Many of those who come to the library know Chris Hemingway, who works at the Circulation Desk. The following tribute was written by his dad, Al Hemingway for Al's father- Chris' grandfather, Albert Edward Hemingway, Jr. seen in the photo below.
A salute to my father: a D-Day veteran
By
Al Hemingway
By
Al Hemingway
On
June 6, 1944, 5,000 ships, carrying an estimated 160,000 American,
British, and Free French forces were poised off the coast of Normandy,
France to begin the largest amphibious assault in world history. More
than 24,000 paratroopers from the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions had
already landed behind enemy lines to seize key points preventing the
flow of reinforcements and supplies from moving to the beaches so that
the troops landing there could make their way inland.
The assault itself was code-named Neptune, part of Operation Overlord. But most people don’t remember that. They know it as D-Day, the massive Allied invasion of Western Europe that would ultimately defeat Germany’s Nazi regime headed by their maniacal leader, Adolf Hitler.
Standing on one of the troop transports that fateful day and observing the historic event was a 24-year-old sergeant from New Haven, Conn. who was a driver with the 3882nd Quartermaster Truck Company.
His name was Albert Edward Hemingway, Jr. He was my father. And he was about to embark on the greatest, and the most harrowing adventure of his entire life.
“I have never seen so many ships in one place in my life,” he once said to me. “It was unbelievable, as far as the eye could see. When the bombardment began, it was deafening.”
Five beachheads had been selected along the Normandy coastline by Allied planners. The British, Canadian, and Free French troops would land on Gold, Juno and Sword; the 1st Infantry and 29th Infantry Divisions, and nine companies of U.S. Army Rangers, were scheduled to come ashore on Omaha Beach, and the 4th Infantry Division, the unit my father was attached to, were slated to disembark onto Utah Beach.
The slaughter on Omaha Beach was horrific. German defenses had been better-prepared and hundreds of soldiers were killed or wounded before they even got off their landing crafts. Omaha had been transformed into a bloodbath.
Resistance on Utah, however, was light. A beachhead was quickly established and reinforcements and equipment began spilling out of the LSTs and transports.
“Thank God I wasn’t assigned to Omaha,” my Dad once said. “I may not have been here today.”
My father told me that the trucks were quickly offloaded from the ships and everyone was sent to a supply point to pick up food, water, and ammunition to be transported to the front lines.
The terrain, he told me, was flooded and inundated with hedgerows, thick vegetation that hid enemy troops, and even deep enough to hide tanks. My father said that they had to drive with their headlights off at night so they would not be detected by the Germans. Non-commissioned officers, like my father, carried a .45 caliber pistol, and everyone was armed with M-1 carbines, and a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle), was always in the cab of the truck.
“It’s bad enough not knowing where you are going,” he said, “but now you can’t even see where you are going.”
I recall him telling me how they got lost once at night, but somehow in the inky blackness they finally found the unit that they were resupplying. One officer asked what took them so long. My father said they were lost and described the area where they had been. The officer laughed and said that they had driven across the enemy’s lines.
“We were lucky that we weren’t killed,” he said. “I don’t know how they didn’t hear us.”
One unforgettable sight that deeply disturbed my father was seeing the contorted, twisted bodies of the dead that littered the roadside. Many times my Dad told me and my sister Lorraine that they stopped to gather as many as they could and take them to the rear area for a proper burial.
“We even picked up dead German soldiers,” he told my sister. “I know they were the enemy, but it just didn’t seem right leaving them there like that.”
As the Allied forces pushed inland, liberating towns as they went, the French townspeople would run from their homes to welcome the advancing soldiers.
“Everybody kissed you on both cheeks,” I recall him saying with a big smile, “the men as well as the women.”
Often times my father would mention the German artillery barrages. I think he feared them the most – being torn apart by an enemy shell – from a German 88mm howitzer.
“Those damn 88s, they were so accurate,” he said. “The shell had a very distinctive sound. You ran like hell to find cover when they came in.”
My father ultimately survived D-Day, the Ardennes (Battle of the Bulge), Central Europe, Northern France, and the Rhineland. When he returned home in October 1945, he burned all his uniforms. I guess the memories were just too painful.
When he moved to Arcadia in 1992, I would visit him and sometimes when he was in the mood we would discuss his experiences in the war. But, when I pressed him about certain things, he would sit silently and just stare into space. Even after all those years, there were still some terrible images that he kept locked away and would not share with anyone.
When he and my mother relocated to Santa Maria, Calif. in 2002 to be near my sister, he suffered from dementia. As he became more confused, he would slip out of the house and wander the streets “looking for his buddies.” Luckily, my two nephews are police officers in town and before long he would be located and returned to my sister’s house.
“Dad thinks he’s back in the war,” Lorraine would tell me. “He keeps asking where his buddies are.”
He would question my sister and ask where they had gone. He told her that he was supposed to be with them. He was their sergeant. They were his responsibility.
“I told him that they had shipped out,” she said. “He seemed sad.”
