Time For Hydrangeas

     It had been such a busy day.  After school I  ushered my little tribe outside for some much needed play time.  The oldest saw me raking up the leaves that peppered our lawn.  He asked if he could help, knowing he was saving his allowance for a special toy.  He worked diligently raking the leaves into a plush pile of red, gold, and brown.  When the pile was to his liking he would run and jump in them with an eruption of toothless giggles.
     Soon it was time to leave for soccer practice and I began issuing orders to my three sons.  “Get your shin guards on”, “Go use the potty”, “Where’s your sweatshirt?”  As he went to fulfill his mission, my oldest son stood up to grasp the hydrangea tree that was blooming in our yard just beyond where he had been raking moments earlier.  He marveled at the beautiful rosy blooms, when all around him everything else was dying and slipping into winter’s long sleep.  I urged him to hurry—the clock ever present upon my wrist.
     In a flurry of activity we set out to leave—water bottles packed, toys to occupy the little one, mail to read while I waited at the field.  The flurry did not stop when practice was over—bath time, supper time, homework time, story time…time…time..time.  It always seems so short.
     Later that night, everyone was tucked in soundly.  They were all clean and fed.  Backpacks all set for the coming day. Lunches packed and awaiting the morning rush.  Dinner dishes were being washed with the low hum of the dishwasher drumming away in the background. As I collapsed in a heap on my bed to read I wondered if when the busy flurry of raising children is over if I will miss it.  I wondered if I would have the energy to do this again tomorrow.  I wondered at what opportunities I had missed, what things I should have done differently, what my kids would remember about their childhood.
     As my glance moved upward I noticed a new addition to the room.  Upon the windowsill, stood a large plastic tumbler, nearly brimming with water.  Floating on the top were a few hydrangeas—rosy blooms—a reminder of the splendor that remains when all the impatient flowers in the yard have long since withered.  Sometime between, “Where’s your sweatshirt?”  And “Put your shin guards on!”  my eldest son had thought of me.  He had picked me some flowers, carefully preserved them, climbed upon the counter like a monkey to get the tumbler, filled it with water and snuck it into my bedroom upon my windowsill.
     I sat there in amazement, and in deep gratitude.  In the midst of the whirlwind, my oldest son reminded me to stop and treasure the flowers.  I walked into his bedroom to hug him and thank him—but there he was, exhausted—sleeping, with the face of an angel.
     It’s been 2 days now, and that big plastic tumbler still sits on my windowsill.  The hydrangeas have slumped a bit in their generous bog.  But, the mere sight of them fills me with joy—and when I walk by them I’m reminded not to let the clock around my wrist keep me from missing the hydrangeas on my sill.

Be Still

Be Still

When the surf of disappointment washes over me

And eyes darkened by grief fail in hope to see,

When my identity –crafted by my hand—crumbles before man

And the high places I constructed withering fail to stand,

When those I love shrink back in fear

And all my efforts fade like mist,

You beckon me come closer.

You pursue though I resist.

When grief so deep enshrouds my soul,

When I ran so far and fast

To shake the depths of the night

Though I knew relief wouldn’t last,

When joy is an elusive butterfly

I could see but n’er catch

And peace a winsome breeze

Never caught in my net.

When my toil exhausted, mind unrelenting,

In never ending work

Up again, must do again, n’er slacking

Never shirk.

Busy. Oh stay busy. Lest your mind come rest on grief.

Busy.  Stay so busy. Navigate  tumultuous sea.

Always working. Never shirking. 

Like the buzzing of a bee.

Stay busy.  Oh so busy.  Lest your mind come rest on grief.

But for love could divine rest exert  It’s perfect will

Oh so busy but I love you so I grant you to be still.

Be still my child—you may not move—sit right here—toil not.

Be still my child—rest.  Listen.  Learn.  The sea with peril fraught.

Be still and rest.  Lean back and sleep.

You can entrust  Me with your ease.

The wind and waves still know My name

The surf and sea is mine to tame

You toil for not—dear child so weary

Labor not.  Observe my perfect will.

Dear child, for this season

Come here. Rest.

Be still.

