D-Day was last week. That would be the World War II turning-point invasion of Europe. Not the robust brassiere cup size.
June 6, 1944, was six years before I was born. I’m on this text message group of dear childhood pals. Most of our fathers served during the war and we exchanged stories last week.
I’m a double winner. Both mom and dad wore the uniform. Mom drove a Jeep for Army brass at Aberdeen, Maryland, home of the fabled Proving Grounds.
Dad shot and bayoneted people. My father, Walt Cieplik, served two tours. Right before D-Day, there is a forgotten bloody beach assault.
Taking Anzio Beach in January of 1944 led to the Allied conquest of Rome a few months later. D-Day is more famous for its massive statistics, horror and bravery. It’s why, eight decades later, Americans drink beer, barbecue hot dogs and do oft-procrastinated home improvement projects on Memorial Day without thought to much tougher relatives than we who made that ultimate sacrifice of saving the world from Nazi Socialism.
I know Nazis are Socialists. It says so on their letterhead. D-Day’s June 6, 1944, Normandy assault was the largest amphibious landing in military history.
From 7,000 ships hailing from eight nations, nearly 200,000 naval personnel were involved. A staggering 113,000 troops stormed the beaches in that first assault, where 10% of the men died. More were wounded.
In the chaos, many, without fanfare, were claimed by the sea. By the end of June, nearly a million soldiers landed, al.
