MEMORIAL DAY SPECIAL TRIBUTE

MEN WHO SAVED the PLANET- SPECIAL REPORT

ELEVATOR VERSION

I was privileged to freelance report on an event to never be repeated, the 60th anniversary of the World War Two D-Day landings at Normandy. The few remaining American, British, and French warriors in attendance were boys again. You could see it in their eyes. My own father, Grant Pratt had already fought with the 1st Armored Division in North Africa and was entering Rome, Italy on June 4, 1944, that "day of days," after spending four months being shelled by German guns at a beach-death trap called Anzio.

Hundreds of thousands had died and were yet to sacrifice their lives in the clear fight of good over evil, as the black cloud of Hitler's tyranny hanging over Europe was gradually becoming dispelled by freedom-fighters paid under $50.00 per month. Freedom wasn't "free" then, and it isn't today. Now over 4,000 men from those uniform wearing years of World War Two pass on every day. I thought you might enjoy what I witnessed on the beaches of Normandy, France, and with me pay homage to those who saved the planet 60 some years ago.

STAIRCASE VERSION

Remembering the Soldiers Who Saved The Planet

James Michael Pratt – Official US Press Pool

From the American Military Cemetery, Normandy June 6, 2004

As a member of the official US Press Pool to the multi-national sixtieth anniversary ceremonies commemorating the Allied D-Day invasion of June 6, 1944, I had the privilege of witnessing a never-to-be-repeated celebration of honor and courage at the battlefield locations in Normandy, France. The gathering of old warriors in their eighties and nineties said it all. They came because they knew this would be the last time in their lives such a large congregation of nations and people would pay them and their fallen comrades homage. We, the sons and daughters, came for the same reason. The speeches of the French and American Presidents, contained solemn and spiritual tones while at the same time spoke to the ideals of the common-man-soldier who made it all possible for us to enjoy what we have.

My father’s age of old-young men, are leaving us at more than 3,500 veterans a day and soon will take their history of war, love, and bravery with them. I miss Dad, and am growing in awareness at how much I will miss all of them. So I stumble a bit at conveying the depth of reverence and awe I felt among the 10,000 crosses so elegantly and poignantly witnessing to us of young men's sacrifice.

Equally in wonder at the historic review were hundreds of the aged veterans, like Howie Beach, 79 years old, from La Habra, Cailifornia. I was privileged to receive an oral history lesson of his experience of coming ashore and then 11 months of fighting hell that followed. In childlike candor he seemed the young soldier asking me, the gray haired wise old man, this question: “Do you think I can find them?”

He teared up, and I got a lump in my throat as he added, "I lost seven good friends in France and Belgium and I want to find them. Do you think I can find where they are buried?"

“Yes,” I answered. “There are seven American Cemeteries throughout Europe. The Cemetery at Colleville overlooking the invasion beaches is the biggest and most famous with over 10,000 American crosses. Your friends can be found, Howie.”

“Oh,” was his simple reply as he searched the meaning of sixty years having passed.

“You are 19 years old again, aren't you?” I asked.

“What?” he asked with moist eyes.

“You aren’t 79 today. You are 19.” I knew that the recognition of this first trip back to France - one totally done in peace, and not carrying a rifle - was slowly dawning on Howie, and confusion of 60 years of time so compressed now mixed with memories so startlingly fresh.

“How do you know that…how I feel?” he responded with surprise.

“Everyone feels the same way. We are eternally young inside, like the young soldier friends of yours. They haven’t aged, and in some ways, neither have you,” I replied.

“That’s right! It is just like it was all yesterday. I don’t understand it. I shut it out for so many years and now it’s as if I am there again and it is all fresh; fresh in my mind, I mean.”

This was Howie’s moment to teach and my opportunity to learn. Howie opened up and I took notes on the spontaneous oral history lesson. I didn't need a movie screen; his eyes shared the scenes of comradeship and horror of battle as if it played out just days ago.

Howie Beach was one of many men, American, British, French, and Canadian who I met on travels for one week in June to honor on film and in the written word American Dads who stormed on to these beaches in an effort to save the planet from self-created demons and evil. These men had a call, and all recounted how they felt quite ordinary then, but part of something bigger.

“It was a mission,” Howie reminded us. “We were part of millions in uniform. Most of us figured it was a matter of time before we were dead men anyway, so we fought like mad.”

