The Guild 5-28-2004 World War II Memorial

The memorial honors the 16 million who served in the armed forces of the U.S. during World War II, the more than 400,000 who died, and the millions who supported the war effort from home. Symbolic of the defining event of the 20th Century, the memorial is a monument to the spirit, sacrifice, and commitment of the American people to the common defense of the nation and to the broader causes of peace and freedom from tyranny throughout the world. It will inspire future generations of Americans, deepening their appreciation of what the World War II generation accomplished in securing freedom and democracy. Above all, the memorial stands as an important symbol of American national unity, a timeless reminder of the moral strength and awesome power that can flow when a free people are at once united and bonded together in a common and just cause.

The first step in establishing the memorial was the selection of an appropriate site. Congress provided legislative authority for siting the memorial in the prime area of the national capital, known as Area I, which includes the National Mall. The National Park Service, the Commission of Fine Arts, and the National Capital Planning Commission approved selection of the Rainbow Pool site at the east end of the Reflecting Pool between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. President Clinton dedicated the memorial site during a formal ceremony on Veterans Day 1995.

ABMC engaged the General Services Administration’s (GSA) Public Buildings Service to act as its agent to manage the memorial project. The design submitted by Friedrich St.Florian, an architect based in Providence, R.I., was selected as one of six semi-finalists in an open, national competition. Leo A Daly, an international architecture firm, assembled the winning team with St.Florian as the design architect. The team also includes George E. Hartman of Hartman-Cox Architects, Oehme van Sweden & Associates, and sculptor Ray Kaskey. St.Florian’s memorial design concept was approved by the Commission of Fine Arts and the National Capital Planning Commission in the summer of 1998. The commissions approved the preliminary design in 1999, the final architectural design and several ancillary elements in 2000, granite selections in 2001, and sculpture and inscriptions in 2002 and 2003.

The memorial is funded primarily by private contributions. The fund-raising campaign was led by National Chairman Senator Bob Dole and National Co-Chairman Frederick W. Smith.

Senator Dole, a World War II veteran seriously wounded on the battlefield and twice decorated with the Bronze Star and Purple Heart, was the Republican nominee for president in 1996 and the longest-serving Republican Leader in the U.S. Senate.

Frederick W. Smith is chairman, president and chief executive officer of FedEx Corporation, a $17 billion global transportation and logistics holding company. He is a graduate of Yale and a former U.S. Marine Corps officer, and serves on the boards of various transport, industry and civic organizations.

The memorial received more than $195 million in cash and pledges. This total includes $16 million provided by the federal government.

Construction began in September 2001. The memorial opened to the public on April 29, 2004. The memorial will be dedicated on Saturday, May 29, 2004 -- Memorial Day Weekend.

The American Battle Monuments Commission is an independent, executive branch agency with 11 commissioners and a secretary appointed by the president. The ABMC administers, operates and maintains 24 permanent U.S. military cemeteries and 25 memorial structures in 15 countries around the world. The commission is also responsible for the establishment of other memorials in the U.S. as directed by Congress.

Pulitzer Prize winning photojournalist Max Desfor poses with his September 2, 1945 photograph (R) of Japan's formal surrender on the deck of the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay, at the Memories of World War II photography exhibition in Washington, May 24, 2004. The newly published documentary photography book 'Memories of World War II' is being released to coincide with the dedication of the National WWII Memorial in Washington on May 29. REUTERS/Hyungwon Kang

These photographs will be among of the images presented in AP's exhibit 'Memories of World War II''

American soldiers, riding camels while off duty, wave to a Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress in this March 1943 file photo, in Tunisia.

U.S. reinforcements wade through the surf as they land at Normandy in the days following the Allies' June 6,1944, D-Day invasion of occupied France.

U.S. troops in the Pacific islands continued to find enemy holdouts in this March 10, 1945 file photo long after the main Japanese forces had either surrendered or disappeared.

Looking north from 44th Street, New York's Times Square is packed Monday, May 7, 1945, with crowds celebrating the news of Germany's unconditional surrender in World War II.

