This series of special Fourth of July posts is dedicated to the memory of Rev. Jarel "Papaw" Derese; and to my Great - Uncles: Art, Olen, and Buddy; brave and courageous men who served their country with honor and valor and sacrifice. It is also dedicated with much thanks to everyone in my family that has served in the U.S. military; in Vietnam, and Germany, and Desert Storm. I am so proud of you all!
Tuesday, July 6, 1944To the man sitting in the bow of the U.S. Coast Guard landing craft, just off the coast of Normandy, time seemed to move in slow motion. Any conversation among the men around him had ceased, as each of them felt the weight of the moment hit him somewhere between his heart and his gut.
They were members of the oldest division in the United States Army, the V corps, First Infantry Division, and they knew what they had to do; what their commanding officers, their country, and even the entire free world depended upon them to do. And they were ready, that Summer morning, off the coast of France.
They could see the cliffs of Omaha Beach looming ahead in the gray dawn, as the rough waves pitched them about relentlessly. And the man sitting in the bow felt his stomach roll with nausea at the movement of the sea - that traitorous, watery enemy that had already swept some of the men from the boats, annihilating them before the Nazis even fired a shot.
They were nearing those threatening cliffs, now, and each of them could see the mined obstacles erected by the Germans, sticking up through the surf like a dark, malicious welcoming party. And then the order was given, and the ramp was lowered, and they began to surge forward as one man, a well - oiled machine; those brave Americans, rising to the occasion, as Americans have always done, to defend the helpless and the downtrodden, and to fight for liberty.
And the man in the bow moved forward, too. And he saw the face of his little girl, as the force of the waves nearly knocked him to his knees; and he heard his wife's sweet voice, over the inhuman fury of the German's machine guns, and as the artillery of the pillboxes rained death down on them from the cliffs. He held the memories of home and family close to his heart, as he slogged and slipped his way through the surf, dodging mines and bullets. And it was not only for them that he fought, but for all of the wives, and for all of the children, and all of the oppressed, everywhere, that deserved to live free. he ducked behind one of the obstacles to his left, using it like a shield, just as a fellow soldier went down to his right, the foaming water around him red for an instant, as his life drained away.
The man behind the obstacle raised his arm, firing again and again; his M1 carbine rifle becoming an extension of his body, as he crouched there in the water, the weight of the heavy pack on his back becoming heavier by the second. It was not going well. The place where they had landed was nearly impossible to breach, and the Germans were relentless in their assault. Still, he deliberately forced down the fear within him, and inched his way forward, refusing to stop, determinedly fighting his way towards the French coast held by the Nazis. He was an
American, and they
were going to take that beachhead by nightfall.
He struggled ashore, that July morning on Omaha Beach, as others fell all around him, giving their lives to liberate France and the free world from an evil madman; a deranged monster that was a slave to his own twisted delusions of glory and power. The cries of the wounded and dying mingled with the sound of the ocean, the shelling, and the exploding artillery, into a symphony of sacrifice. Some men died instantly; some lay in the surf and drowned, wounded and unable to move, their blood pooling at the water's edge, flowing onto the sand and forever staining it with the ultimate symbol of the sacrifice for freedom. The tanks and armored vehicles coming to assist the fighting men were foundering in the heavy swells, and most of them did not make it to shore.
Still they fought on, those Americans; fueled by raw grit, courage, determination, and a soul-deep devotion to their comrades, to freedom and to right. And they were helped and strengthened in the task by Brits, Canadians, Australians, the free French, and others that had a hunger to live in the light of freedom. They were all men that had heard the call to rise up for liberty, and who had selflessly answered, not turning away when required to take a stand. They stood shoulder to shoulder, relentlessly storming the beaches that morning; teaching the Germans a much-needed lesson, and turning the tide in favor of the Allies, in that western theater of the second great World War.
To this day it is impossible to get an accurate number of how many gave their lives that day; and even now, bones and skeletons are unearthed when the area is disturbed. It is believed, however, that somewhere between 2,500 and 6,500 men of the Allied Forces died on the beaches of Normandy; the Heritage Foundation in Washington, D.C. estimates that 4,900 of those that perished were Americans. One thing we do know for certain, however, is that every one of them was a hero in the truest sense of the word.
We must never forget those patriots of WW2. We must teach the children of our time about the Greatest Generation; those sturdy and couragous men and women that have taught us yet again that freedom is never free, but that Americans have always answered the call, and are willing to pay the price.
