HAVE I EARNED IT?

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(Reposted)

Pt. 1

Today is the 73^rd anniversary of the storming of the beaches at Normandy.

D-Day.

There is no measure of gratitude with which to thank the brave boys (and they were boys) who fought and died there. The youngest of the few survivors who are still with us, (for they are dying at the rate of 1500 a day) have reached the ninth decade of their lives.

I will never forget the first time I saw, “Saving Private Ryan.”

As the movie concluded, I could hear muffled sobs throughout the auditorium. And as my wife, and I walked out of the double doors of the theater, I noticed several old men wiping away tears. No doubt, some of them “had been there and done that.”

In one especially poignant scene “Captain Miller” (Tom Hanks) has been mortally wounded and in his fading moments, he summons “Private Ryan” (Matt Damon) to his side, and whispers in his ear.

“Earn it. Earn it.”

The implication is clear. The captain and his men have scoured occupied France, in order to find the lowly enlisted man, and send him home to his mother; given that several of his brothers had been killed in action. And in the process, not only Captain Miller, but some of his men had paid the last full measure of devotion; in their attempt to locate him.

As the movie ends, we see the aging Private Ryan walking through the cemetery at Normandy with several members of his family. Reaching Captain Miller’s gravesite, he turns to his wife, and asks,

“Have I been a good man? Have I lived a good life? Have I earned it?”

She pauses, and with a momentary look of disbelief registering on her face, she responds in the affirmative.

Pt. 2

While Captain Miller’s and Private Ryan’s stories are fictional, each and every young soldier, sailor, airman and marine, who fought in every war in which this country has ever been involved, have possessed their own singular story.

I once wrote an article in which I characterized the events of D-Day. But I think my personal rendition could not possibly describe the events of that day any better than the opening scene from “Saving Private Ryan.” I can tell you that I have never witnessed such a re-creation of such carnage. And in respect for the sensitivity for my reader, suffice it to say two words would adequately sum it all up. Slaughter House.

I recently came across a photo montage, with a single caption, which depicted an overhead seaside photo of the invasion of Normandy, June 6, 1944, along side a modern-day photo of one of America’s beaches; with the requisite sun bathers and umbrellas.

The caption?

“Their day at the beach made your day at the beach possible.”

There is a singular video segment which appears in virtually every documentary you will ever see relating to the events at Normandy. The ten second film clip zeroes in on four soldiers as they storm the beach, and running as fast as their rifles and packs allow them towards the Nazi-occupied cliffs in the distance.

Suddenly the soldier on the left and his comrade on the right fall, quite obviously the target of a German machine gun; while the two men in the middle continue their quest for a safe place to shield themselves from the punishing hail of bullets raining down upon them.

I have often thought of those two men who fell on the beach that day; two among thousands who fell. And yet, these unfortunate soldiers were filmed in the very act.

I would love to know their names, their units, the nature of their wounds; whether they succumbed to their injuries. And if not, what kind of life they returned to at the end of the war.

Pt. 3

As I previously inferred, I once wrote a tribute to those brave men who suffered and, in too many cases, died on the field of their labor.

I have included it, below.

 

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

 

Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy the enemy.”

 

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

 

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”

 

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

 

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help, they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.

 

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete, mission over.

 

Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

 

The Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties. They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

 

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

 

And some come again to walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

 

We have come to an anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands of his own hourglass.

 

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again, never more to rise.

 

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water, their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the field of their labor.

 

They gave their tomorrows for our todays.

 

I think it behooves us, the recipients of such a great sacrificial endeavor, to pause on this day, and days like it,

 

and to ask ourselves,

 

…Have I earned it?

by William McDonald, PhD