Two Years

     Two years.  It's been nearly two years since the worst day of my life.  It's supposedly a milestone marker when the paralyzing grip of grief lifts and you are able to live "normally" again.  At least that's what all the people who have not lived through it say. That is what people who are not a suicide loss survivor may say.  What they don't realize is there is no time line.  Grief is ongoing and ebbs and flows in waves no one can predict or control. The more you try to get a grip the more the relentless waves  overwhelm you.  I have learned the better choice is to yield, keep afloat, and allow the waves to wash over you. Feel the power and the fear and the loss --and then passively allow that which seeks to overwhelm you subside into the surf.  It's always there and you know it will return. But the momentary peace is pleasant and you learn to negotiate the intrepid waters of grief better with the passage of time.
     I am sitting here watching the NFC championship.  I am not some avid football fan.  Prior to February of 2015 I was a casual Patriot's fan.   When they started kicking butt, I started paying attention.  Willow however-- she was a diehard fan.  She LOVED her football.  I still remember going to her brother's high school football games and leaping to her feet and cheering when the team made a good play.  She was my cousin--7 years older than me and I looked up to her in so many ways.  However, growing up next to her we really grew up like sisters and became life long best friends.
     So here I sit, watching the NFC game to find out who will play our beloved Patriots in the Superbowl-- because that is what Willow would have done.  I do other things in her honor too. When given the choice between good coffee and mediocre cheap coffee-- I choose the good coffee.  When my kids ask if they can use up the can of whipped cream on their waffles-- I say yes now.  When I can wear one of the sweaters, shawls, hats, mittens or scarves she knit for me-- I do. They encircle me and comfort me like a warm hug from my sister over the horizon.  
     Two years.  In some ways those 730 days seem eternal.  In other ways-- my last memories of her seem raw for she is forever frozen in time in the final moments I saw her.  I have analyzed those final moments a million times.  What signs did I miss? What could I have done?  If I could only go back.... These are the haunting questions every suicide loss survivor shares and shapes their special brand of pain.  Suicide is one of the leading preventable causes of death. With prevention comes responsibility and unfortunately the guilt of that prevention often rests squarely on the shoulders of those left in the wake, surviving a suicide loss.  However, what is also true is that we as a society must all make access to mental healthcare and knowing the signs of mental distress a priority.  These skills are easier to learn and act on when you are not in a crisis.  In much the same way as we all learn CPR and the Heimlich maneuver in order to aid loved ones in an unexpected time of crisis--we all need to know the signs of mental distress and where to get help BEFORE a loved one is exhibiting signs of depression, anxiety, or suicidal action.  We all have a responsibility to tear down the stigma that prevents people from getting help. 
     I encourage everyone in the hearing of this blog to attend a free Community Mental Health Awareness Night 2/1/17 at 7:00 PM in Dover, NH.  We have assembled 7 mental health and suicide prevention advocacy groups in one place for an unprecedented forum where lifesaving information will be shared.  Suicide prevention is everyone's business for in your lifetime it is statistically highly likely you will be touched by suicide in one way or another.  Don't wait.  Get informed today and register!

https://m.signupgenius.com/#!/showSignUp/20f0445aaaa2fa1fb6-youare

Crockpot from Heaven

     I slammed the cupboard door with a resounding thud.  "Really,  the crockpot?  He took the crockpot?"  Hadn't he taken enough?  My hopes for the future.  My dreams of an intact family.  I had lost 15 pounds in the fourth month of  pregnancy with my first son and was hospitalized on bedrest.  He left.  He decided he didn't feel like being married after eight years of marriage and he left me to be a single mom.  He didn't want to be a dad and he had completely lost his mind.   And now, he had taken the darn crockpot too.  He didn't even know how to use the crockpot. I can't even remember the last time he cooked anything.  I had been crushed.  I had been broken and wallowing in despair.  But, at this moment I was just plain mad.  I was mad at God.  That man had taken so much from me in the blink of an eye and now I didn't even have a crockpot to make dinner while I worked long hours to support my son and I.  I finished packing up the kitchen for my move and cried myself to sleep.  There was no time or tears left to linger here.  I sold the house and was moving to a cheaper condo near my job.  Life had not been fair or what I had expected but it marched on....tears and all.

     Some weeks later, as I was starting to show my pregnancy,  I began the process of moving into my new home.  An army of friends surrounded me and cleaned, painted, and repaired my new humble abode because I still was not allowed to lift anything too heavy.  My dear friend Diane was scrubbing out the kitchen cupboards when I heard her laugh out loud and call me into the kitchen.  She had been party to many grumbling sessions where I cursed him for leaving and then taking the crockpot on top of it all.  She would nod sympathetically and hug me and pray for my wounded heart--that somehow I could look beyond this crushing blow to the hopeful new future God had in store for me as a mom.  I had witnessed God's unfailing provision in so many ways-- the quick sale of the house, the provision of funds  to cover my hospitalizations during the pregnancy and inability to work as a nurse due to my lifting restrictions, and of course the endless army of helpers that surrounded me at every turn.

