James "Jim" Skinner 1922-2015

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In March of 2015 I (Liberty) traveled to the Island of Iwo Jima for the 70th anniversary of the battle with a wonderful group of veterans including veteran James "Jim" Skinner. For one week I had the privilege of talking with him every day and hearing his wonderful stories from his childhood to his triathlons at 90 years of age. One morning we sat down and he showed me pictures from his wartime scrapbook. Pictures of his buddies during the war, girlfriends, training, military life, etc. As we walked through these pictures, he told me stories of hand to hand combat with the Japanese on the Islands of Bougainville, Guam, and Iwo Jima, and showed me a photo taken moments before he killed for the very first time. He spoke frankly to me of the roughness and brutality of his war; a war in which many of his experiences caused him to hold bitterness toward the Japanese 70 years later. 

Mr. Skinner (center) on his way back to the beaches where he landed, 70 years ago.

Last week I received the painful news that Mr. Skinner passed away on May 24th, 2 months after our trip, and just two days after his 93rd birthday. It was a privilege to have spent that brief time on Iwo Jima with him.

A few days before our March trip to the island, our group learned that we were to meet one of the last surviving Japanese soldiers from the Battle of Iwo Jima, Tsuruji Akikusa. A pervading theme of this "Reunion of Honor" was forgiveness. After listening to the words of our trip leader, Lt. Gen. Snowden, Mr. Skinner resolved to put aside his bitterness to the Japanese and shake hands with Mr. Akikusa. Afterward, I asked him how he felt meeting his former enemy. He told me that he felt great peace in his heart to have reconciliation and forgiveness with a former enemy before he died. He had been bitter towards them for 70 years, and it was time to let go. For me to see this complete change in him over the course of a few days was one of the most beautiful signs of redemption and forgiveness I have ever witnessed. 

Mr. Skinner and Mr. Akikusa. Once enemies, now friends.

Boy of Utah Beach: Lee B. Cason

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"I'll hold the rose over my mouth to cover my missing teeth!"

There once was a boy. He grew up and went to war. He didn’t know much about the world outside where he lived, but he went to war to protect his homeland. He trained hard to be a soldier, and one day he boarded a ship, crossed the English Channel, and landed on a beach code named Utah. It was June 6, 1944, D-Day. Weighed down by equipment, the soldier struggled to shore; bullets and machine gun fire striking everywhere. Within moments, war had become a reality. Continuing to fight on through the French countryside, he triumphantly marched into Paris, then up through Belgium and the Battle of the Bulge, finally Germany and home, carrying with him two purple hearts. He had started out the war as a boy, and finished as a man and a soldier. 

This is the story of hundreds of thousands of American boys who landed on D-Day. They differ accordingly: some from the countryside, some from the packed city; first generation Americans or those whose family had been firmly planted in the soil since the landing of the Pilgrims in 1620. Some of these stories finish on the beaches of Normandy, while others have still not been completed. But today, this is the story of Lee B. Cason.

Like so many other boys who had grown up in the Depression, Mr. Cason joined the army at 18 to protect his country from the tyranny that was threatening all of western civilization. He believed it was a duty not to be questioned and was fiercely patriotic. Many times he told us his service during WWII was one of the greatest honors of his life. 

After training state-side, he was shipped overseas to England with the 4th Infantry Division. Training was brutal, but imperative to the success of the war. One evening while on ship off the coast of England, Mr. Cason was asleep in his bunk awaiting orders. He was awakened by a large thump to the side of his ship and heard a terrible grating. There was an initial alarm, but soon things became quiet again. Getting back to camp the next day, he was sworn to complete secrecy. It was only years later that he learned how close he nearly came to being one of the many casualties of the infamous Exercise Tiger on Slapton Sands. When I first asked him about this, for a brief moment, his face was crossed with the deepest sadness. He may not have known the names of all the lads that perished that day, but he had trained with them, and they were all his buddies; and their war never even started. 

