I would like to dedicate this post to one very specific, very special place in Normandy. It is a place where I have lived some of the most emotional moments of my life; somewhere that brings strangers together for a few moments, as the weight of life and death is pressed upon their hearts, while they walk among its marble markers and plush green grass. There is nowhere in the world quite like the Normandy American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, or as i like to call it: Colleville.

First off, there is only one way to get into Colleville, at least if you're coming by car. That is through the main entrance, which is preceded by a long and elegant drive between two thick rows of Norman trees, whose big green leaves soften the sunlight as you reach the gate. Once through the gate, it feels as if you've entered a portal situated between two worlds. When you get out of your car, if you shut your eyes, you can hear the wind whistle through the trees and the distant, high-pitched voices of young French students on an end-of-school year field trip to the American cemetery. From the parking lot, it's only a minute's walk past the visitor center, before you arrive at the final stretch that leads you into the cemetery. When emerging from that last corner, one is received with the stunning view of the English Channel, with its slate-gray body and stern horizon. During major anniversary years, that final stretch towards the cemetery is sometimes lined with soldiers, whose duty it is to stand vigil. With each step toward the Channel, the anticipation grows; the emotions bellow. The presence of 9,388 souls starts to hum inside your chest, and the breeze feels a little warmer than anywhere else in the world. "They're here," you whisper to yourself, "they never left."

The walk towards the Channel, and onward to the cemetery.

Nothing can prepare you for the wave of emotions that crashes down upon you when you see that very first cross, in the very first section, as it appears on your left. But it isn't that first cross that makes the tears swell in your eyes, it's the next one, and another, and the one after that... When finally, you make it past the “Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves” statue, and direct your gaze fully to the left, away from the Channel, that's when you see deep into that Sea of Stars and Crosses. There is no other word to describe it: it is a sea. A white, marble sea, which holds within its massive 172.5 acres the stories of generations of shattered families and the tears shed by mothers for their sons who would never return; those "buried with their comrades"; or those left behind because their families were too poor to repatriate them. A sea, which every visitor navigates differently. And, despite the crushing sadness with which one is submerged upon discovering "the Boys"-- beauty prevails, always. The beauty of the blue skies and white clouds, which float above Colleville, ever so elegant. The beauty of the birdsong coming from the trees. The snow-white markers, whose immobility makes them look like angels, standing proudly together, knowing their sacrifice served humanity. It is then that "thank you for your service" takes on its truest meaning.

Small pathways lead visitors down toward the markers. I always felt as if I needed to be very quiet while walking toward the markers, and then onto the grass. I was worried somehow that I would wake the soldiers from their eternal rest. But they stand there, perfectly aligned, sentinels of peace, anchored deep in the same French soil upon which they lived their final moments. Their spirits still glow when the sun hits them on the right angle; their voices ring out, ever so subtly, between two joyful twitters from a robin, perched high upon a branch. But then, as you get closer to the marker, close enough to read the name engraved into the sandy white marble, it's as if the soldier reaches out, hand outstretched, and says: "Hey, how you doin'? I'm George." And suddenly, as you read where he's from, the unit he served with, his rank, and the day he died, a feeling of familiarity grows within you, like you've come to visit an old friend. So you lay your hand upon the marker, like it's his shoulder. Thank you. He winks, smiles and nods at you. So, you move on.

It's overwhelming.

There aren't enough hours in a day to visit every marker and spend an adequate amount of time with each soldier. As you make your way toward the back of the cemetery and as your feet grow tired and your legs get heavy, maybe you walk quicker. Perhaps, you read the names a little faster. And, when you finally reach the benches at the very rear of the cemetery, you stop and turn around. From a distance, the statute at the entrance that seemed so huge when you first made your way in, now seems no larger than a pinhead. Truly, there is no place in the world that I have been where both serenity and sadness collide so gracefully to remind you of how small one life can be and the impact that such a small life can make on the world, when great men are called to do what is right.

Looking back the way you came after reaching the rear of the cemetery, past all those lives sacrificed, and all those stories interrupted by evil, there is only one feeling that wraps itself around your soul and squeezes tightly: peace. Peace, like the sleep of a newborn baby. Peace, like the silence during prayer at church. Peace, for which all those lives were traded, all those years ago. When we say "He made the ultimate sacrifice for freedom," those words should never be spoken lightly. Each one should be weighed with the gravitas it deserves, for that sacrifice was not made in vain, and it cost someone everything.