I guess I thought I had used up my prayers.  I put God in a small box--the size of my ability to imagine provision and I did not allow myself to envision Him any bigger.  After all, who in their right mind prays for a crockpot?  You know--it's kind of silly.  There are people starving in Africa--sleeping on the ground.  Some people don't even have a cupboard...so that would be selfish, and a waste of a prayer, right?  Yeah, I know he numbers the hairs on my head but that doesn't mean he wants me to eat steaming hot pot roast when I get home from work.  Oh yeah, and there is that too--if He really cared I wouldn't be in this situation to begin with, right?  Yeah.  Right. I begged Him and I prayed night after night for God to change my husband's heart and He didn't......so why would he care about my stupid crockpot?  Yes, I had put God in a very small box indeed.

Diane called me again. She beaconed me to the kitchen, "Kim, you've gotta see this!"  I waddled in, tired from the move.  I could feel Isaac kicking.  It wouldn't be long at all.  Honestly, I was expecting she had found a pipe leak or  something else broken.  My bitter heart was expecting the worst.  Diane's grin was as wide as the sky-- her eyes twinkled and she had a tear streaming down her face.  The cupboard was wide open and she pointed.  "Look, Kim, do you see it?"  There on the bottom shelf, still sealed and new in the box was a crockpot. A brand new crockpot.  My heart stopped.  In His sovereign loving care  God had provided a brand new crockpot for his bitter, broken, angry child-- to show her He still loved her, He still was in control--and yes, He did want her to have steaming hot pot roast after a long day at work. 

My box was broken that day.  I realized that no care is too small, no request too silly, and no need too obscure to bring to the One who loves my soul.  He will not always protect me from the trial but He will walk me through it--sometimes carry me through it--and He will provide all I need to the very end. And sometimes, just because He loves me He provides things I don't need.  But, just like a loving earthly father, He desires to lavishly grace us with our heart's desires when it is good for us.  That crockpot from heaven taught me I can trust God to provide for my every need and then some. 

Willow's Run

In the spring of 2005 Aunt Willow sat in the middle of our living room with a pile of boys around her as she always did.  She had a grand idea for the backyard, and wide-eyed Logan, not even 2 years old--chubby cheeked Caleb who was nearly 4, and precocious Isaac who would be turning 6-- were frozen as they listened intently.  She wanted to buy them a swing set.  The real sturdy wooden kind with a fort on top....one that Daddy would build-- not the flimsy metal kind that hops and skips when you get the swing high enough to reach the stars.  A swing set! Aunt Willie was going to buy us a swing set!

I remember it well.  Willow and Pete took off to the lumber yard and returned with a rough plan and a book of accessories for the boys to choose from. There was a steering wheel to go atop the fort, a telescope to spy distant ships, a panel of controls and the list went on.  The boys had to pick two.  Since Isaac was the most vocal he quickly put in his vote and the always agreeable Caleb quickly acquiesced. They would need a steering wheel to steer their ship and a telescope to spot their enemies. It was decided.  Daddy got to work right away.  Every time Aunt Willow came to visit she was like a kid herself....scampering to the back yard to see the progress that had been made.  She was magical.  She was incredibly generous and sprinkled those she loved with joy.  I still can hear her hearty laugh as her boys would tumble off the swing set to come see their Aunt Willie as she pulled in the driveway....they would run to her and leap into her arms with big hugs and the littlest one would get lifted way up in the air and get "zerberts" on his belly with squeals of giggling.  She would call out their pet names-- "I-man, Shorty, and Lumpy" and suddenly it was "Aunt Willie Time" and the boys would relish her very presence for as long as she could stay.

When we unexpectedly had to move from that house two years later, the boys were adamant that "Aunt Willie's swing set" had to come....and so it did.  Truth is we all wanted it to come. We couldn't imagine leaving it behind.  It had provided so many hours of entertainment...and thus peace for me that it was not even a question.  The swing set nestled into it's new setting with ease.  It was erected before many of our rooms were unpacked. 

While a gaggle of three boys was busy playing on their fort, mom and dad really could accomplish so much more.  There were grand builds in the sandbox in which toads were captured from the woods and temporarily became part of the play set where Lego guys and Tonka trucks were only allowed to tread.  There were games of tag and monkey bar antics hanging upside-down. There were whirling plunges down the slide. There were skinned knees and smiles, imaginary monsters and squeals of delight.  There were fights about whose turn it was, and tears.  There were apologies, and sneaky tricks, giggles and grins. There were melted ice cream cones, spilt juice cups, caterpillar "habitats" and ant corrals. There were secret clubs and meetings in the fort.  There were signs erected, "No girls allowed".  There was a contented mama sipping her lemonade and watching it all.  Watching it all and thanking Aunt Willie.  I would treasure the times she would visit and sit beside me and witness it all herself. 

We would joke about growing old together...about wearing purple....about watching the boys grown up and get married.  She wanted to open a café and make soup and teach people how to knit.  I thought it was a fine idea and thought it would be great to join her when Peter retired.  She was my cousin---the boy's Aunt Willie...but for 44 years we were joined at the heart.  We would reminisce about our childhood together, life on the farm, our Nanny and our Bumpy, or any of the hundreds of "Thelma and Louise" like adventures we had been on together in our decades long friendship. 

