I was 12 years old. The times were frightening, thrilling and filled with foreboding. We hung on every word in the news broadcasts and our eyes searched each frame of the Saturday MovieTone News at our local movie house.
I woke up that morning to the smell of bacon and the voice of Martin Agronsky reporting from a landing craft approaching the Normandy coast. No one spoke. Each of us - mother, father, my brother and I went about the business of beginning our day with a subdued, almost reverent attitude.
It was Monday morning, and the subject of conversation at home, in my father's barber shop and even at school had been decided. We sensed, hoped, that it was the beginning of the end.
It was the beginning of a week, by the end of which we were reminded that the machine of war moved slowly and at great cost. It seems such a clear message, such a profound lesson: and we have yet to hear or learn from it all.
Peace . . .
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