Lyfting Me Up

It was June 6, 1994 and I was sitting in my parent’s living room talking with

my Dad. It was the 50th anniversary of the Allied assault on the continent

of Europe where Hitler and his Nazi fascist minions were bent on world

conquest. By 1943 things were pretty bleak and nothing less than an Allied

invasion of France would save the world. My dad was a glider pilot in the

Army Air Corps. He was an instructor pilot where he trained dozens of

young men to fly these giants which carried 13 troops and a half track tank

—yes they were made out of plywood and canvas and the equivalent of

both a parachute and a “One and Done” helicopter.

This was the first time he really began to share about his experiences

flying in Europe. “Mark, 1/4 of all the hundreds of glider pilots that came in

that day were killed in the first 24 hours.” “Did you know any of them?”

“Too many Mark. I had two good buddies who were also from Colorado

who went in that day. You know both of them Mark, John Ballantyne from

Pueblo, and Carmel Lopez from Alamosa. I was able to find both of them

after the war. You know what the G stands for on our pilot wings??? The G

we wore proudly stood for GUTS!”

My dad shared that on that day the training base in Alliance, Nebraska

shut down. The next day he was on a train for NYC where he caught a

ship to England. He spent a month in England and on the first week of

August he dropped his glider on his only combat mission into Holland. He

then became a copilot on a C47 transport plane where he flew supplies up

to the front lines. “What did you carry?” “Oh, ammunition, gasoline, food,

blood, troops, pretty much whatever they needed. And yes, we flew the

wounded and killed back to France.”

Near the end of this most tender moment he said, “Mark, I was no hero.

The heroes didn’t come home. I got to come home where I met your Mom.

We have had a great life. Today I know that as deeply as I have ever felt it.

I just did my part to save the world.”

I thought I might be prepared for what I experienced as I stood on Omaha

Beach. I was not. Our tour guide was as good as it gets. I had a number of

times to visit with her as we walked the shores, museums, and graveyards.

She knew all about the “G” for guts. She was half French and half English.“Your Dad and tens of thousands of other Americans, Brits, and

Canadians made my life possible.”

Last Thursday was one of the most memorable and emotional moments of

my life. To visit this place at this time in my country’s history was more

than confusing. I will let you fill in the blanks with your own questions,

pain, anger, revulsion, bewilderment, and sadness. Or if you are prone to

sycophantic rationalization, help yourself. Yes, it was heart breaking and

inspiring all in one giant story.

Our last night on the cruise we had dinner in the dinning room. I was

seated next to a 92 year old woman names Fran. She was a widow who

decided that traveling alone was better than “sitting around with a bunch

of old people mostly living in the past.” We started talking about

Normandy. “I have been there three times. My oldest brother was killed

there. He was a radio operator.” I cried with her for a moment. “What was

his name?” “His name was Robert. I loved him.”

“Onward and Upward”

Mark