Today I wandered out into the yard after a rain storm.  The swing set was damp and had the look of an abandoned ghost town.  A few broken trucks dotted the sandbox and the grass around the swing is tall...for no foot steps trample it down like they used to.   Those boys are now nearly 18, 16, and 14.  Swing sets are for little boys.  Over the past few years I've thought long and hard about if it should be torn down...reconstructed in someone else's yard where it can live again and ignite the imagination of other littles....however, as I sit here on the damp steps with tears streaming down my face I cannot do it.  I am not one to hold onto worldly possessions.  When the boys outgrow clothes I give them away immediately.  If I haven't used a cookbook or worn a piece of clothing in 6 months it is fair game to be gone.  I don't want to be tied down, cluttered, or encumbered.  However, I just cannot part with this skeleton in my yard.

You see, 18 months ago Aunt Willie took her own life.  In a tragic, horrible, unexpected, and crushing blow she was gone.  And now, I cannot part with the gift she gave us that provided years of laughter, blessings, imagination, and fun...because that was also WHO she was to us.  As I lean against the old timbers, weathered, worn--they provide little comfort from the loss except to remind me of a happier time-- that day in the living room with a pile of boys gathered around her, wide eyed, and the shrieks of joy when they learned about their new swing set that was coming.

Suicide changes everything.  It kills a person...but it also kills dreams.  It kills hopes.  It kills plans.  It kills innocence.  But it cannot kill love and it cannot kill faith.  If you have never experienced it in your life than you are very blessed.  However, statistics being the cruel purveyor of truth they are-- indicate that in our lifetime each of us will be intimately touched by suicide in some way.  It is the leading preventable cause of death in many age groups. 

Willow's Run was created as a charitable run/walk to eliminate the stigma and barriers to discussing suicide and raising funds and awareness for suicide prevention and education.  I never envisioned, as I watched my boys playing under the swing set-- that my life would take this turn.  I am an accidental advocate.   I found myself in a place of such horror and deep pain that the only way out was to do the most loving thing I could muster--and that is to tell my unlikely story of an ordinary mom who had an extraordinary relationship with a cousin she loved like a sister. All I can do is educate people to know the signs of suicide, not to be afraid to get help and talk about it, and to support programs that are working in our community. Perhaps when you hear my story, you will stop imagining this happens to other people and you will start being aware that it could happen to you and you will be more aware...eyes wider open...smarter...and know what to do and what to look for.  With knowledge comes the ability to act.

Perhaps you have an Aunt Willie in your life.  They are the magical, beautiful, sensitive people who have been wounded, are dealing with mental illness, who perhaps cannot see past the pain of today.  Please visit our web site, please come to our event and please donate if you are able. If you or someone you  love are in crisis please don't wait. Call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline-         1-800-273- TALK.

Hope. Help. Healing.  It's the only way to move forward.

God Bless.
Kim

www.willowsrun.wordpress.com

The Hard Miles

     Every runner knows that for every mile where the wind is at your back and the sun is shining gently on your face, and the tar is flying under your feet-- there are nearly the same number of miles where the hills are steep, the sweat burns your eyes, and you question your own judgment of merely stepping out the door.  That’s just how it is.  If you’re going to do it—there are going to be hard miles.  There are miles when the trees dance by you in gentle breezes cooling you and urging you on to the end.  Then there are the miles where your energy ebbs, your legs burn, and your feet talk back persistently.  Every runner knows there are easy miles and hard miles—but they are all good miles.

     Running can teach you a lot about life.  This has been a year of incredible loss and grief for me.  I’ve lost two of my best friends.  I lost my lifelong best friend and honorary cousin/sister when she tragically took her own life earlier this year.  The pain was—and is—overwhelming at times.  I need to choose daily to let God heal me and not let the grief cloak me in its shroud.  Then, just two weeks ago, I lost a friend whose favorite activities included chasing squirrels and playing with her squeaky hedgehog.  Sierra, our nearly 12 year old family dog succumbed to cancer and slipped peacefully away.  Grief upon grief—watching my children yet again mourn a loved one lost they had known their whole life.

     If you scan your friend’s Facebook pages it is easy to perceive that loss, grief, sadness, and mourning, are abnormal--that there is something wrong with you if that is your present lot.  However, that is not the truth.  Unfortunately, in this life the hard miles are part of the journey.  Everyone has them—even if they don’t talk about them.  Maybe if we did talk about them we wouldn’t feel so isolated when we have them.  When you are running some hard miles you have two choices.  You can get out there and do the work of grief, rebuilding, hoping, trying, reaching, and striving.  Or—you can give up.  You can choose not to let your feet hit the floor that day.  In the process, our world—no matter how safe, gets increasingly smaller as we choose not to make ourselves vulnerable to love and lose, hope and fail, dream and be disappointed.

