A D-Day Salute
Meet Stanley “Stan” Jacobs, one of my wife Susan’s and my special workout buddies at LA Fitness on Oxford Valley Road in Yardley, PA.
To look at him you wouldn’t know he is 93-years young and as fit as you and I, if not more so!
But on June 6, 1944, blond, blue-eyed, 6-foot, 2-inch-tall, Brooklyn-born, German-speaking (he grew up in a household where German was spoken) Pvt. Stan Jacobs parachuted behind enemy lines at Normandy, took the dog tag off a dead Protestant soldier, hid his Jewish dog tag in his sock, and fought his way up the French countryside and into history. Along the way he was wounded twice, met General Patton, masqueraded as the son of a high-ranking German general (dressed as an SS major, Stan was driven by another soldier dressed in a Nazi uniform to the general’s headquarters, where Stan brazenly walked in and stole plans Patton needed for a forthcoming battle), fought in the Battle of the Bulge, and marched into Berlin at the end of the war. Before returning Stateside, he observed the Military Tribunal trial of war criminals in Nuremberg.
Stan doesn’t consider himself a hero, but Susan and I do. He was one of millions who were part of The Greatest Generation that saved the world from the madness of Nazi Germany.
On this sacred day—the 75th Anniversary of D-Day—we owe Stan and his Band of Brothers a debt of gratitude.
“All gave some, some gave all.”
The story below (which appears in Mementos, my soon-to-be-released book of short stories and flash fiction) is tendered as our way of paying homage to Stan. Only the names and some of the details (parachuting in vs. landing on a beach) have been changed to protect the innocent (as they say).
Ted
“The Observer” (Photo: U.S. Military; Wikimedia Commons,
public domain)
View of the defendants in the dock at the International Military Tribunal trial of war criminals in Nuremberg, Bavaria, Germany, November 22, 1945.
“Name, rank, and serial number,” barked the MP.
The Observer
“Name, rank, and serial number,” barked the MP.
“Stan Jacobson, Sergeant First Class, 02356974.”
“That’s not what’s on your dog tag, Jacobson,” sneered the MP, grabbing the chain from around the sergeant’s neck. “This tag reads ‘Glen Peterson’. It says the man’s religion is Protestant. Jacobson sounds more Jewish to me. You got some explaining to do, Sergeant!”
“Yeah, well, that dog tag is my lucky charm; took if off Peterson on Omaha Beach, D-Day, 1944. We were in the 116th Infantry, 29th Division. He went down the minute we hit the beach. I knew if the German’s took me alive, they’d kill me on the spot. So, I buried my tag in my sock and wore Peterson’s right through the war, right up through the Battle of the Bulge and on the tank I rode into Berlin! Here, I’ll show you.”
He sat, pulled down his sock, and retrieved his dog tag, which he handed to the MP. “That’s the real McCoy, but I’ll tell you this: I’ll wear Peterson’s ’till the day I die! It’s what got me through the war!”
The MP looked at the tag. Satisfied with its legitimacy, he asked, “Any weapons?”
“Just two knives and a .45.”
“Okay, leave ’em in this basket.” Then, the MP pointed to the door that led to a balcony overlooking the Nuremberg courtroom. “You have twenty minutes to watch the proceedings. Keep your mouth shut and both hands on the railing in front of you.”
To look at him you wouldn’t know he is 93-years young and as fit as you and I, if not more so!
But on June 6, 1944, blond, blue-eyed, 6-foot, 2-inch-tall, Brooklyn-born, German-speaking (he grew up in a household where German was spoken) Pvt. Stan Jacobs parachuted behind enemy lines at Normandy, took the dog tag off a dead Protestant soldier, hid his Jewish dog tag in his sock, and fought his way up the French countryside and into history. Along the way he was wounded twice, met General Patton, masqueraded as the son of a high-ranking German general (dressed as an SS major, Stan was driven by another soldier dressed in a Nazi uniform to the general’s headquarters, where Stan brazenly walked in and stole plans Patton needed for a forthcoming battle), fought in the Battle of the Bulge, and marched into Berlin at the end of the war. Before returning Stateside, he observed the Military Tribunal trial of war criminals in Nuremberg.
Stan doesn’t consider himself a hero, but Susan and I do. He was one of millions who were part of The Greatest Generation that saved the world from the madness of Nazi Germany.
On this sacred day—the 75th Anniversary of D-Day—we owe Stan and his Band of Brothers a debt of gratitude.
“All gave some, some gave all.”
The story below (which appears in Mementos, my soon-to-be-released book of short stories and flash fiction) is tendered as our way of paying homage to Stan. Only the names and some of the details (parachuting in vs. landing on a beach) have been changed to protect the innocent (as they say).
Ted
“The Observer” (Photo: U.S. Military; Wikimedia Commons,
public domain)
View of the defendants in the dock at the International Military Tribunal trial of war criminals in Nuremberg, Bavaria, Germany, November 22, 1945.
“Name, rank, and serial number,” barked the MP.
The Observer
“Name, rank, and serial number,” barked the MP.
“Stan Jacobson, Sergeant First Class, 02356974.”
“That’s not what’s on your dog tag, Jacobson,” sneered the MP, grabbing the chain from around the sergeant’s neck. “This tag reads ‘Glen Peterson’. It says the man’s religion is Protestant. Jacobson sounds more Jewish to me. You got some explaining to do, Sergeant!”
“Yeah, well, that dog tag is my lucky charm; took if off Peterson on Omaha Beach, D-Day, 1944. We were in the 116th Infantry, 29th Division. He went down the minute we hit the beach. I knew if the German’s took me alive, they’d kill me on the spot. So, I buried my tag in my sock and wore Peterson’s right through the war, right up through the Battle of the Bulge and on the tank I rode into Berlin! Here, I’ll show you.”
He sat, pulled down his sock, and retrieved his dog tag, which he handed to the MP. “That’s the real McCoy, but I’ll tell you this: I’ll wear Peterson’s ’till the day I die! It’s what got me through the war!”
The MP looked at the tag. Satisfied with its legitimacy, he asked, “Any weapons?”
“Just two knives and a .45.”
“Okay, leave ’em in this basket.” Then, the MP pointed to the door that led to a balcony overlooking the Nuremberg courtroom. “You have twenty minutes to watch the proceedings. Keep your mouth shut and both hands on the railing in front of you.”
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