Connor Hoxley, his oldest great-grandchild moved from his spot and squatted down next to him. He held a pen and spiral notebook in his hands. “Hey, great-Grandpa Ned, I need your help with something,” Connor said.
Ned looked at Connor, a strapping fourteen-year-old boy who reminded him a great deal of Bobby. His size and mannerisms, personality, and even hairstyle brought Bobby to mind. “Sure, I’ll be glad to help you any way I can. Do you need money?”
Connor laughed. “No, I have a school assignment I need your help with, Grandpa.”
“What subject? If its math you better find a different tutor.”
Connor shook his head. “It’s a history assignment. I have to write a paper on World War II. This paper is worth a lot of points. It’s taking the place of our final.”
“Okay, how can I help you?”
Connor looked down at his notebook and fiddled with his pen, shoving it up and down into the metal rings. He looked back up. “I need your insight, Grandpa. And I need your story. I know you’ve never told anyone about your war experience. I understand it must be painful. But I’m hoping you can share a little with me today.”
Ned closed his eyes and sighed. He said nothing for a moment. And then he opened his mud-colored eyes. “I’ve held in my war experience for 72 years. And it’s been an unwanted companion all this time. So maybe it is time I let it out.”
“If the memories become too painful, we’ll stop. I’ll figure something else out,” Connor said as he flipped open his notebook.
Ned cleared his throat and began. “The invasion of Normandy, or D-Day as it is most often called took place early on the morning of June 6, 1944. It was the largest amphibious assault to ever be launched. The landing took place on five beaches: Utah Beach, Omaha Beach, Gold Beach, Juno Beach, and Sword Beach. The main purpose of the invasion was to gain a foothold in France and liberate Paris, and then bring the war to Germany’s western border.
“Over a hundred and fifty thousand Allied soldiers stormed the beaches that day. And I was one of them. Unfortunately I landed on Omaha Beach—a beach surrounded by steep cliffs and fortified by three German infantry battalions. The Germans had dug in well and used their 8 bunkers with 75 mm guns; 35 pillboxes; 85 machine gun nests; and dozens of rocket-launching sites to their advantage.
“Before we landed an aerial bombardment was supposed to cripple the German artillery placements. But the weather worked against us. Dark, heavy clouds and mist rising up off the beach that morning hid the placements and the Allied shelling mostly missed their targets. To make matters worse only two of the 29 amphibious tanks launched from the sea even made it ashore because of the English Channel’s rough waters.
“The landing craft I was on didn’t make it to shore either. About fifty yards from shore its hull was breached by one of the many hidden obstacles placed into the water by the Germans. We had to swim to the beach.
“We were pinned down as soon as we stepped onto the sand. It was like we walked into a firing squad. The Germans strafed us with machine-gun fire from their pillboxes. Men dropped like flies. It was so bad General Omar Bradley almost nixed the whole operation.”
Ned looked around the room. Everyone looked back at him. Tears filled his daughters’ eyes. Even his son’s eyes looked misty. Ned’s voice began to quaver. “I was just a wide-eyed Army private. I’d never fought any battles before. I remember my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hang onto my rifle.
“Sergeant Harry Jacobs led our squad onto the beach. I followed close behind, scared out of my mind and praying the whole time. Sergeant Jacobs got hit immediately. He dropped right in front of me. I tripped over him and fell down. From on the sand I was face to face with the big sergeant. Half his face was gone, and I could see his brain through a big hole in his skull.
“I screamed and scrambled to my feet. I mistakenly took three or four steps in the wrong direction back toward our landing craft. Someone pushed me back. I started to turn around and charge up the beach, but didn’t make it far. Somewhere close by a mine exploded and I felt shrapnel slice into my back. I went down again.
“And I didn’t get up this time. I froze, too scared to move. Soon, bodies fell on top of me. They were men from my squad. I pretended to be dead the rest of the day. All the while dead and dying men lay on top me.” Ned paused to swallow. “Those dead and dying men saved my life. Their weight pressed against my back and staunched the blood flowing from my wound.
“Hours ticked slowly by. The sounds of surf and screams and gunfire filled my ears. I heard dying men reciting Psalms 23. Every so often a stray round would find its way into the pile of bodies. I got hit in the leg and shoulder. Eventually I passed out. I was lucky I didn’t drown. The incoming tide drowned many of the wounded unable to move. Near sunset a medic found me and attended to my injuries.”
Ned fell silent. He watched Connor furiously scribble notes into his notebook. He looked up. “What happened then, Grandpa?”
“I was loaded onto a hospital ship and taken back across the English Channel to a hospital in England. I spent several weeks there recovering and then was discharged and flown home.”
“Don’t forget to tell Connor how the people of Copeland gave you a hero’s welcome,” Cora Hoxley said.
“They gave me a parade,” Ned said through clenched teeth. “I sat in a convertible as it drove me through the town square. People clapped for me. It was awful. I felt shame and guilt and remember thinking ‘this is the worst day of my life.’ I did nothing but play dead on a beach. And they gave me a parade for it. I remember thinking I wish I really had died on Omaha Beach.”
“I’m glad you didn’t die, Grandpa. This room wouldn’t have nearly as many people in it had you died. And I wouldn’t be here,” Connor said.
“Losing your life in battle is an honorable way to die. My buddies that I went ashore with, who died fighting are the true heroes.” Ned held out a hand toward Connor. “Let me see what you’ve written down so far.”
Connor handed Ned his spiral notebook. Ned ripped off the top page and tore it into pieces. He threw the pieces onto the floor.
“Grandpa Ned, this paper is due in four days. I have to read it aloud in front of my classmates. And the paper makes up one third of my grade.”
Ned handed the notebook back to his great-grandson. “If you want to get an A on this paper you need to write about my brother Bobby and his girlfriend Rose. Bobby is a true war hero. And Rose is an example of the worst kind of war casualty, a casualty not mentioned enough. Families of the fallen are left behind to grieve the rest of their days. Their wounds never heal. And although Rose was never part of the Hoxley family, she would’ve been had Bobby survived the war. They had plans to marry. And no one grieved longer or harder than Rose Whitcomb.”
“Okay, Grandpa, I’ll do whatever you wish.” Connor said, poising his pen over the notebook.
Ned spent the next several minutes talking about Bobby and his contribution to the war effort as a tail-gunner on a B-17 bomber. He recited everything he knew about the plane crash and Bobby’s imprisonment, his escape, missing-in-action status and death high in the German Alps. He also described Rose in great detail and her great love for Bobby, leaving out only the couple’s discovery of a secret room and treasure box in Rose’s house.
“That’s quite the story, Grandpa,” Connor said. “But I think this paper needs to be about all three of you.”