Then came D-Day. As Mr. Cason climbed from his ship into the landing craft that would take him to that fated shore, a man grasped his arm and helped him over with, “Good luck, son.” The guy next to him said, “Do you know who that was?” Disinterestedly, Mr. Cason said no. “That was General Theodore Roosevelt!” 

As the beach drew closer, the small craft began to be riddled with bullets. It was a frightening moment. And then the ramp went down. 

A few months ago, I received a letter from Mr. Cason which included the cover of a book. The picture on the cover was of a landing craft on D-Day.

Marked in red ink was an X in the centre. On the back of the cover, Mr. Cason had written:

"Liberty, my position was on the front of the landing craft (where someone is standing). This was not the landing craft I was on, but this is what it looks like. There was/is a ramp chain (out of sight) that part of my right boot caught and almost cost me my life. It eventually broke with tremendous effort. We were weighed down with about 80 lbs of equipment (40 lb mortar piece, ammunition belts (2), 4 8lb mortar rounds) and weighed down, of course, with water up to my chest (also a steel helmet and combat boots that were water-logged). "

After finally disengaging himself from the dangerous chain, he slogged forward to the beach. In one of the ludicrous moments that happens during times of intense pressure, Mr. Cason yelled out, “A guy could get killed out here!” It was an absurd statement, but as he explained to us, “In training they used real bullets, but never with the intention to harm. Suddenly, people were trying to kill us, and it was the first thing that popped into my head.”

The weather was terrible,” he wrote, “as you probably know. BUT I made it though and now for combat on the beach and beyond. Whoopee? Not really! The whoopee part."

Mr. Cason’s war continued: fighting the Germans, battling the cold, liberating a Nazi concentration camp. There were moments of great sadness -- when he returned from hospital to find his best friend killed; and moments of great joy and happiness -- when Victory in Europe was declared. He was eventually sent home and took with him many medals including 2 Bronze stars, 2 Purple Hearts, and the ETO Campaign medal with 5 battle stars. He remained on active duty in the army for 22 years and was proud of his service to his country. However, with all his medals and glory, there was one deed in his life which he considered “the most compassionate thing I ever did in my life.” 

“I lost my best friend during WWII. He was killed in action on or about July 10, 1944, in Normandy, France. I was in the hospital in England at the time and didn’t know he died until I rejoined my unit... He had a daughter, Sue... She was about 3 years old when her father, Raymond, was drafted in the army and she never saw him again. For 60 long years, Sue tried to find out what happened to him or if anyone knew him. I responded to a notice in an army (military) magazine that had her name... and called her right away. When she answered the phone, I told her who I was and that I was a good friend of her dad. I identified his physical features such as height, weight, color of hair, and a slight gap between his two front teeth. She let out a yell and told her granddaughter, who was nearby, that there is someone on the phone who knew him. After 60 long years she finally found someone who knew him. Liberty, I am telling you this because from the bottom of my heart it was (still is) one of the most compassionate things I ever did in my life.”

My family and a very close friend met Mr. Cason last fall and just fell in love with this dear man. He delighted everyone with his harmonica playing (simply the best), and he told us stories of his war which were unlike any we had heard in description, detail, and even sound effect. A few weeks ago, my family and I were very heavy hearted to learn that this dear and precious man had passed into eternity. It came somewhat as a surprise to us, for no matter how frail he was, the life and vitality in him seemed unbounded. The friendship my family and my dear friend had with Mr. Cason could be considered somewhat unusual as we met him but once, and after that our only communication was through letters. But it was a beautiful friendship that sprung out of an unlikely conversation on a blustery day.

The history that Mr. Cason held from his experiences was rich. It is terribly sad to realize that now we have only memories and the letters he left behind. Sometimes people ask us why we want to do what we do. Even the dear veterans ask. The answer is really summed up in the life story of Mr. Cason, a life so full and rich, committed to county, replete with duty and sacrifice, that we feel an obligation to know and tell his story. He worried that the young people today would not know what men like him went through. It troubled him that many “high school kids have never heard of D-Day or the Battle of the Bulge.” 

