D-Day, 75 years later

Juno Beach

I had a great-uncle who landed on Juno, 75 years ago. He and his buddy made it through the fire and hunkered down behind the retaining wall, staring at each other in disbelief. I don’t know about his friend, but my uncle fought right into Berlin.

He had a million stories, most of them ghastly. When Berlin fell he signed up for service in the Pacific theatre, believing himself unfit for civilian life.

Back home he was fastidious about joining his fellow veterans for public remembrance. His first Remembrance Day a neighbour shook his hand then mused that he was actually sorry the war was over, as it had been good for his particular business. My uncle’s hands twitched, and he realised to his own horror he was reflexively reaching for his gun to kill this moron.

I don’t know when he gave up alcohol, but I only ever knew him as quiet, gentle and sober.

He was of Ukrainian origin, and married into our Mennonite family. I had two other great-uncles, however — Mennonite — who also served. They were both younger and enlisted later, a source of pique to the D-Day vet. If asked, at an opportune moment, he would suggest they came to Europe to party. Both launched respectable careers with their veterans’ benefits, but died early — one by his own hand, the other by cancer brought on by incessant drink and tobacco consumption.

My uncle was moved whenever someone stopped to thank him for his service. Really, this only accounted for three early years of his life — he accrued piles of achievements in the civilian decades that followed. But the echoes of those three years . . . not every night was plagued with nightmares, but they did indeed haunt him to his final day.

His official obituary is here. I also recommend Tony Hillerman’s account of post-war life.