Norman Akers, a British soldier traveling to Normandy to be at a reunion of fellow British D-Day survivors was with his daughter, when I met him. He showed us an original photo of his brother’s shrapnel torn helmet lying upon a fresh mound of earth where he lay buried. The custom of the British was to immediately bury their soldiers where they fell. Later he was crossing into Belgium and then Holland during Operation Market Garden and came upon a bridge named “Akers Bridge.” He inquired and found out from a British officer, “Oh yes. That would be named for your brother. He was quite the hero, you know.”

Norman Akers looked proud, wistful, and sad all at the same time as his 83 year-old eyes strained at the graying photo of the bridge he was sharing with us; the sign posted as “Akers Bridge,” and what it meant to him to “carry on” as the surviving Akers brother of a war that consumed so many hundreds of thousands of British sons. “It seems like yesterday now,” he whispered. “I can’t understand why, but it is all so clear again.”

I thanked him for his service for us. Our British allies fought hard and lost nearly one million sons beside our American forces in bringing victory to the cause. These two men both testified that they were not uncommon of other men of their time. They think of their dead brothers and comrades as the true heroes. But they survived to remind us of the cost. And now those “common men” of yesterday seem so extraordinary to us. Their heroics remind us of just how much one good man can do to make a difference in the world.

Our French hosts were generous in their regard for their American friends who gave their lives to liberate their country. American flags hung from the windows of Normandy countryside homes along with French, British, and Canadian flags. A proud people, sometimes with disputes regarding American foreign policy, they lacked no gratitude for their hero “soldats Americain” who waded from chest deep water into withering enemy fire on D- Day beaches. More than 50,000 French civilians would also end up surrendering their lives to bombs made by Germans, and the Allies as they lived in the midst of warfare during those first terrible summer months of 1944.

The city I stayed in, Caen, France, is as charitable today in her regard for American, British, and Canadian sacrifice as it was 60 years before when nearly 95% of the buildings were destroyed and thousands of inhabitants were killed or wounded during the several weeks of fighting there between Allied and German forces.

Somehow everyone gathering during the week ending June 6th 2004 to honor our dead and living veterans of the great conflict understood that with the sacrifice, with something given up and lost, the pendulum of justice swung fully to the opposite direction offering a precious but sacred blood-stained gain in return. In Howie Beach’s life the loss was friends and the innocence he had known as a teenager when he was called upon to become a killer of men. What he gained was a profound depth of appreciation for freedom, a love beyond measure for comrades, and a decency he would live the remainder of his life in spite of carnage and terror he experienced. In Norman Aker’s life it was the same, plus the sacrifice of his beloved older brother. For French men and woman it was often their homes being destroyed along with family members being sacrificed for their final freedom.

One week earlier I had the honor of speaking to thirty wounded Marine’s at the invitation of personal friend, Chaplain Ronald Ringo, USN stationed at Camp Lejeune, NC. Now home from Iraq and Afghanistan’s battle fields, these men had gathered to listen to the Chaplain’s instructions on how to transform from warrior to peace-time dad and husband.

The Marines wondered aloud if we, the American citizen, appreciated them; if we cared. Many are husbands and dads, doing simply what they know their fathers and grandfathers did in World War Two, Korea, Vietnam and other conflicts.

“Will the American people be grateful?” one asked. “Will they let us finish our job?” another questioned. “I used to take my family for granted,” added a young staff sergeant. “I used to act like a drill sergeant to my young son. But when I got back from Iraq, and some of my friends didn’t, I just looked into his eyes and when he said ‘Daddy…and I…’” His throat closed tight on his own words. He wiped at the tears. “I’m not the same man,” he began once more. “I’ll never be the same man. I will never take my family or this country for granted again.”

Gratitude, love, honor. I witnessed these with our current crop of heroes, some Marines who want nothing from us but understanding and respect. And then on June 6th 2004, in an overflowing abundance of appreciation on French soil, hallowed and made sacred by men who died and also lived to tell their tales, I understood what soldiers of every time and conflict may have wondered when they asked themselves, “Will they remember me back home?”

I imagined in my mind’s eye a beneficent Creator offering an approval for a collective gathering of the spirits of the fallen whose bodies lay buried in the Normandy sod. Dads, sons, brothers, heroes all – I imagined another cerebration taking place near us; the dead among the ten thousand crosses, witnessing an earnest heartfelt homage being paid to them.

The thoughtful question, as if posed by a silenced warrior asked again, “Will they remember me back home?”

I knew the answer and whispered back: “Yes soldier, we do remember. We haven’t forgotten you. And we never will.”