U.S. Marines of the 28th Regiment of the Fifth Division raise the American flag atop Mt. Suribachi, Iwo Jima, on Feb. 23, 1945.

U.S. soldiers of Pennsylvania's 28th Infantry Division march along the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe in the background, on Aug. 29, 1944, four days after the liberation of Paris, France.

NAM VET NEWSLETTER | 13 May 1996 | Paul Bylin

MEMORIAL DAY

Memorial Day is their day, isn't it? It is supposed to be the day a
grateful nation pauses to quietly thank the more than one million men
and women who have died in military service to their country since
the Revolutionary War.

Or is it the day the beach resorts kick into high gear for the summer
season, the day the strand is covered by fish-belly white people
basting themselves in coconut oil, the day the off-season rates end
and the weekend you can't get in a seaside seafood restaurant with
anything less than a one hour wait.

Or is is one of the biggest shopping center sales days of the year, a
day when hunting for a parking space is the prime sport for the
holiday stay-at-homers?

Or is it the weekend when more people will kill themselves on the
highways than any other weekend and Highway Patrol troopers work
overtime picking up the pieces?

I think the men and women who died for us would understand what we do
with their day. I hope they would, because if they wouldn't, if they
would have insisted that it be a somber, respectful day of
remembrance, then we have blown it and dishonored their sacrifice.

I knew some of those who died, and the guys I knew would have
understood.

They liked a sunny beach and a cold beer and a hot babe in a black
bikini, too. They would have enjoyed packing the kids, the
inflatable rafts, the coolers, and the suntan lotion in the car and
heading for the lake. They would have enjoyed staying at home and
cutting the grass and getting together with some friends and cooking
some steaks on the grill, too.

But they didn't get the chance. They blew up in the Marine Barracks
in Beirut and died in the oily waters of the Persian Gulf. They
caught theirs at the airstrip in Grenada in the little war everyone
laughed at. They bought the farm in the I Drang Valley and on
Heartbreak Ridge, Phu Bai and at Hue. They froze at the Chosin
Reservoir and were shot at the Pusan Perimeter. They drowned in the
surf at Omaha Beach or fell in the fetid jungles of Guadalcanal.
They were at the Soame and at San Juan Hill and at Gettysburg and
at Cerro Gordo and at Valley Forge.

They couldn't be here with us this weekend, but I think they would
understand that we don't spend the day in tears and heart-wrenching
memorials. They wouldn't want that. Grief is not why they died.
They died so we could go fishing. They died so another father could
hold his laughing little girl over the waves. They died so another
father could toss a baseball to his son in their backyard while the
charcoal is getting white. They died so another buddy could drink a
beer on his day off. They died so a family could get in the station
wagon and go shopping and maybe get some ice cream on the way home.

They won't mind that we have chosen their day to have our first big
outdoor party of the year. But they wouldn't mind, either, if we
took just a second and thought about them.

Some will think of them formally, of course. Wreaths will be laid in
small, sparsely attended ceremonies in military cemeteries and at
monuments at state capitols and in small town's squares. Flags will
fly over the graves, patriotic words will be spoken and a few people
there will probably feel a little anger that no more people showed
up. They'll think no one else remembers.

But we do remember. We remember Smitty and Chico and Davey and the
guys who died. We remember the deal we made: If we buy it, we said,
drink a beer for me.

I'll do it for you, guys. I'll drink that beer for you today, and
I'll sit on that beach for you, and I'll check out the girls for you
and, just briefly, I'll think of you. I won't let your memory spoil
the trip but you'll be on that sunny beach with me today.

I will not mourn your deaths this Memorial Day, my friends. Rather,
I'll celebrate the life you gave me.

This Bud's for you, brother!

Email from friend's father:

The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar. As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.

Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully. "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back."

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly. "These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me."

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again." He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed.

A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me. "When you finish college, Son," he told me, his eyes glistening, "You'll never have to eat beans again...unless you want to."

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. "She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.

She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room. "Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.

This truly touched my heart... I know it has yours as well. Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings. Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture you can change a person's life, for better or for worse.

God puts us all in each other's lives to impact one another in some way. Look for God in others.

