My father hit the beach at Normandy. He wasn’t in the first two waves of troops, but he was the third…and swam past many dead bodies. He as only 17 when he entered the service and would turn 18 on the 28th of June. Can you imagine? When I think of the trauma my father went through at that age, I excuse him for everything bizarre he ever did. The war affected him. My Mother would tell us not to touch Daddy when he was asleep because he would wake up swinging…that lasted his entire life. He died at 76;
D-Day stands for Daddy…the daddy who fought in the big war and came home. It’s a reminder of how cruel war is to our young men. I was 6 months old when Daddy stormed the beach. When I grew up, my generation of ;men went to Vietnam. They, too, came back scarred for life, many to homelessness and mental illness. Many didn’t come back. This day every year is a memorial to those who lost their lives on that beach, but it is also a memorial to the Daddy who did survive the assault that day.
Thank you, warriors, for what you did. May God give you peace and a piece of heaven!