Finally, at closing time, somewhere far away, three salvos of seven shots ring out in unison, and then you hear a single note, the very first of the twenty-four notes played during Taps. It soars above the early evening buzz and funnels all attention to its solemn tone. You stand straight, like the markers that surround you, and place your hand upon your heart, which beats hard with pride. The American Flag slowly descends the flagpole, and is carefully retired. Taps comes to an end. "Time to leave," for you, perhaps, but not for them; not for "The Boys." They'll be here tomorrow, and the day after, and when you come back someday with your children, or your grandchildren. For their watch began the day they died, and like the salvos and like the bugle, it will echo on forever into history.

I've made my best attempt at describing Colleville with words. And, as I reread my work, I am humbled by how much is left to be said, that I could never say, for words, no matter how well formulated, cannot describe the experience of walking on that sacred ground. All there is left for me to say, is this:

Should the day ever come, should I be so worthy that I am allowed into heaven, I believe that first I will make that walk, from the back of the American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, to the foot of “The Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves.” I believe that during that long walk, on my way to Heaven's Gate, all those angels will walk beside me, and when I set my foot upon the first of the marble steps which will lead me to my Salvation, that robin will fly, the sun will glow, the bugle will sound, and the angels will stand beside me to welcome me into their home.

He had a dream in which he saw a stairway resting on the earth, with its top reaching to heaven, and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.
Genesis 28:12

Historical events can always be linked, and the single greatest link, which is also the most powerful catalyst for the evolution of world history, is war. War gave birth to the Roman Empire; war ended the Roman Empire. The same war that ended one thousand years of Roman rule, ushered in the rise of the Ottoman Empire. And the war that saw the end of the Ottoman Empire, many centuries later, helped to shape the countries that we know today. Seven hundred years of existence can be linked by two wars. War has always been part of human nature, and yet it is such a terrible thing. As I grow older and witness historical events daily, I meditate on what my role is here on Earth. How can I affect the world in which I live? How can I make a positive impact?

My answer is always the same: give. Those who remember the NBC television series "ER" (1994- 2009), might recall one of the most poignant scenes in the show's history. It happened in Season 8, when Doctor Mark Greene dies. In the scene, his final words to his daughter were: "Be generous with your time, with your love, with your life." Those simple yet penetrating words of advice are some that serve me as guiding light in a world full of distractions.

I am generous in direct ways, through material gifts and kind gestures. I also give indirectly, by sharing with the world my art, my love and my attention. This is one of the reasons why this blog exists: I am giving to the world by looking into our past and remembering the fallen. So, today, I would like to share three poems by artists of our past; soldiers who suffered the traumas of war and still chose to give. They chose to give us their art.

For the Fallen

The first, For the Fallen, is a short and beautiful poem, published in The Times by English poet Laurence Binyon, in September 1914. It is about the "Fallen for the cause of the free." Those brave men and women, who "shall not grow old." Those who "went with songs to the battle, when they were young," with courage and conviction, selflessly sacrificing themselves for what they believed in. I invite you to read the poem and say a prayer for our fallen heroes, to thank them for their sacrifice. As Binyon wrote in his poem: "We will remember them."

For the Fallen

by Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

In Flanders Fields

The second poem, In Flanders Fields, was penned by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae after the burial of a friend, who was a victim of the Great War. McCrae wrote In Flanders Fields from the point of view of a soldier killed in action, lying dead upon the battlefield. Dissatisfied with his work, McCrae discarded the poem, deeming it unworthy of publishing. Fellow soldiers recovered the poem and saved it from destruction. Short and haunting, it echoes with the millions of voices of soldiers who suffered the fate of the narrator. "Flanders Fields" is the nickname generally given to the Great War battlefields located in the Flanders provinces of Belgium and in the northernmost part of France.

In Flanders Fields

by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae

In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Dulce et Decorum Est

This final one is my favorite. In many ways, Wilfred Owen writes this poem as if we're standing right beside him during a gas attack on the battlefield. The poem's riveting rhythm propels you forward, while its imagery turns your stomach. When I read this poem, I see a direct attack upon those of the high command who gave the orders to send men into battle, without ever leaving the safety and comfort of their own offices. The reason for that is found in the last two lines of the poem, which are Latin for "How sweet and honorable it is to lay one's life down for one's nation." Doesn't that sound like something an older, higher-ranking officer would tell a soldier whom he is sending to certain death?

Dulce et Decorum Est

by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Art can be beautiful. Art can also be painful, especially when it is used as a mirror, reflecting straight back into our own eyes, objectively telling us of the horrors we commit to each other. All three of the poems above, no matter their beauty, never cease to break my heart. They break my heart because of the stories they tell and the undeniable truth they convey: Despite all the loss and sadness born from war, today, in 2022, soldiers are still dying on battlefields all over the world. Will it ever stop?

