11-11

Soon the drone of voices died down as men in their blankets lay down to get the much need rest they would require in a few hours. I think that very few of them slept. They probably were trying to picture what they would be doing at dawn in the gloom that confronted them. I think a lot of them prayed for the first time in their lives. And most of all dreamed of their homeland, and ones dear to them. Some wondered if they would be afraid, others felt they wouldn’t return, others felt a guardian over them, others didn’t know, they were the victim of circumstances and confined their odds to fate.
...
Then came the familiar words. “Driver Advance!” My foot gradually released the clutch pedal and I knew we were rolling off the T.L.C. It was not my hand but one of invisibility that guided me as my fingers touched the tiller bar. “A little left! Steady! Driver right!” Something was making me calm and stealing my nerves. Perhaps after all it was the hand of Fate. I felt Bloody proudly sway to and fro as she mounted the ramp and then defiantly plunge down onto the beach. Over the wire came, “Driver halt, blow your cortex.” Calmly amidst the din of the already raging battle I grasped the plug that would blow the water tight sealing and open my vision hatches onto the scene of Hell.
What I saw I have not enough words to describe but I shall always remember.

-excerpts from my Grandfather's journal the night before and morning of Dieppe


WWII was my grandfather's war. I know nothing of war. Nothing of the fear of being shot, of capture, or heroism and squandered lives. Not even the wars that are fought today are my wars. The idea is too far beyond me to wrap my head around. The tragedies are to large for me to comprehend or encapsulate. The whole too much to understand. So in trying to mourn the whole war I feel almost nothing. I simply can not understand it enough to feel it all. So on these days, on Remembrance Day I think of my Grandfather. My Grandfather who I only know from his war time journal that he left behind and the words of his children. My Grandfather who I know was so mentally and emotionally destroyed by the war that the man who left for the war never really came home. I understand this grief better, this morsel of the full story. And maybe just remembering this small part of the whole is what I'm supposed to do anyway.