His unit landed on Omaha Beach on June 7th, 1944 – the day following D-Day. They fought in what became known as "The Battle of the Hedge Rows," finally liberating the port city of Brest on September 18th. In the meantime, our family was notified that David was missing in action. There were long and anxious days of wondering what might have happened. And was he dead, or alive somewhere, or maybe a prisoner of war? My mother dreaded thoughts that he lay wounded and suffering with no help or hope. The silence of the War Department lasted a long, long time. Finally a telegram arrived, on September 27th, saying he had actually been killed more than a month earlier. My father questioned how the hell they could lose track of a soldier for over a month. My mother offered that the circumstances must be terrible "over there" and soldiers fighting for their lives have more urgent matters than sending telegrams.

He had survived 70 days in the hedge rows before his death, and we know nothing for sure about those days other than his general location with the 23rd Infantry. My parents were assured that he had fought bravely. A few of his personal items later arrived in the mail, including a pocket size New Testament stained with his blood. The stain has faded through the years but is still visible. A Gold Star now hung in the living room window, facing the street. His name appeared on a roll of killed service men that hung near the pulpit in our Presbyterian Church. It later appeared in bronze letters on a county court house lawn memorial.  As a young boy, I was not devastated by this event, but my parents were. My father developed stomach trouble. My mother had frequent nightmares and felt this loss every remaining day of her life.

After the war, the government offered to dig up the remains of soldiers and bring them home for burial at no cost to the family. My father said this was a senseless waste of taxpayer money and declined the offer. About 60 percent of the other taxpayers thought differently, however. So the military cemeteries that remain overseas represent a minority of the actual casualties. We were notified that David's grave was in the American Cemetery near St. James, France, and given the row and plot numbers. But neither of my parents ever visited this grave, nor did my older brother, nor did I until recently. After more than 50 years, I made my way there, stopping first at the larger memorial at Omaha Beach, where my brother had first landed. I found it a stunning, sobering place. And after all these years, people still flock to it like pilgrims. Most are very quiet. The rows of graves are very long, and the cliffs are very high.

I started out in the early morning to find the cemetery in St. James, not knowing what to expect. I found the town on an overcast day with a slight breeze stirring. A stranger driving in France appreciates how well even the smaller roads are marked. Most intersections give you distance and direction to three destinations, one closer, another medium distance, and one being usually a large and easily recognized city. A few miles out of town in open country, a small sign pointed to the American Cemetery. I found it easily but almost fearfully. It occupied a large area of high ground, surrounded by a stone wall and with a single entrance. I parked across from it on the 2-lane country road, opened the door, and sighed a deep sigh.

A small, stone headquarters building stood just inside the entranceway. I assumed I needed to see someone and perhaps register or fill something out. The picture shows this building as seen from inside the cemetery, and the man in the suit is the superintendent who greeted me. He was a retired U.S. Army officer. When he learned that I had come from the U.S. to visit my brother's grave he assumed a solemn tone. He explained that he would escort me to the grave and leave me alone to spend whatever time I wished. When I was finished I should come back to the office and he would show me the chapel and allow me to climb the tower. From the tower I would have a commanding view of the grounds and the surrounding countryside. He looked up my brother's name in the register and wrote down the address. Then he took a small plastic bucket, poured in a little sand from a stone jar, added a little water, and mixed the two with a flat scraper. He dampened a small sponge and carried these things as he started out ahead of me.

It is hard to describe how serene and beautiful was this place. There was no hint of trash on the grounds or a blade of grass un-mowed. The rows of gravestones were precisely aligned and seemed vast and endless. So many young men, so many names, so many families and towns like ours they had left behind. My brother had written mother not to worry herself about him, he was sure he would come back home from the war. Others here had written their mothers the same. He and these thousands had died as boys, and I had lived on after them my years as a man. These quiet and peaceful grounds were the place where armies had fired on each other, tanks had chewed the earth, shells had exploded, and bombs and bullets rained down from planes overhead. Something like that had ended my brother's life, and now I was following this gentleman with the small plastic bucket to see where they laid him.

He was watching the little stone markers that told the number of each row, glancing now and then at his slip of paper. Then his steps slowed, although my heart pounding did not. We were there, there at the end of this row, my brother's row. And his spot was not far in, only six or eight places as I recall. And there on the white cross was his name, my name. His name here in a field in France. The name was weathered by the years, but the superintendent had ways. He explained that the sand in this bucket had been taken from Omaha Beach where my brother landed. He took the scraper and forced sand into each carved letter and numeral. Then he gently wiped off the excess with the damp sponge.  See in the picture (click to enlarge) how this treatment lifted the inscription as compared to the surrounding graves.  He placed a small American flag in the ground, gave a signal, and taps was played. Then he walked off and left me alone.