And there are so many more men like Mr. Cason out there. Lives full and rich, but whose stories will never be told because they are living out their last years quietly at home or in care facilities. We want to make sure that men like him are not forgotten. Their stories are so important for us to hear and remember. Not just for the stories’ sake, but because from them we learn more than we could ever learn from any textbook. There is a quote regarding this that I have read hundreds of times:

"The march of Providence is so slow, and our desires so impatient; the work of progress is so immense and our means of aiding it so feeble; the life of humanity is so long, that of the individual so brief, that we often see only the ebb of the advancing wave and are thus discouraged. It is history that teaches us to hope." - General Robert E. Lee

I began by telling the story of one of thousands of American boys who landed in Normandy in June, 1944. One of thousands. It is easy to forget when reading history books that the massive numbers recorded are made up of individual human beings; each with a unique story, an entire life and soul. But it is true. And that day on Utah Beach, Mr. Cason was just one of the thousands, without a name as far as the Commander in Chief knew. But to us, he is now an individual with a story, representing all the other boys of Utah Beach and what they endured. His story and his life will never be forgotten. 

A Couple Thoughts on Memorial Day

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There are so many thoughts I have on Memorial Day: Of noble lives that never lived past their 21st birthday; of beautiful lives that have recently passed on to eternity, of the few who still remain; and of the memories that will be left when all are gone. I didn't used to think of Memorial Day, a day of remembrance, like that - partly because I was too little and partly because I just didn't understand. The truth is that we will never understand, but we can grasp at parts, bits, and pieces. My realization came a couple of years with the last WWI veteran, Frank Buckles. I had written a letter and was planning to meet him, if possible, but it was too late. Mr. Buckles passed away just a little after his 110th birthday, and just before I sent me letter. 

A few months ago, my family and I visited the National Museum of the Pacific in Fredericksburg. It must have been 10 years since we had last been there, and we were enjoying seeing the expanded exhibits.  While walking through the section on the Battle of Okinawa, I pressed a button for short oral histories, not knowing what to expect, and what I heard was deeply stirring to me.

Burt Cooper had been a medic during the Battle of Okinawa. One day he was taking care of a young Marine. The boy didn't have long to live, and both knew it. So, distraught, he said to Cooper, "I'm an orphan. I don't have any brothers or sisters. When I die, who will there be to remember me? Who will know what I did?" Cooper told him, "Don't worry. I will remember you."

Across the aisle from the boy lay a Gunnery Sergeant, a "big ugly Marine who everybody loved." When Cooper came over to him, the Marine said, "Doc, who will remember me when I die. No one knows be back home. Who will remember me?" Again Cooper  said, "Don't worry. I will remember you." Within a day or so, both the orphan and the ugly Marine died. Cooper finished his oral history, "Ever since then, not a day has passed that I have not thought of the orphan or the GySgt. And if I don't remember during the day, I think of them when I lie in bed at night." Thanks to Burt Cooper, those two brave Marines will never be forgotten.

My dad wrote something for Memorial Day that was so perfect and beautifully written that I had to include it here.

“The Twilight Men: For some years now our family has lived in a world of twilight men - the sun is setting for all of them. They know this. That is why many of them are spending some of their last moments saying goodbye to friends they left behind more than seventy years ago. The names of those friends are etched in the stones before them. To the hundreds of thousands that look on these stones each year, those names are impersonal reminders of a battle that took place long ago. But to the twilight men, the sight of the etchings produce images in their minds of boys who were flesh and blood - souls of inestimable value. They can see their faces and hear their voices and feel once again a brotherhood shared in the midst of world changing events.

This is what is on the mind of these twilight men before it is their turn to leave. These memories are more fresh than yesterday’s news. For so many long years they have remained silent. Because who could possibly understand their feelings, joys, hardships, and bonds they experienced with those left behind? They are too personal. Too sacred. But in their dreams the twilight men are eighteen year-old boys again walking with their brothers on distant shores. Theirs is the kind of steely brotherhood only forged in the furnace of warfare. And those of us who are privileged to walk among them one last time, look for moments to capture glimpses of those memories, feelings, and experiences. We feel an urgency to do so before the sun sets and to communicate to others the value of lives well spent.”

