World War II
Saturday, May 29, 2004; Page B01
Today's dedication of the National World War II Memorial has sparked the memories of countless people who experienced the conflict in different roles and in far-flung places -- as members of the U.S. armed forces; as adults and children supporting the war effort on the U.S. home front; and as citizens of other countries engulfed by the fighting.
The Washington Post received more than 1,000 submissions in response to a request to readers to share their most vivid recollections of the war. The Post is publishing a selection of those personal stories through tomorrow. Additional stories were published yesterday, and more can be found at www.washingtonpost.com.
Landing of a Lifetime
On the evening of June 5, 1944, our Landing Craft Infantry was among hundreds assembled in Portsmouth Harbor. At daybreak, we left the harbor and headed for Normandy.
At 9:50 a.m., we received the order to beach our ship at Easy Red Sector of Omaha Beach and disembark our infantrymen. Nearing the beach, we began taking rifle and machine-gun fire. Maneuvering through the beach obstacles, our ship got caught on one of the pilings and set off a Tellermine. The explosion tore off the starboard landing ramp. Bleeding bodies lay on the deck. We were ordered to abandon ship.
The beach was full of dead and wounded bodies, discarded equipment, disabled tanks and vehicles. More landing crafts were beaching and disgorging more infantrymen. All this activity was going on amid heavy enemy fire from the bluff above the cliff. I ran down the beach to where the highest concentration of infantrymen were. As I was running, I noticed a change in the sound of the firing; it was coming from behind me.
I turned and saw the sand kicking up behind and following me as I ran. I then realized that I was the target being fired upon. I dove behind a disabled tank. My heart was pounding against my chest. By the grace of God, I wasn't wounded.
I worked with the medics, placing dead bodies and body parts in body bags. We examined the wounded for open, bleeding wounds, and we emptied packs of sulfonamide into the wounds and bandaged them.
My memories are as clear to me today as they were on June 6, 1944.
-- Michael A. Chirigos, Potomac
One Family's Small Blessings
I was 6 during the last year of World War II, living in a small Baltic Sea fishing village in Pomerania (now Poland) with my 9-year-old sister and 3-year-old brother. We were with a group of children evacuated from Berlin because of Allied bombing. It was so quiet that my brother and I couldn't go to sleep; we were used to the antiaircraft battery banging away as our bedtime lullaby.
I didn't think about the war except when they told us that my uncle, a 24-year-old soldier, had been killed on the Russian front.
One icy January night in 1945, we were roused and taken in hay wagons to the local train station, where hundreds of frightened refugees were waiting. The eastern horizon was fiery red and we heard the roar of cannons in the distance. The 150-mile trip took two days, but we arrived safely in Berlin and had a joyous reunion with our family.
The Russians finally fought their way into Berlin by late April 1945. I still remember big guys in quilted coats with guns drawn coming into our basement, where we were holed up along with some neighbors. They established their local command post upstairs, which actually helped to protect us from the hordes of murderous and marauding soldiers terrorizing everyone. That night, some of the officers joined us for a "victory" celebration: thick ham sandwiches for all, plenty of vodka for the adults, and raw onions and raw eggs gulped by the Russians.
The Russians loved kids. One of the roughest of them would bounce my little brother on his knees, and they brought food for us. My parents always said that we children "saved" our family.
© 2004 The Washington Post Company