Short-term memories were nearly all wiped out as soon as they were conceived. Great grandchildren’s names were not conjured up out of his now-struggling thought patterns. Routines kept his life on track even if lunch consisted of a box of crackers. But he never ever forgot the war years or the sights and sounds he rarely spoke of.
Brayton Norman Newell, aka Dad, lived to return home after the invasion of Normandy. In his later years, after a life-altering fall down the second-floor stairwell, Dad began to answer questions about his service during WWII as a private in the Army.
He was one of thousands of military personnel who landed in Normandy on those blood-soaked beaches. Prior to that frontal-lobe injury, he never spoke a word about the war. He would shrug off questions. During the years the United States fought in Vietnam, all he would say over the evening newspaper was, “They need to bring them boys home.” Dad had firsthand knowledge of the horrors of war.
When Dad returned home, he took up where he had left off, trying to cobble together a living with a third-grade education. He could repair just about anything, including radios and appliances, and he could drive. So that’s what he did.
His wife, my mother, was a traditional homemaker. She didn’t know nor did Dad that he was suffering from PTSD, at that time called battle fatigue. He quietly withdrew into himself, while life went on around him.
Luckily, with the advent of electronic communications such as email, I was able to establish a long-distance relationship with my father’s only sibling, a younger brother named Neiamiah but nicknamed Pungo.
Uncle Pungo was a computer expert, having worked on some of the first technology after a full career as a Naval officer. We had warm, long-distance telephone calls until his hearing made that impossible. But he was very literate and sent me information-filled emails I cherish still.
During one of those missives, he told me that the French government by way of their embassy was looking for former military personnel who were part of the Invasion of Normandy. Ceremonies across the country would be held to recognize veterans and to further acknowledge them with a diplome. The ceremony was held on June 6, 2001. For his part, Dad couldn’t comprehend why they would honor him. “I didn’t do anything special.”
But he had. In those later years when he would answer war-related questions, he shared, in dribs and drags, bits of his story. The following is my attempt to share his story.
Dad was assigned to a chief officer as his driver. Attached to the back of the jeep was a machine gun. As the troops advanced from the beach to the forest, the officer and Dad were separated from the unit and wound up being surrounded by Germans in their overturned jeep.
For three days they were pinned down in the water-filled ditch. “We could hear them talking.” Eventually, more advancing U.S. troops pushed the Germans along, freeing Dad and the officer. They would reunite with their unit and go on chasing Germans. Dad would lose most of his hearing in one ear from machine-gun fire. He never complained. He received a Bronze Star.
As we arrived in Falmouth to attend the special-recognition event, we were in awe at the number of veterans in attendance. About 120 men and two women were honored on that day. Here is what I wrote at that time: “To see them all there together, the greatest generation, moved one to the core.” … “The speeches were short but poignant.” We were reminded why we were there – tremendous sacrifices – we were chastened to remember that we could not enjoy the day had it not been for these brave veterans who “stopped evil.”
“The French counsul general shared best wishes from the people of France. We were told they have never forgotten and will never forget Americans who did not return and those who did to live ordinary lives after giving in extraordinary ways.”
When Dad’s name was called, I was nearly overcome with emotion. Dad had a hard time making his old legs work. My son went forward to lend him an arm to lean on.
Dad hated war of any kind. Didn’t think it solved anything, just killed people. And he never forgot the pinging sound of bullets hitting metal, as the transport vehicles put him and thousands of others on the beach that day.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell
