by Ray Lambert
But then I remember that they are enduring values that we didn’t invent. They have withstood a revolution, a civil war, untold conflict. The human vessels they are contained in are imperfect; we struggle to improve ourselves and our relationships to others and the world. But the values themselves will endure, and our connection to them will as well, as long as we remember and honor the sacrifices others made in their name.
Thirteen
Legacy
I was born in a place of rich soil and richer possibility, at a time far different from the present, yet recognizable by the threads that have led us here. I was endowed with great wealth, but not money. It was a simpler world in the ways that are often spoken of, but I and my generation faced the same complex truths and harsh realities mankind has wrestled with since Adam and Eve. As many before and since, I discovered that evil can be an overwhelming force in the world, that fear and courage can be close companions, and that wanting to do the right thing is no guarantee that you will succeed.
I also discovered that loss can be overcome, that love can survive separation, and that saving a man’s life is its own reward.
I learned what it feels like to kill. I learned what it’s like to see the last breath of a close friend.
Some things I saw and learned cannot be fully described.
What words can explain the way a bullet spins through a man’s head, or the rattle of a leg slapped free of its body? But there are many other things I saw that all of us, being human, can understand and feel—the grin on your child’s face Christmas morning, the smooth curve of your spouse’s body as she bends to set the table for dinner.
Every man’s life takes its own course, tracing a path like a solitary raindrop, sliding down the pavement. But that path can be seen as part of a much larger whole, a river perhaps, running to the sea. And so my story, with all its specific twists and turns, its tragedies and happiness, is not just my story, or even the tale of my generation; it is the story of America and the world. The late 1930s and early 1940s saw mankind struggle to answer a very basic question: Should good or evil prevail? But day to day, that larger question was far in the background, pushed away by more immediate ones, like, Will I live today?
There are not many of us left who walked the paths I walked. Last year at the 1st Division reunion, there were only two of us who had gone in on D-Day. I was the only man there who’d made all three landings—North Africa, Sicily, and Normandy.
I’m telling my story in these pages not for my glory or even that of my fellow soldiers, but for the future, for my grandchildren’s grandchildren, so they may understand that the struggles they face are not insurmountable. They will live in a far different time than I, but we will have much in common. They, too, will be tested and tempted; I pray that my story will make some small contribution to the ultimate triumph I know they will achieve.
* * *
Sometimes when I’m asked about the awards and such, I honestly don’t remember the details. Often I’ll leave one of the medals out. I don’t mean that they’re not important, or that I don’t appreciate receiving them. It’s that what I had to do at the time was help or save someone, and I was focused on that, not getting a medal or an award, or even a thank-you. I had to do my job. Even more, I had to help that guy in front of me.
We dodged bullets and shells all the time. On the beach in Normandy, in the mountains of Sicily, every time we were under fire—every man was a hero. We didn’t stop to calculate: If I do X, then I will receive Y.
Run into this minefield, receive a Silver Star.
Pull this soldier out of the surf, get a Distinguished Service Cross. Medal.
War isn’t like that, and we weren’t like that. Plenty of times I did things just as brave or foolhardy as the things I was honored for without getting a medal. Plenty of guys were far braver than me, and all they got was an honorable discharge.
The medals are important. They look nice in the display in the corner of the room. But the real place honor lives is in the hearts of other men and their families, the guys you saved, the families and generations that exist because of that one act of courage—or risk, or foolishness, or even temporary insanity. No general pins anything on your chest close in value to the legacy of the man you helped, his sons and daughters, his grandchildren.
Cherish the honors and awards, but realize the true measure of a man lies somewhere else.
Collaborator’s Note:
Bringing Ray’s Story to the Page
I’d been working with Ray on this book for several months, talking on the phone, following him to Europe, and interviewing him at his home, when late one afternoon we took a break to take some photographs of memorabilia. As we were setting up, I happened across an official-looking memorandum typewritten on a plain piece of paper. Not sure what it was, I was about to set it aside when a few random words caught my eye.
It was the citation for his first (as far as I can tell) Silver Star, awarded in Africa for rescuing men being overrun by the Germans.
Remarkable in itself, surely, but to me even more remarkable was the fact that in all the time we’d been working on the book, Ray hadn’t mentioned this incident.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, or words to that effect. “The Germans advanced and it was a little tricky to get the guys out. I had to go back two or three times . . .”
Why hadn’t he mentioned it before, I asked.
“It wasn’t anything special.”
To say that the heroes of World War II are humble has become both a meme and a cliché over the years, but it’s also true in many cases, and certainly this one. While Ray has been an active member of veterans’ groups associated with the 16th Infantry and the 1st Division for many years, it wasn’t until the last few that he decided to record his story for his family; our book was even more recent.
