I wing my way across the Atlantic as the world I know slowly arises from slumber. I have departed Germany mid-day, but it is 6 hours earlier in Paradise and will be a long day. It is only the second time I have departed the continent on a transatlantic flight west. The pandemic still surrounds me. Precautions remind me. But, history draws me back to a time more troubled, more trying, and direr. The recent news reminds me of the sacrifices of many in Afghanistan in the preceding decades, but my mind is otherwise focused.
I spent time recently in Nuremberg; more on that in a future post. Last December in Lessons from History (2020), I described some of my interactions with a Frenchman at the famed Maginot Line. My visit there in 2019 will forever resonate with me. It was built in the 1920s and 1930s, a response to the extended trench warfare of WWI, and was supposed to keep the Germans out of France. I studied it in many history classes.
I would love to return one day to Ouvrage Schoenenbourg and the various remnants of the Maginot thereabouts. They are a testimony and remembrance. Germany responded with the construction of the Sigfried Line, likewise primarily in the 1930s. Following the German invasion of the rest of Europe in 1940, it fell into disrepair but was significantly reinforced around 1944 as the war finally turned against Germany. By 1944, many young Americans of the Greatest Generation drove Nazism back west from the brutal defenses of the French coast and toward oblivion.
More recently, I was privileged to visit remnants of the Sigfried Line in Wallendorf, Federal Republic of Germany. The Germans call this the "Westwall." For much of my life, one had to be specific regarding which Germany one referenced. It was a different age before the Soviet Union fell on December 31, 1991. Unfortunately, there was no similarly gregarious German there, like the Frenchman I met at the Maginot. There were minimal signs. In fact, finding the Wallendorf relics was a tremendous challenge. Rumor has it that there would be no signs at all but for the efforts of neighboring Luxembourg.
In Wallendorf, I stood in front of a small (called a "c-werks") bunker and looked across a stone bridge into the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. That is a nation too often forgotten in recollections of WWII. Perhaps only historians remember that it and Belgium are the site of Germany's last real gasp, the beginning of the end that came to be infamously called the Battle of the Bulge. Here, the Germans had purportedly maintained an eye westward in case of invasion by Luxembourg. In retrospect, I struggle with anyone anticipating a Luxembourger invasion.
The Internet included descriptions of other sites in and around Wallendorf, but the directions were not good and the details were sparse. We had to search for a larger ("b-werks") bunker (hint if you go, follow signs for the "Sportsplatz," up a road that looks like a paved path). Several Internet sites suggested driving up the hill behind the town for the "b-werks," but none mentioned leaving the main road, or provided specific instructions. There were no directional signs on the road, no "Turn here for the bunker."
Frustrated in our search, we had to ask directions in Wallendorf, a town of about 400 people. Some denied understanding our English questions. One denied knowing the "b-werks" bunker location. On our third try, we got directions to a cemetery, which led us eventually to the larger bunker. In that cemetery lie 326 young German victims of that war, nearly equal to the present-day town population. There are no American dead interred there.
I was surprised at the local reaction to our presence. Unlike the ebullient Frenchman, the locals seemed at best grudging to our presence, and perhaps unwelcoming. The signs were minimal, old, and unkept. The relics were hard to find. In fairness, there remains a pandemic, and tourists are perhaps less than welcome generally. And, it is said that more preserved examples of the Siegfried exist to the south at Besseringen. Perhaps one day I will wander there. But in Wallendorf, there is little evidence of a desire to commemorate and remember. Of course, this little village was nearly cleansed from the map as the war turned against Germany. Perhaps such memories are too hard?
We drove from Wallendorf to the city of Hamm in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. Here, on 17 manicured acres, rest 5,070 Americans that fell in the Second World War, many in that Battle of the Bulge. Included is also George S. Patton, leader of America's Third Army, which was so critical to the success of that battle. Here, there were guards. No American military, but guards. The grounds were immaculate, the premises secured. And, astoundingly, it was nearly deserted. We walked the grounds with no more than 30 other people, though admittedly it was late in the day.
Now, I wing my way west. I last took off for home from the European mainland in the midst of another war, which I was too young to comprehend. We were then in a Cold War. Superimposed on that, Vietnam was a war that wasn’t (only Congress can declare war), and back then there were two Germanies. The world of my youth was troubled and I was repatriating, though without my comprehension. However, the memories remain and are indelibly imprinted upon me.
My seat that day in the 1960s faced aft, and I can see the craft today as vividly as any memory. The cabin was loud. The take-off was unsettling. We rose repeatedly only to return to earth with a jolt. Reflecting later, I have wondered whether that plane was too heavy, the pilot inexperienced, or the craft merely old and tired. But, we eventually gained lift and departed. It took me decades after that to return to Germany, a united Germany.
On that trip home decades ago, I witnessed the return of some of the fallen from Vietnam. They had, at the command of their leader, paid the ultimate price for all we have. Lifting off from the western portion of a divided Germany, I was blessed with the ignorance and naïveté of youth. I was unaware of the efforts of these heroes, and the significance of this return flight for them. But, returning the remains of our fallen has been a persistent effort, as described in detail by the Wall Street Journal. By 2010, about 5,000 such heroes had been returned from Afghanistan and Iraq for burial; that is eerily similar to the number interned in Hamm.
I wing my way west this morning. I have remembered the many whose flights home have been tragic and sobering. I recall my first exposure to such efforts during the Vietnam conflict. I note my comfort and freedoms as I fly west toward home. In my mind, I see those coffins of my youth. I think of those who strive to remember, and those who unfortunately seem more inclined to forget. In another generation, will there ever be any crowds at the cemetery in Hamm? Will there be any visitors for the
"124,909 fallen American troops from conflicts dating back to the Mexican-American war . . . buried at a network of 24 permanent cemeteries in Europe, Panama, Tunisia, the Philippines and Mexico."
That 125,000 is about the population of Athens, Georgia.
My thoughts are absorbed by the many fallen. They lie today in modest graves across the breadth of our country and under foreign soil. They died answering calls that may have confounded logic, escaped explanation, or even defied reason; for you and me. Because, in whatever context, their Commander in Chief said go. And go they did, despite us, our ambivalence, our anger, or our vacillation. They go because they are told. They go, they suffer, and they too often perish so that we may live in safety and peace. We are all too inclined to forget that on Veteran's Day, Memorial Day, and every day.
I think of the fallen and maimed of Iraq and Afghanistan. I struggle with the sacrifices they made, and I commiserate with the families left behind or impacted in ways I cannot effectively articulate. We are quit of these wars, declared or not. And yet, so (too) many paid the ultimate price. Not because they necessarily understood, but because our nation called and they selflessly answered.
I wing west to the U.S. and I reflect, remember, and honor. Not about workers comp (this blog is usually about workers’ compensation), but about the blessing of liberty and those who stand between us and those who would do us harm. I am grateful to have had a brief moment recently to visit these places. I am troubled that history is too soon forgotten. I am thankful for these fallen and their service. I am hopeful that we keep them in our thoughts; that they and their sacrifice are not forgotten.
It’s not workers comp. But to those who sacrificed, and the families they loved, thank you for the world I enjoy at your expense. Know that I remember, and lament your loss. I wing my way west, free. By no right or sacrifice of my own, but yours. My thanks to those who served, in whatever year, theater, or capacity. Bless you, and yours for the freedom you have bought me. I wing my way west, through COVID and our challenges, but remember the great sacrifices and far greater challenges of so many.