Never forget. Never stop remembering. When you look to the future and plan what the next 10, 15, 20 years will be for you, remember this: that someone had to give up his future so you can live yours.  This is a noble thing, and should not be forgotten.

70th Anniversary V-E Day in D.C.

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Two week ago, we made a last minute trip up to the D.C. area to visit family and participate in the 70th anniversary V-E Day celebrations at the National World War Two Memorial. Last September was our first visit to the memorial, and ever since then we have been itching to get back. It was a fabulous week starting with a memorial service emceed by one of our favorite authors, Alex Kershaw, a fly over of some of the best WWII aircraft, hundreds of veterans, thousands of spectators, blistering heat, sore feet, melting lipstick, and happy hearts. (beware: lots of pictures below!)

After the celebrations on the 8th, the party continued out at the Udvar Hazy Center (National Air and Space Museum) where there was a living history camp with numerous jeeps and tents, a fly-in of a few of the planes from the previous day, live music performed by the superb United States Air Force Band, and, topping it off, we got to see our friends from DFW Honor Flight two days in a row. 

Over the following days, we had the best time greeting Honor Flights from South Carolina, Illinois, Arizona, and Puget Sound. We met a couple of these Honor Flights last year, so it was great to see some of their amazing staff again and meet their new veterans. Living down at the bottom of Texas, this is a wonderful opportunity to meet folks from so many different states. Each brings a unique element from their hometown, with lots of memories and stories to share. It is really remarkable the affect the WWII Memorial has on some of these dear folks. Seeing the wall of stars or the name of a battle they were a part of, written in stone, recalls to mind many dusty memories.

One of the veterans made a comment to us that we mentioned elsewhere but is well worth repeating. We were standing in front of the wall of gold stars (each representing 100 men and equaling a total of 4,048 gold stars), and, as we talked, he sort of turned and looked at the wall and said thoughtfully, “There is a star on that wall that was supposed to be for me. But it is for my friend instead. He took my place.” The remark was brief, and he soon moved on to another topic, but later on, when we asked him about it he said, “I don’t like to talk about the war... It was in the middle of a fight, and I moved over and my buddy was hit by a grenade right where I had been.” The brevity of his comment made it all the more impactful. In just a few words he communicated a tremendous depth of feeling such that anything more might have been too much.

It was a lovely and memorable week for us and the veterans up there. The Honor Flight staff and the wonderful people who volunteer their time at the Memorial greeting Honor Flights with smiles, hugs, motorcycles, and dancing add so much to the experience, and the veterans go home with pleasant memories of their trip to D.C. 

My Grandfather: Howard Phillips

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Two years ago tomorrow, my grandfather, Howard J. Phillips, was laid to rest at the age of 72. I only knew him for 16 of those 72 years, but, short though the time was, I knew him as one of the very greatest men I will ever meet. He ran for president three times, was a learned visionary; he feared God, and was principled to the core. This latter trait was very evident in my grandfather's life, and often frustrated others because they could not make him compromise "for the greater good."

“Even among stalwart conservatives, Mr. Phillips was known for being especially devoted to the ideological principles of the right, including limited government, traditional family values, strong national defense and opposition to abortion.”
— The New York Times

My dad tells us a story about how one day when he was traveling with my grandfather, a man came up to him and said, "Howard Phillips, I don't like your politics at all, but you are a principled man, and I respect you for that." This is one of the greatest compliments a man can be given, especially in a world where the motto is "the end justifies the means." There is no doubt my grandfather could have been much more successful in the political world had he given way to the small compromises that are demanded. But no, that was not Howard Phillips. He knew the end does not justify the means, and that sticking to what you believe, no matter the cost, is better than losing your soul for a brief moment of political fame.  This simple truth, so hard to carry out, brought him great respect from his opponents, and taught me an important life lesson I will never forget about duty and principle. On his gravestone are the words I find most appropriate: 

