Today would have been my one hundredth birthday! Only problem is, I died when I was eighteen, fighting for my country. I was only a month away from turning nineteen, and I kind of looked forward to celebrating with my new Army buddies – maybe even drinking a few beers with them where we were stationed in England. But my birthday was July 7th, and I died in a big battle in France on June 6th.

A whole lot of us died that day, June 6, 1944. D-Day they called it. Thousands and thousands of us gave our lives. Imagine that! I guess I was a part of something pretty big. I guess we all were.

I technically wasn’t only fighting for my country, but to save the whole world from fascism and that madman in Germany. And, to be precise, the U.S was my adopted country. I was only a citizen for about six months, after all. I was born in St. Thomas, Canada, but my mom, pop, older sister and brother and I moved across the lake to Detroit when I was three. I don’t remember it, of course. A lot of my family still lived in Canada, but we hopped the train and visited them all the time. I suppose they were pretty torn up hearing about my death.

I guess since I was fighting in the U.S. Army, they wanted me to be an actual citizen, so about three weeks after they told me to report to Fort Fannin, Texas, they made it official. My mom and pop were proud. As usual, my older brother Bill beat me to the punch and got his citizenship papers before me. He was two years older than me, and I was tagging along after him and my sister Ariel (who was four years older than me) my whole life.

Bill was called to duty before me – in March 1943. I turned eighteen in July, went to sign up a few days later, and was wearing a uniform and doing pushups by October. I did so many of those damn things, I told my brother, “I can tell you what half of Texas looks like ant’s eye view.” That time sure sped by. It wasn’t even a year between signing up, hitting basic training, and hopping on that boat – you know, the one in the famous WWII photo, “Into the Jaws of Death.” Yeah, that was my boat, and that actually was the last view I saw before I left my earthly body. I never made it off the boat.

My brother spent four miserable years fighting in the Pacific, but he made it through and lived to the ripe old age of 89. My sis lived to 80. I guess I beat them both by dying before I hit nineteen. Not sure I’m so happy about finally coming in first.

So, my life was short, but I’ve always hoped that if I had to miss out on having a best girl, getting married, and raising a few kids, that losing all that was worth something. I sure lost out on a lot of life, sixty-some years if I got the same genes as my brother and sister. Before all this war stuff, I had quit school and worked for a truck transport company. I loved working on and driving the big rigs, and I even got some great mechanics’ training in the few months before they sent me to Normandy. I was looking forward to getting a pretty good job driving semi-trucks after I got out of the service. It would have been a fine way to support that future family, but no such luck.

I had a few adventures in my short life. I had lots of good pals and kissed quite a few gals in my hometown of Detroit. I enjoyed helping my pop fix up the new house we bought with my brother’s US savings bonds. I loved going to the picture show and nothing beat listening to swing music on the radio with my sister. I guess the closest I came to having any big adventure was when my buddies and I had an overnight leave on New Year’s Eve 1943, in Tyler, Texas. We met some pretty girls and their parents and had a swell time. And I never dreamed I’d get to see Europe and spend more than a month in England, but I got to enjoy that on the U.S. Army’s dime before I died. I suppose that’ll have to do. No more girls, kisses, or new years for me.

That battle I was in — the one where me and the others stormed that beach on Normandy — was the one that turned the tide of the war and put a permanent stop to Hitler and his Nazi regime. I’m sorry to have missed out on the whole rest of my life, that wife, those kids, and maybe even a few grandkids, but I suppose it was for the greater good, as they say.  Giving up my future for my country was what they called “the price of freedom.”

I just pray history doesn’t repeat itself. I paid a pretty big price, and I sure hope it wasn’t wasted.

Jack Ramon Billings
July 7, 1925 – June 6, 1944

Transcribed by Katherine Billings Palmer