On D-Day at Omaha Beach, George Warren Stuart of Bloomington was one of a million men and boys in the largest armada of all time — 900 warships packed so solid he thought “I could walk from England to France, ship to ship.”
He was one of a million sons and husbands who couldn’t sleep the night before.
He was a radioman at age 20, jammed inside a mammoth LST — a Landing Ship Transport renamed by sailors “Long Slow Target.” Bombarded by murderous fire from cliffs above, his LST was stopped too soon by Nazi barriers, so the giant landing doors opened on chin-deep water instead of the beach, and soldiers with heavy backpacks drowned while others struggled through a barrage of deadly explosions toward the carnage of Omaha Beach. Amid the deafening roar of battle he sent and received radio messages, transporting load after load of sons and husbands. Again and again exploding shells hit his LST until at last he was blown into the sea. And rescued.
From that day, whenever he shut his eyes to sleep, the deaths of D-Day played over and over — the roar of gunfire, the screams of the wounded, and the dead, washed clean in the red-stained waters of Omaha Beach.
And he couldn’t sleep. He was one of the million men and boys of D-Day.
All this because of the crazed greed for power of one nation and its mesmeric leader. May the world never again witness such base infamy.
Barbara Findley Stuart, Normal