The Happiest Millionaire

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Happiness is one of the greatest bonuses in life. Part of being happy is being grateful. When we were tiny tykes, our dad told us all the time, “Grateful people are never bitter. You only become bitter when you stop being grateful.” I think about this a great deal, especially in a world where gratitude is largely forgotten. 

One of the most grateful people I have met is WWII Marine Air Corps veteran Lt. Col. Arthur Arceneaux. We met Mr. Arceneaux this last September at the WWII Museum in New Orleans. He talked with us for a quite a while, telling us amazing stories of flying Corsairs and Hellcats. But at the end of each story, he would finish by saying, “I’ve had the best life... Just the best life.” 

Born in 1923 to an immigrant family, Mr. Arceneaux grew up in a small town outside of New Orleans. During the great depression he said they didn’t have much money, and it was hard work to keep it all together, but he never knew they were poor because, with a tight-knit family and plenty of food, they never wanted anything. “My father was a saint." he said. “Every night he would kneel and pray.” He never heard his dad swear, and only once did he take a whipping from him. His mother was a strong, fiercely tenacious woman. Born on a ship from Sicily to Louisiana, she raised her children as very patriotic Americans. 

With no college or much education, he enlisted into the Marine Air Corps July 15, 1942, at the age of 18. It was a “gimmick” he told us. At that time in the Air Corps, they were accepting any applications, needing man power more than experience. The result: many men died for lack of training. But for him, flying was a passion. Ever since he was a kid, he had wanted to fly. When he was accepted into the Marine Air Corps, he was thrilled beyond imagination. His father wasn’t sure at first, wanting him to be a farmer, but ultimately became very proud of his son.

For the next couple of years, he was stationed in the Pacific, flying all over. At one point during the Battle of Okinawa, he was hot on the trail of a Japanese Zero. As he was nearing it, he began to close in on an American cruiser. The cruiser radioed to him to clear out and let them take the Zero down or else he too would be shot. Being a “hotheaded” fellow, he had to get that Zero. Just when he was about to reach his target, he came too close to the guns of the cruiser and was hit. Crashing his plane into ocean, he waited two hours before he was picked up by an American submarine, to his great relief. But after spending 4 days on the sub, he was ready to get off: Tight quarters, no fresh air, and no sleep whatever with music at random hours and megaphone announcements at 4 in the morning. 

Many times throughout the war his life was spared. Once during training on a practice emergency parachute jump, his foot tangled in the cords and he was nearly killed as he went tumbling by all his buddies. Last minute he was able to untangle and pull the cord for the parachute to open. . . just in time. After that he never wanted to jump again. Another time, he was so focused on taking down the enemy plane in front of him that he didn't see the Zero locked on his tail. He was shouting with excitement over his victory when his wingman and buddy Bill Campbell took out the Zero and saved his life. They had practically grown up together in the Marines and were the best of friends. But Bill was shot down the next week. Mr. Arceneaux said he sobbed like a baby at 10,000 feet over the loss. 

Mr. Arceneaux told us so many stories and each one needs a full article. After the war, he stayed in the Marine Air Corps until 1963, serving in both Korea and the beginning of Vietnam war. But his service in WWII is really what he is proud of, considering that time to be the defining time in his life. 

At the end of the day, Mr. Arceneaux is content and grateful and happy with his life: his time in the military, his wife, his children, his work, his friends. . . everything. “I wasn’t smart, but everything came to me,” he said. “I had a storybook life.” Even what could have been the most difficult time for him, he considers to be one of the greatest gifts he ever received: the opportunity to give back to the woman who had been shared his life for 68 years.  When his wife became very ill, she asked him not to put her in a home, and he promised her he would take care of her himself.  It was very hard. He concluded emphatically that nursing his wife “was the best time of my life.” 

We recently passed through Louisiana and had to make a stop to visit Mr. Arceneaux.

Mr. Arceneaux is a millionaire, not in the financial sense, but because he is rich in perspective, love, and gratitude. He has chosen to be grateful for everything that has happened to him. Hard times made him who he is and prepared him for the future. Physical pain doesn't discourage him, but reminds himself of all that he IS able to do. He has four wonderful children, four grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren. Mr. Arceneaux is an example to everyone who meets him that gratitude will not only keep you young, but will give you the greatest joy and satisfaction in life. Mr. Arceneaux is the happiest millionaire. 

A "Yank" Says Sorry

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This is a charming article that was sent to us from one of the veterans we met in D.C. Mr. Stanley Zemont is a delightful man with a lively sense of humor.

58 Years on, Yank wants to say sorry to wenches

Bournemouth Echo, February 3, 2003

Jenna Weeke

WHEN an American soldier called for a winch to help him up a Bournemouth hill two local ladies thought he said wench - and now 58-years later he's saying sorry. Stanley Zemont was 19 years old when he was sent to the town during the Second World War. He recalls walking up a steep hill and saying to his friend: "I wish I had a winch to help me up," but two young ladies mistook winch for wench and took great offence.
He says he's felt bad about the misunderstanding for years because Bournemouth residents were so kind to him during his stay and now, having mastered the Internet, he's contacted the Echo in the hope the two women involved will accept his apology and get in touch. He even wants to invite them to visit him at his home in Bellingham, Washington, on the north west coast of America so he can return some of the hospitality he received here during the war.
He said: "I was just a young man, I didn't even realize what I'd said as I didn't know the difference between winch and wench. I think the young ladies were aged around 15. They had their backs to us walking up the hill and when they heard what I said they spun round and said: 'What did you say, Yank? I was flabbergasted, I didn't know I'd said something offensive - they were annoyed and my buddy started laughing. This has been playing on my mind for years and having learnt to use the internet I decided it was time to get in touch. It would be incredible if these young ladies are around and remember it. I'd love to see them - all these years I've thought about it and it still bothers me because the people of Bournemouth are so nice

Mr. Zemont far right, kneeling with German Luger. May, 1945, Waldeck, Germany.

Stanley, now 78, was an infantryman. He recalls training on Bournemouth beaches in preparation for combat in France. He said: "I remember they had barbed wire along them. I have nothing but admiration and respect for the people there. They gave up their homes for us. I would love to come back to England just to visit Bournemouth. If you were one of those two young ladies walking up a steep Bournemouth hill 58-years ago overhearing a 'Yank' say 'wench' please contact us on 01202 411299 and we'll put you in touch with Stanley.

We forgive you! GI finally absolved 58 years after misheard winch comment.

Bournemouth Echo, February 6 2003

Jenna Weeke

He's forgiven. A local woman has identified herself from an Echo article as the person who overheard an American soldiers request for wench during the war. 
Stanley Zemont contacted the Echo 58 years after his plea for a winch to get him up a Bournemouth Hill was misheard by two local women -they thought he said winch. He told us he’d felt bad about the misunderstanding ever since and wanted to say sorry. 
Violet Hayden, 73, of St. Winifred's Road, recognized herself as one of those women - she remembers being angry about his comment and now she's preparing to write to Stanley at his home in Bellingham Washington, to tell him he's all forgiven. 
She said, “I was walking up that hill with my sister, I was 15 and she was 17 and we were on our way back from Westover cinema where we work as usherettes. Two men were walking up behind us - we thought they were going to ask for directions but when they said they wanted a wench we were so upset because we thought they were after a prostitute. I remember my sister saying ‘if you want one of those go down to the square’. He was nicely dressed and shouldn't have had any trouble getting a woman. At the time I was very annoyed. But we forgive him - we’d just about forgotten it by the time we reached the top of the hill. It hasn't played on my mind since. But I wouldn't mind writing to him, I'd like to ask him about his memories of the war. Particularly the bombing in 1943 which I remember very clearly."

Mr. Zemont, far right standing. At the WWII Memorial for his Honor Flight

Stanley, now 78, was an infantryman during World War II. He recalls training on Bournemouth beaches in preparation for combat in France. Stanley even indicated that he plans to invite the two women over to see him at his home not far from the Canadian border. 