This was despite the fact that literally thousands of people have urged him to write a book over the years. He didn’t because he didn’t think his story was worth telling. The only thing that persuaded him was the fact that, at ninety-eight years old, he is one of the last survivors not only of D-Day but of America’s World War II European campaign. While there are plenty of books on World War II, making a connection with history often requires personal contact, and Ray rightfully feared that as veterans of the war passed away, so too would the memory of their struggle.
Human memory is, after all, a very fragile thing. And unfortunately as direct memory of a thing is lost, too often the lessons that it taught are lost as well. In the case of World War II, without doubt the most costly, ferocious, and tragic worldwide conflict humans have ever known, that loss could easily prove catastrophic. Both Ray and I fervently hope that adding his story to the collective memory will help ensure that never happens.
Memory being fragile, both of us worried that his memory of events might not be accurate. It was my job to both prompt and provide context to his specific memories, and also to fact-check to the extent possible. He did his part as well, referring when he could to documents, photos, and notes that he’d accumulated over the years. During some of our formal interview sessions, Ray sat with a history of the 16th Regiment in his lap, occasionally dipping in to help jump-start his reminiscences, or occasionally place them into a specific time and place.
I must say, though, that his memory of the war was extremely sharp, and I’m not qualifying that by mentioning his age. Naturally, every participant has a different perspective; I’ve seen cases where a half dozen after-action reports on the same battle contained accounts so diverse that one had to wonder if all the men were in the same battle—and this was from soldiers barely ten yards from each other for its duration. So if there is a caveat to this book, it is that it is Ray’s personal perspective. As helpful as the sources listed in the appendix were, these are Ray’s memories, and his alone.
Humility has been an important hallmark of Ray’s life and personality, as it was for many soldiers of that generation. It was therefore easy to accept a
nd even to explain. A more difficult quandary was this:
How did a young man who’d never finished high school, who had been raised in small, rural communities, and who had never held a very important let alone well-paying job, become in a few short months not only a hero, but a bona fide leader in the U.S. Army?
It may well be that becoming a hero was simply natural and innate, a matter of first being raised to help and care for others, and then being in the right place at the right time—if a minefield can ever be described as the right place at any time.
I think there is a great deal of truth when Ray says, as he often does, I did what I thought I should. He followed his impulses and didn’t stop to question them. Most times, though not always, he wasn’t scared. To hear him tell it, he wasn’t anything at all. He acted, rather than thought or felt.
So maybe being a hero was “just” a natural part of him and the way he was raised.
But the leadership part—surely that is something that isn’t innate. There are programs and books and countless websites devoted to training one’s self to be a leader. Ray, and I would guess the vast majority of people who found themselves thrust into leadership positions during World War II, never took any of those courses. But the army recognized his abilities and his skill at sharing those abilities with others. He treated the men he worked alongside of with deep respect, getting to know them, assessing what they could do, and never asking more from them than they were capable, or than he would himself do.
Where precisely those qualities came from remains, to me at least, a great mystery. I suspect that they were always there, nurtured by his experiences growing up, and able to fully blossom once he was part of the army. Hardship and sacrifice were not obstacles, but rather the very things that made those qualities grow.
If that was true for Ray, then by extension it must have been true for his entire generation of men and women. There are many reasons for America’s prosperity in the postwar years; the leadership abilities and the caring for others that people nurtured through the hard times of the Depression and the world war are surely the least valued and understood. But they deserve credit.
This is not to simply restate the cliché about the “Greatest Generation,” a name that papers over not only many failings but also a large part of the struggle and the triumphs. Nor is it to look at the past with rose-colored glasses, to claim that the postwar years or the men and women who lived through them were perfect. But it is only fair to note that the overwhelming lesson that I draw from World War II, and from knowing Ray Lambert, is not only that it was a remarkable time and he is a remarkable hero, but that all of us possess the capacity to do great things if we allow ourselves to be like him—humble, diligent, hardworking, and courageous when it is not easy to be.
—Jim DeFelice
Acknowledgments
Ray has a large and generous group of friends and family, and their love and support truly made this book possible. Thanks first and foremost to Barbara, Ray’s wife, who helped with a variety of tasks directly related to the book and was a gracious, patient, and welcoming host as the interviews progressed. As Ray notes in the book, she’s the reason he’s still going strong at ninety-eight.
Besides being great friends, Ray’s neighbors, Gijsbertus VanDomselaar, otherwise known as Bert, and his wife, Elly, were a tremendous help to him when he was first organizing his memories.
Ray would also like to specially thank Major Christophe Coquel of the French Gendarmerie. Christophe has gone out of his way to make things easy for Ray’s visits to Normandy, and had been a tireless supporter of the 16th Infantry and the Big Red One for many years.
Critical research on this book was provided by Ray Fashona, an excellent writer as well as researcher, who did much of the footwork in the preliminary stages, tracking down survivors of the Battle for Normandy and their families.
Debra Scacciaferro was again of immense assistance, researching different aspects of the battles and medical history. She also spent considerable time sorting through photographs and official U.S. Army documents to augment my research. In addition, Debra provided valuable feedback as the manuscript was being prepared.
