Thanks to you 90th Veterans !

A Reflection of Daddy

By Joseph S. Bonsall


Fathers Day 2004 falls on Sunday, June 20th, six days after Flag Day, and exactly fourteen days after June 6th. Therefore it was sixty years ago, on June 6, 1944, that my own father as a young man of eighteen years old hit the Normandy Beach, code named UTAH - on D-Day.

I am so very honored to have been given the opportunity, as his son, to chronicle his life and that of my precious mother in the book G.I. Joe and Lillie—as well as the song by the same name, which appears on our new Colors album.

Not long ago, while doing a book tour interview on a PBS radio show, a very interesting question was posed to your author.

In researching your father’s war years did you learn anything new about him?

I had to think long and hard about that one. I certainly learned more about the Tough Ombres of the Fighting 90th Infantry Division and how they got from Point A to B before and after the invasion……. but did I learn something new about my dad?

I knew he came from an abusive, alcoholic, and dysfunctional family. I knew he had run away and joined the Army. I knew about D-Day, St Lo, his Bronze Star, Silver Star, and Purple Heart with two Oak Leaf Clusters. I knew about his nightmares and his drinking problems.

I also knew he was a hard worker. He loved my sister and me, and especially his Lillie with all of his heart. I knew he was only 39 years of age when he had his debilitating stroke. And, I knew he spent his entire disabled life feeling badly about what he perceived to be his shortcomings.

I knew he loved WWF wrestling and fried chicken. I knew he liked to boo the Phillies and that he cried on Christmas mornings. I knew that he came to love God, and he certainly loved The Oak Ridge Boys.

He was very proud that his son made something of himself—despite his fear that little Joey might turn out to be useless because he was not mechanically inclined and couldn’t hammer a nail straight into a piece of wood, even if his life depended on it. (I still can’t do that very well.)

I have made it my life's work to remember stuff, and there wasn’t a new thing that I thought I could learn. But.........

Have you seen the Kevin Costner movie Field of Dreams?

It is one of the few “guy cry” movies, along with maybe The Dirty Dozen and  True Grit (kidding). Anyhow, what brought the male of our species down to his knees was when the grownup Costner figure beheld his father at about 18-years-old and realized that this sturdy, strong, and good looking young man was his father......... “before the years got to him!”

Writing G.I. Joe and Lillie brought me face to face for a little while with the young versions of my father and my mother. I wrote the book in a third person style that allowed me to remove myself from the picture, and in so doing, I met a troubled young man who couldn’t understand his own father and ran off to “hell.” A fun loving and gritty, skinny yet sinewy, street kid who, with a rifle in his hand and an angel on his shoulder, helped to change the very face of the history of the world.

Yes, I remember stuff.

I remember as a small boy watching my dad do a half gainer into a somersault off a high diving board at Cedar Lake Park, when I couldn’t have even imagined climbing the ladder. I remember going to the plant with him at midnight when he was called in to fix some huge piece of machinery that only he could fix.

“Come with me boy, you might learn something.”

I remember watching him swim like Johnny Weismuller and climb a ladder quicker than a cat. He could drive a car and draw Bugs Bunny and talk like Donald Duck. I remember him making pancakes (about twice a year). I see him sitting next to me at the old Connie Mack Stadium at 51st and Lehigh, eating a hot dog and slugging down a few Ballantines, while hideously booing Johnny Callison  (“can’t hit”) and Richie Ashburn (“a twerp”). He loved Robin Roberts though. The Phillies never won much anyway, and they sure didn’t have much of a chance when he was in the stands.

Years later, I see him in a wheelchair sitting in the handicapped section of  Veterans Stadium, booing Mike Schmidt in 1980 and Mitch Williams in 1993. I see him not able to speak. I see him weak and frail. I see him in the “Soldiers Home,” and I see him lying in a casket......... small and thin......... with a flower arrangement from the President of the United States towering over his casket.

I will admit to having an up-and-down relationship with my father. I always felt that Mom understood me, and that he did not. In reality, his constant chiding worked in a positive way for me.

“I’ll show him,” I would think. “I will leave these streets behind someday and be Elvis.........”

Well I didn’t do that......... but when that man would watch me sing on a big  stage with The Oak Ridge Boys, he would smile the whole time while fighting back tears of joy. My daddy was proud of me. What more could a son ask?