Faith singing "Chattanooga Choo Choo" to Mr. Stanley, (right)

Violet said, "I have been to America on holiday but what with war likely I wouldn't like to go at the moment.” She still visits the graves of the Canadians killed when Bournemouth was bombed in 1943 to show they are still thought of even though their families are so far away. Stanley was thrilled when he heard the woman had read the article and got in touch. He said, “What a wonderful surprise, what wonderful news to know you have found the girls. If Violet will write to me it will make my day. I'm relieved that she forgives me.” 

Veterans Day 2014

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There are many special holidays and memorials throughout the year, but some of my favorite include the days when we remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice for us. Veterans Day is unique because not only is it a day when the people of America stop and say "thank you" to our military, but it is a day when those who did come home stop and remember their friends and brothers they left behind. It is a day to pay respect to the dead who understood the cost of liberty and freedom and were willing to pay the ultimate price for it. 

Something that bothers me, though, is that no sooner are these holidays and memorials over, than we move on with our lives and forget our gratitude. It's easy to "thank a veteran" on the one day in a year set aside by our government to remember these men, but it's a little more difficult to put our smart phones down and pay attention to the world around us, including the old man in the grocery store wearing a cap that says to the world, "I may be old; I may be slow; I may be hard of hearing; but I was once one of the guys who stormed the beaches of Iwo Jima or Normandy or Sicily." 

So thoughts for Veterans Day (and I know we are a week late... but it is still important): don't have November 11 be the only day in the year that you think about these dear men who are such heroes. At least remember to stop and talk with them when you see them. A simple acknowledgement, handshake or hug, and comment of appreciation goes a lot further than you might think. 

"I died fighting to preserve their rights and freedoms"

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Veterans' Day was Tuesday. Though we should always be remembering and thanking our veterans, it is special to set aside one day in the year specifically for them. We had a wonderful and full day up in the Dallas area, with many stories and pictures we will be sharing very shortly. Until then, here is an article I read on the way up which was very moving and thought-provoking;  especially the excerpt of a letter written by a 19-year old U.S. Navy sailor to his wife and children. Take a minute and read it; it is well worth your time. 

WWII veteran’s sacrifice lives on in Rome woman

by Carolyn Grindrod

Sandra “Charlee” Charlene Lewellyn Jameson’s name pays homage to a U.S. Navy sailor she never met. Just four months before Jameson was born in September 1945, her 19-year-old father, Charles Wesley Lewellyn, was killed alongside his identical twin brother aboard the USS Bunker Hill during a World War II kamikaze plane strike off the coast of Japan.

“I never knew my father,” she said Sunday at her home in The Village at Maplewood. “Some days I wish he didn’t have to make that sacrifice, but I understand that someone had to do it. Still, it’s affected my whole life. I wouldn’t be the person I am today if hadn’t have happened.” 

In the run-up to Veterans Day, Jameson shared stories told to her of Lewellyn’s death and of the last letter he wrote to her mother, Wilda Jacqueline Moody, during his final moments in the Battle of Okinawa. Veterans Day — the official U.S. holiday honoring men and women who have served in the armed forces — is Tuesday. Jameson said her father enlisted in U.S. Navy Reserves while he was a senior at Harrisville High School in West Virginia. He married her mother while in school and, shortly after he graduated in 1944, he and his brother, William Todd Lewellyn, joined the hundreds of American enlisted men fighting during the war.

“He worked in the bakery on the ship,” said Jameson. “I’ve been told the twins were inseparable. Wherever one went, the other one was right there. They requested to go on the same ship together ... and during the battles, they were assigned to a gun.”

Jameson said that while her father was in the service, her mother gave birth to her older brother, David Lewellyn. “He was only 18 months older than me,” she added. “And in 1997, just a year after my mother passed away, he committed suicide. I don’t think he ever got over what happened to our father.” As Jameson laid out the old photos of the twins and of her family sharing tales of her father’s high school football and boxing years, she pored through items she had collected. A West Virginia newspaper clipping she found, published in the Parkesburg Gazette, details the May 11, 1945, strike that killed her father and uncle.

“Seconds later a single engine Japanese dive bomber came in from the stern, despite hits from a five inch shell and many smaller projectiles from the carrier’s AA batteries,” the article states. “It dropped a 500 pound bomb which penetrated the after flight deck and exploded in the gallery deck just below. It was this bomb that killed the Lewellyn boys it is thought, instantly.”

 Jameson said her mother received a telegram announcing her father’s passing a week before her aunt got the message about her uncle. A few months after her father’s death, an airmail letter appeared in their mailbox. “It was the last letter my father had written my mother during the war,” said Jameson. “Someone had found it and mailed it to her after the attacks. I just can’t imagine how hard that would have been for her.” The letter was among a stack of her father’s letters given to her as a teen.

It reads:

“Dear Hon,  I am sitting here listening to the sounds of rapid gun fire and bombing. I feel this will be the last chance I get to tell you how much I love you and our children.  Please explain to them that I died fighting to preserve their rights and freedoms, just as our forefathers did in the wars before this. Explain to them how important it is for them to continue this fight to protect their rights and the freedoms we presently have in the United States.  If they don’t... we will have all died in vain.” 

Jameson said that through the course of her life, her mother — who remarried when Jameson was 5 — never let her forget what her father died fighting for. “We were born in a time that you feared communism, Nazism, and being ‘red’,” said Jameson. “My father was extremely worried about what would happen if it got to the United States, and he died protecting the freedom of rights we have here in America today. Not just constitutional freedoms, but the freedom to make a change if needed. I’ve lived my entire life knowing you have to fight for those freedoms.”

Jameson’s father and uncle, like many who died in the Pacific, were buried at sea. He is listed on the Tablet of Missing in Action or Buried at Sea at the Honolulu Memorial in Hawaii and was awarded the Purple Heart. And decades after his death, a grave marker bearing his name was placed next to the one for his brother in the national cemetery in his home state of West Virginia. Jameson said she went this summer to visit the West Virginia National Cemetery site. “It was this feeling of closure,” she said. “Although I never met him, I will never forget him.”

http://www.northwestgeorgianews.com/rome/news/local/wwii-veteran-s-sacrifice-lives-on-in-rome-woman/article_06ccf90a-689e-11e4-bd3c-73a0726d25d5.html

Half A League! Half A League! Half A League Onward!

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Painting of the Charge of the Light Brigade

A slight detour from the ordinary topic on this blog. October 25th is one of my favorite days in the year because it is one of those days in history in which everything seems to happen... At least some of my favorite historical events. The Battle of Agincourt, between the English and French 1415,  is one which cannot be forgotten. William Shakespeare so immortalized the battle in his epic play, Henry V, that we unwittingly refer to it in regular conversation, often quoting the St. Crispin’s Day speech and the phrase, “band of brothers.”

A photograph taken by Roger Fenton of the survivors of the 13th Light Dragoons. 

At the top of my list is the infamous Charge of the British Light Calvary during the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854, where the English had banded together with the French and Turks against the Russians. Though it is little known today, and would hardly be at all if it wasn’t for Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” the charge and the events surrounding it are just fascinating, especially when you understand the true effect the war had on the British military system, future wars, and the way we think about military leadership. 

During the charge, Private Frederick Melrose, 17th Lancers, declared in the spirit of Shakespeare’s Henry V, “What man here would ask another man from England?” right before he was shot and killed by Russian fire. And like Private Melrose, not a man in the charge would have wished for “one more.” 

Centre: Sergeant James Mustard of the 17th Lancers and last survivor of the charge. He died February 1916.

Though separated by hundreds of years, both events were fought on same day and are remembered today in magnificent poetry. 

The Charge of the Light Brigade
By Alfred Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
   Someone had blundered.
   Theirs not to make reply,
   Theirs not to reason why,
   Theirs but to do and die.
   Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
   Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
   All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
   Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
   Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
   Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
   All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
   Noble six hundred!


Guest Post Madisson Solid: Honor Flight Weekend in Washington DC

/ National WWII Memorial/

Faith had the honor of singing "God Bless America" with the Honor Flight from her own home state -Texas.

My very good friend Madisson Solid flew out to D.C. to be with us for the weekend of Honor Flights. It was a real treat for us to have her with us. She is a lovely person to be around, and I can truly say we would not have accomplished half as much as we did without her up there to be with us.  She has very kindly written a guest blogpost for us which gives a great overview of the weekend. Enjoy! -Liberty

Honor Flight Weekend in Washington, D.C.

