Remember Me

Part 1

Misty-eyed with a stare that penetrated yesteryear, Dutton sat ramrod straight in his chair, reviewing again those horrible memories of that day seventy-five years ago on June 6, 1944, the day a boy became a man.

A paratrooper in the U.S. 82nd Airborne Division, twenty-year-old Private First Class Dutton Maxwell hurled himself out of a Douglas C-47 transport plane into the pitch-black sky, then down toward the murky, split-pea-soup weather over Normandy, France, for what would surely be a suicide mission. With virtually no visibility, the opening maneuver of what was known as Operation Overlord had Maxwell and his paratrooper buddies praying they wouldn’t end up in a tree—a surefire way to die. They were part of a blocking tactic designed to keep the Germans from reinforcing the beach landing areas while 160,000 Allied troops from six different countries charged five beachheads in an attempt to thwart Hitler’s advance through France. Superbly trained, no one in Maxwell’s unit showed any fear.

“Sergeant Maxwell . . . Ahh, Mr. Maxwell, sir?” Don Haverford, staff reporter for the Times Herald, was hoping to bring the war hero back to the moment with his coaxing encouragement. “Sir, can you tell us about your landing that night? What happened next?”

Dazed and clearly reliving the moment, Dutton sputtered and stumbled while trying to regain his conversational footing. He was impeccably dressed in a slightly worn, olive drab (shade 32) four-button jacket with a khaki shirt and trousers, matching tie, and an olive drab garrison cap piped in blue, denoting his membership in the infantry. Though once finely tailored to fit his muscular frame, Maxwell’s uniform hung on his deteriorating body like a mannequin too small for its display. His hat swallowed his head, which appeared emaciated compared to his once-hearty countenance.

“Oh, I, well . . . Sorry,” Dutton proclaimed. “Guess I got a little carried away there.” He smiled at the assembled masses who had shown up in the small reception area of the Glorious Sunset Retirement Home. “Where was I? Oh, yes! The jump that night. I got lucky. My parachute caught a tree limb but left me only about eight feet off the ground. Two of my buddies weren’t so fortunate though. We didn’t have time to get to them and cut them down from the tree. Our mission was to find the old stone bridge and destroy it before daybreak. Both men were hurt badly and unconscious, so our group leader told us to go on and then we’d double back later and get them. Though the whole mission had been meticulously well-planned, confusion set in due to the misty, foggy weather and the uncertainty with where we landed versus where the old stone bridge was.” He paused a moment in recollection of leaving those two men in danger.

“Anyway, we found the bridge, loaded it up with explosives, and hid, waiting for the Germans to advance toward the coast,” Dutton continued. “They were headed for the lookout known as Point du Bloc overlooking Omaha Beach.” His voice was short and clipped. Dutton had told his story so many times he might as well have been playing a recording. But his audience sat with rapt attention, hanging on his every word. Several of the female residents had dressed themselves in their Sunday best for the Memorial Day celebration, hoping to have a chance with the aging paratrooper. “Boy, were the Germans surprised when they took on a firestorm at the bridge.” He chuckled at the thought, and his audience politely chuckled along.

But his well-rehearsed diatribe suddenly became somber. “My unit, already pared down by our jump into oblivion, lost another eight soldiers when the Germans returned fire. We may have temporarily slowed their pace toward the coast, but it came at a horrible price. Bodies were piling up, and blood was everywhere,” he concluded with a tear in his eye. “At one point we were pinned down by a German unit that caught us in a maelstrom of fire between the unit we were chasing and the next wave of Germans headed to the beach. For three straight days, we were hunkered down without sleep, water, or food. Imprisoned and with nowhere to go, we prayed that the jailkeeper would let us out of the hell we were in. Finally, a couple of Allied units ran ’em off.”

Hoping to keep the old man talking, Don Haverford carefully shifted the conversation away from the gore of the war toward something he thought might be lighter and happier. “So you went into the confrontation as a private first class, but you ended your service to our country as a sergeant. Can you tell us how you rose through the ranks?”

“We needed a new sergeant,” Maxwell replied tersely. “Sergeant James Edwards was killed that day. A grenade, known as a potato masher, exploded right under him, shredding his right arm and leg. I held him in my arms as he drew his last breath. I’ll never forget having to face his widow when we got home to the States.” Again, Dutton’s gaze became distant as his anger rose.

“You know,” Dutton continued with an edge in his voice, “these college kids today protest the genocide in the Middle East, but most have never seen or experienced war. They don’t understand the sacrifices that were made over decades that allow them to demonstrate and pursue free speech today. They’ve never seen the inside of a prison nor been denied their freedoms. What they haven’t had to learn firsthand is that freedom isn’t really free. America ought to do what Israel and other countries do. Every eighteen-year-old boy should be required to serve two years in the military. That would shut them up. Too late, though, for those college kids and professional protestors who are wasting time and resources burning flags and carrying anti-American placards. Let’s get them a bunch of C-130 transport planes, round ’em up, and fly ’em over to the Middle East to take fire for a while. That’ll fix ’em,” Dutton proclaimed with a hopeful glint in his eye.

Don Haverford was obviously losing control, and Dutton was loving it. After all, this wasn’t Haverford’s interview; it was his. So he was completely surprised when Don changed directions on him. “You were quoted as saying that once the troops liberated France, everyone enjoyed a euphoric feeling of freedom that was short-lived. And then you returned home. Can you elaborate a little more on your comment? I know you had a girl waiting here at home when you returned. Did she eventually become your wife?”