     Over the past year, during these very hard miles—I’ve learned some very important things.  First, I’ve learned faith will get me through.  Hope in a better future will help to heal, and the love of friends and family is the very best salve of all.  I’ve learned some deep lessons about the adequacy of prayers that have no words because your heart is too wounded to speak.  I’ve felt the unspeakable comfort of friends who have no words—who just hug me and cry with me.  I’ve experienced the incredible grace of a wounded spirit who is learning to gingerly, carefully, expectantly, put one foot in front of the other.  These are lessons you do not learn running easy miles.  So, while no one ever really chooses the hard miles, they do prepare you, teach you, mold you, and shape you in a way the easy miles never could.  This year, I’ve learned that a mile is a mile.  Easy or hard---with faith, hope, and love—they are all good.

 

Run on.

D Day--Failure Was Not An Option

 

    Peter Jacob Mihelich was a 23 year old Staff Sergeant on the morning of June 7, 1944 as his landing craft approached Omaha Beach.  He was tossed against his 68 pound pack in the choppy, ink black Atlantic waters.  The 457^th Anti-Aircraft Artillery/ Automatic Weapons Battalion was slated to arrive the day before—D-Day.  However, due to the stiff Nazi resistance and catastrophic destruction of the heavy equipment their unit was supporting, Peter and many others were delayed until the beach was secured (Personal communication, P. Mihelich, July 8, 2014). As fate would have it, he arrived one day after a scene of horror erupted on Omaha Beach.  It was the moment all of Europe held its collective breath for and dreaded all at once.  It is a moment I have imagined frequently, because that man was the father-in-law I never met.  He went on to raise a family, including my husband.  D-Day was a feat of unprecedented planning and cooperation and the perilous Omaha beach invasion nearly failed.  How preparation and bravery came together on this historic day leaves us all to wonder, "What if it had failed?"

          Five years of war had left Great Britain in utter shambles, denied even basic comforts.  The sewers and streets were rampant with rats and routine provisions were scarce. British men could buy a new shirt every 20 months and food rationing put limits such as two ounces of cheese monthly on citizens (Atkinson, 2013)  People improvised--a bit of twisted wire became a hair tie.  Their palate changed to avoid rations--eels were harvested from London streams. Every resource possible was poured into the war effort.  Their very existence was at stake. 

     Tens of thousands of Londoners sheltered nightly in the putrid subway, “The Tube”.  Mandatory blackouts from 10:30 pm to 5:22 am (Atkinson, 2013) sent citizens hiding in the fearsome dark during the air raids. Children had been evacuated to the country—Great Britain’s future ushered far from the impending danger to a hopeful future. In these desperate conditions, Great Britain looked to their strongest ally for help conquering a common foe.

     There had been talk amongst the Allies of a European invasion for some time but it was not until decisive victories fractured the Axis that the Allies would loosen Hitler’s strangle hold on Europe.  In November of 1942 the Allies began the invasion of North Africa, fighting through Tunisia and west to Egypt.  After fierce combat through Sicily and the Italian mainland Mussolini’s regime met a humiliating and abrupt end in September of 1943 (Atkinson, 2013).  At long last the Allies could focus on Europe. D-Day planning began in earnest.

     The sight and timing of the invasion were crucial, so skilled meteorologists were enlisted. The weather, beach conditions, moon and tidal phases, air field sites, distance from harbors and location of the German forces were all considered.  Additional barriers were the stronghold of the Atlantic Wall which Hitler had utilized 260,000 laborers and ten years to build.  It consisted of 15,000 concrete fortifications from Belgium to Northern France (Berman, 1994). After thorough study,   Hitler’s Achilles was found in Normandy, a relative weak spot in the wall.

    The timeline of the invasion was a source of great debate from experts who had calculated there were only 6 ideal days considering tides and moon glow—add the element of weather to that and there was only a tiny window of opportunity. June 5^th was the first choice for an invasion day, but severe weather forced a delay.  Top meteorologists eventually concurred there would be a window of 36 hours of fair weather for war operations.  With that prospect, it was decided the liberation of Europe would commence on June 6, 1944 (Berman, 1994).

     The man charged with this task was Dwight D. Eisenhower, a 53 year old well-seasoned war veteran who smoked up to 80 cigarettes daily, contributing to a myriad of health problems (Atkinson, 2013).  No doubt, he had mulled over a European victory in his mind to exhaustion.  He was a War Department Planner, a Senior American Soldier in London in 1942, and Commanding General of the invasion of North Africa, Sicily and mainland Italy.  In the spring of 1943 he was promoted to Commander of the Supreme Headquarter Allied Expeditionary Force (Atkinson, 2013).