Lovely story, JL, thank you.

I have refrained from posting my own stories at FR, but will make a Memorial Day exception. The following - broken up in several posts - was published today in the newspaper for which I write. It is my way of honoring three men who served and were wounded in WWI.
______________

They had little in common, seemingly, the teacher from Muses Bottom, near Ravenswood, and the two mill workers from Mingo Junction. The teacher was Jackson County born and raised, a newlywed whose parents farmed the fertile land along the Ohio River, and the descendent of English who settled in Virginia in the early 1700s. The Ohioans were Serbian immigrants from the town of Perjasica (in present day Croatia, then Austria-Hungary), who had been in the United States only about 15 years and hadn’t yet found wives. One became a citizen in 1905, three years after his arrival; the other gained his citizenship - and a chestful of medals - by virtue of his service in the U.S. Army.

The war is what these three men had in common during their lifetimes. From distinct backgrounds, their paths crossed when Uncle Sam called them to fight Kaiser Wilhelm II’s German forces in France in what was to became known as the First World War.

The millworker Serbs, Mile Bakich and Gnjatia “Nick” Vitas, were cousins of another immigrant in Mingo Junction, Milivoj Tepsic. Tepsic’s grandson married the granddaughter of the Jackson County educator, R. H. Carder, many years after all of the old veterans had passed away. My husband and I are these grandchildren, and we recently retraced our relatives’ bootsteps through the Marne and Meuse-Argonne battlefields of France.

On July 28, 1914, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia, some say to the surprise of Germany’s ruler, the Kaiser Wilhelm II, Austria’s ally. The Kaiser believed Serbia had responded agreeably to Austria’s demands following the assassination of the obscure Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife in Sarajevo, Bosnia on June 28, 1914. He knew the Serbian government was not behind the murder, committed by the Bosnian Gavrilo Princip, one of seven conspirators supplied weapons by a terrorist group known as “the Black Hand.”

Nevertheless, Germany supported its ally, and when the Kaiser saw Russia mobilizing in July to support her fellow Slavs, he proclaimed war. Russia’s ally, France, began to mobilize in western Europe, so on Aug. 3, the Kaiser declared war on that country and invaded Belgium. Great Britain responded by declaring war on Germany. The Great War was underway as other nations entered the conflict, and British Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey gloomily predicted, “The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.”

The bloody war dragged on, with hundreds of thousands dying in the battles of Ypres, the Marne, Gallipoli and elsewhere. In 1916, the Germans decided to launch an offensive at Verdun, in eastern France. The French responded heroically to months of bombardment. Reinforcements, supplies and munitions were transported day and night along the muddy, rutted road from Bar-le-Duc to Verdun. Its role in stopping the German assault earned it the name “Sacred Way” - la Voie Sacree. Today, a national monument, it is marked with milestones topped by reproductions of a French soldier’s helmet.

In the United States, meanwhile, President Woodrow Wilson struggled to maintain neutrality as more European nations joined the fray. That proved impossible, especially after Germany’s navy started cruising just outside U.S. territorial limits near Massachusetts and commenced submarine warfare against Atlantic merchant ships. Wilson argued to the Senate, “The world must be made safe for democracy,” and on April 6, 1917, the U.S. declared war on Germany.

It wasn’t long before the cousins from Mingo Junction enlisted with other Ohio Valley boys in the Army, Bakich in the Ohio National Guard’s 6th Infantry, Vitas in the West Virginia National Guard. Sent to Camp Mills, Long Island, N.Y., the Ohio contingent became, in August of that year, the 166th Infantry regiment of the 42nd Division, dubbed “Rainbow” by Maj. Douglas MacArthur, who said it would “stretch over the whole country like a rainbow.” They shipped out to France in November, 1917.

Although Vitas’ West Virginia 150th Infantry regiment became part of the 38th “Cyclone” Division, the Serb from Mingo Junction somehow ended up in the 101st Infantry, 26th “Yankee” Division by the time he arrived in France, according to military records.