Madisson Solid

Going to Washington, D.C. on an Honor Flight is a once-in-a-lifetime event for a veteran - whether WWII, Korea, or Vietnam. Being given this opportunity means so much to these men, and it’s a small way we can show our gratitude by recognizing and thanking them for their service and sacrifice. 

This veteran Jubilee is greeting is wearing his original uniform from WWII.

On Thursday, it was raining and the interesting thing was to see how the rain made everything all the more sobering. As we handed each veteran a rose, we’d grasp their hand and say, “thank you.” 

Madisson shakes the hand of WWII veteran Bill Marx from Honor Flight Dallas/Fort Worth

We met dear Mr. Morrison (a Korean veteran), who talked with us and told us stories throughout his time at the memorial. Faith was able to sing him, which we could see on his face he throughly enjoyed.

Mr. Morrison walks and talks with us on his way to the bus. 

Something we noticed this day, and the days following, was that many veterans pushed their own wheelchairs into the memorial, insisting on walking in. That just tugs at one’s heartstrings. 

The contrast on Friday was amazing. It was a clear day full of sunshine. After welcoming the last bus of veterans for the day and waving goodbye, we went to Reagan International Airport to welcome the Austin, Texas Honor Flight who would be visiting the memorial the following morning.

One dear WWII veteran started crying after Faith said thank you and handed him a rose. He told us that on his way to D.C., he was so depressed about the road America has gone down, realizing we’re losing our freedoms and everything he and his friends fought and died for 70 years ago. But when he saw us, the next generation, caring about history and the men who fought for our freedoms, it brought tears to his eyes and he said it gave him a renewed hope in America.

Faith had the wonderful opportunity to go down the line of veterans singing their favorite songs while they waited for the bus to take them to their hotel. 

In preparation for Super Saturday, we purchased 46 dozen roses, and by the end of the day, we only had a few roses left. Can you imagine that many dear veterans in one place on one day? 

Saturday was so amazing; a day I will remember for the rest of my life. 580 veterans from WWII, Korea, and Vietnam were present at the memorial all throughout the day on Saturday. Wow. It’s so difficult to find the proper words to describe this day.

Handing them a rose, we would grasp their hand and say thank you. The impact of the roses was incredible - one would never think a simple flower could bring such joy and open the door so easily to wonderful conversation.

This kind man had brought a framed picture of himself and his friend from the war. 

It was so sweet to see the Austin veterans we had met the evening before at the airport, holding the roses we had given them the night before. 

Mr. Andy Bardagjy from Honor Flight: Austin, Texas. We were able to greet him at the airport, and then again at the memorial.  (photo credit: Tom Wince)

Virginia, being the cutie pie of the bunch, literally stole the show. The veterans adored her. She was so sweet and smiley to them, and I’m sure she received a special place in all their hearts. Unfortunately, we all can’t be cute little blonde seven-year olds! 

Virginia and Mr. Lyndon Benshoof

The last WWII veteran we met and talked to on this wonderfully full day was Mr. Cochran from Texas. In 1942 he joined the Navy and was a mechanic on the U.S.S. Puffer. He married his wife Bonnie in 1943 when she was 15 and he 19.

Mr. Cochran is pictured here in the wheelchair. His wife, Bonnie, passed away last November after 71 years of marriage. The sweet woman next to Mr. Cochran is 99 years old and very spunky!

They were married 71 years, until she passed away last November. Isn’t that so incredible? 71 years! We could tell he really missed her - he choked up when talking about her. Two of his grandsons accompanied him to DC. Such lovely people. My heart was so full as we left the memorial that evening, after welcoming, thanking, and hugging all those sweet, dear veterans. 

Washington state was the only flight on Sunday, and I’m so glad we were there to greet them. I can only say it was another wonderful, blessed day and we met dear Mr. McGuirk and his son. It was such a good way to end our time in D.C. I can’t imagine us having missed it.  

Mr. McGuirk tells Madisson goodbye at the bus. 

I cannot imagine how brave a person must be to be in harm’s way or dedicate one’s life to protect people he has never met. From the bottom of our hearts we thanked them for their courage, self-sacrifice, and bravery. We thanked them for their service to our country and for putting their lives at stake to protect the freedoms we hold so dearly. We thanked them for believing in the stars and stripes. America is eternally blessed for the presence of men like these who believe liberty is always worth fighting for.

These veterans (whether WWII, Korea, or Vietnam) didn’t fight to receive a thank you. They didn’t risk their lives for this monument in D.C. To be on an Honor Flight is an incredible opportunity and, not to mention, honor.

We met Mr. Cason at the memorial, and had the privilege of visiting him at his residence a few days later. 

These veterans would have never asked for an honor like this, but you can see on their faces; it means the world to them. I hope and pray that we were able to convey, albeit inadequately, the gratitude and love we have for each one of them. 

I’m so glad I went. It was so humbling, thrilling, sobering, and incredible all at the same time. The veterans are always on my mind, and I know they’ve left a lasting impression on my heart.

STEPHEN R. BROWN PHOTOGRAPHY: HONOR FLIGHT SUPER SATURDAY: SEPT 27, 2014 &emdash;

(above photo credit: Stephen R. Brown Photography. The amazing Washington photographer. http://stephenbrownstudio.com/ )

Week of Honor Flights: Highlights from Flights Ohio, Ilionois, and Arizona

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We are just a couple days in and we have met so many wonderful men at the WWII Memorial. The Honor Flight program has given a truly meaningful gift to these veterans by bringing them out to D.C. to see the memorial created for them. We have loved talking with them and finding out a little bit about their service and their life. Each one of these men, whether they are a WWII, Korea, or Vietnam veteran, has a unique and important story they are just waiting to be asked about.

At some point during Honor Flight that comes to the memorial, all the veterans line up for a picture. It is one of the most incredible picture experiences we have ever watched: to see so much living  history, pulled together for a brief moment in time before dispersing, never to meet them again. . .old men who were once strapping young boys with the world at their feet and a mission to save it. Now, they are brought to the memorial at the end of their life, grey-haired and in wheel chairs, but with a fighting spirit still in them having laid the world at the feet of the next generation.

During WWII, mothers who had a son in the war would hang a blue star in the window or on the door. Later if the son was killed, a gold star replaced the blue one.. There are over 4000 gold stars on the wall at the WWII memorial. Each star represents approximately 100 soldiers who died during the war. When the veterans come to the memorial, this wall is very important to them. 

Mr. Burch learned the bag pipes four years ago to quit smoking. One of his favorites was Danny Boy so Faith got to sing it to him!

Virginia has become the mascot for the veterans. 

Mr. Watling was stationed on a ship that was rather unusual compared to most Navy vessels. It was made of wood and approximately 132 feet long. He said "It was like a cork bobbing around in the water."

Mr. Ditton told us he was practically born in the saddle. He got his first horse when he was 6 years old and road it to and from school very day.

Mr. Ashley (Right) was a chemist's mate in the Pacific.  After making it on to Tarawa during the invasion he helped to put up the hospital there. Mr. Ashley is the first "medic" we have had the privilege to meet.

Mr. Robert Lake turned 18 the day the Japanese surrendered and was shortly after sent to relieve the fatigued, battle weary soldiers.  He showed us a newspaper clipping of his cousin who was killed in Korea.

Mr Vasen was stationed in Germany for almost a year. General Eisenhower passed in his limousine every day. Mr Vasen would salute each time. He never knew if "Ike" ever saw, but paid his respects nonetheless.

Honor Flights

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We arrived in Washington DC last night. This week we are thrilled to be part of the group welcoming World War II veterans to D.C. The Honor Flights come in every week, carrying many WWII, Korea, and Vietnam veterans on a special trip to visit "their" Memorial in D.C.  We visited the memorial last night with a very special guide, John W. McCaskill, a National Park Service representative and World War II historian whom we met three years ago in Pearl Harbor. His passion for honor and history is simply infectious. He walked us around the beautifully lit memorial with zeal and enthusiasm, explaining every aspect: The eagles, the fountain, the emblems, the gold stars, the bas reliefs, and on and on.

