A soldiers legacy, a niece's journey

With an expression so permanent, I knew my great uncle by the gray ink which illustrated his features. With a delicate gesture, I knew more by opening his thick wooden chest and holding his World War II uniform, metal pins and old letters concerning “Lemuel Birkhead Wright,” a name shared by my younger brother.

Lemuel Birkhead Wright, a senior ROTC student at Western Kentucky University, in spring of 1942. Shortly after, he began his active military career. Photo provided by Elena Wright.

The house he bought and hoped to return to lies in pieces upon its foundation while cattle quietly graze on the acres he planned to farm after the war. A generational inheritance of grief is understood between those who never had the chance to meet him, and between those who did, a raw sorrow for the gentle young man they lost.

My decision to study abroad last summer in France — and too, my decision to study French — carried more significance than strictly educational pursuits. Earl and Lydia Wright, Uncle Lem’s parents, made the choice to bury their son in the Normandy-American Cemetery, dedicated to the fallen American soldiers of D-Day and ensuing operations, after his death at the age of 25 in 1944. During my third weekend in France, I took a train to meet my Uncle Lem. 

On the drive from Bayeux, Normandy to the cemetery, I was struck with profound homesickness. Had I only visually considered the sights in front of me: the small, barely two lane street closely bordered by fields of corn, cattle and oak trees, I could have convinced myself of being on any farm road back home in Kentucky, and for several minutes of the drive, I did.  I imagined Uncle Lem would be honored that the road which led to his grave looked so much like the one which led him home. 

Four thousand miles from Kentucky, my sentiment was palpable as I entered the Normandy-American Cemetery Visitor Center and approached the front desk. Upon informing the clerk of my familial relation to a buried soldier, admittedly withholding tears, she disappeared into a room and returned with several items: a small French and American flag, a bucket of sand and a piece of paper informing her of Uncle Lem’s plot location. Together, we left the Visitor Center and began our walk, drawing ever so close to my family. 

The cemetery hosted more visitors than I expected on that soft, foggy afternoon. Feeling the resonant presence shared by each individual on our walk, as we rounded the final layer of trees obscuring our view, thousands of white crosses appeared in stark contrast from the vibrant green grass beneath them. My eyes grew damp, without any strength left to resist, as I was led to the first quadrant on the left. The woman gestured for me to step over the short rope, which prohibited visitors from walking amongst the graves, and in doing so, almost apprehensive of the weight of the action, I was instantly among the most selfless who had ever lived. 

Photo provided by Elena Wright.

When we found the cross of Uncle Lem, I stood in surreal admiration as the woman used her bucket of sand to illuminate the inscription: Lemuel B. Wright. She then planted the two small flags beside his cross before thanking Uncle Lem for his sacrifice and leaving me in mournful privacy. 

Soon, I was alone among ten thousand. Of the hundreds of tourists, thousands of soldiers and millions of citizens of France, the only two from Harned, Kentucky, finally sat next to each other. 

Two days before my flight to Paris, I visited Uncle Lem’s farm to reflect on my decision for the upcoming trip. It is by no ordinary progression of time or accidental act that his house lies broken, but his everlasting choice of sacrifice and the least of its consequences was an empty home. 

Photo provided by Elena Wright.

Now by his side, I retrieved from my bookbag the pieces of his home and farm I collected on that day and had since travelled with: a fragile shingle, moss, dirt and flowers. I carefully laid each item at his cross, our only chance to sit together on the farm he never returned to.

I sat among the soldiers for over an hour that afternoon. It was the peacefulness that kept me there, but made it so hard to part. I thought about the ferocity and chaos of war that overtook this exact spot, over 80 years ago, and how for these soldiers, even one moment of rest would have been inconceivable. Yet, I had the privilege to stay, listening to the birds’ song and wind against the leaves. 

My heart ached to have to leave my uncle so soon, and equally, to have to leave each soldier without acknowledging their name and sitting with them, too. “Although,” I thought, “what a privilege I have to choose to leave.” 

Photo provided by Elena Wright.

As I walked Omaha Beach and collected the red, white and blue stones which providentially appear on the shoreline, again I enjoyed a peace incomparable to anywhere else during my trip abroad. Like the cemetery, it was the most modest of sights and sounds that I enjoyed. Quiet waves rippled on the edge of the shore as several children worked to make a sandcastle, couples laid out blankets for picnics and gulls flew gracefully overhead. 

In these unassuming moments, I came to understand the tangible endurance of Uncle Lem’s sacrifice. More than a display of gray ink, Uncle Lem endures in the building of sandcastles by children. More than a wooden chest full of faded artifacts, Uncle Lem is found in the restored fields and forests of France consisting of songbirds and delicate flowers. He left his Kentucky home to crumble so that cities could flourish instead. A fixed cross emboldened a moving heart by its price of life. And accompanying grief is the gift of freedom thanks to his ultimate sacrifice.

While time inevitably fades the objects and photos we have of Uncle Lem, it is with time that his impact, and the impact of thousands of other soldiers, reaches further into our lives and impassions my spirit.