"Happy" D-Day?

"HAPPY" D-DAY?

My husband had an interesting day, on D-Day this year. He doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but he does wish people would be more cognizant of the meaning of D-day...and how "have a happy D-Day" might just sound to folks that lost a family member in the slaughter on the beaches of Normandy.

When they say the oft used phrase, 'last full measure' the boys that died on those beaches that day, did. They gave their hopes, dreams, wishes...their 'last full measure' of blood, pain and anguish...some barely alive, calling for their mothers, many thousands of miles away on that godforsaken beach. That's what D-Day was. Throwing precious human lives away, in mass quantity, till their sheer number outran the German troops.

My husband didn't say anything to the woman, who hadn't meant anything by it, but so obviously didn't understand the meaning. It hurt though.

James Martin. Uncle Jimmy. Someone Bill never got to meet, because of D-Day. His youngest Uncle. Jimmy loved animals. Had rescued an owl, and kept him on the back porch and fed him. Who took care of the owl when he wasn't there anymore? No-one seems to know.

Jimmy had a serious girlfriend. He left his family and his future happiness with his girl. He never finished High School because he was in the ROTC and was among the first to be drafted. Instead he became a hero on the beaches of Normandy. At the age of nineteen years old. No-one seems to know what happened to his sweetheart.

He was in the first wave of young men who attacked on Omaha Beach that dreadful day. Was killed nearly immediately according to someone who later came back to inform the family of what guts and courage their young son had.

Grandmother and the rest of the family never mentioned Jimmy's name again. Not on purpose. The memories were just too raw, I suppose.

Then along came my husband, Bill. The spitting image of his Uncle, apparently. And poor Grandmother, in the Autumn of her life, slipped a little, and would call him "Jimmy". She would correct herself with a sigh..."ahh", she would sigh with a wry smile and a shake of her head, "you aren't Jimmy, you're our Billy, aren't you." Bill would cough, sniff and reply "of course I am Grandmother!"

After Grandmother passed on, we got a beautiful framed print of where Jimmy rests in the Normandy cemetery, and a picture of his cross, there with the thousands of other young men buried on that ground that they gave everything for.

So. When that next D-Day rolls around, maybe don't wish someone a 'happy' D-Day. Perhaps donate your time that day to collecting donations for our returning wounded warriors. Teach your children the reason we set aside that day. Why the banks close, and federal offices. Why the mail didn't run. Why every American flag you see is at half mast (or should be). Say a prayer for those that went before us, so that we could be free, if you are so inclined.

Ponder what Uncle Jimmy's life would have been, if he had come home. And his little mother who died thousands of miles away from where her young son lay buried in some foreign land, a hero that she could never envision visiting so far away....