The generation of Americans that were just ahead of yours truly, the World War II persons were those who fought with every thought, nerve, and prayer in their bodies to rescue the world from the clutches of the madmen, Hitler and Hirohito.
I can only go back in memories, but on several occasions, I have had the privilege of viewing one of those hallowed battlefields, Normandy, where so many gave their lives. And now, many years later, on June 6, 2025, I return in thought to my very first visit.
Because husband Willard had put 24 years of active duty in the military service, he and I were privileged to be able to take military flights out of Jackson with our National Guard, and in the past we made these trips quite a few times. The flights began in Jackson and made a long stop in Dover, Delaware. We would then board one of the C-ll7s that had space available for retired military personnel and would carry us to Ramstein, Germany. I must opine though—these flights were not for the weak of body and heart.
I will say that once we boarded, there was very little heat on the plane; we wore insulated underwear, ski clothes, wool caps, and fur lined gloves. I remember once spilling my coke and later slipped on the small sheet of ice it formed. We often rode on canvas benches attached along the sides of the plane.
On one of our first trips, when the plane landed in Ramstein, Willard and I caught the train from Ramstein to Bayeux, France. Bayeux was a launch pad for exploring the D-Day beaches just to the north and was the first town to be liberated during the Battle of Normandy.
All of this goes back many moons ago, but when we detrained in Bayeux, I do remember the first thing I saw were tattered signs waving in the breeze. The words reading, "Welcome Liberators," were still tacked onto buildings. Even though many of them had been hung for commercial reasons, it was touching and brought a lump to our throats. It had felt good to think that somebody still remembered and honored those heroes.
When we entered the cemetery for the first time, Willard crossed his heart.
"I lost one of my best friends here on D-Day," my husband said.
It was extremely emotional to stand and look at the 9,387 perfectly aligned white crosses and the 307 Stars of David. They all faced west toward the Atlantic Ocean. Toward the United States. Toward, home.
The visions and memories from so many years ago washed over us and became very real again. It was heartbreaking to walk through that landscape of white crosses, stand on the cliffs, and look down at Omaha and Utah Beach, and to imagine the helplessness of those 18 and 19-year-old men below, drifting toward the barrage of fire above them.
When we gazed at the beaches, what we saw were tranquility and beauty, but back on June 6, 1944 there must have been scenes of such carnage and violence we wouldn’t even want to imagine. It was hard to picture the destruction and loss of life that took place here, but the meaning of what happened tugged our hearts. The success of this invasion opened Europe to the Allies resulting in Germany’s surrender less than a year later.
Times are different now; war is different. In my so humble opinion, we shall not see the likes of that generation again. The number of World War II veterans dwindles. And this really disturbs me—how soon they are being forgotten.
It may well be my age and stage, but I believe too many Americans may worship and pay homage to many wrong "heroes" today. To me there’s nothing wrong about hero worship when it comes to people who are willing to die to help save the world.
June 6, 1944. A day that should always be remembered and honored.
God bless those young men. They fought and died for the fate of the world.
God bless America.