Dutton carefully measured his words before replying. “Well, maybe for the only time in history, France was grateful for the work the Allied forces did in beating back the Nazis. I went over to Normandy a few years back, and they acted grateful for our efforts, which was in stark contrast to the ungratefulness of the Parisians. Years after the war, it seemed the French would rather spit on you than look at you. Back then, though, we were beat up, wounded, and filthy-dirty. Yet, there was this wonderful sense of having done something good for France, and good for the world too. After months of intense fighting, I’ll never forget the hearty smell of homemade stew and fresh-brewed espresso wafting through the air as we marched into Paris. We were celebrated. Maybe that was because all of the fighting occurred on their soil, and they were glad it was finally over. But I think it had more to do with them having experienced what war was really all about. War is ugly, grotesque, and painful to witness. It’s the very essence of evil. Kids today need to see the realities of past wars to appreciate their current freedom.”

Dutton took a deep breath, obviously triggered at the soft generation that appeared so easy to complain yet so unwilling to show any understanding and curiosity for the history of their country. “So we went from heroes to essentially feeling like zeros when we arrived home in America. Oh sure, everyone was glad we were home. But what are you going to do with seventeen million soldiers returning home who can’t find adequate shelter? What about employing them when there are only a handful of jobs? I’m convinced the shine wore off quickly because the war didn’t happen in their own backyard. Back at home, they didn’t experience the horrors of war like we did. They thought a pat on the back and an ‘attaboy’ would be sufficient. Meanwhile, we were left to deal with permanent injuries, the loss of our friends, and gruesome nightmares of combat that were unending. War lived with us day in and day out. But it seemed the citizens of our country only wanted to deal with us on Veterans Day, Memorial Day, and a little on the Fourth of July.”

The crowd murmured a bit, seemingly unprepared for this national insult, though they knew America had resorted to this behavior. Yet, this group, older and wiser, could appreciate Dalton’s honesty. “In many ways, it seemed that the horrible experiences we’d had sort of branded veterans with a scarlet letter that held the general public at bay,” Dalton continued. “We’d been highly trained, obnoxiously disciplined, thoroughly self-effaced, and highly trainable—only to attract what always seemed like menial work. We all thought we’d be highly marketable upon returning home after the war, yet it seemed just the opposite.”

Dutton’s face softened as he relived the happier memories of coming home. “Don, you asked about my girl waiting at home. That was Norma.” His voice became quieter from his obvious admiration of her. “Best thing that ever happened to me. She made the nicest home for the kids and me. We had ourselves a real family. Like something out of a fairytale.” Once again, his eyes got misty. “Sixty-two years we had together. She was everything I lived for. Funny, practical, and a ball of energy, Norma was the reason we had so many friends. Our love for one another was deep. We saw to it that each other was always okay. Together, we had two great kids who never married. Said they’d never be able to find what their mom and I had, so no use tryin’. Shame, no parents should have to bury their own kids. It broke Norma’s heart, and she was never the same. Imagine losing two kids and the love of your life all within five years. There’s something not right about that,” he added with a sniffle. “But my faith is strong, and I know exactly where their home is today. Frankly. I can’t wait to get there myself.”

Empathy was etched onto the faces of his audience. Dutton wasn’t ashamed of the tears he was shedding. His had been a storybook marriage. The hope and dream of any woman. And here he was, sharing all of it with the assembled. Yet with all of his vulnerability, a fleeting thought passed through his mind: Some big war hero you are. Tough old paratrooper who can’t even get through his story about the love of his life without crying. That’s not what these people came to hear today. Better refocus on those who didn’t make it home to enjoy the richness of the blessings I had.

“Anyway . . .” Dutton cleared his throat in a feeble attempt to regain his audience with an aura of toughness. “So many weren’t as lucky as I was. I’ll never forget the pain in the face of Sergeant Edward’s wife when I went to see her. I mean, how do you explain the horrors of war to a widow? There she sat, with a little baby boy in her arms, asking how her son’s father was killed. Marjorie was grasping for any information that would somehow justify her loss. It didn’t help when I walked in her door as Sergeant Maxwell. I could tell that she was cataloging everything I was telling her so that one day she could tell little James about his daddy and the war hero he was. Seventy-five years later and I still don’t know if I did an adequate job that day.”

A raspy voice in the back of the room caught his attention. “You did just fine, Sergeant Maxwell. You’ve captured the essence of my father perfectly, and I’m glad for your further illumination. Sir, the little boy in the widow’s arms was me. I’m James Edwards Junior.”

A notable gasp erupted from the gathering. As Dutton squinted through his cataracts to find the source of the voice, everyone craned their necks to see who was responsible for this momentous turn of events. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” James continued, “but when we’re done here, I’d love to know more about my father. When I heard that you were speaking, I’d hoped that you might be the same Sergeant Dutton Maxwell my mom told me about as a young man. After all, how many Dutton Maxwells can there be?”

A nervous laugh moved the moment back into Dutton’s court. “I-I’m speechless,” Dutton said, overwhelmed at the emotional twist taking place. “It never occurred to me that I’d one day meet you, son.” He stepped forward to accept a careful but gracious hug from the boy he’d met so long ago. “Your daddy was the very image of a World War II war hero. He saved my life and the lives of many others when he hurled himself on top of that grenade. He was a great friend of mine. I have so much to tell you.”

James smiled proudly, knowing his father had died so others could live. “Yes, sir! And thank you for your kindness in vouching for his sacrifice so his superiors might recommend him for the Medal of Honor. It meant the world to my mom. Your eyewitness testimonial to the 82nd Airborne Division made his memory live on. We are grateful.” Sergeant Edward’s son proudly displayed the armed force’s highest award.

Again, Dutton had tears in his eyes. Never in a million years did he think he’d ever see Sergeant Edward’s award again.

Be sure to catch Part 2 of “Remember Me” on Thursday. Subscribe for free to get the story delivered right to your inbox.

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