I always wanted to be better at being a “daddy” than he did. God in Heaven knows that I love my two daughters with all of my heart. They have both grown into wonderful and beautiful women, and I would hope that my love and support have had a little to do with it.

But, you know, in retrospect my own father did just fine—considering the tools and time that he possessed. Daddy only had until age 39. From there on he needed more care than he was able to give. But give he did. The man loved his son, and he came to love Jesus Christ.

I am thankful for him. His strong and manly embrace was always soothing to me, and he made me feel protected. Even as an old man, he would put the good arm around me, hold on as hard as he could—and weep.

So then......... what more can a man ask of his father? A man who worked  hard, loved his family, and faced a tough row to hoe his entire life? Yet he still found enough time...... to change the history of the world.

I pray that God will gather him up and cradle him deep within His everlasting arms on this Fathers Day.
 

Throughout our lifetimes we read of historical events. Rarely do they impact us until we can actually see the land, smell the air, hear the sounds. Such a place is Normandy. Our trip there became even more poignant because our visit was a personal pilgrimage to honor a special soldier.

A Day in Normandy
September, 1998
 by Holly Richardson
 

The SS Norway is nestled in its berth.

The gleaming cruise liner has crossed the English Channel during the night, gliding through the sea water almost effortlessly.

As the new day begins, it disgorges its passengers through a cavernous opening on the starboard side.

They look so tiny as they file out and stroll along the huge cobalt blue and brilliant white hull.
Fifteen hundred people, on vacation, off to see France.  Many will head into Paris, some 3 hours
away, and spend the day strolling the Champs-Elysees or taking in the view from the Eiffel Tower.
Others will take an organized tour from the ship to the Normandy beaches, site of the D-Day invasion that was the turning point of World War II.

Although the weather is dreary, with the ominous skies threatening rain, everyone is in a holiday mood. This is the last port of a 10 day cruise, where luxury and pampering have been a daily routine. The passengers are relaxed, well-fed and anticipating this last full day of vacation.

The other crossing had not been so idyllic. Rough seas, cramped boats, seasickness and fear had all taken their toll on the young kids making the trip. They had to wade through waist high water to make it to shore.  Many never made it at all.

Those that did faced hell on earth.

My husband and I are two of those cruise passengers. After disembarking, we grab a taxi and head into the town of LeHavre and Hertz Rental Car.  After securing the vehicle, which is no bigger than a large tin box, we head west on the superhighway.  Our mission that day is to visit the Normandy beaches and battlefields, one in particular.  We don't want an organized shore excursion, where we would be bussed with 50 other passengers and driven in air conditioned comfort to the sights.  We don't want to share this with anybody.  We are there to in some way try to follow the path of one particular soldier, to see what he had seen, to try to understand, to try to pay tribute.

Our first stop is the city of Caen, about a 90 minute drive.  Caen is the gateway to the Normandy beaches, and is also the home of the Memorial for Peace Museum. The flags of every country involved in the Second World War encircle the grassy knoll by the front door. Their brilliant colors stand in sharp contrast to the somber tones inside the museum.

Inside its contemporary, cavernous halls is the chronicle of the failure of peace after World War I, and the subsequent rise of totalitarianism.  Immense rooms showcase  the spread of the war, the D-Day invasion and the Battle of Normandy. Television monitors flicker with grainy black and white images of newsreel footage from a past generation. Miniature scale models are everywhere with little toy soldiers and diminutive tanks representing the actual human forces and machinery.

So much manpower and equipment, so many young men.  But the soldiers that waded up  the beaches and scaled the cliffs and claimed the countryside inch by inch that incredible day were made of genuine flesh and blood, not plastic.

From Caen, it is a short 35 mile drive to the beaches.  Driving along the coastline, both of us are struck by the quiet beauty of the landscape.  The small town of Honfleurs, with its colorful terraced homes on the hillside, overlooks the water. At one time it had been a favorite hideaway for the artist
Monet; today it is a popular tourist village. Deauville is next, another charming seaside town.  The sun begins a battle with the clouds, breaking through with rays of light on the beach.  The sand is a creamy white, the ocean the hue of blue topaz shimmering where it meets the land. Further out, the water turns to a dark sapphire blue.  We approach the famous beaches; Juno, Sword, Gold, Utah, Omaha; code names for the strips of land that became the beachheads for an invasion.