In France, Jim’s friend Dianne Condon-Boutier (now with Fat Thelma Tours, www.france-vacations-made-easy.com) was a dynamic, tireless, and truly phenomenal guide, translator, and sounding board in Normandy, literally opening doors to hidden bunkers and normally closed museums. Jim’s friend Patrick Ober was a great companion and resource, as well as a cheerful translator and sounding board.
Stéphane Leguennec of La Colline was a gracious and accommodating host in Bayeux. Label West Tours helped facilitate Jim’s arrangements with great efficiency.
Many museum and library directors and staffs played an important role in providing background and information. John Long at the National D-Day Museum was especially helpful and extremely gracious as a host during the early stages of research on the book. Jim was assisted once again by the Ramapo Catskill Library System and the staff at Albert Wisner Library, who obtained many difficult-to-find books that added to this project.
Our editor at William Morrow, Peter Hubbard, was instrumental in the birth of this book. Not only did he suggest the topic, he tirelessly pushed and supported it, and accompanied Jim on an early trip to work with Ray.
Peter’s assistant, Nick “Cadillac” Amphlett, was a critical resource at the publishing house and while we were doing research. Vice President of Publicity Sharyn Rosenblum and her staff were wonderful in their support.
Also at William Morrow, sincere thanks to President and Publisher Liate Stehlik for her early enthusiasm and continuing support; art director Rich Aquan for his creative work, Judy R. DeGrottole, Nyamekye Waliyaya, and Andrea Molitor.
Appendix A:
The Combat Medics of World War II
Combat medics in World War II carried a cloth medical bag or kit containing their essential supplies. There were several different versions during the war, differing slightly in size and things like the buckle, but all were army green and were essentially pouches with a fold-over top flap. They were held up by straps at the side, with a harness or suspenders, and slung over the body in different ways depending on personal preference, if photos from the period are any indication. The bags were usually near the medic’s belt, where they were easy to open. The company aid men might have one or two of the bags; most of the others would usually carry only one, though at times like D-Day everyone had two pouches, stuffed with as much gear and supplies as they could get.
The items inside also varied slightly, depending on the year and place where they were deployed. A typical bag would include five yards of one-inch-wide surgical adhesive; scissors; forceps; safety pins; a small kit to treat burn injuries; boric acid ointment; eye dressing; iodine swabs; one-inch-by-three-inch bandages; morphine; sulfadiazine (or sulfa, as Ray calls it), and a tourniquet. There were also medical tags to be used to record treatment data as well as personal information. Recording that a man had received a morphine shot was especially important to avoid overdoses.
Small personal items—cigarettes especially—were often carried as well.
Much more equipment was available in the large medical kits used at the battalion aid stations. Besides such staples as bandages, syringes, and the like, a battalion aid station would include supplies of common drugs like aspirin. Regimental aid stations, farther behind the lines, would generally have much more gear and equipment.
Combat medics like Ray and the men who worked with him were in a unique position. Not only were they shoulder to shoulder in combat with infantrymen on the front line, but they were the leading edge of a large operation that did most of its work by necessity far from the battlefield.
The army’s medical department evolved after World War I, with changes due not only to medical advances but also to changes in the army’s structure. During World War II, medical care was organized in a way familiar to the army, but sometimes difficult to understand for
civilians not familiar with the 1940s command structure.
As members of the U.S. Army Medical Department, medics answered to a chain of command separate from the soldiers they treated. At the same time, their work meant they were “attached” to the parent unit of the men they took care of on the battlefield. They lived and trained with the infantry regiment, moved with it, fought with it. In a sense, they had two masters.
Even more confusing, at least for us, medics worked directly with medical units that were part of the regiment and division’s regular chain of command, and which included doctors and other members of the medical department who were “assigned,” rather than attached, to the division.
“Assigned” and “attached” have important meanings in the service, but while the difference was important to the men and the army, for us it’s mostly irrelevant. Whatever hats or patches a man might wear, it’s the job he does that’s important.
The system followed the same general pattern throughout the war. A wounded soldier received first aid from a medic when he was wounded. The medic would decide if the man needed further treatment or not. If he did and he could not walk on his own power, stretcher bearers would take the wounded soldier to a battalion aid station. This station would typically be within a few hundred yards of the front lines—close walking distance, though in as safe an area as could be found.
Here, a doctor and other medics would give him more treatment. They might then send him back to his unit, or to a collection station.
This station would be a few miles farther back, and could receive men from different aid stations. More medical care could be administered here. Someone who was severely wounded would ordinarily go from the clearing station to a field hospital nearby, where complicated surgery could be performed. After that, or if his injuries had already been sufficiently stabilized, he would then go to a general hospital, either for more treatment or rehabilitation, called convalescence during the war. (Convalescent hospitals specializing in rehabilitation were also developed during the war.)