I know more about my brother from what my parents told me than from what I actually remember. My mother used to talk about how David loved me, his "little brother," the "baby of the family." I do remember that we were on the main street of our small town one unsuspecting day, just the two of us. And he took me by the hand, gave some coins to a person behind a window, and led me into a big dark room where we sat down with other people. Up in the front there were cowboys riding horses and making noise. I had never been to such a place or seen such a thing. And I remember my exact words. I leaned and whispered to this future soldier – "Is this a moving picture show?"

I thought of this there, and many other things, and wondered what would have been said and felt if mother and dad were still alive and with me.

The superintendent was a gracious man. He escorted me to the lovely stone chapel and unlocked the stairs so I could climb its tower.  I read the plaques and memorials, then stopped at his office to say goodbye. I learned that the bodies of dead German soldiers were "tended to" by American staff, their graves marked and records turned over to the enemy after the war. I learned that the enemy did the same. My host told of this with some pride. He told me that the French people were still grateful for America's intervention and sacrifices during the war, that they still came out on memorial days, especially the ones who were older and could remember. And on my drive back to the hotel, I was given an illustration.

The morning overcast had brightened some. I was driving along through open country, passing small, quaint villages and well-tended farms. Now and then I would stop to photograph a church or garden or something of interest like a sign that marked the route of the Tour de France. I passed a small graveyard with a stone fence around it. I was by it and almost drove on, but I turned around and went back. The stones and markers were lovely and ornate. I rested my camera on top of the stone fence and made my shots. Turning to leave, I noticed a stone marker outside the cemetery and beside its entrance.  I was a memorial to an American airman, Lieutenant Netting Conrad, who had died there "in the cause of liberty" on October 6, 1944 and was buried in the nearby cemetery with my brother.  It had been placed by local citizens, not the U.S. government.  The flowers at its base were freshly picked.

I can remember hearing the radio announcements of Pearl Harbor and Roosevelt’s famous declaration of war.  Prior to that I can remember the voice of Adolf Hitler on the radio.  I knew that my parents and brothers were excited and keenly interested in these events.  We lived in a small southern town of about 8,000 where my father taught at the local college and my brothers attended high school and junior high.  Of course, I had no concept of what this would mean for our family, our town, our country, and the world we lived in.

Fifty million soldiers and civilians would be killed in this world war.  No one in our town would have had any concept of such a thing.  But I think everyone knew that something of great importance and potential threat was going on.  My father and brothers began keeping a scrapbook of newspaper clippings about the war.  The daily broadcasts of news on the radio were eagerly listened to and discussed.  I was more occupied with the interests of five-year-olds.

The things I recall about the next four years represent my own experience as a young boy in a Tennessee town.

There were blackouts at night in the early months.  My father was a volunteer Air Raid Warden and he went out in the early evening knocking on the doors of homes with light showing through the windows, telling them they must observe the blackout.

There were shortages of food and materials needed for the war, and there was rationing.  I remember the little books and the ration stamps that were issued.  To purchase rationed items you had to proved the required number of ration stamps.  Meat, sugar, and cigarettes were rationed, as was gasoline.  Toys for children were no longer made and children were forced to invent their own, which we did pretty well as I recall.  Automobile production was halted and driving was severely reduced because tires and gasoline could not be obtained easily.  I do not recall that gasoline was every totally unavailable, but it was scarce for ordinary people and there was a lot of walking.  Some people simply parked and stored their cars for the duration of the war.

Every war is both an occasion of suffering for some, and an opportunity for gain to others.  The government determined that it would not allow corporations to profit wildly and uncontrolled (as they do now).  There was an “Excess Profits Tax” that took care of this.  Wages and prices were frozen as well.  There were individuals who tried to beat the rationing system through hoarding and use of the black market that developed.  I recall the strong public opinion in my town against these hoarders and black marketeers.  I believe that some of our citizens felt this so strongly that they reported cheaters.  The government called on its citizenry to make sacrifices on behalf of the war effort.  The term “war effort” became common.  Everyone was expected to do his part in this war effort.

I can remember doing my part by pulling my red wagon through the neighborhood and collecting tin cans, old tires, rubber inner tubes, scrap paper, and anything made of metal were reclaimed.  You took these to a scrap depot and turned them in as a patriotic act.

Every home that had sons in the war had a small flag hanging in the window facing the street.  There was a blue star for each soldier.  If a soldier had been killed, the star was gold.  Mothers of the killed soldiers were known as “Gold Star Mothers.”  Churches also had a wall hanging that listed the names of all its soldiers with an indication of those that had lost their lives.  Later in the war I can remember sitting in church and gazing at this banner, always picking out my brother’s name.