This morning we joined a group of folks meeting the East Iowa Honor Flight coming in to DCA. What a beautiful experience! From there we went to the National World War Two Memorial and had a wonderful time there visiting with some very special people.

Over the next week we will be having more regular updates and posts. So stay tuned. If you would like to see more photos than we will be posting here, you can sign up in the form below (make sure to put your full name with your email to be added). 

Singing for a Veteran

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One of my favorite parts of meeting and talking with veterans of the Second World War is hearing my sister Faith sing to them and watching their responses. Some sit thoughtfully, others tear up, but the best is when they sing with her. Recently, while we were in Conneaut, Ohio, for the D-Day Reenactment, this happened several times. Faith would begin White Cliffs of Dover, We'll Meet Again, or some other classic from their time, and suddenly out of nowhere we would hear a wonderfully rusty voice chiming in, singing along with her. 

One such veteran was Mr. Arthur Engelberg. At the ripe age of 99 1/2 (he made sure we didn't forget that extra half), Mr. Engelberg is the very picture of the engaging, robust, World War II veteran. He told us that he rises every morning, looks at himself in the mirror and says, "Thank you, God, for a new day, -and thank you for making me better looking everyday." There was a sparkle in his eyes and a bit of a leprechaun in him as he signed my newspaper, "Brad Pitt." He said that his key to life is a grateful attitude. 

Moments like these are really quite thrilling to me when they occur, bringing us back briefly into a bygone era. Today there is not much connection with the WWII generation. My generation listens to different music, wears different clothes, and has entirely different interests. "Fun" used to mean playing outside, even if that was just marching around with paper hats for crowns and sticks for scepters, or kicking a ball in the street with friends. Not so today. Now, fun means chatting every spare moment on a smart phone or playing the latest Playstation or Xbox game.

All of this does not help to bridge the gap between our generations, and it is easy to forget that yes, they were once young like us, too. We may think their music is out of date or old-fashioned, but it isn't for them. The music that is considered old fashioned or retro was at the top of the charts in their day. The movies that are labeled out of date,  or not interesting enough, were the box-office hits of their time. 

Mr. Arthur Engelberg teaches us to sing, Doodle-li-do, a delightful little ditty. He was by far the best singer in our group!

All this to say how important it is for us to understand the time they grew up in, the culture that formed their identity, and all that made them who they are today.  WWII veterans are some of the most interesting people I have ever met. They have richness of experience and perspective from decades of life that we would be wise to learn from.  We have found that when Faith sings to them, a gap is bridged and a connection is made that goes deeper than what an ordinary conversation could do. It seems to say, "I want to identify with you because I care about you; because you are valuable." And they appreciate it so much. Not every one can sing the songs of WWII (I can't for sure), but there are so many ways to show that you are interested in their life, that you want to learn from them, and that you are grateful for their sacrifice. Whatever effort you make is paid back ten-fold when you see their faces. Life is just so much richer for both.  

War and Peace: 1939-1945

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75 years ago today, British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain announced to the world that Great Britain was officially in a state of war with Germany, thus embarking on what would be six long and bloody years of world war. The cost was high, millions of lives would be lost, but victory came in the end.

On September 2, 1945, exactly six years later minus one day, World War II would officially end with the surrender of Japan on the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay. The photo below of General MacArthur signing the peace treaty holds a special significance for me because as long as I can remember a signed copy has hung in my dad’s office. But it is more than that. My father was named after General MacArthur, and when he was ten years old, his father took him to meet Mrs. Douglas MacArthur. She gave him the autographed picture. It was a very special meeting for my Dad, and he has always been very grateful for it.

I am awed that in the providence of God, two of the most important moments in our history would fall on consecutive days; like two book ends holding together the chapters of events that had engrossed the world for six long years.

August 14 is considered for VJ-Day for many WWII Veterans, but it was not until September 2, that the official surrender papers were signed on the decks of the U.S.S. Missouri.

D-Day Conneaut 2014

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My siblings and I recently had the privilege of participating as civilian reenactors at the D-Day Conneaut Reenactment in Ohio this past weekend. It is the largest D-Day reenactment in the U.S., this year hosting over 1200 reenactors, and many thousands of spectators.  

Mess call! A short break in the day for the reenactors to grab a bite to eat: military style. 

2014 is not only the 15th anniversary of the reenactment but also the 70th anniversary of the D-Day invasion. The turnout was amazing. Besides the increased numbers of reenactors, they also received a whopping 133 WWII veterans (many of whom were D-Day veterans) who attended the event as special guests and speakers.

This kind veteran was part of Patton's army. He served in the war along with his twin and elder brother.

There is so much to tell about the wonderful veterans we met and the stories they shared with us. Each veteran we met was uniquely special, and we were so blessed to have this incredible opportunity. Please stay tuned as we write these stories down and get them out one by one. For now, here's just a few of photos (there are many more to come so look for part two shortly!).

Faith sang everywhere we went. Here she is singing "White Cliffs of Dover" to WWII Veteran Armand Carlucci. It was so wonderful to watch the veteran's faces as she sang the songs of their time. Often times, they would join in with her.

Mr. Jacob Kesiatie was stationed just a little ways from us at the San Marcos Military Hospital in Texas throughout the war. He said his favorite thing about Texas was the Bluebonnets. He had never seen anything like them before.

Honor and Pro were very much the favorites of the trip. They were stopped nearly everywhere we went by veterans and reenactors who wanted to comment on their smart uniforms. It was really wonderful to see the Navy veterans talking to them and showing them how to fold their Dixie Cups (white hats), or what the insignia on their uniforms meant.

Mr. Arthur "Pat" Engleburg told us that secret to his age (just a mere 99 1/2 years young) was gratitude and a thankful heart. He said, "Every morning I say, 'Thank you Lord for this day,' and I also say, 'thank you for making me better looking every day.'"

“Let us pray that peace be now restored to the world, and that God will preserve it always. ”
— General Douglas Macarthur, Supreme Allied Commander of South-West Pacific

Private Israel Goldberg

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"The rescue party of Rangers and Filipino guerrillas grin with delight at the success of their mission." Life Magazine 1945 after the liberation of camp Cabanatuan.

Today is August 11, 2014. Those who are acquainted with their history will remember it as the final day of the Battle of Amiens in 1918, the turning point of WWI. If you are a sports fan, you may remember it as the day when, in 1929, Babe Ruth would catapult himself into the American history books as the first baseball player to hit 500 home runs. But today, something else happened. It is not a well known event, and at the time was not uncommon, but it is one I must remember. 

On August 11, 1942, just outside the barbwire walls of a Japanese Prisoner of War Camp near the city of Cabanatuan in the Philippines, a burial team lowered the frail bodily remains of my great, great uncle Private Israel Goldberg into a roughly cut mass grave, shared with 11 other men from his camp. Though I never had the opportunity to meet him (he would have been 101 this year), I grew up hearing with great pride of the uncle who died on Bataan. These men had fought hard for three long months at the Battle of Bataan in which there were casualties of enormous numbers and great odds; they had survived the brutal “Death March,” an event that has gone down in history as one of extreme and barbarous cruelty on the part of the Japanese, and incredible courage and endurance on the part of the 70,000 American, British, and Filipino prisoners.

 After the fall of Bataan, MacArthur said: "I shall return". But it wouldn't be until 1945 that his promise would come true.

Over the course of the next three years, thousands of POWs would pass through Cabanatuan. Most would be would be shipped off to Japan to work as slaves in the underground mines and factories. Others would be sent to work on the Burma-Siam Railway otherwise known as the “Death Railway.” By January 1945, just over 500 POWs still remained at Camp Cabanatuan. But for my uncle and these other 11 men, it was not theirs to survive the war, and they passed away only a few months after the march. 

There is really not much I know about my great-uncle. He was born on January 20, 1913, into a Jewish family, newly immigrated from Russia. He enlisted as a private in the United States Air Force on September 23, 1940, and served in the Headquarters Squadron of the 24th Pursuit Group at Clark Field during the Battle of the Philippines. As the fighting raged on, the Air Force was almost entirely annihilated and had to take to ground fighting, but the records show they proved their mettle. What he did, or how he survived from the fall of Bataan on April 9, to his death four months later, we don’t know. But from the documents, letters, and books written on the Death March and Camp Cabanatuan, we can piece together a pretty good picture of what it was like for him, and the other POWs. They tell a gritty and hard story of survival and endurance.

