German POW camp Christmas Day 1944

This is a rare photo taken in a German POW camp on Christmas Day 1944. The three men in the foreground are members of the American 82nd Airborne Division. The men in the background are French prisoners who had been captured in 1940. The soldier lying on the cot, covered by a blanket, is my uncle George Augustine "Auggie" Harris. Their German captors apparently tried to make the day as special as possible. You can see some beer bottles in the picture. Auggie was liberated by British troops on April 27, 1945.


Memorial Day is for remembering those who gave their lives in the service of our country. God bless them all and their families. I am grateful for them all. I am grateful for all those who sacrificed their lives in every war our country has fought from the beginning until now.

There is another group of American war veterans who came close to losing their lives in battle. They came home with broken bodies and tortured minds. Many died from their wounds after their wars had ended; sometimes long after. And I am grateful for them and their sacrifices.

This is a tribute to one of these, my uncle George Augustine Harris. He served with the 401st Glider Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division and faced his first combat during the invasion of Normandy which began on June 6, 1944--D-Day. His unit was pulled back to England after several weeks to prepare for the invasion of the Netherlands on September 17, 1944. This was the infamous "short cut to victory" campaign envisioned by Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery.

The invasion of the Netherlands was a two-part operation that, according to Montgomery, was to cross the Rhine and end the war with Germany by Christmas 1944. It was officially called Operation Market Garden and called for the 1st Allied Airborne Army, consisting of the British 1st Airborne Division and the American 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions, to lay an airborne "carpet" which would take a series of bridges across rivers and canals between Belgium and the Rhine. The airborne troops would hold the bridges until a British armored army could race across the water obstacles, eventually crossing the Rhine and spreading out across the German industrial area of the Ruhr and force Germany to sue for peace.

It must have looked good on paper, because the allied high command agreed to launch Market Garden. Unfortunately, many a battle plan goes out the window when the bullets begin to fly. What looked like an easy walk through Holland for the Allies at the beginning of September had changed drastically by September 17 when the operation began. Two German armored SS divisions had been sent into the area days before and the Allied airborne divisions were dropped right on top of them.

After several days of desperate fighting the Allies had to pull back. Both the British and American airborne divisions suffered heavy losses, especially the British who had gone for the bridge across the Rhine at Arnhem--the famous "bridge too far."

My uncle, we all called him Auggie, was wounded by artillery fire near Ninjmegen on September 30, and captured. He would spend the rest of the war in a German POW camp. He nearly lost lost his leg, and did lose part of his left foot. For the rest of his short life (he died in December, 1952, at the age of 35) he walked with a limp, never having fully recovered from his wounds.

Today I pay grateful tribute to all those who lie in hundreds of military cemeteries around the world; and to those whose bones still remain unidentified in jungles, deserts, and fields. Over the years many observers have asked the question, "Where do we get such men?" The short answer is that they are fathers, and sons, and brothers, and uncles like Auggie. And yes, many women have made the same sacrifices. All for us. For our freedom. Let us never forget them.

My Other Books

Reissued by Pelican Publishing Co., Gretna, Louisiana 2009

If you've ever laughed to keep from crying; if you've ever felt that being grown up isn't all it's cracked up to be and found yourself bemused and confused by adulthood and parental responsibility; If you can remember what it was like to be a kid and have all the time in the world to do that all-important nothin'--then this book is for you, and you'll laugh when it hurts, too.

This unforgettable series of essays paints a bittersweet and vivid portrait of American life and of the lessons--some hard, some hilarious--life can teach. Looking back, Foxx relays his insights in relation to his coming of age and beyond. From the death of his father to the challenge of raising four sons of his own, he searches not only for understanding, but also for levity. As part of the growth process, Foxx passes his hard-won wisdom on to his children, with a touch of humor to ease the growing pains.

Available at

www.pelicanpub.com

www.amazon.com

Coauthored with Eddy W. Davison, former student and colleague

AWARDS

Arizona Book Award for Biography 2008

Finalist for 2008 Independent Book Publishers Association Benjamin Franklin Award

"Recommended as must reading for those who want to know Forrest and his way of war."

 --Edwin C. Bearss, historian emeritus, National Park Service

"Chasing a figure such as Nathan Bedford Forrest through history is no easy task. Eddy Davison and Daniel Foxx have done so with the dedication and resolve of Old Bedford himself, creating along the way a rousing portrait of the soldier and the man."

--Brian S. Wills, Asbury Professor of History, University of Virginia

"The search for the truth . . . continues here with additional sources and analysis building upon the well-known legend of the Wizard of the Saddle."

--Lee Millar, president, General Nathan Bedford Forrest Historical Society

"Very enlightening as to Forrest's early years and his coming of age in the Civil War."

--Dean Becraft, past president, Scottsdale Civil War Roundtable

Eddy W. Davison teaches criminal justice at the International Institute of the Americas in Phoenix, Arizona, and serves as an adjunct professor of history at Ottawa University. He frequently writes and presents seminars on Civil War topics.

      Daniel Foxx is professor of history emeritus at Ottawa University in Phoenix and has held past history teaching appointments at East Carolina University and Glendale Community College.

MOTHERS DAY THOUGHTS

This weekend is Mothers Day. All over America sons and daughters will pay tribute and express their love to their mothers, as I do also. Unfortunately my mother died too soon at the age of sixty-two almost forty-five years ago. I was clear across the country attending college when it happened and still regret that I wasn't there to tell her how much I loved her and appreciated all she had done for me.