Howard J. Phillips 
Patriot

Though many people knew Howard Phillips as the political figure, I knew him as "Papa," my grandfather. I was definitely aware of his role in the political world, to be sure. In fact, I quite stood in awe of that fact and was proud to tell everyone about it! But there was a part of my grandfather that was not news headlines or politics. This was as our Papa, master of Scrabble and Camelot (two board games of strategy, and if you managed to beat him at either, you had just entered the hall of fame). There was Papa, supreme chef of our favorite breakfast dish, fried matzo. When we visited, this was our first question: "When are you making matzo for breakfast?" Followed by, "When can you read. . .?" Though it may sound like a normal request, Papa did not just read a book. He made the book come alive in every aspect, with perfectly created accents and voice inflections. He could read the same story over and over again, but it would be new and hilarious every time. There were many stories as well, which he would tell from memory. These stories would alternate each time and some got scarier and scarier. One night, we were all huddled in the kitchen as he told a particularly frightening one, when suddenly the electricity went out, and we had to finish the story in darkness. Oh, that was chilling. Regardless of having heard the story a half dozen times before, it was enough to make everyone shiver and shudder! 

Papa was a great historian and read voraciously. He gave books as presents, instead of toys. People often ask us where our interest in history came from, and I always tell them, "Really, it came from my grandfather. He was passionate about the past, and gave this passion to my dad who passed it down to us." For years and years, he sent my dad several packages a week of newspaper clippings and articles of items he thought would be important for my dad to read. I loved going through these and trying to grasp the content of it all. Some of it was too complicated or in depth for me, but I always found something to broaden my horizons. His library was immense, and though there was probably a book on nearly every subject worth reading about, you could definitely tell where his particular interests lay as you examined the bookcases. 

There is really so much I could say about my grandfather on this day. It was a hard thing to see him go so soon, but I am so grateful for all that he did for his family and his country. 

Shortly before my grandfather was taken ill, I wrote him this letter. Regretfully, the letter was never sent, because I found it in my desk several months after he passed. But I wanted to include it here, in memory of him.

September 14, 2011

Dear Papa,                                         
Thank you so much for the silver coins you sent me for my birthday. I have been meaning for some time to write you and thank you. . . It is so meaningful to me that you think of us in such a way. It has definitely gotten me interested in the Gold/Silver market, and I have tried to take your example by investing in a little myself. I find it a very interesting subject, too.

I want to also thank you for the example and leadership you have set for Daddy, which he then passes on down to us. By your teaching Daddy a great love for history, that has been instilled in us, and I hope that we will pass it on to our children. The other day when I was at the office, I found an old pamphlet from when you were running for president. I read it through, and the most specific thing that popped out at me was when you said you would abolish the government schooling. When we were little we used to joke about doing that when "we were president," but to actually read it on a pamphlet for presidency was very thrilling, and reminded me how much you have done, and how grateful that I am your granddaughter (People still come up to us occasionally and say: "I just wanted to let you know that I vote for your grandfather every election."). I only hope and pray that I never take for granted that I have been placed in such a family, and that I am the daughter of Doug Phillips, and the granddaughter of Howard Phillips.

So, thank you again for the coins, and everything you have taught us. I wish that I could convey all of my gratitude to you.

With love, your granddaughter,
Liberty

Iwo Jima: 1945-2015

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Today is the 70th anniversary of the Battle of Iwo Jima, the bloodiest battle in Marine Corps history. What was supposed to be a 3 day in-and-out ended up being 35 days of brutal, intense fighting between the Japanese and American forces, culminating in over 26,000 American casualties. The cost was terribly high, but the capture of the island was crucial. If we could take the Island of Iwo Jima, we could use it as a staging point to get to mainland Japan. It would also provide a much needed landing base for American bombers and P51 mustangs on their missions to and from Japan. The battle was long and hard and bloody. From February 19 to March 26, the Marines moved slowly forward, taking ground bit by bit, but at tremendous expense. Years beforehand, the Japanese had built miles of caves and tunnels underneath the ground, laid mines, prepared bunkers and pillboxes for the ultimate defense of the island. The Marines quickly found out that the only way to get the Japanese out of these pillboxes was by flamethrower, a horrible, yet effective weapon. On February 23, 1945, five Marines and one Navy Corpsman raised the American flag on Mt. Suribachi. There was still a long way to go. It would be another month before Iwo Jima was taken, but the sight of Old Glory flying high and proud sent a message to every man on that island: We are here to stay. 