I received a call on Dec. 20, 2011 from my sister telling me that my father had passed away. He was 92-years-old. She sat by his hospital bed most of the day and held his hand. Finally, he gently squeezed it, smiled, and closed his eyes. When she called to him, he did not answer. He couldn’t. He was on Utah Beach with his buddies – he had finally shipped out to be with them.
The assault itself was code-named Neptune, part of Operation Overlord. But most people don’t remember that. They know it as D-Day, the massive Allied invasion of Western Europe that would ultimately defeat Germany’s Nazi regime headed by their maniacal leader, Adolf Hitler.
Standing on one of the troop transports that fateful day and observing the historic event was a 24-year-old sergeant from New Haven, Conn. who was a driver with the 3882nd Quartermaster Truck Company.
His name was Albert Edward Hemingway, Jr. He was my father. And he was about to embark on the greatest, and the most harrowing adventure of his entire life.
“I have never seen so many ships in one place in my life,” he once said to me. “It was unbelievable, as far as the eye could see. When the bombardment began, it was deafening.”
Five beachheads had been selected along the Normandy coastline by Allied planners. The British, Canadian, and Free French troops would land on Gold, Juno and Sword; the 1st Infantry and 29th Infantry Divisions, and nine companies of U.S. Army Rangers, were scheduled to come ashore on Omaha Beach, and the 4th Infantry Division, the unit my father was attached to, were slated to disembark onto Utah Beach.
The slaughter on Omaha Beach was horrific. German defenses had been better-prepared and hundreds of soldiers were killed or wounded before they even got off their landing crafts. Omaha had been transformed into a bloodbath.
Resistance on Utah, however, was light. A beachhead was quickly established and reinforcements and equipment began spilling out of the LSTs and transports.
“Thank God I wasn’t assigned to Omaha,” my Dad once said. “I may not have been here today.”
My father told me that the trucks were quickly offloaded from the ships and everyone was sent to a supply point to pick up food, water, and ammunition to be transported to the front lines.
The terrain, he told me, was flooded and inundated with hedgerows, thick vegetation that hid enemy troops, and even deep enough to hide tanks. My father said that they had to drive with their headlights off at night so they would not be detected by the Germans. Non-commissioned officers, like my father, carried a .45 caliber pistol, and everyone was armed with M-1 carbines, and a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle), was always in the cab of the truck.
“It’s bad enough not knowing where you are going,” he said, “but now you can’t even see where you are going.”
I recall him telling me how they got lost once at night, but somehow in the inky blackness they finally found the unit that they were resupplying. One officer asked what took them so long. My father said they were lost and described the area where they had been. The officer laughed and said that they had driven across the enemy’s lines.
“We were lucky that we weren’t killed,” he said. “I don’t know how they didn’t hear us.”
One unforgettable sight that deeply disturbed my father was seeing the contorted, twisted bodies of the dead that littered the roadside. Many times my Dad told me and my sister Lorraine that they stopped to gather as many as they could and take them to the rear area for a proper burial.
“We even picked up dead German soldiers,” he told my sister. “I know they were the enemy, but it just didn’t seem right leaving them there like that.”
As the Allied forces pushed inland, liberating towns as they went, the French townspeople would run from their homes to welcome the advancing soldiers.
“Everybody kissed you on both cheeks,” I recall him saying with a big smile, “the men as well as the women.”
Often times my father would mention the German artillery barrages. I think he feared them the most – being torn apart by an enemy shell – from a German 88mm howitzer.
“Those damn 88s, they were so accurate,” he said. “The shell had a very distinctive sound. You ran like hell to find cover when they came in.”
My father ultimately survived D-Day, the Ardennes (Battle of the Bulge), Central Europe, Northern France, and the Rhineland. When he returned home in October 1945, he burned all his uniforms. I guess the memories were just too painful.
When he moved to Arcadia in 1992, I would visit him and sometimes when he was in the mood we would discuss his experiences in the war. But, when I pressed him about certain things, he would sit silently and just stare into space. Even after all those years, there were still some terrible images that he kept locked away and would not share with anyone.
When he and my mother relocated to Santa Maria, Calif. in 2002 to be near my sister, he suffered from dementia. As he became more confused, he would slip out of the house and wander the streets “looking for his buddies.” Luckily, my two nephews are police officers in town and before long he would be located and returned to my sister’s house.
“Dad thinks he’s back in the war,” Lorraine would tell me. “He keeps asking where his buddies are.”
He would question my sister and ask where they had gone. He told her that he was supposed to be with them. He was their sergeant. They were his responsibility.
“I told him that they had shipped out,” she said. “He seemed sad.”
I received a call on Dec. 20, 2011 from my sister telling me that my father had passed away. He was 92-years-old. She sat by his hospital bed most of the day and held his hand. Finally, he gently squeezed it, smiled, and closed his eyes. When she called to him, he did not answer. He couldn’t. He was on Utah Beach with his buddies – he had finally shipped out to be with them.
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