     The details of the Normandy land battle were delegated to General Bernard Montgomery.  Montgomery’s battle plan was succinct, “Armored columns must penetrate deep inland, and quickly, on D-Day.  This will upset the enemy plan and tend to hold him off while we build up strength.  We must gain space rapidly, and peg out claims well inland“(Atkinson, 2013 p. 5).  The plan for quickly conquering the beaches and amassing land would be costly and require unprecedented cooperation and innovation—and the resulting epic battle would be hallowed for generations as a prime example of bravery in the face of a menacing enemy.

     To prepare for the invasion the Allies conducted secret mock drills called Operation Tiger in April of 1944 in the northern channel village of Slapton Sands.  The 3000 residents were evacuated while drills with new equipment were carried out (Culpepper 2008).  Tragically, on their return trip German U-boats attacked, killing 749 soldiers and their valuable equipment sunk to the bottom of the channel. The knowledge they gained proved to be very valuable though.  For example, the Allies learned the timing and techniques of clearing underwater debris, barriers, and mines prior to landing craft arriving (Berman, 1994).

     While equipment and plans were readied, so were the men.  Eight million men were drafted from 1942-1944.  The average soldier was 26 years old, but on D-Day more than 50% of the combatants were teenagers.  A soldier earned $50.00 a month for his brave efforts.  To increase the pool of eligible soldiers the Army lowered its standard entry requirements.  Draftees were only required to have one good eye, one good ear and could be missing a thumb or three fingers on one hand—trigger finger included.  They didn’t even need teeth (Atkinson, 2013).  In wartime America it was ‘all hands on deck’. 

     Recruits arrived 15,000 at a time via the Queen Elizabeth or Queen Mary through several British and Scottish ports. The trip from New York took merely 5 days. They were welcomed to “Spamland”, a city of 400,000 prefabricated huts and 279,000 tents erected to house the men and equipment of the Allied forces (Atkinson, 2013), staged to win back the European continent.  The nauseating smell of feces burned in the coal fired incinerators, no fuel was wasted.  The Brits tolerated the rambunctious “Yanks” and in a time of tight rationing, Britain rolled out the red carpet, providing massive provisions—including beer.

     On May 23, 1944 troops dispersed to their final staging areas.  British citizens watched them pass, but weren’t allowed to speak to them (Atkinson, 2013). Extraordinary security included banning more than 600,000 visitors monthly from the coast that spring.  Two thousand counter intelligence officers fluent in 22 languages combed the countryside looking for any suspicious activity. Censors examined soldier’s letters seeking leaks and any building or vehicle involved in the invasion effort standing more than 10 minutes was camouflaged (Atkinson, 2013).  They even proactively passed on false information to known German agents, throwing them off the trail (Czech, 1995).  This may have contributed to the Nazi belief that an Allied invasion would go through Calais, France at the narrowest part of the English Channel, thus concentrating much of the Nazi’s deadly forces there and leaving them spread very thin elsewhere.

      Early on June 6, 1944 soldiers were issued seasickness pills and bags, 68.4 pounds of gear, and skunk suits impregnated to defend against poisonous gas.  Then 200,000 seamen with 59 convoys of 130,000 soldiers, 2000 tanks and 12, 000 vehicles set out for the Normandy coast (Atkinson, 2013).   The landing craft tanks (LCTs) were slow, weakly structured and they “rolled and pitched in the great undulating waves…of the English Channel” (Culpepper, 2008 p. 44).

     On board were the anxious, quivering, crying scores of soldiers preparing to fight their greatest battle. Some soldiers hung their heads softly in silent prayers.  Others, attempting to lighten the mood joked glibly.  Victor Fast, a surviving soldier of D-Day noted of some of his comrades, “they were sweating blood, literally” (Culpepper, 2008 p. 46).   As they approached the beaches officers read inspirational messages from Eisenhower and Montgomery. Chaplains prayed over soldiers, barely out of boyhood. They dispersed—Utah met light resistance. The British, Canadians and free French fighters quickly took Juno, Gold, and Sword beaches.  However, by all accounts—Omaha Beach was a blood bath.

          As the beaches were sighted,  the Allied Navy sent bombardments sailing over their heads with a dizzying whirl and war planes soared overhead.  German defenses fired cannons from their trenches and bunkers.  Initially, the landing craft doors were opened too soon, swamping disoriented, seasick soldiers with heavy gear in water over their waist. Equipment that took great manpower to ferry across quickly became useless as all but five of the Sherman tanks never made it safely to shore. Belgian Gates, underwater barriers of reinforced iron frames atop rollers snarled many landing craft to the demise of the men (Austra, 1999).