James Michael Pratt -- June 6, 2004

MOM, The Woman Who Made Oatmeal Stick to My Ribs

APPRECIATION for EVERYDAY MOMS

When I awoke today, realizing it would be "Mother's Day" on Sunday, my instinct was to go to the computer and tell Mom how much I loved her, and let her know I still think she was the "World's Best Mom." But a day before her 85th Birthday this year, she left to go be with Dad. May I share a MOTHER'S DAY tribute to her. FROM the book:

MOM, The Woman Who Made Oatmeal Stick to My Ribs

CHAPTER ONE:

I figure my Mom was normal in almost every respect regarding basic mores and teaching her children the standards of conduct, faith, and values passed on to her from her mother who was born in the late 1800’s.

Mom did her best to instill in her boys born in the ‘40’s, 50’s and ‘60’s, virtues that would bring them success, happiness, and well being. Mom had seven sons, two daughters, and adopted an adult, my third sister, later in her life. She qualifies, in my mind, to remind us of what really matters most. She represents the best effort of millions of Moms who as children grew up in the milieu of the Great Depression of the 1930’s, waited for their soldier boyfriends and husbands of the world’s greatest military conflict of all time – World War Two – and denied herself comforts unknown to previous generations in favor of her children having the best she could give.
With that alone, Mom merits Sainthood. And I believe the reader will also agree that “Mom” is a sacred and affectionate title given to the woman we know the best, one who always put our needs above her own.

The themes portrayed here are also appreciations for Moms. I am sure my stories are, by in large, representative of most experiences the reader will have known in growing up under the care of a good mother. But my Mom is, after all, the only Mom I have had experience with. So for fun I will refer to those days and experiences that showed me a way of living I give gratitude for now.

If by chance you did not have a positive experience, missed growing up under the protective wings of an angel mother, I offer you mine, with the hopes you may feel the guiding love, and use it from this time on to influence those in your care and all others around you.

Mom, we can never say “thank you” enough. These words pay tribute to you and are in appreciation for everyday mothers who build the world, one soul at a time!

From CHAPTER THREE

“Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You.”

Charles Dickens said, "I think it must somewhere be written, that the virtues of mothers shall be visited upon their children.” without a doubt, I can say that the virtue of the Golden rule is the one Mom hoped all her children would adopt.

The Golden Rule is perhaps the most widely accepted maxim and standard for personal behavior that exists on the planet. This value of “treating others as you would like to be treated” is the foundation to every moral and law-abiding civilization known. A planet alive with such a denouement to cap off all other laws would be an antidote to war, crime, famine, disease, and a host of other ills.

It might sound simplistic, and it might seem a cliché but the best policy is and always has been to consider how you would like to be treated before dealing with another. Nature abhors a vacuum. It must be filled with something. Mom intuited that as the boys grew, and possibly even witnessed war, devastating hunger, illness, and privations, that the Golden Rule would be the best medicine for negative circumstances they encountered.

We are faced with daily situations that don’t seem quite right or even fair. Life offers no guarantee of evenhanded treatment. Moms worry about this, and rightly so. In the event a bully shows up, or an opportunity to cheat, fib, slip from the light into the dark and forbidden paths comes our way, Mom’s concern always was that a morally prepared son is the best answer to the challenge.

It was 1965 and I was late for school. “Remember Jimmy, do unto others…” she called as I raced out the door and started my run to Knolls Elementary School. “…as you would have them do unto you!”...

“Yeah, sure Mom,” I mumbled as I waved her off. "Whatever… " I answered under my breath.
Why does she always have to say that? As if I don’t understand or something? I posed silently as I ran up Christine Avenue five blocks to see if I could squeeze under the tardy bell.

I liked to run. I enjoyed sports. I was always competing and loved the challenge to my sixth grade body to see if I could go all the way without giving in to walking. I’m pretty sure I made it to school just before the bell for starting classes rang.

It was the early 1960’s, and our somewhat rural town just over the hills and the northern Los Angeles County line, was starting to sprout suburban neighborhoods. It was not unusual for a new kid to move in every couple of weeks. I always enjoyed learning where the new kid was from, and generally making friends.

I remembered what it was like moving to this new town three years earlier during my third grade year. Being uprooted from friends and familiar playgrounds was and still is not an easy thing for a child. Without going through any mental gyration of why having more friends was better than less, I usually tried to make friends the first day a new boy or girl would show up. I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back I can clearly see that Mom’s daily admonition was having a subconscious effect.

