A Dad and his son, 55 years ago at Omaha Beach

The year was 1969.? I was 13 years old, living in Europe for a year and struggling with school. I was bored and school was more of a pain in the butt to me than an important pathway to my future.? I lived with my family in Brussels, Belgium, as a military dependent and spent that year attending the brand-new Brussels American High School along with General Eisenhower’s grandkids; his son David was the US Ambassador to Belgium. My dad, COL Steve F. Phillips Jr., was Chief of the Army section of the Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) where he worked with the Armies of the Belgian, Luxembourg, and Netherlands. It was his first time back in Europe since his departure at the end of World War II in 1945. It was my first time experiencing and riding in the coolest car ever; a red, ‘69 Chevelle SS396, three-speed on the floor. I’ve dreamed of having that vehicle since that day! Thinking back to those days as I often do, I realize that the time spent shadowing my dad represents some of the most extraordinary moments in my life. Each experience left immeasurable impressions that would only be understood much later in my life. My father was a hero!

?Growing up, I knew my dad fought in WWII. It took some time for me to grasp some of the battles he fought in and the significance of each one. He grew up during the depression on a farm in rural South Carolina. His family was dirt poor but somehow, he managed to land a scholarship from Sears & Roebuck – his ticket to Clemson where he was in the 1942 "war class” when he graduated. In those days, Clemson was a military school and his goal was to become a pilot in the Army Air Corps. As fate would have it, he had high blood pressure and that landed him in the Army Infantry.

?As the Nation entered WWII, my dad was assigned to 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry of the 1st Infantry Division - the Big Red One. For those who may recall the TV show “Rat Patrol” back in the 60s, that is what he did - a genuine badass that did not hesitate to head out in search of the enemy - which is exactly what he and his team did! His indoctrination to combat was at the battle at Kasserine Pass, Tunisia. His unit lost contact with the Afrika Corps (General Rommel’s North African armor force) and his unit was sent out on recon to find them. Indeed, they found them.?They of course had to engage with the enemy a bit while he and his platoon spent the entire night in retrograde operations back to their company and by the time they got back to the Command Post, the company commander had packed up and left them – GONE! My dad never forgot that. For his actions during that very long night of fighting, he was awarded the Silver Star and his first Purple Heart. He left North Africa with shrapnel in his back and headed for his next amphibious landing – Sicily - Operation Husky. He captured a few Germans during the invasion and when it was all said and done, he proceeded on to England. While in England, he went through a period of intense training in preparation for the invasion of Europe and met a few British ladies during his stay. From what I understand, there was not only a lot of very hard training going on, but there were also a few pints flowing with the ladies.

?Fast forward to 1969 in Normandy, France; specifically, just outside Colleville-sur-Mer…Omaha Beach. I’m standing on the beach next to my dad with the map he used during the invasion (I still have that treasured map).?With precision and accuracy, he walked me through what happened on that day, 6 June 1944. It was the 25th Anniversary of D-Day and my dad was the representative for the 1st Infantry Division with the town of Colleville-sur-Mer. We took time while we were there to go to all the beaches as well as Point-de-Hoc where we saw hunters combing the hills for rabbits with a very large bunker in the background – same spot where RANGERS scaled the cliffs, many taking their final breath as they faced the hell awaiting them. From that spot, we walked through the American Cemetery...incredible and beautiful. Looking back, I recall my dad’s quiet movements through that sacred place. For me, it was the first time I truly understood what had occurred on that spot in June 1944.

To cap off this journey, on our way back to Brussels, we took the same route my dad took back in June 1944 through the hedge rows, farms, dirt roads, and farmers’ fields. All the zig zag and stops along the way drove my mom nuts, but this 13-year-old was mesmerized by it all. On a spot in one farmer’s field, my dad stopped and looked at his map. He looked out across the farmer’s field, side-to- side looking for landmarks. Suddenly, in the quiet of the field he spoke, “This is the place.” I looked at him and asked, “What do you mean?” At that moment, I could see the pain in his face as he remembered what had taken place on that very spot. That was the spot he earned his 2nd Purple Heart and where he lost half his calf from a German 88MM artillery round. It also earned him a trip back to the hospital ship and the nurses. His nickname was Snag for a reason!

?We traveled through Luxembourg and up through Bastogne and then on to Brussels. Those memories and moments in time are treasures in my mind, heart and soul. I know how fortunate I am to have spent time with my dad as a young teen and to learn the history he made and lived. He was not one to talk a lot but when it came to his time with the Big Red One, he loved sharing old stories with his buddies. I have stories about those encounters as well.

?It’s now 55 years since we made those memories together. My dad, the Colonel – died in 2006, but he left an indelible mark on me. Perhaps my decision to wear this nation’s cloth was in some small way how I chose to honor him. Whatever the other reasons – I remain the son of a soldier and will not forget the sacrifices so many made on June 6, 1944, on those beaches so far away.?The greatest honor I can offer for the many who stormed the beaches of Normandy is to tell the story of a young boy and his dad walking together where so many laid down their lives.

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