Remembering D-Day
Like most of us, I learned about World War II in the history books.
Many WWII veterans came wearing full racks of medals
Then, 15 years ago, I was privy to a rare and special sampling of memories from the D-Day invasion on June 6, 1944.
As Petty Officer 3rd Class Penny Owen in the Naval Reserve, I was given the opportunity to work for three weeks on the commemoration of D-Day in Portsmouth, England, where the Allies crossed over into Normandy 50 years prior (now 65 years prior).
Allow me to be corny for a moment: At times during my Navy reserve career, I have had experiences that became treasures beyond anything material or monetary. Real ‘lump in my throat’ moments that filled me with pride, awe and perspective.
Britain's traditional Drumhead Ceremony was held at the shore of the English Channel to commemorate D-Day in 1994.
And the Navy is paying me for this?
In Portsmouth, England, on the English Channel where troops crossed over to Normand, the Royal Navy staged a massive tent to hold tens of thousands of WWII veterans making the trek to Normandy. It was the 50th anniversary of D-Day and nothing was spared.
My job, as I was told by a Royal Navy leftenant commander, was to ‘keep the veterans happy.’
“If they want to sit down with a pint and tell you their story, you sit down and listen,” he said.
We got to know 'our' veterans well during the two weeks we spent with them. This British WWII veteran honored me by giving me the equivalent of his National Defense Medal, which I hold dear today.
Listen I did. And oh, how unaware I was of the impact these stories would have on me. Here they were, these veterans, full of life, many in dress uniforms wearing medals and berets, Some were spunky, others solemn – all of them together, perhaps for the last time.
That was 1994. We reported that the youngest WWII veteran as 67. You do the math.
We had fears that many veterans would drop dead on the spot. Didn’t happen. The biggest adjustment we had to make was to hand out fewer “free drink” cards for the bar.
The Internet was in its infancy then. We thought it was pretty cool to have this “Vetlink” system to help long-lost veterans find each other. Hint: It involved a bulletin board. Primitive as it was, it did make a few matches.
My first close encounter with a WWII veteran came at the registration table. An aging American and his wife were silently filling out registration cards that we requested.
It might as well be yesterday. The WWII vet’s hand began to shake as he listed his regiment, battalion, or company. He suddenly dropped the pen and buried his face in his hands, sobbing.
A history lesson from a "Wren" (Women's Royal Auxiliary Navy). British Wrens served much like the U.S. Navy's WAVES, performing traditional female roles, such as nursing.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” he wife said. Suddenly, I understood that this was not a matter of reuniting veterans and handing out pins and drink tickets.
This was a pilgrimage, a place in time to look at the old wounds, even the unspeakable wounds, to sit with them quietly, or joke about them, or share them with young, uniformed strangers like me.
Each night in my hotel room, I cried. Tears came from my gratitude for their service, from feeling the pain behind so much stoicism. War is hell and the humans who wage it are fools. But thanks to these WWII veterans, we don’t speak German today.
The stories weren’t pretty. Nor were most of them heroic. Indeed, many veterans shunned the title of “hero” and were annoyed when called one. Their stories often said otherwise.
It was through their stories that I sort of grew another layer. History is a living, breathing entity, told through many truths, coming from many snapshots in time. Even as we learn about history, we find it evolving, changing.
I’m so grateful to have experienced history through the memories of those who survived D-Day: June 6, 1944.
Weekend Warriors? Not anymore.
Back when I was a lowly seaman, going to “drill” once a month in the Navy Reserves meant showing up on time, wearing the uniform sharply, standing very still at attention and saluting at the right time.
How things have changed.
Back then most of us spent our drill weekends shuffling paperwork and chatting up a shipmate or two in the halls. We tried to look important, arming ourselves with some documents or a clipboard in accordance with the orders of one lieutenant commander: “Mill about smartly when you mill about!” (He never was promoted further, by the way.)
And when the weekends were was over, it really was true — we wouldn’t see our fellow reservists until the next month, and sometimes not until the next year.
I know I spent a good chunk of my drill time shopping for my annual two-week “training” in the summer. Where should I go this year — Hawaii? Italy? France — yeah, baby!
“This isn’t a travel agency,” a lieutenant once told me. She coulda fooled me!
Then came then Persian Gulf war in 1991. That’s when a lot of reservists like me had to make the decision about whether the college money was worth the possibility of going to war.
Some bailed. In fact, many bailed.
I had told myself that I would stay in the reserves until it was no longer fun, and back then, it still was.
But by the time the peacekeeping efforts in Bosnia came along, and then the debacle in Somalia, another factor really built up our workload — the Internet. We no longer talked just once a month but pretty much every week — sometimes most nights and weekends — getting work done and creating more work.
The military also started taking physical exercise far more seriously (and still does). They really got pickier on who they brought in, and in a matter of a few years, they were a lot fewer Deadwood Joes with zero motivation and a lot more college grads with buns of steel — even among the enlisted ranks.
Still, we hadn’t yet gained what we reservists wanted most — the respect of the active duty. We still didn’t work directly with them and they still looked at us as a bunch of yahoos who played with their guns and equipment every other weekend — and left crumbs on their desks.
Boy have times changed.
This time around more reservists were initially called to war than active duty. There was no whining, no grousing. We reservists took the motto “Be Ready” seriously. We got ready. Congress gave us money for training, equipment, and the time to gain experience with real-time exercises that closely mimicked the real deal.
