My Father the Hero
Walter Ehlers
Walter Ehlers was born in 1921 in Junction City, Kansas. He joined the army in 1940 and took part in the D-Day invasion, landing on Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944. Three days later, after his unit came under fire, he distinguished himself in battle, single-handedly overtaking several German machine-gun nests and putting their crews out of action. Though injured, Ehlers refused treatment and returned to the field. He survived the war and was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. He and his wife, Dorothy, had three children, Catherine, Tracy, and Walter Jr. Ehlers died in 2014, at age ninety-two.
sometimes the experience of war changes who a person is. Sometimes it simply reveals who they’ve been all along. My father entered the war a nineteen-year-old Kansas farm boy. He was tough; his family had already survived the Depression, battled bankruptcy, and faced starvation. So the actions of my father on June 9 and 10, 1944, for which he was awarded the Medal of Honor, did not so much define him as express who he already was, albeit in a deadly and dramatic context.
By the time I was born in 1956, my father had been out of the service for eleven years and had had the Medal of Honor for as long. He didn’t hide it—the medal was displayed on the wall in our den—but he didn’t talk about it much, either. What I knew in my early years about his time in the service I learned from climbing up on the sofa and reading the citation that accompanied the golden five-pointed-star-shaped medal, the official description of his actions on those two fateful days. Those were the first words I ever read. I taught myself how to sound out the opening lines, which I can still remember years later:
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty on 9–10 June 1944, near Goville, France. S/Sgt. Ehlers, always acting as the spearhead of the attack, repeatedly led his men against heavily defended enemy strong points exposing himself to deadly hostile fire whenever the situation required heroic and courageous leadership.
My father was just a regular dad. When I was growing up, he worked at the VA hospital in Long Beach, California, as a benefits counselor. He got to work at 8:00 a.m. and left at 5:00 p.m. We all had dinner together. He was involved in the Optimist Club and was a member of the Rotary Club. He wasn’t ashamed of being a war hero, of course, but he didn’t boast about it. What I recall most from the early years before my brother and sister were born was spending time with him in the garage, which he had turned into a woodshop. He had built deep shelves that lined the walls, and there was one that was the perfect size for a little girl, happy to be near her father, to nestle into with a book to read.
But sometimes the world outside would beckon Dad, like when the White House called to invite him to a reception in the Rose Garden, or to fly to France on Air Force One for the twentieth anniversary of D-Day. He was especially busy around patriotic holidays, like Memorial Day and Veterans Day, when he was often asked to ride in a parade. He used to take me along with him, so I’d put on my Easter dress and gloves and sit up on the back of a convertible, rolling down Ocean Boulevard in Long Beach. He’d happily participate in these events, but when they were over, he would unfasten the blue ribbon and place the Medal of Honor back in its frame on the wall. Dad lost his brother Roland on Omaha Beach, and he always believed that his brother was the one who deserved the recognition. “I was just doing my job,” Dad said. “Those who made the ultimate sacrifice were the true heroes.”
And that was that—the most I heard my father talk about the war for years. What I witnessed instead was his unflappable presence, a way of being in the world that carried with it supreme confidence. Nothing ruffled him. Whether this was because he had been through the war or that this quality had carried him through the war to begin with, I didn’t know, nor did I, as a young girl, care. He made great waffles. He loved to roughhouse with our oversize German shepherd, Tippy Tin Tin, a relative of Hollywood’s Rin Tin Tin. He taught me how to use a miter saw. We pulled weeds together in the yard. He had a quiet chuckle, not a loud laugh. He didn’t raise his voice—he raised his eyebrows. When I had nightmares, I’d run into my parents’ bedroom, and my father would comfort me. He loved my brother, my sister, and me absolutely and unconditionally.
In 1970, I was in middle school, studying world history. World War II had ended a quarter century before, and the country was again at war, this time in Vietnam. My father was deeply involved in Veterans Affairs and still suffering from wounds incurred in France. In fact, he had just gone to the San Diego veterans hospital to have a piece of shrapnel removed from his shoulder. I took the shrapnel in to show my class. My teacher, Mr. Wilson, asked which war my father had fought in, and I told him World War II and said Dad was a Medal of Honor recipient. Mr. Wilson turned white with disbelief and asked if my father would talk to the class.
Walter showing Catherine (six months old) his medal at their home in Buena Park, California, 1957
Dad agreed and a few days later took time off from his job to come in. I had read about my father’s actions in the citation, and I knew he was a hero. But to hear him speak about Normandy in front of my class filled me with enormous pride. This was my dad. That day, he became a hero to all my friends, too.
I heard him speak about his experiences countless times after that. As the oldest surviving Medal of Honor recipient from Normandy, he was called upon increasingly in his later years to speak about his time in the service during World War II. His refrain never changed. He had been doing his job. His brother and the others who lost their lives on the battlefield were the real heroes.
When my father died in 2014, the 1st Infantry Division’s 18th Infantry Regiment called to say they were sending a unit to do full military honors. General Wiggins, the commander of the US Army North, wanted to deliver a speech. Pete Wilson, the former governor of California and a dear friend of my father’s, spoke as well. But what moved me most as we prepared for the funeral were my son Reed’s words. He told me, “Mom, make sure they don’t reduce Grandpa to just the Medal of Honor. He was so much more than those two days.” For Reed and his brother and sister, my dad was the guy at Little League, at band concerts, at recitals, and at Scouts. He was the grandpa who took the kids to Disneyland on season passes. To me, he was a national hero, of course, but he was also, forever, Dad.