One of my favorite authors, Lewis Grizzard, wrote a little book about his love for his mother, "Don't Forget To Call Your Mama, I Wish I Could Call Call Mine." I'm sure all of us who have lost our mothers can relate to the sentiment of that title. So, if your mother lives close enough for you to visit, go see her. If not, pick up the phone and call. One day, sooner than you think, she will be gone. Don't let that happen without taking the opportunity to say a proper goodbye. You don't want to carry around for the rest of your life a bunch of "if onlys" and sad regrets.

My friend, Lara Lazenby, said it as well as it can be said on her Facebook page this morning, and I hope she doesn't mind my quoting her: "The hardest day of the year for those who have lost a mother, never had a mother, had a horrible mother, lost a child, or never had one. And harder still for all the mothers who are unappreciated by their thoughtless kids and spouses, left alone, abandoned or forgotten. And let's not forget the single moms, the superheroes, who do it alone every single relentless day of the year. And if I forgot someone . . .  well, then I've totally made my point. Big heart hugs to you all!"

May I just add, as one who was fortunate to have such a wonderful mother: Say on, Sister Lara. God bless all mothers everywhere. And don't forget to call your mother. I wish I could call mine.

FIGHTER JOCK WANNABE

          I'm just a fighter jock wannabe
          But I'm so old I know I'm never gonna be.

          My old A2 hangs in the closet there
          Languishing for want of wear.

          I no longer look anything like dashing,
          And only in highway's traffic face fears of crashing.

          But my wannabe pilot's heart stays strong,
          And stirs each time I hear an airplane's song.

          I may have missed my chance on this side of the sunset,
          But out there where the old pilots live on, I'll bet
          The chance to fly awaits me yet.

[An "A2" is a leather flight jacket worn by military pilots during World War II, and still issued to Air Force pilots today.]

          --Mary-Helen is the poet in the family (see her blog: http://ourwaywithwords.blogspot.com), but sometimes I try.

Reading Through Your Own Experience

                            

  READING THROUGH YOUR OWN EXPERIENCE

Someone asked me once what I meant by a certain passage I had written in one of my books. I appreciated that she had read my book thoughtfully, but the question made me uncomfortable. "What do you think it means?" I asked.

She gave a thoughtful answer and asked, "Am I right?"

I smiled and nodded, but I'm still not sure if that's what I really meant. Over the years since that encounter I've often wondered what I meant by a lot of things I've written. Here's what I've come to believe: I don't want to tell you what I mean. I want you to understand what it means to you, my reader.

When I was a kid in school I loved to read. I read almost everything from westerns to history to adventure. I even read the cereal boxes and can labels. In school I always read the literature assignments and had another book or two I was reading at the same time, but I was turned off when it came to class discussions on our reading assignments. They almost always consisted of questions like, "What does the author mean by such and so?" Or "Who are the 'dark watchers' in Hemingway's story?"

It wasn't that I didn't know what those things meant to ME, but how could I  know what the author meant? I think she had written her story and invited me to understand it through my own experience.

Only once did I try to answer one of these questions from the teacher. We were reading poetry. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Father Time is flying. . ." I was a young high school junior, and I knew what that meant to me. "For the sword outlasts the sheath," Byron wrote. Those lines invited me to look across the years to that time when the bodies of my sap-green classmates and I would age and prevent us from doing those things we took for granted at the age of seventeen.

"What do you think the author means by that line, 'For the sword outlasts the sheath?'" our teacher asked. When she looked me in the eye and called my name, I told her what I thought. Luckily I minced a lot of words and didn't thoroughly embarrass myself. And even now, liberated by age and a much more open society, that's all I'm going to say.

Literature teachers still nag their students to read authors' minds with that question, "What does the author mean by thus and so?" To that question I still have that same sense of discomfort when asked what I meant by something I had written. I think I'm uncomfortable because the real question is "What does this mean to you?"


Several years ago I attended a weekend conference of Southwest History teachers. We had read Edward Abbey's book, "The Brave Cowboy," in preparation for watching the Hollywood film version called "Lonely Are the Brave," and discussing the film and the book throughout the day. I'm a fan of Abbey's work and the film version as well. At the end of the story the cowboy is lying injured by the side of the road after he and his horse had been hit by a semi truck.

A discussion ensued after watching the movie in our morning session. Most of us agreed that the cowboy probably died. After all, he had just been slammed into by a semi truck traveling at a high rate of speed. But one of the professors in our group began to dominate the discussion. He identified himself as an expert on Abbey's work, and announced confidently that the cowboy had not died because he appears later in another of Abbey's books.

After lunch we reassembled to discuss the book when who walked in but Edward Abbey himself. "I was over in Scottsdale and heard that you're discussing my favorite author. Do you mind if I sit in?" Of course we didn't mind; we were happy to have him.

Our Edward Abbey expert lost no time in confronting Abbey with the question of the cowboy's survival. Maybe he wanted Abbey to agree with him. "Ed, I've read all your work," he said, "and I believe that the cowboy did not die. So my question to you, Ed, is did the cowboy, in fact, die at the end of the story?"

Abbey gave him a forty-yard stare for a moment or two and said, "Damned if I know."