Note: Unlike most of my letters written in 2019-2021, this one is neither satirical nor humorous. Also unlike the others, it is also true. And finally, to complete the unlikeness to the others, it is not original. The core of this story—the encounter between my aunts and the gallant veterans—is from a true story written by my mom, Alice Burns. I expanded on her nice anecdote and I added the history fore and aft, all to no avail; I submitted it to half a dozen military publications, but it was never published.
Each year on the anniversary of D-Day, I think of the resolve of America and its allies. What they did on June 6 was incredible, but it was not just a single day’s effort. That massive counterattack was the pointy end of a spear that had been created by whole populations who bent every effort and every resource to fighting the war, for years on end.
Among the contributors were women who worked in industry, in jobs traditionally performed by men. We all know the legends of Rosie the Riveter and Wendy the Welder. They were effective propaganda characters and images, but they also happened to be based on millions of real women who invaded the factories with no less determination than that shown by the men who stormed the beaches of Normandy.
Years after they had passed away, I was proud to learn that two of my aunts had been WWII Rosies. My mom, their younger sister, told me how late in their lives, when both were widowed, she had taken my aunts to visit a WWII exhibit at a naval base.
While viewing a display of a battle-damaged section of a ship’s hull, they spoke of their work as riveters. A group of WWII veterans—the kind of men you used to see in larger numbers, always well-dressed when out and about and with ball caps with their ship name embroidered across the front--began chatting with them.
My aunts told the men that they had probably riveted parts of the ships on which the men had served.
One of the veterans said solemnly, “Yes, Ma’am. We always knew when we were on a ship you had riveted.”
My aunts asked, “How in the world did you know that?”
The fellow said, “It was the pretty ships.”
June 6, 1944. Blue skies alternating with clouds. Cold salt spray in the face. Flags flying and hearts pounding as the armada neared the shore. Stomachs churning. Weapons locked and loaded. No turning back. Some would not make it through that day or, if they did, through that war. Still they came, these old men—when they were young—with whole countries and with these old women—when they were young—behind them, not wanting them to do it but wishing them forward nonetheless. The Medal of Honor is an arbitrary thing. They could have handed them out to every man who stepped onto a ship or climbed into an airplane bound for Normandy, and to all the Rosies back home. But in a time when unimaginable heroism had become the daily norm, it was unlikely that anyone would have accepted such a thing.
These smooth-talking men did survive that battle and lived long enough to try one more invasion—one that was gracefully repelled by my aunts.
Thank you veterans, and thank you Rosies, of that and all other wars. May there come a day when we don’t need people to do what you did.
-30-