On this day in 1945, my Dad got on an airplane in England and made the hop across the Channel, over France, and into Germany. He had spent a couple of years in England as one of the gazillion troops involved in support for D-Day. When that came, he had stayed awake three day straight, servicing wave after wave of aircraft as they delivered troops, supplies, and bombs to the expanding front at Normandy. He swore that he would get breakfast in bed every June 6 for the rest of his life after that exhausting ordeal. (And he did–until sometime in the mid-60s when he told Mom that she really didn’t need to do that anymore. They were a great couple.)
But before breakfast in bed, he needed to win the war. Turns out that was surprisingly easy. The plane touched down on the German runway, he got off the plane, and was immediately informed that the Wehrmacht had surrendered and hostilities in Europe were over.
My Dad naturally took credit for the whole thing. “They knew I was there and it broke them,” he proudly proclaimed all his life.
Who am I to argue with the voice of Living History? Thanks, Dad, for ending World War II. Miss you!