Just a reminder [Archive]

BrunswickDawg

06-06-2017, 12:45 PM

I shared some of this story in the WWII thread a few weeks back - but I wrote this on the 70th anniversary of D-Day:

June 6, 1944. That date is forever etched in our collective history as a day the world changed. It is a day when a force was unleashed upon the Earth which had never been seen, and has never been repeated. The bold thought that the entire force of American, Canadian, British, and French armies could cross the English Channel aboard ships and stake a claim for returning Europe to the rule of law and democracy in the face of incredible challenges made it almost inconceivable that success was imminent – but everyone believed it was.

While most people celebrate their patriotism and the sacrifice of our armed forces on Memorial Day – I never do. I choose June 6th for that memory because the sacrifice of that day means so much more to who I am and who I hope my son can become. My hero was a part of the force unleashed, and it was an experience that he shared with me only in snipets over the years.

John Stanley Hunter was born in Marietta, Georgia on July 4, 1920, the 7th son of Frank and Minnie Hunter. He was named for his uncle John and the doctor who delivered him. As I heard it, he began working as a very young boy. His first job was taking care of Colonel Manget’s chickens. By the age of 13, he was spending his summers with the Georgia National Guard as a “runner” for senior staff.

Education was secondary, and school was put off for two years while Stanley worked to help the family make ends meet. He became a gifted athlete – another in the line of “Hunter Boys” who roamed the halls and sidelines of Marietta High School – eventually spending two summers playing Minor League Baseball before entering Georgia Military College in 1940 to play football – hoping to catch on the following year as a back for the University of Georgia. Having been with the National Guard for a few years, his unit was activated for 1 year of duty in December 1940. Instead of transferring to a unit at GMC, he chose duty over school and sports. Stanley spent the next year in training – sorties on the Cumberland River in Tennessee, ski patrol in Canada, “hikes” through Appalachia, preparing for conditions everyone hoped they would never see. But he made it through his year of active duty – and was on his way home on December 7, 1941. On that day, his duty was extended indefinitely.

It would be years before his unit saw duty on the front lines. He was lucky to not be sent to the oceans of the Pacific like his brothers Jack and Dick, or Sicily & North Africa like his brother W.C. That changed on June 6, 1944. The next 11 months changed his life and many others.

My granddaddy never talked about those things much. That day on a beach in France was something that always fascinated me. All I have are a few memories of stories – the right questions asked at the right time - that gave me answers that most never knew. Did you get shot? “I came close, lying on the beach, one zipped past and took my watch – and left a trail in the sand.” “It was hard, and wet. And we were trapped on that beach with no where to go. And they started calling for Bangalore’s – and we passed them along the line, and they blew our way clear and we moved in. We tried not to notice what was going on around us.” “We moved from there to St. Lo – that’s where I got picked up and taken on the prison train heading for Germany. But I got lucky, and got away.” From my Dad, I know that by “got away” he meant he overpowered the guard. Relying on his football skills, he tackled the man off of the open box car – killing his captor in the fall. He then made his way back through France – hiding at the farm of an American deserter from the first War – who made him promise not to tell where he was.

Things about that time are guarded in the unknown of war and life on the front. I do know that by D-Day, my granddaddy was older than most – he would turn 24 the following month – and was probably the “old man” of the unit. I know that during the course of field actions, he worked his way from Sergeant to Captain. He was awarded a Bronze Star. I will never know the details of those days, but I still look to fill in those blanks.

After my grandparents passed, as the historian in the family, I claimed the box of photos from the War. One photo was in it with the following written on the back: “VE Day – There sits Hard-Hearted Hunter, he has put down his gun and won’t fight anymore.” Anyone who knew Stanley Hunter would find that inscription something hard to reconcile. If there was any way to describe Stanley, “Hard-Hearted” was not it. To me, it explained everything. It explained his love of home, of life, of family. It explained why he would spend hours helping his grandson break in a new baseball glove – and never tell him that his arm hurt for a week afterwards from throwing curves and knuckles that astounded the 12 year old. Most of all, it explained why he kept those stories of war close – because he knew, and none of us should ever have to.