10 Years ago this next week. WWII veteran and Iwo Jima survivor Ivan Hammond with two of my brothers, Jubilee (left) and me. Photo credit: www.pbase.com. 

One of my first memories of meeting Iwo Jima veterans was 10 years ago this month. For the 60th anniversary, Fredericksburg, Texas held a grand reenactment of the battle and over 25,000 people turned out to watch it. It was simply packed. I was only about 8 years old at the time, and I didn't completely comprehend the significance of it all except that my father told me, "This is an historic moment. Pay attention to the people you meet and remember them. There will not be many opportunities like this again." So I did. Over the anniversary week, I followed my dad and two brothers around, lugging a gigantic yellow and white cassette player in a little pack I carried on my back. I brought along several blank cassettes, and for every veteran we met, I would turn that recorder on and listen for all I was worth. I don't remember the names of most the Marines I met that day, but I remember standing in awe at the stories they told us. One man in particular, I will never forget.  He had on a bright red coat with pins and medals, and a red hat with gold colored trim on it; somewhere on the hat were the words Iwo Jima. I listened to the stories he told my dad and brothers, and wondered at the bravery and sacrifice of such a man. To me, only a little girl of 8, he seemed to me the oldest man I'd ever met. As I look back now, I realize he would only have been in his late 70s, a mere spring chicken compared to the fellows of today; yet what he had done for this country was amazing to me. And I've never forgotten him. Every time someone brings up the Battle of Iwo Jima, I remember that man. At one time a brave young Marine ready to conquer the world,  then standing in a grassy little area in Fredericksburg, talking with my brothers and me, his hair was white and his hands a little shaky, but his voice was strong and a spirit of fearlessness was about him that was unconquerable. I will never forget him.

Photo credit: Patrick Johnston Times Record News

This last weekend, my sisters and I were able to attend one of the last Iwo Jima Reunions. For two days we visited and talked with veterans of this great and horrible battle. Marines, Navy Corpsmen, Air Force, and even a SeaBee all gathered together for one last time in Texas to remember and pay tribute to the comrades they left behind. It was a moving experience. They told us their stories looking at maps and replica newspaper clippings. Each man had played a different and unique role in the winning of Iwo Jima, but like all true heroes, they downplayed their own actions and declared the true heroes were the ones who never made it home.

Photo credit: Patrick Johnston Times Record News

The weekend was short, but sweet. In many ways it was an apropos conclusion to my first meeting of Iwo Jima veterans 10 years ago. 10 years from now I doubt there will be any Iwo Jima veterans still alive, none left to tell their own story. The Battle of Iwo Jima stands out as the bloodiest battle in the history of the Marine Corps. More Medals of Honor were given out during this battle than any other during the war; and it was the only time Marine casualties were more in number than the enemy. The level of courage required was high, but for the Americans fighting on Iwo Jima, "uncommon valor was a common virtue." It is only fitting that, on the 70th anniversary of this battle, where so many lives were lost, we stop for a brief moment, and remember those boys who endured and sacrificed so much for you and me.

"The Bonnet of an American Jeep"

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Ernie Covil 1.jpeg

My sister Faith recently received a letter from English veteran Ernie Covil whom we met while in Normandy three years ago (2011), and then again this past June (2014). Our delight at seeing Mr. Covil after three years was quite unbounded. After the trip, Faith wrote him and sent some of the pictures we had taken. The letter he wrote back was of such interest that we thought we would share some of it with you, as the timing of it is also perfect. 

As many of you may know, this past month has been the 70th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, one of the most significant battles of WWII. There were tremendously high casualty rates on both sides, but in the end, the Battle of the Bulge was a decisive benchmark for the Allies as the push to Berlin and winning the war. Here is an excerpt of Mr. Covil’s letter telling a little of his time during the months of December '44 through the beginning of '45.