One of the plane crews from Headquarters Squadron, 24th Pursuit Group and 17th Pursuit Squadron in January 1945

It would take quite a tome for me to go over all that our soldiers went through at Bataan during 1942 to 1945, and much has been written on it already that I would highly recommend. Ghost Soldiers by Hampton Sides is one of my very favorite on the subject. He gives a thorough account from the fall of Bataan on, and tells the remarkable story of their rescue on January, 1945, by a handful of 6th Battalion Rangers. Mr. Sides does not gloss over the hard facts and realities of what they endured. In fact, parts are raw and hard to digest, but part of understanding war is understanding suffering and the response to suffering as well. 

70,000 American, Philippine, and British POWS were taken on a brutal march in which thousands died along the way.

After the war when the bodies were disinterred from the rough temporary graves, many of them were unidentifiable. Now their remains lie under fresh crosses with the inscription, “Known only to God.” The only remembrance of them is their name on the wall of the missing and unknown. This is the case for my uncle. It is a good reminder for us that every grave holds a unique story, and it is our duty to remember the individuals. 

Today, I pause and remember my great-great uncle Israel Goldberg. I remember the sacrifice he made, the suffering and pain he endured which I will never fully understand, and the life he gave for all of us. 

Remembering WWII: Living History, Education, and Honor

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Some friends of ours up in Tennessee are putting on a good ole' fashioned, bond buying, liberty loving, veteran honoring, WWII reenactment this upcoming September 27th. From the way the Courter Family has put on past events, this is going to be the smashingest event of this fall. Vintage vehicle displays, authentic reenactors dressed to the nines, a special lecture on the music of WWII (with live music), WWII Veterans with amazing stories to share, reenactor swap and meet, lots of wonderful people and wonderful memories to make.

And here's the best news: It's all free! So you can come by yourself, or with your family, or better yet with a very, very large group and enjoy the day as a spectator. Or you can come as a reenactor and participate in their epic battles as they reenact events that happened in between D-Day and Operation Cobra. If that is not your cup of tea, you can come as a home-front reenactor and dress in the dapper styles of the time.

Some special events include a free outdoor screening on Friday night of the glorious film Desperate Journey (1942) starring Errol Flynn and Ronald Reagan, several very special WWII veterans who will have the opportunity to share their stories (something not to be missed!), a live WWII Band and much much more. You can read the full schedule here: http://dominionskills.com/remembering-wwii/remembering-wwii-schedule/

This is going to be a grand event, and one not worth missing out on. I highly recommend you go to this event. At least read over their schedule and webpage, because I know at the end of that you will be convinced that this is the place to be on September 27th!

Further Reading:

http://dominionskills.com/remembering-wwii/

https://www.facebook.com/RememberingWWII

http://dominionskills.com/remembering-wwii-directions-parking/

The Power of the Epitaph: Why the Bayeux War Cemetery Continues to Inspire

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Have you ever heard someone say, “When I die, put this on my gravestone.” You probably have. Chances are you have even said that yourself a couple of times. But have you ever stopped to really consider how you will be remembered after you die?

For as long as I can remember, my father has always made it a very important part of our education to bring us to cemeteries, and the older the cemetery, the better. This has always a special part of family trips for me, even when I was very little. Some of my favorite memories of the New England coast are visiting the graves of the founding fathers and mothers of America. This is not because I have a weird fascination with death or anything else macabre and dark, but because I love learning about the men and women who shaped history. Multi-generational families can be found buried in one plot, such as the John Adams family and the Cotton Mather family. Then there is Cole’s Hill in Plymouth which holds the graves of many Pilgrims including William Bradford and William Brewster, as well as the grave of missionary Adoniram Judson, all men who left legacies that have lasted hundreds of years.

There 4,648 men buried in the Bayeux War Cemetery. The majority of them are from the United Kingdom.

Today, you can learn about anyone or anything on the internet if you just type it in. If you are more patient you can read about your subject of choice in books, letters, journals, newspaper articles, sometimes even film and documentaries. Yet I have found a very intimate way to get a personal glimpse into someone's life is to look at their gravestone. What is written on someone’s gravestone is the final statement that will be read about them for the next 200 years. The person might have been long forgotten, but their epitaph, the words on the stone marking their remains, will give testimony to their life in one way or another. 

When I am dead and in my grave, 
And all my bones are rotten. 
While reading this you'll think of me 
When I am long forgotten!

As in all writing, the spectrum between profound, morbid, mundane, humorous, and even absurd exists on gravestones. This grave from Nova Scotia takes on a bit of the tongue in cheek: 

Here lies Ezekial Aikle:
Age 102
The Good Die Young  

And not all are truthful. The Noah Webster’s 1828 Dictionary says of the word epitaph, “The epitaphs of the present day are crammed with fulsome compliments never merited. Can you look forward to the honor of a decorated coffin, a splendid funeral, a towering monument--it may be a lying epitaph.” 

Sometimes, if you pay attention, a phrase, a quote, or even as much as a sentence can give the reader an especially distinctive and even profound summary of that person's life. Were they of noble character? Or a villain? Were they loved by family? Or did they die lonely? What is written on that stone could very well be the ultimate summation of that person's life.

At the centre of this peaceful cemetery a solitary rock monument is covered in wreathes and notes from the families of the fallen.

One of the most moving aspects of our time in Normandy was visiting the Omaha Memorial and Bayeux War Cemeteries. Both were special and unique. At Omaha were rows and rows of plain white crosses, with only the name, date, state, and regiment. It was magnificent in its simplicity. But the British War Cemetery in Bayeux surprised me by its beauty. Walking into it was truly like walking into a piece of England. It had a peacefulness and tranquility about it that was enhanced by the well tended gardens surrounding each grave and going on down the uniform rows. There are 4,648 men of varying nationalities buried in this cemetery, but the majority of it is made up of the flower of England’s youth. 

There was so much to take in, but the most poignant part for me was to see the inscriptions that were written on almost all of the graves- quotes or last messages from the family of the deceased. Of the 4,116 English, Scottish, and Canadian soldiers buried there, there is not much we know, who they were, what were they like, etc. But what we do know is this, what is written on their epitaphs tells us a story that is one of the greatest and most powerful stories that has ever been told: A loving son, a brother, or husband did his duty for God and country and willingly sacrificed his life for the lives of his loved ones and future generations. 


"He asked life of thee, and thou gavest it him.Even length of days for ever and ever." Lt. Patrick Shaw, age 22, Royal Armored Corps.

“Greater love,” says the Bible, “hath no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friends.” This was the text for many a gravestone. I wish that I could write an article on each epitaph, and the meaning and essence of what they communicate to future generations like you and me. But alas for time. Instead, I have included below some of the epitaphs that most struck me. Some are elaborate, others more plain, but they each communicate a message; of bravery and courage, of love and heartbreak, sometimes very personal. 

Signalman P.H. Ellis’s grave spoke of a loving mother: “My Only Child, he gave his all. Till We Meet Again -Mother.” Somewhere in England, the mother of P.H. Ellis lived out her life without  grandchildren to renew her youth because her son “gave his all.”

For Private S. Coles of the Royal Army Medical Corps it was a a duty well done: “He died his country to defend, A British soldier’s noble end.”  

The wife of A. Fishwick, Royal Engineer, would always remember her husband as one who:  “Gave his heart to home, His soul to God. Fought for King and country wife and baby.” 

"I've anchored my soul in the haven of rest, in Jesus I'm safe evermore." W. A. Hill, age 22, the Green Howards

Many Englishmen were still remembering the futile losses of the first World War; thought to be the “war to end all wars.” But it was not; and it is very probable that the suffering and the bloodshed was in the forefront of the minds of those who inscribed “He made his sacrifice for us. Grant it is not in Vain” on the grave of Royal Dragoon R.J. Colley after his death. 

A very beautiful one that can ring true to the heart of every Englishman was Royal Marine, J.R. Rigby’s: “There’s some corner of a foreign land that is forever England.”