It was quite a change from waving passengers through at Fleet Week in New York, though that was fun!
And the active duty watched and begrudgingly had to acknowledge that not only were we pretty sharp on the draw, we looked pretty good in uniform, too.
We kept pace with them, ever so aware of a judgmental eye or two, and earned their appreciation of the skills we brought from our civilian lives.
More joint exercises led to more real-time joint war-fighting.
A couple years ago when I was serving on the Talisman Saber exercise in Rockhampton, Australia, a whole bunch of us were working in the same tent camp, surrounded by environmentalists protesting. Toward the end of this, the largest biennial joint exercise in the Pacific, we traded stories with the Aussies and with our own about how our missions were going, what challenges we had, and how many protesters we’d dealt with that day.
Only toward the end of the exercise — if at all — was the question asked: Are you a reservist? And when we told them we were, they exclained, “Hey mate! Your’re kidding, right — never would’ve guessed!”
In other words, status was last thing on their minds. We’d finally become one big fighting team, not only as U.S. troops — reservists and active duty alike — but allies working in tandem.
As the wars continue in Iraq and Afghanistan, we hope in this respect the U.S. military and its allies will be recognized simply as one mean fighting team. And darn proud.
To the fellow reservists out there, tell me how it’s going for you — are you having the same kinds of experiences with the active duty? Are you feeling “ready and fully integrated,” as the Navy likes to say? Tell us your experiences, for better or worse.
A Message on Veteran’s Day
As a Navy reservist of 18 years, I consider myself fortunate. Sure, at times I found myself in the precarious position of wearing two hats: one as a civilian journalist and the other as a seaman, a lieutenant and everything in between.
Like many of my shipmates, I was recalled to active duty to serve in support of Operation Enduring Freedom for one year. Last October, my husband, Perry, was also mobilized in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. We left a week apart from each other. My destination: Williamsburg, Va. His destination: Baghdad.
As a public affairs officer with the Navy Expeditionary Logistics Support Group, I did not face any of the dangers that my fellow shipmates, soldiers, airmen, Marines and Coast Guardsmen (affectionately known as “Coasties”) do on a daily basis.
Nor did I know the full extent of danger my husband endured during his seven-month tour of duty mostly at the U.S. Embassy in Baghdad. In phone calls from Iraq, he’d simply tell me he was working “the real deal.” Only when he got home did I learn how very real his mission was but he wouldn’t tell me much of anything. He served as an intelligence officer. I’m so proud of him and the risks he took to serve his country.
My job was to simply tell the story of the thousands of cargo handlers and customs inspectors that the Navy has sent to Iraq and Kuwait since 2005 — and counting.
For both of us, it was an honor to serve, plain and simple. I helped send hundreds of my shipmates to tours in the sandbox. I was also there to welcome them home when they were done. Now understand first-hand the sacrifices asked of our military’s men and women and how willingly they “roger up” and get the job done, no matter how dirty, hot or dangerous it is. I’ve learned so much from my shipmates over the years about leadership, rising to challenges, and especially about not whining.
I do not come without some complaints about the military and I would challenge any of our troops who claim to be complaint free when our country is fighting two wars with uncertain outcomes. But today is Veterans Day — a day for recognition and appreciation above all else.
As a child and young teen, Veterans Day generally meant a parade in downtown Oklahoma City for a bunch of old men who did great things that I studied about for history tests.
I did not come from a military family, but we are a sensible lot. So when I joined the Navy reserve on Aug. 29, 1990, it was for something more concrete than the Navy’s core values of honor, courage and commitment. Heck, I needed the money for college and a six-year enlistment seemed like a fair trade. I remember my recruiter rolling his eyes and using exaggerated emphasis when he had me sign the form that said I’d be willing to go to war if called upon to do so. Before my paperwork was finalized however, the first Gulf War had already begun.
My job, though, was to simply show up at the reserve center on Douglas Boulevard one weekend a month and serve two weeks of “training” during the year. Soon I found out how adventurous that “training” was. In 1991 and 1993 I went to Panama and my world opened up. Over the years, I’ve seen parts of the world I never expected to see and the mission s were always challenging — some were worth writing about in this newspaper.
In 1994, I had the privilege of serving with the Royal Navy in Portsmouth, England, for the 50th anniversary of D-Day. Thousands of World War II veterans came through Portsmouth on their way to Normandy. For many of them it was their first, their twentieth — but likely their last pilgrimage to where that historical battle was fought.
My job was simply to keep those veterans happy. What a deal, I thought. I didn’t count on hearing so many of their stories first-hand. On holding their hands while they cried, sometimes for the first time in 50 years. On crying over the reality of their war every night in my hotel room, then waking up each morning anxious to hear more from these heroes. Heroes often wear that title uncomfortably, so I don’t use the word often. I don’t want to dilute its meaning. But today it is appropriate. And those old men in the parades, they’re heroes to one degree or another too. Soon they’ll be replaced by our servicemen and women now in Iraq and Afghanistan and the Horn of Africa, where the new AFRICOM command has been stood up.
I have no doubt they’ll be thinking about those who didn’t make it back. Most won’t be dwelling on their personal triumphs as much as on what more they could have done — or done differently. I know that’s how my husband feels and yet he did tremendous things over there.
So to all the veterans out there, Bravo Zulu to you, as we say in the Navy, and Fair Winds and Following Seas. The country honors you today.
-Penny Cockerell