Born: Niles, Michigan, August 30th, 1924
H&W: 5’9” 160 lbs. (175cm / 72 kg)
S/N: 35549002
Enlisted: Feb 27th, 1943. Volunteered for the Airborne shortly thereafter.
Unit: Easy Company, 2nd Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division
Nickname: Junior
Resting place: Plot I, Row 9, Grave 5, Luxembourg American Cemetery and Memorial

Alex's early life

Alex's parents were Polish immigrants who emigrated to the United States in 1907. Despite knowing each other before their departure, Mary and Alex Penkala Sr. only married in 1908. They moved around the American Midwest, before settling down in South Bend, Indiana, in 1918. There. Mr. and Mrs. Penkala raised a large family and lived out the rest of their lives. At home, the Penkalas spoke Polish. Despite the fact that Mr. Penkala's English was not very good, he managed to secure a job at the Studebaker automobile manufacturing company. He would keep this job for several years before changing career paths, finding a job only 7 minutes away from home at the University of Notre Dame. There, at the university, he and all of his children would all work as janitors, maids, technicians and anything that could be done for the school. Mr. Penkala remained at Notre Dame until his death in 1963.

Mrs. Penkala was the quintessential loving homemaker. Mary Penkala, the bedrock of the family, brought no less than 13 children into this world. Her first child, Irene, was born shortly after her marriage in 1908, and her last child, for whom she would give up her life during childbirth, was born in 1928. For 20 years, Mary Penkala dedicated her heart, soul and body to the creation of life. When she arrived in the US in 1907, it was only her and her fiancée ; when she passed away 20 years later, while giving birth to her 13th child, the Penkalas were a proud, hard working, tight-knit, loving, Polish-American family.

On August 30th, 1924, Mary and Alex Penkala had a baby boy they named Alex Mike Penkala Jr.

Alex, who was mostly referred to as "Junior" by his family members, was born into the heart of the roaring 20s, and spent most of his childhood living through the Great Depression. However, being the 10th of the Penkala children, Alex benefited from the size of his family, which sustained itself through the hard work of all its members. Whenever and wherever a job opportunity presented itself, a Penkala took employment and pitched in. Thanks to this, though times were hard for them too, the Penkalas were able to make it through the Depression.

Alex played basketball in junior high school. A devout Catholic, he went to went to Central Catholic High School, but dropped out during his Sophomore year. Sometime in his teenage years, Alex met a charming young woman named Sylvia, who would be his girlfriend throughout most of the war years. In a letter home to his sister, Alex wrote : "You should know that Sylvia really doesn’t know how much I love, or should I say, like her. I don’t even go no place because I keep thinking of her so much." It would be a little more than two years before Alex received his Dear John Letter from Sylvia.

Top left, circled in red is Alex when he played basketball on the Junior Varsity team at his high school.

Cook school, Airborne school and the Screaming Eagles

In February 1943, Alex and three of his friends left home to enlist in the service. When Alex first enlisted, he had no clue what destiny had in store for him. For Alex, things started in the kitchen. Before joining the paratroopers selection program, he went through 8 weeks of cook school, which he mentioned in a letter home to his sister: "I received your letter and was I glad to hear from you. As you probably know by now, I am going to cook’s school for eight weeks, as I am going to make the best of it." However, during his time in the kitchen, between cooking, scrubbing, and killing time with his friends, "the paratroopers" came up in conversation. Supposedly, it was a new sort of soldier that was being introduced into the United States Army. On top of jumping out of airplanes, these guys were the most elite soldiers the Army had, receiving an extra 50 dollars a month in pay for the dangers that went along with being a paratrooper. Something about this description captured his imagination, and in September 1943, Alex Penkala boarded the RMS Samaria and sailed to England as a bone fide member of Easy Company, 506th PIR, 101st Airborne.

Alex (middle), with his two best friends, Don Malarkey (left) and Skip Muck (right).

Though Alex is regarded as one of the core members of Easy Company (being that he served with the company from Normandy to Bastogne), he only joined the company after they'd left Camp Toccoa (where the original regiment was formed). Therefore, Alex had to integrate into the company upon his arrival and make a place for himself. Luckily, he hit it off with the most beloved member of the company, Skip Muck. Skip, for whom I wrote a separate blog post about five years ago, was very similar to Alex in many ways. He too came from a large Catholic family, and had joined the Airborne seeking an exciting adventure. Alex was assigned to the 60mm mortar squad of 2nd Platoon, along with Don Malarkey, Skip Muck, Brad Freeman, and Ed Sabo. The squad leader was Bill Guarnere. Bill says, "Muck and Penkala were real quiet, nice kids. Same with Freeman."

In August of 2017, during my induction as an Honorary Member of the 506th, I met Brad Freeman. It was an immense honor to shake the same hand that had shaken Alex's and Skip's all those years ago.

PFC Bradford "Brad" Freeman, E Company, 2-506 PIR, 101st Airborne.