     The first soldiers to land on Omaha were from the 29^th and 1^st Infantry Divisions, also known as “The Big Red One” because of their distinguished combat resume (Austra, 1999).  Soldiers who did make the beach encountered barbed wire and heavy sniper fire above.  The dead littered the beach and washed ashore in a gruesome display of war.  It was a relentless massacre.

      German Major Werner Pluskat of the 352^nd Artillery was violently awakened at 1:00 am to Allied aircraft flying overhead and called his superior officers to inform them.  He was quickly dismissed and assured the Allied invasion would be coming via Calais.  He called them back some time later with reports of paratroopers landing, prompting General Marcks to put the 21^st Panzer Division on alert at 2:00 am.  However, by 5:00 am the Allied fleet was in view of Pluskat’s Omaha Beach bunker, which survived naval and air bombardments with  his phone line intact (Austra, 1999). The slow response prevented Nazi reinforcements from bearing down on the bruised American landing force, allowing a glimmer of hope.

     Down on the beach, the Americans continued their slow, bloody progress.  Grave registration staff sifted amidst a fiery hail, performing their macabre work among soldiers coming ashore (Czeck, 1995).  Such mass chaos and lack of communication prevailed that a tortured General Bradley considered evacuation and diversion of troops to Utah or the British beaches.  For example, troops reported that German fire was coming from a church steeple high over Omaha bluff.  However, with orders not to fire on churches or hospitals, it took 24 hours for command to allow elimination of the German stronghold (Culpepper, 2008).

     Hope appeared by 7:00 a.m. when the Americans opened six gaps in the German defenses on the beach.   By 8:30 am Company C and the 5^th Ranger Battalion landed and captured the rifle pits on the cliffs.  Spurned on to persist, Bradley allowed two additional divisions to land, further reinforcing the effort. The 116^th 3^rd Battalion and 16^th Infantry Division, along with the 1^st and 29^th Infantry Divisions made progress inland and eventually forced the surrender of German bunkers (Austra, 1999).     

      By 10:30 am the 37^th 146 Combat Engineers arrived with their bulldozers, clearing minefields and breaking through gaps in the sea wall. The Navy continued to pound strongholds on the cliffs. At noon, more Sherman tanks arrived.  This time they made it onto the beach (Austra, 1999). Simultaneously, the 1^st Infantry Division cleansed the beaches and the bluffs of threats, adapting quickly to the treacherous conditions they confronted on first arrival.  By nightfall the Germans were pushed one mile back from the beach (Czech, 1995).   However, this triumph was not free.  Within the first two days of conflict the 2^nd Ranger Battalion had 60% of their men become casualties of war.  The 1^st Division losses are best estimated to be 1, 036 brave soldiers while the 29^th Division and Corps troops experienced 743 and 441 losses respectively (Austra, 1999).  All told, the Allies experienced 10,377 casualties on D-Day (Weider History Group, 2014).   For the Allies it was a staggering albeit expected loss. Battered and demoralized, they began the long battle for Normandy’s hedgerows and the eventual liberation of Paris on August 25^th, 1944.

   The men fighting valiantly on the beach were not alone though.  In the air, 430,000 sorties by the American and English air forces (Hughes, 2003) bombed strategic Nazi strongholds above Normandy, dropped paratroopers to hold prime targets, and deliver supplies.  A grand coordination of air, land and sea efforts was under Eisenhower’s command through the Allied Expeditionary Force and Air Vice Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory (Hughes, 2003).  The tenuous chain of command required brokering and compromise on the part of Eisenhower.  Snafus and lack of communication and cooperation between the US Air Force and British bombers left many historians to view the Normandy air campaign as largely unsuccessful.  Bombs that were intended to destroy Nazi beach positions overshot their targets leaving cliff bunkers largely untouched (Symonds, 2014). However, the lessons learned regarding coordination of joint command operations are relevant today.

    Air operations included 820 C-47 troop carriers that dropped more than 13,000 paratroopers in an effort to seize territory near Sainte-Mere-Eglise and other key geography under cover of darkness (Haulman, 2014).   The brave paratroopers were plagued by insurmountable hardships resulting in them not achieving their objectives or being greatly delayed.  Landmarks were shrouded by darkness and clouds, without the benefit of night vision technology.  Also navigation equipment was in short supply, only aboard lead planes. The thick clouds forced pilots to break their tight formation mid-air to avoid collision.  The paratroopers and planes encountered a hail of anti-aircraft fire.  Most of the troop movers were not trained fighter pilots so it was a terrifying ordeal (Haulman, 2014).   With radio silence ordered, they were flying blind and deaf into enemy hands.

