U.S. Military Cemetery and Memorial in Hamm, Luxembourg

"It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died

Rather, we should thank God that such men lived."

General George S. Patton

Imagining tanks rolling through the lovely villages and countryside we had enjoyed on our cruise stretches credulity, but that is history.

Among those answering the call to save the world from a bleak fascist future was Julie's father John, who left the University of Wyoming to enlist.  Having completed some college as an engineering major, John was highly educated in the sciences by Depression era standards, so the Army made him a paramedic and sent him to the battlegrounds of Europe.  By the grace of God, he survived but not without haunting memories of bloodshed and death on battlegrounds and the stench of rotting humanity in Nazi concentration camps to which Jews had been unjustly condemned. 

Nonetheless, decades after the war ended, John returned to the Moselle Valley many times after marrying his second wife, Julia.  They regaled us with tales of the gorgeous scenery and delicious regional wines, which we would learn on our cruise are not generally produced in sufficient quantity to export; but he rarely spoke of the war, choosing instead to focus on more pleasant memories.

My dad graduated high school in Ryder, North Dakota, and soon thereafter enlisted in the Army.  He was sent to train with the infantry in Alabama, which is where he met my mother, an innocent country teen, while waiting to go overseas.  He told me the brass pulled him from his company for that deployment.  The operation turned out to be D-Day, which would eventually lead to the Battle of the Bulge.  Meanwhile, my dad's whirlwind romance with my mother continued over the summer and they married in the fall.  Dad was never sent to Europe, which was a blessing personally but also something that left a sort of longing within  him, because of his respect for all the men who served.  He re-enlisted for the Korean War but never got closer to the battlefront than Fort Ord near San Francisco, which is where my sister was born.

From Notasulga, Alabama, Uncle Edwin, my mom's older brother who always reminded me of Andy Griffith, did end up as an infantryman on the Western Front, where he saw his share of death and destruction. At some point, he was separated from his company behind enemy lines, and it was his boyhood experiences in the Alabama woods that allowed him to survive until he could re-join the American forces. 

While these family members went on to live fulfilling lives after the war, many defenders of freedom did not. As I stood reading the names of young men who died, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed with emotion, both gratitude for their sacrifice and sorrow for their lives cut so tragically short.  Many of these brave soldiers who died in battle around Christmas in 1944 were still in their teens, buck privates who otherwise may have lived long, happy lives.  My dad could have easily been among them had fate not intervened, and then I suppose I wouldn't be here, at least not with this same DNA.

We all owe our lives to the Greatest Generation, far too many of whom would never live to realize ultimate victory over the most powerful army of darkness the world has ever known.

Among those buried in the U.S. Cemetary four miles from Luxembourg City is General George S. Patton, whose Third Army liberated Luxembourg en route to crushing the Nazi's final surge, though he died not in battle but in a car accident after the war.