So, when I noticed the new kid, Phil Piraino, I decided to make a friend, make him feel comfortable. Besides, he could come in handy after school when we chose up teams for games, or playing war in the wide-open fields and rocky hills that surrounded our home. I had another friend at Knolls who didn’t have the same idea about how to greet the newcomer. I recalled three years earlier when he had first bullied me; had given me arm burns, twisted my right arm behind my back to see how much I could take. This was a friend made more by necessity than by desire. Mark May was tough. He liked it that way and would probably test my new friend his first day at school.

Come morning recess, I was standing in the ball line—the line that was formed outside the sports equipment room where all kinds of balls were checked out. Footballs, basketballs, those big red bouncy rubber balls that the girls really liked in four square games, softballs and bats, and by the time I finally got the last basketball a crowd had gathered near the hoops.

“Hey! Stop it!” I heard Phil groan.
“Uh oh,” I thought, stopping dead in my tracks. The crowd grew noisier.
“Punch him Mark,” one said.
“Fight back,” another called.

If I just walk away, pretend I didn’t see this. If I just let it go and not get involved I won’t end up with a bloody nose or worse. The problem was Mom’s words kept ringing in my ears: Jimmy, do unto others..."

Yeah, but Mom, this is not me doing anything wrong, it’s Mark May, I protested to the voice inside. “…as you would have them do unto you,” she finished. “Ohhh…” I moaned as I moved forward.

“Hey! Mark!”
“Hey what Pratt!” he called back as I broke through the crowd. Mark had Phil in the familiar arm lock and was twisting him to the ground. Tears were starting to form in his eyes.
“Leave him alone!” I mustered with all the courage I could.
“You gonna make me?”
“Yeah. Maybe I will."

Now by this time I didn’t have a clue as to what I was doing or why I was saying this. Mark was grinning ear to ear with a look that said: “Oh boy! Two people to beat up. This is my lucky day.” He still had Phil in the arm lock.

I moved forward. “Let him go Mark!” Mark’s face turned from grin to questioning expression.
I moved forward again. “I mean it. You’re gonna have to fight me too!” I said, as I put up my fists. I could tell Mark was weighing the consequences. Maybe two scrawny kids could take him on and then he’d lose face with everyone else. If he lost face, then he’d lose power. Or worse, he’d lose face and have to answer to the principle and the long wooden paddle he had become familiar with.

“Oh go on!” he huffed letting Phil go. “I’ll get you later Pratt!” he barked as the recess bell chimed for it to end...

That day I made a new friend and reinforced the bond with Mark May that lasts until today. I don’t quite understand what it is about Mark that I like. Maybe it is because once you were his friend he was truly loyal to the core. We had good clean fun in years to come, and while admittedly on the wild side with other types of friends, Mark paid me one of the ultimate compliments a few months after my twenty-first birthday.

I had just returned home to Simi Valley, California from South America where I had been for two years doing volunteer service and had just spoken to our local church congregation. I was standing outside the chapel now in the foyer. I was greeting well-wishers when out of the corner of my eye I saw a familiar and sturdy young man in blue jeans and T-shirt come busting through the double pane glass doors that led to the foyer.

“Jim! I heard that you were home!” Mark said as he burst through the crowd and gave me an American style “abrazo,” the customary Latin but manly hug I had become so accustomed to by now. “Man it’s good to see you! You are the only friend that never let me down. You know that?”

I was stunned. I muttered something like, “Thanks Mark.” Then we caught up on old times. Before he left the building, and I went my way in life and he his, he smiled and said, “I still wish you would have let me beat up Phil Piraino.” We laughed and had our little secret. Mutual respect had been earned years before. I both treated Mark and Phil how they would have wanted on that spring day in early ’65 and Mom was to blame.

I was given a payday that Sunday morning that I have never forgotten. Over the years, I had remained friends with both Phil, the Italian kid whose parents had immigrated to the United States after World War Two, and with Mark, the bully.

Maybe Mom was right after all. Maybe when you do unto others as you’d like done to you life pays you back in kind. Like medicine that Moms spoon-feed their kids to keep them well, this simple remedy to relationship building was given in doses I could swallow.

"Thanks Mom – my world is a better place because of a simple prescription you reminded me to take and it has worked from the inside out. "

Now, as I consider those days of youth I understand that one of the finest things Mom ever did after the oatmeal was finished was to remind me: “Remember son, do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

MOM DIED February 5th, 2008. for the Tribute and her final lesson to me, see February 5th post.