As a lasting memory to Lieutenant T.W.R. Healy of the RAF, it was chosen to have this inscription written on his grave: “I have fought a good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith.”  Would that all could say as his stone said, for truly he had. 

It would take a long time to properly go through and catalogue all the epitaphs which were written in that cemetery, but, certainly, one of the ones which moved me the most was the grave of Paul Abbott Baillon of the Royal Air Force who died November, 1940, age 26. His grave simply stated, “One of the few.” That one simple phrase communicated more about valour and heroism than a thousand words in the Telegraph or Wallstreet Journal could have. What do I mean by this, and what does it mean, “One of the few?”

Royal Air Force Pilot Officer Paul Abbott Baillon: "One of the few"

P.A Baillon: One of the few who had so gallantly defended England during her darkest hours when invasion seemed imminent, and the hope of a empire nearly gone. One of the few RAF pilots (544 to be exact) who gave their lives during the Battle of Britain. One of Churchill’s few. The few he spoke of when he would make the remark that would forever go down in the annals of history, “Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few.” Yes. P.A. Baillon RAF, was “one of the few.”

As I write this now, in retrospect, and remember the words I read on these markers, words of the courage of youth, the heartbreak of a wife, the love of a mother for an only son, and the duty of a soldier, this verse from the poet G.K.Chesterton keeps coming into mind. “They died to save their country and they only saved the world.” How true this statement is. They died to save their England. Our boys died to save America. And instead, they saved the world. What beauty in their sacrifice. What can we do to pay them back in some small way for the sacrifice they made? There  is nothing we can do to fully repay it, but we can try by remembering these men, the veterans of WWII. 

Along the top of the Bayeux Memorial frieze is this latin inscription: "We, once conquered by William, have now set free the Conqueror’s native land". It is a fitting epitaph.

How grateful I am for this little look into their lives and character as I read these epitaphs. Stop in a cemetery and take a look. 

English Graves

Were I that wandering citizen whose city is the world,
I would not weep for all that fell before the flags were furled;
I would not let one murmur mar the trumpets volleying forth
How God grew weary of the kings, and the cold hell in the north.
But we whose hearts are homing birds have heavier thoughts of home,
Though the great eagles burn with gold on Paris or on Rome,
Who stand beside our dead and stare, like seers at an eclipse,
At the riddle of the island tale and the twilight of the ships.

For these were simple men that loved with hands and feet and eyes,
Whose souls were humbled to the hills and narrowed to the skies,
The hundred little lands within one little land that lie,
Where Severn seeks the sunset isles or Sussex scales the sky.

And what is theirs, though banners blow on Warsaw risen again,
Or ancient laughter walks in gold through the vineyards of Lorraine,
Their dead are marked on English stones, their loves on English trees,
How little is the prize they win, how mean a coin for these—
How small a shrivelled laurel-leaf lies crumpled here and curled:
They died to save their country and they only saved the world.

G. K. Chesterton

Harrison Summers: "Sergeant York of World War II"

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Harrison C. Summers, 1st Battalion, 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment 

There are many stories recorded in the history books of daring and courageous deeds performed by the men of D-Day. Dick Winters of the 101st airborne, James Earl Rudder who led the boys of Pointe du Hoc, and the gallant Lord Lovat with his commandos, to name just a few. But one of my very favorite stories, is that of Sergeant Harrison C. Summers. 

Harrison Summers was born in the small town of Catawba, Marion Country, West Virginia, in July 12, 1918. Before the war he would work at the coal mine in the near-by town of Rivesville. On June 6th, 1944, he jumped into Normandy as part of 1st Battalion, 502nd PIR (101 Airborne). From there his story becomes so incredible that I will leave it to Stephen Ambrose to tell it in his book, D-Day: June 6, 1944: The Climactic Battle of World War II.

 Inland by about a kilometer from St-Martin-de-Varreville there was a group of buildings holding a German coastal-artillery barracks, known to the Americans from its map signification as WXYZ. Lt. Col. Patrick Cassidy, commanding the 1st Battalion of the 502nd, short of men and with a variety of missions to perform, sent Sgt. Harrison Summers of West Virginia with fifteen men to capture the barracks. That was not much of a force to rake on a full-strength German company, but it was all Cassidy could spare. 

A view of WXYZ Barracks  (photo cred: ww.cominteractif.com)

Summers set out immediately, not even taking the time to learn the names of the men he was leading, who were showing considerable reluctance to follow this unknown sergeant. Summers grabbed one man, Sgt. Leland Baker, and told him, "Go up to the top of this rise and watch in that direction and don't let anything come over that hill and get on my flank. Stay there until you're told to come back." Baker did as ordered.
    Summers then went to work, charging the first farmhouse, hoping his hodgepodge squad would follow. It did not, but he kicked in the door and sprayed the interior with his tommy gun. Four Germans fell dead, others ran out a back door to the next house. Summers, still alone, charged that house; again the Germans fled. His example inspired Pvt. William Burt to come out of the roadside ditch where the group was hiding, set up his light machine gun, and begin laying down a suppressing fire against the third barracks building. 
    Once more Summers dashed forward. The Germans were ready this time; they shot at him from loopholes but, what with Burt's machine-gun fire and Summers's zigzag running, failed to hit him. Summers kicked in the door and sprayed the interior, killing six Germans and driving the remainder out of the building. 
    Summers dropped to the ground, exhausted and in emotional shock. He rested for half an hour. His squad came up and replenished his ammunition supply. As he rose to go on, an unknown captain from the 101st, mis-dropped by miles, appeared at his side. "I'll go with you," said the captain. At that instant he was shot through the heart and Summers was again alone. He charged another building, killing six more Germans. The rest threw up their hands. Summers's squad was close behind; he turned the prisoners over to his men. 
    One of them, Pvt. John Camien from New York City, called out to Summers: "Why are you doing it?"
    "I can't tell you," Summers replied.
     "What about the others?" 
    "They don't seem to want to fight," said Summers, "and I can't make them. So I've got to finish it."
     "OK," said Camien. "I'm with you."
    Together, Summers and Camien moved from building to building, taking turns charging and giving covering fire. Burt meanwhile moved up with his machine gun. Between the three of them, they killed more Germans. 
    There were two buildings to go. Summers charged the first and kicked the door open, to see the most improbable sight. Fifteen German artillerymen were seated at mess tables eating breakfast. Summers never paused; he shot them down at the tables. 
    The last building was the largest. Beside it was a shed and a haystack. Burt used tracer bullets to set them ablaze. The shed was used by the Germans for ammunition storage; it quickly exploded, driving thirty Germans out into the open, where Summers, Camien, and Burt shot some of them down as the others fled. 
    Another member of Summers's makeshift squad came up. He had a bazooka, which he used to set the roof of the last building on fire. The Germans on the ground floor were filing a steady fusillade from loopholes in the trails, but as the flames began to build they dashed out. Many died in the open. Thirty-one others emerged with raised hands to offer their surrender. 
    Summers collapsed, exhausted by his nearly five hours of combat. He lit a cigarette. One of the men asked him, "How do you feel?" 
    "Not very good." Summers answered. "It was all kind of crazy. I'm sure I'll never do anything like that again.”
    Summers got a battlefield commission and a Distinguished Service Cross. He was put in for the Medal of Honor, but the paperwork got lost. In the late 1980s, after Summers's death from cancer, Pry. Baker and others made an effort to get the medal awarded posthumously, without success. Summers is a legend with American paratroopers nonetheless, the Sergeant York of World War II. His story has too much John Wayne/Hollywood in it to be believed, except that more than ten men saw and reported his exploits. (pp 297-99)

First Battalion, 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment in 1944. "Somewhere in England

After D-Day, Summers went on to fight at Operation Market Garden in Holland, where he was wounded and received a purple heart. But it doesn't even end there. This hero of D-Day was sent back into action and was wounded again in Bastogne, receiving another purple heart. 

Following the end of the war, Summers returned to work in the coal mines of West Virginia and lived out his life there until he died of lung cancer in 1983. Though he was described as "a laughing boy in uniform", and a “tiger in combat," when he went home, he kept many of his experiences to himself. Despite never officially being recognized by the U.S. government for his valorous acts of courage and daring, his story is one which really ranks high in my books as one of dauntless audacity. He did not have time to be dismayed when all around failed to do their duty. Instead, taking it upon himself to complete the mission, alone, if needed, he made a name for himself that will be remembered for a long time to come. 