About my time in the Army, I was called upon on April 1, 1943, age 18. After six weeks infantry training I was then moved into my new regiment as a Lorry Driver into the R. A. S. C. (Royal Army Service Corps). My job was to supply ammunition, food, petrol from the beach to the front line or wherever it was wanted. When Antwerp was taken and the port made workable, the ships were able to bring supplies in, we were moving them from there. That saved the long journey back to Normandy (the roads had been shelled, bombed and it was hard going). Working out of Antwerp, this made things better and carried on back to parts of France through Belgium, Holland, and Germany.

While in Belgium, I was sent to an American transport unit in the Ardennes. It was snowing and cold. I enjoyed my Christmas Dinner on the bonnet of an American Jeep. On leaving the American Unit I went back to the British lines, moving along through to Lubeck, Hanover, Hamburg, and nearly into Berlin. A few miles this side of Berlin, the British and American lines stopped and let the Russians take Berlin. On my way through we were very lucky; we only lost three men, which was nothing to what some units lost. But three is three, to many it is someone’s life gone.

I loved all 40's songs. My most loved one at the time was Vera Lynn’s, "We’ll Meet Again." Of the best bands - must be Glenn Miller. There was no band better to dance to, not even today. When the war finished in Germany I was then sent to Egypt [and] Palestine. From there I came home and was demoted (discharged) September 1947."

The history of the Battle of the Bulge and the siege of Antwerp are both fascinating. If you are interested in reading more about it, I would recommend Mr. Federer's article as a very good summary. 

2014 WWII Veterans Dinner

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At the beginning of this month, my sisters and I had one of the greatest privileges we have ever had. The occasion was a special commemorative WWII veterans’ dinner hosted by Operation Meatball and held at Dick’s Classic Garage in San Marcos, Texas. The setting was perfect.

To begin with, Mr. Dick Burdick, the Texas businessman who started the non profit museum and collected the vintage cars, is a WWII veteran himself. We were thrilled to have him and his wife join us! And the dinner tables were actually set right in the middle of some of the most beautiful vintage vehicles dating from 1929 through the 1950s, including a 1948 Tucker, a 1929 Duesenberg, and a 1931 Packard roadster. The veterans told us that being around all those cars, some from their childhood and young adult life, was a wonderful highlight of the evening. 

Our 15 World War II guests came with family and some with friends. Several veterans wore uniforms, many brought pictures of themselves as young soldiers at war. What a handsome bunch.

We had representatives from the Army, Navy, Marines, and Air Force (Air Corps), Privates to Colonels, who fought in every corner of the war. Several had served in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. One survived the Bataan Death March. One was a concentration camp liberator. One returned thirty years later to the island he had served on as a missionary. Each one had a priceless story. 

Over the course of the evening, Faith sang so many wonderful 1940s classics like “Meet Me in St. Louis,” “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,” “Begin the Beguine,” “Lili Marlene,” and “I’ll Be Seeing You,” among many others. A number of the men piped in and sang along to the delight of everyone!

Honor joined Faith singing “Don’t Fence Me In,” and Virginia sang the duets,  “Under the Bamboo Tree” and “Que Sera Sera.” Faith closed off the evening with the medley, “Bless ‘Em All,” “The Siegfried Line,” and “Kiss me goodnight, Sergeant Major” and finally, the favorite, “We’ll Meet Again.”

For dinner we served ham with pineapple and cloves, twice baked potatoes, broccoli, and Caesar salad. Honor, Providence, and Virginia served angel food cake with berries and whipped cream for dessert. During dessert, we took a microphone around to every table for each veteran to introduce himself and give a short history of his time during the war. It simply is inadequate to say that this was moving. This part was a priceless gift that these dear men gave to those of us listening. 

Our guest speaker for the evening was the distinguished Monsieur Maurice Renaud, all the way from France, who was a little boy during the events of D-Day. He captivated our attention with the moving story of his father who served as Mayor of Sainte Mere Eglise as the 82nd Airborne descended into his town, and of his mother, now called the Mother of Normandy, who spent the rest of her life tending to the graves and contacting family members of the deceased.

