D-Day Today

Tom Hanks, in a CNN interview in Normandy, on the 80^th anniversary of D-Day:

“They were kids, by and large. They were well practiced. Years ago – actually on the 65^th, which was the last time we were here – I happened to have dinner with the great Andy Rooney, who was himself a veteran. He flew. And he said, ‘Oh, come on. They weren't all heroes. Some of them were in the 38^th shoe repair battalion.’

“And yet, even if you were in the shoe repair battalion . . . you know, there were guys … they came to Europe to do one thing and one thing only: to take busted weapons and make them workable again, to take exploded jeeps, cobble together a bunch of parts to get them moving again. Those guys lost as much sleep and had as bad teeth from the horrible food that they ate and were as exhausted as anybody else was, because they woke up every morning and said, “What do I have to do in order to further up this cause of liberation?” I'm not going to discount anybody for what they went through at that time, even if all they did was type out very, very important papers on a typewriter somewhere well behind the lines. . . It was the great communal effort.

“And periodically in the United States of America great communal efforts come to be, and they end up changing the world. . . They do the right thing. And they wake up every morning, and they think, ‘What do I need to do today in order to create that more perfect union that always seems to be just out of our grasp, but on the cusp of reality.’”

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Last week, much was made of the 80th anniversary of D-Day, June 6, 1944. That is as it should be. Some commentators have tried to imagine what the world would be like now if the D-Day invasion hadn’t happened then. I like the think the world would have gotten itself turned around so that, in the end, good would have triumphed over evil, that freedom and democracy would have prevailed. But I am not convinced that would have happened. Not very quickly, at least.

I know: It’s simplistic to see things so black and white — good versus evil, freedom versus tyranny. I seem to be master of the gray area. Yet I also know the allied troops were up against tyrannical, maniacal powers. And, where World War II was concerned, my view is that good triumphed over evil in the end.

I know: Wars are horrific — and probably avoidable more often than not. The Just War theory tries to identify the conditions that must be met both to justify going to war and also to govern conduct in war. Did World War II meet those ethical conditions? There may have been opportunities to forestall the gruesome carnage in so-called “theaters” all around the world. (I object to the word, “theater.” War is not some kind of entertainment.) But, by June 6, 1944, those options had evaporated. In my view, war was the more ethical choice by then.

Off to war enlisted and drafted military went, each one of them having some part to play, and some of them drawing the unluckiest cards of all. Those soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy were some of the unlucky. The many who died there — certainly unlucky. And the many who survived were unlucky in some ways, too, for they bore the scars of watching their comrades falling beside them. They buried the dead. They carried the wounded to medical care. They may have been wounded themselves.

I was drawn to Hanks’ quotation because he lifts up the importance of working in concert to create the best outcome. “It was the great communal effort,” he says. A communal effort produced by thousands of ordinary people. Just people, like you or me. Whether in the front lines, or in the shoe repair battalion (is there any such thing as a shoe repair battalion?), everyone worked together. Everyone had their eye on the prize — a more perfect union.

My father-in-law was in the Army Signal Corps, stationed in Europe and deployed to France about a week after the D-Day invasion. He ‘typed out very, very important papers well behind the front line,’ as Tom Hanks puts it, although he described shrapnel rattling on the roof of their bomb shelter. It evidently wasn’t all that far behind the front lines. I am sure my father-in-law received and transmitted his share of discouraging and scary messages. But he soldiered on, each day hoping his contribution would bring the war closer to ending. His contribution mattered.

My father-in-law on his 100th birthday.

When my father-in-law died a few years ago at the age of 103, my spouse found an amazing transmission that his dad had stored among his papers for all those post-war years. Can you imagine the joy he must have felt when he received this message — likewise the jubilation he must have felt when he passed along the message that the war in Europe was ending?

Announcement from Dwight Eisenhower that the war in Europe was ending. Found among my father-in-law’s papers.

My father served in the Army, too, mostly in the Pacific Theater. (That word “theater” again!) He was stationed in an Ordnance Division in Honolulu. His job was “to take busted weapons and make them workable again, to take exploded jeeps, cobble together a bunch of parts to get them moving again.” Luckily for him, he was deployed to Hawaii after Pearl Harbor, and he never served near any front lines. Was he a hero? Maybe not according to Andy Rooney’s definition. But he was part of the communal effort. His work mattered.

My father and mother: A young soldier and his wartime bride.

My father in later years.

In the armed services, you pretty much do what your superiors tell you to do. Yes, a soldier’s contributions matter, but a soldier follows orders, hoping that someone higher up has made good, decent, and ethical decisions. But when Tom Hanks speaks of the “great communal effort,” he extends that vision beyond the military. He extends it to you and me.

These days, I hear so many with waning confidence in our ability to work together for the common good, toward a more perfect union. I understand why people’s confidence is waning. Mine does, too, at times. But, if you study mid-twentieth century American history, you quickly discover the years preceding the U. S. entry into the war were filled with loud voices of American isolationism and exceptionalism. Antisemitism was frighteningly rife. Millions and millions of pages of pro-Nazi propaganda flowed freely through the U. S. postal system, much of it generated in the halls of the U. S. Congress. There was no guarantee then that the United States would find its way to support freedom and liberation and to cast down dictators and demagogues. But eventually enough people saw through the propaganda. Enough people spoke out. Enough people began to realize there was a world in trouble beyond our shores. It was a great communal effort that took time, patience, determination, and courage.

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., said, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” Sometimes I feel so small in the vast scheme of things that it seems impossible that anything I could do or say would make the slightest bit of difference. But then I think of my father-in-law sending and receiving discouraging messages and then, one day, receiving the most amazing news of all. I think of my father and his team sorting through and repairing an array of blown-up, damaged Army jeeps. One jeep at a time until the day came when no more were needed. And when I think of those two men — just cogs in a wheel, really — I realize how lucky I am to be able to rise each day and ask myself, “What do I need to do today in order to create that more perfect union that always seems to be just out of our grasp, but on the cusp of reality.”

Love,

Sylvia

Note: For an accounting of American history in the late 1930s and early 1940s, see Prequel, by Rachel Maddow.