We had just sat down for lunch at a cozy restaurant in the French countryside. I was oblivious to who surrounded me except for what made me feel good. The warm sunlight was beaming through our glass room in the garden filled with lush palms and big sunflowers. I was just about to taste the French onion soup when my husband bursted out, “Oh my God…” Ken’s eyes were transfixed, mouth wide open.
“What honey?” I pressed.
“He is wearing all these badges on his uniform. See that? “No. 1” He must be a WWII veteran, may be in the First Infantry, may be the first wave even.”
“First wave?” I turned to my left and saw a small man decked out in army uniform fully decorated with countless shiny insignia on his chest – big and small. Some were dangling with short ribbons, others embedded with fine prints. His face was smoothly tanned with fine wrinkles. His eyes, tiny and twinkling. Sitting in front of a bowl of ice cream, he fed himself steadily with a small spoon and looking entirely engrossed. “Good sign. He’s still enjoying life!” I bemused.
Then I studied his face and noticed no emotions. His dining companions – several men and women, on the other hand, were boisterously raising arms and sharing jokes.
“He must be 90 some years old now. He must be just 18 or 19 during the War.” Ken noted.
“He must be a legend! Let’s go talk to him. Show our respect. Ask for a picture? I pressed again.
“Huum….I’m not sure we should…” He winced.
Ken is a conservative man with deep reservation about invading someone’s privacy. As we hesitated, I noticed the WWII veteran was seated next to a friendly woman who kept nodding and smiling at me, most likely because she caught me studying the soldier’s face. Sensing a warm gesture, I nodded back. “This could be once in a life time for us. Let’s go and ask for a picture with a legend!” Ken had already finished his expresso, and I’d finished the last drop of the best French Onion soup I’ve ever had in my life, we were ready to meet a war hero!
We went over. I led the way to approach that friendly woman who was standing outside the restroom. She introduced herself as “Marie” and told me I could go in. It was a gender-neutral, multi-stall restroom; Charles Shay, the WWII veteran was inside. When I went in, Charles was washing his hands meticulously in the sink. He was repeatedly rubbing his left hand from fingertips to wrist with his right hand holding a bar of soap under running water. His methodically intense focus, his slow and steady turn to take the towel before drying both hands and straightening his tie in the mirror, his every move was all so endearingly measured. So disciplined. So careful. What a mark of an officer and a gentleman.
When I emerged from the restroom, Marie officially introduced me and Ken to Charles and invited us to the memorial which she had installed to honor him. She told us how she, as a French citizen, felt so very grateful to the Americans. She met Shay years ago during a D-day anniversary and decided to volunteer to become his caregiver. She told us how Shay, a Native American of the Penobscot Tribe from Maine, earned the Silver Star for heroism as a combat medic on June 6, 1944. He was serving in the 1st Division and joined the Army in April of 1943 to be a medical technician. He was one of the many men who stepped off the landing crafts and into the frigid waters of Omaha Beach when he was just 19 years old.
I was completely blown away, standing still to show my utmost respect for a man so strong and brave.
At the Memorial, Ken and I were lucky enough to take the first picture with him,
beating a semi-circle of dozens of tourists already standing there with cameras waiting for him to arrive. After the picture, I gave Charles a big bear hug. I thanked him for his service, and asked: “How were you able to be so brave?” I wanted to see through his pure blue eyes for any bit of truth or wisdom he could give me. He quietly studied my eyes for a long minute, then he pointed his fingers in the direction of the American cemetery, “The brave ones are in the cemetery.” Tears filled my eyes at the thought of the dead, who gave their lives for freedom. Words seemed pointless. We thanked him again and headed off to the American cemetery.
There, we contemplated the countless young lives lost during Operation Overlord under the command of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. And we imagined the impossible. Climbing the treacherous cliff and fighting courageously and savagely until the mission was accomplished.
That night, thoughts of Shay lingered and I googled him. As it turns out, he not only served WWII, he went onto serve the Korean War. Wow. He is a soldier for life. He’s alive to point us to the brave ones who lost their lives so we don’t forget the price of peace and freedom.