A memory that many of the Easy Company veterans shared was how welcoming the duo of Skip and Alex had been to a replacement, Joe Lesniewski, who arrived in the company later in the war. Joe hit it off with Skip because together they loved to play music, and he hit it off with Alex because together they could speak Polish. Thanks to his friendship with Skip and Alex, Lesniewski had no trouble making friends with any other soldier in the company.

Joe Lesniewski, 1943.

D-Day

On a foggy June morning, the men of the 101st Airborne assembled at Uppotery field. It was June 4th and they were getting ready mentally for what they were going to do. The plan was that the night of June 4th the men would load up and they would fly to Normandy. But the weather looked rainy and unfit for a huge assault. Back a headquarters, General Eisenhower was debating whether or not he should launch the armada. His meteorologist recommended that he call it off.

Easy Company received the message that the jump would be postponed through their Commanding Officer Thomas Meehan. Later that day, a movie was shown. The next morning however, the men formed up at Upottery Field again. This time, they knew it was for real.

At 10:15pm, on June 5th, 1944, the men of E Company, 2nd Battalion , 506th, 101st Airborne boarded their airplanes. With the help several other troopers, Alex climbed up onto his C-47, carrying over 130 pounds of equipment, ammo and grenades. The flight over the English Channel proved to be violently bumpy, loud and cold. Despite receiving airsickness pills, some men still got airsick, and had to get up to vomit in the back of the plane. It is unknown up to this day whether those pills were supposed to help the men with airsickness or to help calm them down before going into combat. One thing is for sure, the flight was unpleasant.

At approximately one in the morning, Alex leaped out of his airplane and floated down to earth, where he found himself completely separated from his unit. Though not much is known of Alex's combat experiences, many accounts have told that he hit the roof of a barn on that jump, got tangled up, cut himself loose, and found his way back to his unit. Being that most men in his squad had been killed, unbeknownst to Alex, he'd been made acting Corporal of his squad. He would find this out in the morning when he was reunited with his best friend, and squad mate, Skip Muck. Together, they took part in the capture of Carentan and the battle of Bloody Gulch.

Market Garden

On September 17th, 1944, exactly one year after arriving in England, the 101st Airborne jumped into Holland for operation Market Garden. Their objective was to capture two bridges near the towns of Son and Veghel. The bridge at Son had been destroyed by the Germans. The next day the 101st attempted to capture a bridge at Best, but that also proved unsuccessful. Throughout the battle, the 101st Airborne repeatedly got pushed back by German troops. Operation Market Garden, for the allied troops, would be considered a failure, as they suffered 18,000 casualties. Alex, however, survived the battle, once more, unharmed.

The Battle of the Bulge

On December 18th, 1944, the 101st Airborne received information that the German forces were going to make one last push to try and break the main line of Allied defense in the area near Bastogne, Belgium. With very short notice, the 101st Airborne was deployed to the area. The unit was sorely under-equipped and the men entered the battle low on ammunition, food, warm clothes, shoes and anything else that a soldier needs to fight.

The objective for the 101st Airborne in this battle was to hold off the German assault. This was going to be Adolf Hitler's last push to try and break the line. If he succeeded, every man knew the consequences would be horrible. On the night of the 20th of December, the 101st Airborne was completely surrounded. Underestimating the grit and resolve of the paratroopers, the German generals decided to continue to their objective, leaving behind only one division to fight the Americans. On the 22nd of December, 1944, one of the German generals proposed an honorable surrender to the Americans, saying that the outnumbered paratroopers would be treated with respect. The American general in command, General McAuliffe, answered with his now legendary response: "Nuts!"Click here to read the article I wrote about that event.

That one word gave a huge morale boost to every man in the 101st Airborne. Even though the men had been relentlessly bombed for the past 5 days, they were never going to give up. On the 26th of December 1944, Patton's Third Army broke through and opened a passage out of Bastogne, thus ending the siege of Bastogne. The stubborn German forces continued counterattacking the American soldiers. On January 9th, 1945, instead of being relieved, Easy Company spearheaded its first assault upon the small town of Foy. The Germans initially pushed back the American forces and proceeded to bomb "Jack's Wood" (Bois Jacques), where the men of Easy Company were dug in.

On January 10th, 1945, during the bombing of Jack's Wood, Alex Penkala and Skip Muck's foxhole took a direct hit from an 88mm shell. Both troopers were killed instantly.

Originally interred in France, Alex's remains were moved to where he currently rests today, at the Luxembourg American Cemetery and Memorial.

Back home in America, a memorial service was held at 11 a.m., on Sunday, February 4th, 1945, at the Sacred Heart Roman Catholic Church at the University of Notre Dame.

Skip and Alex, best friends on earth and together forever in Heaven.