There was, I recall, an active bond among neighbors whose sons were in the war.  If you got a letter you talked with all your neighbors and friends and told them whatever news it contained, and they did the same for you.  If a soldier was killed, there was an outpouring of support and sympathy.  The Washington D.C. area had a great snowstorm in the seventies that overwhelmed snow removal capacity.  People struggled to shovel three feet of snow from their driveways but it was days before streets were cleared.  There were power outages and people ran low on food and medicines and other needs.  After the storm there were articles about how the storm had brought people together and helping each other who barely knew each other.  That is exactly what the “war effort” and its many sacrifices did, but on a scale that went on for years.

There was a national draft (a.k.a. conscription) of soldiers.  Young men ages 18-25 were required to sign up and were called to duty as needed.  There were local “draft boards” that dealt with exemptions such as physical disability or conscientious objection.  My oldest brother volunteered for the army while he was still 17 years of age.  His 18-year old buddies and others were all going, and he wanted to go too.  My father objected to this, but the boy did it anyway.  My father refused to see him off to the war, leaving this to mother.  But later on a furlough home my father and brother were reconciled.  I was aware that my parents suffered greatly the strain of these years.  Up and down our street it was the same in almost every home.

Telegrams and long distance phone calls were greatly feared in those dark years.  Almost always they brought bad news.  There were two kinds of telegrams from the War Department.  One reported that your son had been killed, and the other declared him missing in action.  The second was often followed by the first, but not always.  In the case of our family, we got the “missing in action” telegram and remained uncertain for several weeks before the one arrived that began “The War Department regrets to inform you . . ..”

My mother cried aloud when that message came.  I can hear it in my head today as if I were still in that moment.

David Briggs, Jr. (back row, 4th from left) and his Army buddies

After basic training and short tours at various bases in the U.S., he was shipped to England to join the troops assembling there.  He landed on Omaha Beach June 7th, the day after D-Day.  He fought in the Normandy hedgerows and was killed in action near the small town of Marigny, about 6 miles from Saint-Lo, on August 15, 1944.

As we observed the 65th anniversary of the D-Day invasion, I re-read some of my young brother’s letters to our family.  The following are a few selections:

(From Ft. McClellan, Alabama, soon after enlistment) “Dear Edward . . . tell Queen (our collie dog) hello for me.  Study hard in school and be a good boy.”

(October 7, 1943) “This war can’t last forever, and after a few months or a year it will all be over.  Six months from now we will come home.  Some won’t come back, but I believe that I will be one that will.  Something inside of me seems to tell me that I will be spared.  I believe I have something to do, and fate won’t allow me to leave it unfinished. . ..

(October 27, 1943) “After this war is over things will be swell, so don’t let the present worry you. . . . A guy really sees life when he is in the army.  It has done me a lot of good, and not much harm, in any way.

(December 3, 1943) “Dear Dad . . . this life is very rugged, but I enjoy it.  Conditions are not very comfortable, but every day I learn how to make better use of what I have.”

(February 7, 1944 from Fort Bragg, NC) “We are now a replacement division and won’t go over as a body, but at any time some of us may be called for overseas duty as replacements.  I really don’t care if they take me.  I rather want it.”

(July 27, 1944) “Dear Mother & Dad . . . if you don’t hear from me for long periods of time don’t let it bother you . . . don’t expect a letter again for a few weeks.”

(August 5, 1944) “Dad, how do you think the war is going now?  Pretty good, huh?  Next summer, if circumstances permit, let’s go to the mountains for a couple of weeks.  Yeah, I said next summer!!”

(August 10, 1944) “It’s rather difficult to get fresh news up here, but I guess the war is going along well.  I don’t see how it can last too much longer now. Give my love to John and Edward . . ..”

David Briggs, Jr.

(From the War Department) “Dear Mrs. Briggs . . . It is with profound regret that I confirm the recent telegram informing you of the death of your son, Private First Class David H. Briggs . . . on 15 August 1944 in France.  May the knowledge that he made the supreme sacrifice for his home and country be a source of sustaining comfort.”

Several years ago I visited my brother’s grave for the first time.  My parents never thought it made sense to move his body from the U.S. Military Cemetery in France, as the government later offered to do.

I was awed being led down those long rows of white crosses to the one with my brother’s name on it.  Taps was played in the cool air as I stood there.  And although it was a recording played over the loud speaker, the effect was not at all impersonal.  Each note was my heart pounding.