, a benediction, the national anthem, and a fly-over. There were many weeping eyes, but despite the sadness, we all were proud and glad to be there.
The next ceremony took place at the Vierville Draw on Omaha Beach, where the 116th had been so badly mauled on D-Day. About 200 members of the 29th Division assembled under the canvas of a large tent, erected as shelter from the intense rays of the afternoon sun. American dignitaries in attendance included Maryland Governor and Mrs. Robert L. Ehrlich, Jr.; Lieutenant General H. Steven Blum, Head of the National Guard Bureau; and Major General Daniel Long, 29th Division (L) Commanding Officer. I was one of the speakers, but in my haste to catch the 6 a.m. bus, I had left the paper with my speech at Saint-Lô.
To make matters worse, I had just paused for a quick pit stop at the Omaha Beach Hotel, when someone came running: "Slaughter, they’re waiting for you!" I raced the 100 yards up the exit draw road to the tent, and had to wing it from there. I think I did all right. My words were sincere and truthful, and I hope they honored the mixed emotions that most of us there were feeling.
The rest of the trip continued apace, as lower Normandy, always warm toward American veterans, outdid itself in generous hospitality, copious food and wine, awards, speeches, and lavish entertainment. One of the most touching moments of the entire tour was an au revoir awards ceremony in Saint-Lô. Again, in accordance with tradition, a Saint-Lô child led each veteran of the 29th as we walked, holding hands, down the main street. It was a memorable moment, made all the more so by the children whose forebears we may have saved during that terrible time in the past.
The townspeople cheered and clapped as they crowded sidewalks and windows along the way. I walked hand-in-hand with Doctor Paris’s grandson, Clement Bossard, right behind the leader of the parade. Someone in the crowd had given me a souvenir cap from Saint-Lô, so Clement was sporting my 29th Division Association cap.
I felt proud and very moved by the ceremony, as surely the Normans did themselves. I think I can speak for all the veterans in attendance, when I say we came home to America fully satisfied. The sacrifices we had made in 1944 and 1945 were remembered and truly appreciated by the people we had come to free.
I began the long march as an adventurous schoolboy, just turned 16. I suppose I was looking for some dramatic juvenile excitement. If that were the case, I found plenty of it as a United States Army foot soldier. Fifty-two months later, I returned to my home a bewildered and disillusioned twenty-year-old man. I have often wondered what happened to my laid-back, carefree youth—those irreplaceable teen years that come only once in a person’s lifetime.
On my return, I accepted a much less dramatic lifestyle. I got married, raised two sons, and went to work for a mid-sized newspaper in a mid-sized community. I found time to acquire a modicum of education, coached Little League baseball, and was grateful to live a normal American life.
Too many of my army buddies failed to reach their 25th birthday, and many of those who did were never the same. After what they had been through, they couldn’t adjust to the real world. Many of them fell prey to alcohol, loose women, radical religion, or isolation—anything to help them get through each day, month, and year. Seven of our D Company men committed suicide. Compared to those and thousands more, I have been blessed.
In some ways, writing this book, a process that has taken me almost 15 years, has been the last leg of the journey. I realize that I speak for many who never had the chance to speak for themselves, and I have done my best to pay them tribute. My hope is that this memoir, in however small a way, will perpetuate their memory and stand as a witness to their sacrifices. It saddens and worries me that so much of the world, including America itself, refuses to learn the hard lessons of the past.
Now that I am in my 80s, I am well aware that the long march that began so many years ago is about to come to a halt. I am proud to say my generation helped save the world from tyranny, prevent the extinction of an entire group of people, and preserve the democratic freedoms of our wonderful American way of life. I wouldn’t change a thing, except to wish that my dear army buddies could be here to see and touch the magnificent National D-Day Memorial that was built for us all.