“My name was A15-049”

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Rose Williams, at the age of 17. This passport photograph was taken shortly after her liberation.

Today I sat in a small room with a few of my siblings and listened to the story of a woman who had lived through the horrors of the Holocaust in the Nazi concentration camps.  Rose Williams was a 12 year old Polish girl when the World War II began in 1939. After the Nazis invaded Poland, the fingers of Naziism began to close around the throats of the Jews, beginning with subtleties and moving into unimaginable cruelties. This is where Rose found herself with her brother, sister, mother, father, and grandmother. 

Every week the phrase: "The Jews are our misfortune!" would appear at the bottom of the newspapers.

One evening, a German soldier came to their home and ordered them to be out of their house within the hour. Next door was a very kind Gentile family who offered to take the three children into their home and hide them. But from the oldest down to the youngest not one would choose to be separated from their family members. “What will happen to one, will happen to all.” Thus the whole family was transported to a ghetto where they stayed for some time working for and being beaten by the hands of the Germans. 

Once, they waited anxiously for her father to return from his work. When he finally came, he was quite bloody all over his face. “What has happened to you?” they cried. He explained that he had asked a German soldier for a rag to continue his work with; the soldier, wrenching his beard from his chin, replied, “Here is the best rag!” 

Rose was walking outside one afternoon with her grandmother when they saw German soldiers separating babies from their mothers and throwing them on the sidewalk. One woman who refused to release her child was shot and the baby was hurled to the ground beside many others. Rose’s grandmother ran toward the spot were the babies lay, but Rose, grabbing her grandmother by the hand, cried, “What are you doing?” Her grandmother replied, “I am going to go save some of those babies.” A German soldier seeing the commotion ran to them, asking what was going on.  “Oh nothing, Sir, nothing,” she said, trying to pull her grandmother back. Refusing, her grandmother ran forward to help some of the little lives. As she did, she was beaten down by the soldier and shot. “It has taken me years to black out the memory of my grandmother’s dead body lying there being trampled with no one to bury her.”

Eventually, the family was able to acquire two passes to get work outside the ghetto, which, even though holding many horrors of it’s own, was a better place to work. Rose and her sister found jobs in two different factories. The factory Rose worked in, being a munitions factory, contained a great deal of alcohol. Rose along with many other workers smuggled the alcohol which was very valuable to the starving families.

Various versions of the Star of David that was required to be worn by all Jews.

Then it happened. They were all piled into a train. Two buckets were thrown in to serve as toilets for the hundreds of people packed in the car. Anyone attempting to bend down and relieve themselves would not be able to stand up again. Because of the compactness of the car, they would be crushed or suffocated by the masses. Many died even before the train reached Auschwitz, their destination. 

Upon arriving at Auschwitz, they were forced into lines where the notorious Dr. Josef Mengele, known as the “Angel of Death,” looked them over and decided whether they would go to the left or to the right, to immediate death in the gas chambers, or to temporary life in the work camps. The prisoners would be assembled and reevaluated from time to time.

An SS doctor decides who will live and who will die.

All Rose had when she had first stumbled off the train was a pair of winter boots and a couple of photographs of her family.  Even though she had so little, she had still been ordered to leave everything behind! Her warm boots were exchanged for some “dreadful” wooden hollander clogs. They froze when it was cold and got stuck when it was muddy. She decided that she could bear them no longer and threw them away. Her feet became ulcerated and unbearably painful.  All alone in a brutal concentration camp, she thought life was no longer worth living.  

Dr. Josef Mengele (middle) the "Angel of Death".

The next time Rose was in the line where life or death was being determined for so many, Dr. Mengele sent her to the right. She begged him to let her go to the death line instead. “He didn’t look at my sore legs or feet. He just looked at my face and said, ‘You are young yet,’ and pushed me to the other line.” In that unusual way, God used the famous “Angel Of Death”  to keep her life from death!

Not long after her life was spared, Rose found out that her little sister was one camp site away. She was able to find someone to switch places with, from her camp, to her sister’s. After being reunited, they both swore that they would never allow anything to separate them again.

In four years, she was kept in four different prison camps. Most of her time was spent carrying stones from one side of the camp to another, and then back for no purpose or reason except that she was ordered to by her captors. 

At last, that longed for, hoped for, awaited, day came in 1945:  “wolności,” freedom, liberty, liberation! The liberators arrived! They gave care packages and chocolate to the the starving people.  When Rose was released from the camp at 17 years of age, she weighed 87 pounds. She was sent to a hospital and had to stay there for two years until she weighed 100 pounds. To their delight, Rose and her sister found out that her brother had survived the camps, as well, and was still alive! 

In 1946, they all tried to get visas to be able to immigrate to the United States, but after finding out that her brother had tuberculosis, Customs would not allow him in. So Rose and her sister moved to what was viewed as the modern “Promised Land,” America. Her brother moved to the old Promised Land, Israel, and became a man of note there. Rose married, becoming Mrs. Rose Williams. She had children and grandchildren passing down to them an incredible legacy. Since 1945, she has traveled to Israel seven times. It’s amazing that God preserved her life through these tragic experiences! 

Mrs. Rose Sherman Williams 

I have been told many times how my grandfather, as a little boy, would look out his window and see a little blonde haired Jewish girl whose parents had been killed in one of these death camps. He wondered what her name was and what her story was. Who knows, maybe this woman, Rose Williams, whom I met today, knew the little blonde haired girl’s parents. As a little boy, my dad saw that some of our relatives had numbers tattooed on their arms. When he asked about them, he was told that they got them in the concentration camps. These stories of the Jews during the Holocaust are very personal to me because this is part of my family history. In truth, this all happened in a land not very long ago, and not very far away.

"Oh, When The 'Tanks' Come Marching In!"

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In 1917, General George S. Patton said, “I feel sure that tanks in some form will play a part in all future wars.” With that statement, the history of modern cavalry of the 20th and 21st century was ushered in. For me, tank warfare is an incredibly fascinating subject. I don’t pretend to know a single thing about their technicalities, but tank combats such as the Battle of Cambrai (1917) and Operation Goodwood (1944) do not fail to captivate me.

These monsters are so huge and so full of power that one cannot but be overwhelmed by their tremendous strength. The sheer magnitude of how the beast of the machine moves is behemoth-like. Standing next to these mighty giants, I was really able to understand the strength they wielded. You could hear them releasing noises that could be termed purring, but would be more accurately described as growling. 

The treads are enormous and would crush you if you even thought about coming near it;  and that is not even getting into their firing powers. Let me just say, standing next to a tank with its engine running, ready to move, is nothing like looking at a tank that is on display. There can be no comparison.

For almost any little boy out there, or little girl who enjoys little boy things like tanks and jeeps too, the moment a tank enters the scene, the affect is similar to that which Mr. Toad of Wind in the Willows experiences when he sees a red motor car. The eyes go round in circles, the heart starts pumping, and the phrase ‘It was big, it was red, it was be-autiful..." comes to mind. Only these tanks were far more massive and an ominous olive green.

I'm sure there were many little boys who felt the same on June 6, 1944, as tank after tank rolled into the town square following the liberation of St. Marie du Mont by the 101st Airborne that morning. After years of hard oppression under the Nazi regime, when at any moment, father, brother, mother or sister might be taken out and brutally murdered, rescue had finally come! Not just rescue, but liberation by the "angels" of the air, and the "behemoths" of the ground! 

On June 6, 2014, 70 years later to the day, the tanks came rolling in again. With the grandchildren of those who had been liberated, with the veterans who had come to liberate, and with those who had come to honor, hundreds and thousands of people stood cheering, laughing, waving, and clapping. The behemoths were back!

They kept coming and coming and coming. I lost count there were so many. They would each in turn slowly roll up, pause for a few moments, and then move ahead, making room for the next. They were massive, they were loud, and like all the others, I couldn't take my eyes off them.

It was the closest thing I think I could ever get to being there on liberation day. 