(see here for more of the Renaud story) The very first book written on DDay was written by Mr. Renaud’s father, Alexandre Renaud.

In a very meaningful surprise toward the end of the evening, Mr. Renaud and his friend, Mrs. Cathy Soref, of Operation Democracy, gave us three beautiful commemorative coins, one from the Amis des Vétérans Américains, one from the village of Sainte Mere Eglise, and one from D-Day 2014. We were overwhelmed. 

It was a treasured evening which we are still reflecting on and absorbing. We are keeping in touch with our new veteran friends and look forward to sharing more stories with you. We are so grateful for the support of many of you and appreciate your investment in our effort to tangibly demonstrate honor and gratitude.  We hope to do this again. 

For more photos from the evening: WWII Veterans Dinner Gallery

Photo credit: Trent Sherrill Photography and our dad.

Mr. Arthur Engelberg 1915-2014

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We just learned that Mr. Pat Engelberg, an incredibly energetic and remarkable veteran whom we met in Conneaut, Ohio this year has passed peacefully away. We are so grateful to have known Mr. Engelberg even briefly. At 99 1/2, he told us his key to long life was gratitude. We corresponded with him a little bit via email, and he had some amazing experiences to tell us, including meeting a civil war veteran when he was in college. It was a great joy to us to know Mr. Engelberg, and we know everyone who met him was encouraged and inspired! Our heartfelt sympathy and compassion goes to his family. We mourn their loss and wish them comfort and peace. 

Remember Pearl Harbor!

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Three years ago today, I was under a great tent looking out onto the beautiful Bay of Pearl Harbor. Just a few yards from me, I watched a very dashing 89 year old man with his fiancee dancing to the music of the 1940s.

Mr. Gery Porter, and his lovely fiancée. 

He later introduced himself to me as Mr. Gery Porter and shared his story as the National Secretary and Treasurer for the Pearl Harbor Survivors Association. His regret was palpable as he explained that this was the very last gathering because too many had died and the association had decided to disband. The next evening, my family and I watched Tora Tora Tora, at a special showing of the film, followed by personal accounts from survivors. That weekend, we ran into our friend Zane Schlemmer with whom we had spent time earlier that year in Normandy.

Faith sang one of Mr. Schlemmer's favorites, "We'll Meet Again".

He was dressed in the uniform of the Second World War and was as spry and energetic as could be. He gave my sister Faith his Hawaiian lei after she sang to him, and she still has it, dried and framed, on her dresser. 

That same day we spent the better part of a very beautiful hour with Mr. Harold Dove. This very kind Pearl Harbor veteran put his arms around my brothers and sisters and hugged them, sharing his own memorable stories and letting us know how much he delighted to be around children. 

Mr. Dove loved the children.

Today is Pearl Harbor Day, the 73rd anniversary of a date that will be forever remembered as “a day which will live in infamy.”  Our friends Mr. Porter, Mr. Schlemmer, and Mr. Dove have now passed away, and they are not the only ones. Their faces and their stories are forever in our memory. I remember them as gallant older men who talked as if they had the hearts of boys. But I picture them as the young men which they once were, who had to assume an uncommon maturity well beyond their years.

Today as I think of them, I consider it a great honor to have met and now be able to share their names with you. I was hardly fifteen years old in 2011 in a sea of more than a thousand people, hundreds of whom had been survived the attack at Pearl Harbor. For many of these frail men, it seemed as if the finality of the occasion brought some form of relief. It was time for someone else to remember and tell the stories.

It was a long journey for America from December 7, 1941 to September 2, 1945. For nearly four terrible years America was at war with the world. Here we are now, just days away from the 70th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, months away from the 70th anniversary of Iwo Jima, and only 6 months from VE Day. I don’t feel the relief experienced by some of these aging heroes. I feel urgency because of the ever narrowing window of opportunity to see their faces and hear their stories.

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!


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.  

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