How could it be so pretty?  What must it have looked like that day? Equipment and bodies and blood staining the white sand. Time had sanitized the beaches and eradicated the destruction. Hopefully time would never erase the memory of what they did here.

We stop for lunch at a small seaside restaurant just at the edge of Omaha Beach in the town of Grandcamp-Maissy.  There are 4 tables on a back porch overlooking the sea.  We feast on fresh mussels, with a gentle breeze from the ocean cooling the early afternoon temperatures. The breeze also brings with it a mild aroma of fish and salty air.  Three other couples also enjoy lunch on the
terrace; one from Australia, one from Germany and one from England.  The proprietors speak only French, but we manage.

The GI's didn't enjoy a fresh ocean breeze.  Instead, they suffered through acrid smoke and fire and blood and sweat and other odors we probably could not even imagine.  They probably didn't even get to eat lunch that day.  If they did, it sure didn't taste like this. If the invasion had never taken place, what would this spot, this very spot, be like today? Would we be ordering our food from a German menu? Would any of us even be here?

Mussels consumed, it is time to continue our journey. Next stop is the American Cemetery, situated high on a bluff overlooking Omaha Beach.  It reminds me of Arlington National Cemetery with an ocean. It is simply breathtaking and simply heartbreaking.  A semi-circular colonnaded Memorial faces a reflecting pool and the graves of almost 10,000 American soldiers.  The main pathways are
laid out in the form of a Latin cross. In an interesting aside, I read that the architects for both the memorial and for the landscaping are from Philadelphia.  So is the man who we came here to honor. Each gravesite is marked by either a white marble cross or a white Jewish star. The perfect, neat rows continue for as far as the eye can see across impeccably manicured emerald green lawns.

The seashore below would rival any Caribbean beach resort for its beauty. Every grave has a view of the beautiful sea below.  It is fitting that their final resting place is so serene and peaceful.

Some of the men buried here must be the buddies of the soldier we are here for. I wonder if somehow they might know we have come to honor them too.

They sacrificed so much so that we could stand here today.  Do they know how grateful we are? They never were able  to live their lives or realize their dreams or raise their children or grow old with their wives. We are in debt to them all, and it is impossible to keep the tears from falling as we pay our respects.

But the day is wearing on, and we have one important place to visit before returning to the pleasant sanctuary of our cruise ship. The objective of our pilgrimage is to visit the modest inland town of St. Lo.  Just outside of this town there had been vicious fighting, for St. Lo was a key to the ultimate goal of the liberation of Paris.

We again squeeze into the tiny vehicle and spread out the map we had purchased at the Museum in Caen.  Ironically enough, the map is in German; all of the English ones had been sold.  This very fact is going to make it a little difficult to find our way, since neither of us speak or read German. It is not lost on either of us that had it not been for the fighting that took place here, we might be fluent in that language.  Coupled with the fact we often misplace ourselves while driving (a term preferred by my
husband to "lost"); it becomes obvious after a short period of time, that we will need help finding our destination.

The roads are narrow and winding.  It is impossible to go very fast.  In order for two cars to pass, one has to pull over to the side of the road.  Before too long we come upon a Frenchman, purposefully pedaling his bicycle up a rather steep hill.  He looks as though he has been dropped into the 20th century from a time capsule, or perhaps as an extra on a period movie set.  He is dressed all in black, a lightweight turtleneck over black knickers. Black socks, and elf-like slippers complete  the ensemble.  On his head is perched a black beret.  The basket of his bike holds a long baguette of bread.  We pull over to the side and attempt to ask directions.  "S'il vous plait, monsieur 
directiones a Saint Lo?"   In long forgotten high school French, my pronunciation is "Saynt Low."  The French gentleman gives a quizzical look.  He looks at the German map, and to the name of the town where I am pointing.

He must really think we are crazy.  Here are two obviously lost Americans in the middle of nowhere, way off the beaten tourist track, asking for directions in very broken French with a German tour map.  We will probably be dinner conversation at his home tonight.  Crazy Americans.

"Ahhhh, Saan Lu" he responds.  Okay, if you say  so.  Now that the destination is clear, our tour guide launches into no less than a five minute explanation of how to get there, gesturing wildly as he speaks.  We understand not a word. "Merci," we say.

As we continue, my husband says "Did you get any of that?"  "I think he said 'la gauche' somewhere in there," I reply. "It means turn left." So we do. Less than a kilometer later  a sign directs us to St. Lo.