     The destroyers that had bombarded the beach prior to the landing craft descending on Omaha had taken positions off shore to allow room for the invasion force.  By 8:30 am, when the forces were being tattered and distress calls went out, dozens of destroyers set a course full speed to annihilate the targets on the beach cliffs.  Some of the destroyers took up positions only 800-1,000 yards from the beach, precariously close to underwater mine hazards with mere feet of depth to clear their keel. A fortunate benefit to their presence was a stark decrease in gunfire raining down on the beach from Germans not wanting to reveal their positions (Symonds, 2014).

     Immediately after the combat forces started the journey across the English Channel, support troops prepared for the fight inland and the mission of supplying the troops.  Mulberry Harbors, great floating ports that had taken 150 American and British private sector civil engineers to plan and construct, were towed piecemeal across the Channel and erected to supply combat troops (Brown, 2013).  This massive effort of collaborative ingenuity was another example of the unprecedented planning that went into this historic day, leaving a legacy of technology.

     So, what if?  What if the Omaha beach landing had failed?  Grimsley (2013) states, “Only their valor in inching toward and destroying obstacles barring access to the beach exits prevented catastrophe” (p.84).  Historians have proposed theories exploring if Bradley’s initial instinct to retreat from Omaha had come to fruition.  What if a few more bad reports had landed on his ears?  Grimsley (2013) relates that it only took a few hundred soldiers reaching the protected area of the cliffs to turn the tide toward victory.  All the alternative scenarios whereby the Allies did not hold Omaha leave a catastrophic breach in the Allied invasion—an opportunity that the Nazis would have surely capitalized on, possibly leading to utter failure of the Allied effort to liberate the European continent.  Most historians agree if the first invasion had ultimately failed, the Allies had little chance of piercing the Nazi armor.

       For his service throughout the war, Peter Jacob Mihelich earned a bronze star, two good conduct medals,  a victory ribbon for Europe, a bronze arrowhead for D-Day, and 4 campaign stars (Personal communication, P. Mihelich, July 8, 2014).  He didn’t speak of his service, but stoically carried on with life.  In fact, this is what most veterans did—resuming training, careers, and family-- perhaps going to an occasional reunion where they shared their memories freely (Crockett, 2013).  While unspoken, they carried with them a burden of memory of Omaha-- buddies plowed down by enemy fire-- sights, sounds and smells of war that one never forgets, rears up in dreams, and forever changes your view of the world.

     Seventy years later, D-Day is remembered in solemn ceremonies as the finest example of people with common values coming together with their collective resources to conquer a mortal threat.  A world ruled by an evil dictator actively engaged in genocide was not an option.  Although the price was high--the bravery, ingenuity, and fortitude of the soldiers was greater.  The lessons we learned have rippled through generations.  We can all be eternally grateful that in the hour of greatest need, unprecedented cooperation and valor allowed freedom to prevail.

 

 

 

This is a picture of Peter Jacob Mihelich that his son Peter Gerard obtained from a US Army Archival website.  Although the photo is not labeled, from his research, Peter G. believes this picture of his father was taken in April, 1945 somewhere in central Germany just about 1 month before the war was completed.  The gun pictured is an anti-aircraft gun, which he would have operated and repaired.  Later, Peter Jacob went on to become a design engineer at Grumman Aircraft, and was instrumental in designing the electrical systems for the lunar model, the F-14 fighters, X-29 experimental jet, and the wiring system of the shuttle wings.

Peter Jacob Mihelich approximately April 1945 Central Germany

Obtained from www.usarmy.germany.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

References

 

"Air Defense Units." 457th AAA.. <http://www.usarmy.germany.com>.

Atkinson, R. (2013). The road to D-Day. Foreign affairs, 92(4), 55-75.

Austra, K. (1999). Desperate hours on Omaha beach. World War II, 14(2), 38-46.

Berman, M. (1994). D-day and geography. Geographical Review, 84(4), 469-476.

Brown, J. (2013). Turning the tide of war: the Mulberry Harbors.Civil engineering, 83(12), 46-49.

Crockett, W. (2012). Becoming the "greatest generation", Company B, 137th Infantry Regiment. Kansas History, 35(4), 234-249.

Culpepper, M. M. (2008). Never will we forget oral histories of World War II. Westport, Conn.: Praeger Security International.

Czech, K. (1995). The beaches of Normandy. Cobblestone, 16(1), 28-32.

Grimsley, M. (2013). What if the Omaha Beach landings had failed?. World War II, 27(5), 83-84.

Haulman, D. (2014, Summer). Before the D-Day dawn: the performance of the troop carriers at Normandy. Air Power History, 2, 6-10.

Hughes, T. A. (2003). Normandy. Air & Space Power Journal, 17(4), 16-29.

Symonds, C. (2014). 'The Navy saved our hides'. Naval History, 28(3), 24-29.

Weider History Group. (2014). D-Day. American History, 49(2), 68-71.