The school teacher Carder was conscripted into the Army, trained at Fort Lee, Va., and was assigned to Headquarters Company, 314th Field Artillery, 80th “Blue Ridge” Division. The division’s enlisted men were from West Virginia, Virginia and Pennsylvania. HQ Company’s roster included men from Wellsburg, Follansbee, Sistersville, Wheeling, Elm Grove and Pittsburgh. The 80th Division disembarked in France on June 8, 1918.

Clearly, their descendants - intrepid and ambitious travelers though we may be - couldn’t in just a few days visit every single place the soldiers of the 26th, 42nd and 80th had been, so we chose to focus on their engagements in Champagne (July 1918, the Second Battle of the Marne) and Lorraine (September - November 1918, the Meuse-Argonne Offensive).

We arrived in Paris, picked up a rental car at the airport and headed the 60 miles to Chateau Thierry, an industrial town of about 15,000 on the Marne River. The battle in that area began on May 27, 1918; the 42nd arrived in mid-July and, on July 16, 1918, aided the French in stopping the German offensive east of town. Two days later, the 42nd Division and other Allied forces launched a counterattack and drove out the enemy within two weeks, removing the threat to Paris. There Bakich was wounded, earning his first Purple Heart on July 29, 1918.

Just a few miles from Chateau Thierry is the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery and Memorial, where 2,288 doughboys are laid to rest. The chapel there also lists the names of 1,060 missing, whose remains were never recovered. Behind the chapel is Belleau Wood, scene of fierce fighting where the Americans suffered some 8,000 casualties. The nearby Chateau Thierry Monument is on Hill 204, with a magnificent view of the little town and the verdant Marne Valley. The structure commemorates French-American cooperation in the region’s battles.

We headed 36 miles east to Reims to visit the magnificent cathedral, the champagne caves of winemaker G. H. Mumm and the schoolhouse where, on May 7, 1945, the Germans signed surrender documents to end the Second World War (although the event has come to be celebrated on May 8).

Refocusing on WWI, we drove to Bar-le-Duc, a town of about 20,000 where, in mid-September, 1918, the 80th Division stopped en route to its first major engagement of the war and the 26th passed through after its success in the St.-Mihiel sector. The town boasts a number of Renaissance buildings. After a quick visit to the local tourist office for some information on the Voie Sacree and other Meuse sites, we entered that “sacred” road in the direction of Verdun. As we drove along the perfectly smooth pavement, we tried to imagine the scene in 1916, with trucks nearly bumper-to-bumper, around the clock, their drivers intent on delivering essential supplies to the beleaguered Verdun.

We covered the 35 miles much quicker than those hardy souls, needless to say. Verdun is a city of about 24,000, and is situated on the Meuse River. A former fortress of the ancient Gauls, the city had for centuries been at the center of numerous wars between France and Germany, and was encircled by forts. At the time of the first world war, France’s eastern border with Germany was nearby, and the town was vulnerable. The city is full of reminders of the war, from the citadel - an underground city where thousands of soldiers lived and worked - to the forts, cemeteries (French, German and American) and decimated towns on the outskirts.

War-related sites are clearly marked with roadside signs. We chose to make the small town of Marre, about 6 miles northwest of Verdun, headquarters for our stay in the region. Our room was in an old stone barn converted to a two-star hotel, complete with a gourmet restaurant. From there we set out to the sites east of the Meuse, including the Bayonet Trench, where the French 137th Infantry regiment was buried alive; Fort Douaumont, captured by the Germans in early 1916 but retaken in October of that year by the French; and the Ossuary, where the remains of 130,000 unidentified French soldiers are entombed.

Crossing to the west bank of the Meuse, we found the little town where my grandfather Carder was mustard-gassed on the last day of the war. According to our research, HQ company of the 314th Field Artillery moved throughout the region from September to November 1918. In mid-October, the men were near Montfaucon at Septsarges, then moved to Curel, Nantillois, Romagne and, on Nov. 10, 1918 - the day before the armistice ending the war - Mont-devant-Sassey.