The drive there is breathtaking. The sun-splashed French countryside is in its full glory this early September day; for by now the sun has won the battle with the clouds and the promise of a glorious afternoon awaits.

As I pull out my sunglasses, I can't help but think how the weather of this day is, ironically enough, a metaphor for that one so long ago.  It had started so drearily, and with such foreboding.  By days' end, the sunshine of renewed hope had taken hold; the promise of freedom had broken through the clouds.

In the late summer sun, everything is green; so many shades of green.  The light yellow-green land is a tapestry of small fields and farmlands woven together by miles of hedgerows.  This quilt of nature is contrasted by the verdant trees, lush with leaves,  gently blowing against a bright blue sky. 

The hedgerows are striking.  Neatly trimmed and maintained, they are a dark forest green, like someone has taken a thick magic marker and outlined everything. They form the fences of all Norman fields, and line every roadside and lane.  Each patch of land looks to be no bigger than an American football field, and every single one is surrounded by hedgerows.

We see miles and miles of these small fields with their high, bushy barriers on the way to St. Lo.

How terrifying it must have been for our soldiers, for the man whose path we are following.  The German enemy hid in these bushes, waiting to ambush our troops.  How these very hedgerows must have been ripped apart by mortar fire, the tree trunks shredded with shrapnel, and how our soldier must have burrowed himself in ditches and foxholes dug desperately into the landscape.

How brave he must have been.

We approach the town.  At first glance, it is disappointing.  I guess we were expecting a charming village, set in another century.  But this town looks modern; its buildings are formed of yellow and gray brick.  Its unimaginative, squared off architecture, the steel and glass, look like something out of the 1950's.  Then it dawns on me; this town IS out of the 1950's.  Most of it had been destroyed in the war, and it was completely rebuilt in the decade following.  In stark contrast to the new, there is one ancient building that stands tall and proud in the middle of town.  It is the Church.  It is called Eglise Notre Dame, and it is centuries old.  The entire center section of the church has apparently been blown away, for its reconstructed replacement is a flat, unadorned bridge between the sculpted original sections on either side.  The rest of the building still consists of the old stone and mortar that was laid down hundreds of years ago with intricately carved arches and statuary. However, unmistakable to the eye are the pock marks from mortar shells, the statue of Jesus with his head blown off, and deep gouges in two of the sides of the building.  The good people of St. Lo have decided to leave the scars of war in this monument to God, and that is appropriate.  No one that visits can ever forget what happened here when they gaze upon this House. 

This visual says more than a thousand treatises on peace could ever hope to.

As we walk around town, we begin to see its beauty.  It is not a physical beauty, although there has been an attempt to plant flowers and gardens,  and the stores and homes are certainly well-maintained.

The beauty is in the people, who when they realize we are Americans, greet us like long-lost friends.  It is in the simple acts that are performed in the town everyday; children playing in the park, couples holding hands while they stroll the streets; shopkeepers going about their business.  They have their lives back and their futures intact because of what happened here a generation ago.  They can live in freedom because of men like the one we came here to honor.  He is just one man, one American GI, but for us, he is the symbol of a great crusade.

We never met this GI; he is a name and a few photographs.  But we know his son, and we have heard his story. We know he was gravely wounded somewhere in these fields; we know he won the Silver Star and the Purple Heart with clusters.  The ravages of war affected not only his life, but the lives of his family. A wife, a son and a daughter were all shaped by the demons that followed him home.  He left a piece of himself  here, a piece of his soul.  But he also helped to free a world from tyranny. We live our lives the way we do because of the sacrifices he and his friends made here.

What a legacy he has given us all.

It is time to head back to the ship.  As we drive through northern France to the coast and back to the port of LeHavre, it is quiet in the tiny little car.  We only get "misplaced" once. We each have our own thoughts, but it is a day neither of us will ever forget.  We know we are better for having come here
today.

I hope that somehow you know that your sacrifices here were important.  I hope you know that the magnitude of what you did here can never be measured, nor ever adequately acknowledged.  No one will build a statue of you; only your family and friends will know your name.  But you are a true American hero.  We will never meet you, but we will always hold you in our hearts.. You represent
what is good and  true and right about this country we call home.  You are an ordinary man who did an extraordinary job and helped save the world in the process. 

Thank You, GI Joe.

God Bless you, always

Holly Richardson