Louis Zamperini: A Life Unbroken

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Louis Silvie "Louie" Zamperini January 26, 1917 – July 2, 2014

This morning I was shocked to read of the death of Mr. Louis Zamperini. You see, in God’s amazing providential timing, I just finished reading the biography on his life Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand last week, and not a day has gone by that I have not thought about his story. 

The story of his life is one I will never forget. After spending his mischievous childhood and youth stealing and getting chased by police, Zamperini eventually channelled his energy into running. Soon he was setting records and ended up in the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, Germany.    

Louie, fondly known by his friends and town as the "Torrance Tornado".

Then came World War II.  Zamperini served as a bombardier in the Pacific on a B-24 aircraft. After multiple noteworthy bombing raids, in 1943, he crashed in the ocean while on a rescue mission. He survived 46 days in a little raft subsisting on shockingly little to eat and drink. His only companions were the pilot and one crewman who later died, not to mention the ever present sharks that circled the raft. Finally on day 47, the last survivors of the plane crash, Russell Allen Phillips and Louis Zamperini, arrived at the Marshall Islands and were quickly captured by the Japanese. Already in very bad health after almost 7 weeks on a raft, Zamperini weighed in at a pitiful 79 pounds, less than half his original body weight. He and his pilot were taken to various prison camps where they endured experimentation and incessant beatings. One man in particular, whom the prisoners nicknamed “The Bird,” found it his mission to torment and beat the Olympic athlete constantly. The torture inflicted by this sadistic corporal shaped his life for years afterward. 

Finally in 1945, when the war ended, his trials as a prisoner of war were over. Louis Zamperini returned home and was hugged and kissed by his family for the first time in close to three years. 

Louie, reunited with his family after years of separation, is warmly embraced by his loving mother and father. 

To many his liberation from a life as a POW may seem like a happy conclusion to his story, but Zamperini still had years of darkness ahead of him. Like so many other war heroes, coming home was not as easy as it sounded. At first he seemed like his old self, but inside he was still at war. Night after night in his dreams,  “The Bird” beat him again and again. Night after night, Zamperini tried to strangle him to no avail. It seemed to him that his only escape from the man who still had grasp of him was to kill him. So it became his mission to return to Japan and finish off “The Bird.”

Louie with Billie Graham in the 50s. 

But then one day Louis Zamperini’s true liberation came. At a Billy Graham revival in Los Angeles, he remembered a promise he made on the raft years before. He had told God that if God got him out alive that he would serve Him for the rest of his life. Zamperini was physically liberated years before when the war ended, but his real freedom came when the gave his life to Jesus Christ. He went home that night, poured out his bottles of alcohol which had become his nightly companion to drown his memories, went to bed, and never dreamed of “The Bird” again.

Many years later, Louie would return to Japan and meet with the men who had tortured him during the war.

To me, that is a true success story. Freed from drunkenness, freed from his flashbacks and nightmares, freed from hatred for his enemies, Zamperini returned to Japan in the early 1950s. He went to Sugamo Prison where Japanese war criminals were held. He found his previous captors and persecutors and told them he forgave them for all they had done to him. While he never had face to face closure with “The Bird,” Zamperini was at peace. 

What I have just given you is a very, very rough sketch of the life of such an extraordinary man. I would really like to encourage all of you to read the biography on his life. It is one you cannot possibly read with out coming away impacted! I for one have been heavily reminded of the power of God’s saving grace and the freedom it brings to those who have endured some of life’s hardest trials. Mr. Zamperini could have lived out the rest of his life in misery like so many others, but because of the beautiful work of Christ in his heart, he lived out a full life of 97 years and used his story to impact the lives of countless others. 

Monsieur Renaud's Dedication of the Allied Airborne Monument

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Over the course of the 70th anniversary of DDay in Normandy, my sisters and brothers and I were able to participate in many ceremonies honoring the men of D'Day. None left such an impact on us as the unveiling of the Allied Airborne Monument in St. Mere Eglise. 

The Monument to the Allied Airborne which liberated the town of St. Mere Eglise on June 6th, 1944.

The massive granite monument itself is quite striking. I was nearly moved to tears looking at the sheer number of killed and wounded. But it was the dedication that had the most powerful affect. Given by Monsieur Maurice Renaud, President of the AVA (Friends of American Veterans), it was in its entirety a most comprehensive expression of gratitude as he spoke for all of the people of St. Mere Eglise. Indeed, Monsieur Renaud's words even reckoned back to the speech President Ronald Reagan gave at Pointe du Hoc on the 40th anniversary of DDay, paying special attention to the importance of the soldiers' sacrifice. 

photo credit: http://www.avanormandie.org

Monsieur Renaud said, “We chose to engrave the numbers of their casualties on on this monument because it illustrates the amount of courage and sacrifice of these elite soldiers. This monument is more than a slab of granite etched with military insignias and the numbers of killed and wounded soldiers. It is the reaffirmation of a promise. That promise is simple. NEVER FORGET. Never is a big word. It is infinite. In so being , it is also eternal, like the Airborne spirit.”

Monsieur Maurice Renaud (right). Photo credit: http://www.avanormandie.org

Monsieur Renaud's passion and gratitude is better understood in the context of his family. He comes from a legacy of honor and service, demonstrated by and passed on to him by his parents. 

Madame Simone Renaud "Mother of Normandie".

His mother, Madame Simone Renaud, is known at the "The Mother of Normandy." She made it her mission to identity and care for the graves of the fallen America soldiers. A documentary film was made about her life, and she is deeply loved by thousands of American mothers, daughters, wives, and sweethearts. 

Monsieur Alexandre Renaud, Mayor of St. Mere Eglise (centre left)

His father, Monsieur Alexandre Renaud was the Mayor of St. Mere Eglise at the time of the invasion. Following the liberation of St. Mere Eglise by the paratroopers, he wrote a letter to General Charles de Gaulle speaking of the bravery of the Americans and asking, “If it would be possible to solicit General de Gaulle, who knows what bravery means, to give to these brave soldiers, who first of all, defeated the Germans on French soil, the Citation which gives them the right to wear on their uniform the French Fourragere. I believe that their sacrifice will feel lighter to them if they get the right to put on their regiment flag this sign of the French gratitude. In their coming battles, these paratroopers will fight with even more bravery with pride to be the airborne troops which France distinguished as: 'Bravest among the Brave.'”

During the ceremony, the square was packed with thousands of people, all there to honor the Allied Paratroopers.

As he concluded his dedication, Monsieur Renaud spoke a few words which perfectly summed up the entire purpose of our family's trip: “A day will soon come when no one who fought in the battle of Normandy will be among us. At some point after that, no one who has even a personal connection to the Liberation will be here to speak as a firsthand witness. Today, we immortalize the bravest of the brave; The Paratroopers, who paid for our freedom, our future, with their lives; seventy years ago. As the monument says: ‘They gave all of their tomorrows so we could have our today.'"

Please click through these links below and read M. Renaud's entire dedication speech as well as the letter his father sent General Charles de Gaulle. They are well worth your time. 

http://www.avanormandie.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Discours-Anglais.pdf

http://jumpcommander.com/airborne/?p=131

Mr. Ernie Covil by Faith Phillips

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Ernie Covill (center) of the Royal Army Service Corps

We met so many delightful veterans during the 70th anniversary of DDay in Normandy. One gentleman in particular was Mr. Ernie Covill of the Royal Army Service Corps. Three years ago, Mr. Covill had come to our “A Final Farewell", and he remembered our family!

Faith gets Mr. Covill to sign her book.

I talked to him by the monument at Utah Beach for a good bit, and he kept emphasizing how pleased he was to see us and how “lovely” the event three years ago had been. He even said that he had been thinking about us the day before on the ferry over to Normandy, hoping to see us again. I was so pleased that he would remember us after such a long time! 

A few of the English veterans who came to pay respects to the American soldiers of Omaha Beach.

Three years ago, there were thirty veterans in his group. He told me that now there are only six left, and that he was grateful for the ability to come back for another year. It was providential that we saw him that day, as we had been planning to leave the beach for a while. And it was such an encouragement to me to see that our event three years ago had been such a blessing to him!

Ernie Covill and Peter Scott. Two friends from the 67th anniversary. We were so pleased to see them again!