It was at Mont that my grandfather was wounded. The tiny farming community is built on the side of a hill, graced by an 11th-century Romanesque church which overlooks the quiet fields and pastures of the valley. I pondered, standing within mere feet (for all I knew) of the place the 30-year-old corporal ducked for cover from incoming gas shells, what thoughts must have raced through his mind. As the gas seared his lungs, did he pray for another chance to see his bride and his family back in Muses Bottom? Did he think his life was over before he had started a family or fulfilled his professional goals?

Thankfully, it wasn’t, and after a long recovery he returned, had four children and embarked on a long, distinguished career as an educator and college professor. Leaving Mont, we drove through some of the other little towns where HQ Company had encamped during the bloody autumn of 1918. Each town square, it seems, has a monument to those who served and died in the war. The thought that little villages of barely a hundred people could lose as many as 10 or 12 young men was sobering. Millions of soldiers died in the Great War, tens of thousands a week. Truly, we who live in the 21st century have not seen anything like it in our lifetime.

While the 80th Division still was en route to the Meuse, about the time they passed through Bar-le-Duc in mid-September of that year, Bakich’s 42nd Division and Vitas’ 26th were in the St.-Mihiel salient southeast of Verdun. They attacked German forces on Sept. 11 and, a few days later, drove them north to St.-Benoit. The battlefields of that section can be seen from the impressive white stone American monument on Montsec Hill, east of the town of St.-Mihiel. From the 950-foot high hill, one only can imagine the scene - the noise, the smoke, the frenzied activity - as today the countryside east of the monument is quiet, with only bright yellow mustard fields and grazing cattle where once shells whizzed and thousands of muddy boots trod. I had to wonder how the cousins felt about returning to Europe to fight a battle so close to their hometown of Perjasica - probably only 650 miles - while so far from their Ohio Valley homes.

After the St.-Mihiel victory, the 42nd was ordered on Oct. 1 to the Meuse-Argonne front. The 26th moved north from St.-Mihiel to occupy the Troyon sector, where it stayed until joining the 42nd and 80th divisions in the cold, rainy Meuse-Argonne in mid-October. They arrived at the Montfaucon woods and, along with the over a million Allied soldiers, seized the heights of Cunel and Romagne. Bakich was gassed but not seriously wounded around Oct. 15, receiving his second Purple Heart. The Allies, led by the 42nd, then drove the German troops north to Sedan, near the Belgian border.

The bloody offensive is commemorated at the American cemetery at Romagne, near Montfaucon, the largest U.S. military cemetery in Europe. Each of its 14,426 graves, row after somber row, is marked with a marble cross or Star of David. Nearby, the 200-foot-tall Montfaucon Monument commemorates the French-U.S. victory in the Meuse-Argonne offensive, and from its observation platform may be viewed most of the battlefield.

As we made our way to Paris from Verdun and, ultimately, back home to Brooke County, we pondered all that our Ohio Valley relatives - and their millions of allies - had experienced in this awful war. Our trip to honor them was accomplished so easily, with online bookings, comfortable hotels and a zippy little rental car to drive on perfectly smooth highways. The cousins and my grandfather endured miserable weather, long marches, fierce battles, supply shortages, hunger and pain - and the constant realization that their lives could end in the next instant - in fulfilling the vow of the George M. Cohan song, “We won't come back till it's over, over there” - and for that we are grateful.

Democrat water-carrier Liz Smith reports:

SAT NEXT to a big name in GOP political circles the other eve at dinner. He pooh-poohed any idea that Sen. John McCain, "the most popular politician in America," would cross over and serve as Sen. John Kerry's running mate. He went on to say, however, that he wouldn't be surprised to see McCain accept a Cabinet post from Kerry should the latter manage to get elected. Secretary of defense?

NEW YORK'S Iris Love has been named by President George W. Bush to the National Council on the Humanities. She will represent the arts and archaeology. This column often mentions Love as she gallivants around and reports for us all over the world. But introducing her at a gathering the other day and noting her honor, I said, "I didn't know President Bush had any interest in the humanities." This got a big laugh — but not from Iris. [What a coincidence, I didn't laugh either, Liz. Go kiss Ann Richards' rear end for the 10,000th time]

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