OF LOCAL LORE & LAWYERS By: Joe Jarret, J.D., Ph.D. Attorney, University of Tennessee
ABOUT A SOLDIER It was on D-Day, June 6, 1944, that soldiers with the American 51st Infantry Battalion, 4th Armored Division, fought their way up a portion of the French Coast, code named Utah Beach, under withering German machine gun and artillery fire. Nine months later, on March 25th, 1945, these same soldiers, now battle-hardened and advancing towards Hitler’s Germany, engaged the enemy near St. Avold, France. Several American soldiers died in battle that day, among them, Sergeant Freddy Jarret. He was 25. He was my uncle. As boys, my brothers and I never failed to notice the melancholy in our dad’s voice when he’d say, “Boys, you would have loved your Uncle Freddy. He was the best big brother a guy could have.” Little was known exactly what happened to my dad’s beloved older brother during his final days on earth. 1945 was a hectic time, so the family had to make due with a simple, “Killed in Action” telegram. It was a mystery that haunted my father for decades. “Where was Freddy when he died?” “How did he die?” “What became of his remains?” Question after heart-breaking question was asked by my father, his mother, his father, all of which remained unanswered. That all changed in 1985, when I found myself in uniform, and coincidentally, close to where Uncle Freddy died in service to this great nation. I was a United States Army Armored Cavalry Officer serving along the then W. German/Czechoslovakian Border. A scant two hundred meters from our outpost was an imposing Soviet tank battalion and motorized rifle regiment. We were outnumbered 10-1 but accepted what might have been our fate if hostilities between the two superpowers ever climaxed into war. And I guess it was fate that brought me to the American Military Cemetery in Luxembourg, a landlocked country in Western Europe, bordered by Belgium, France and Germany. My troops and I were in Luxembourg for a Memorial Day Ceremony, and, like so many visitors before us, took the time to stand next to the grave site of the infamous General George S. Patton, Jr., whose wish was to be buried in Luxembourg alongside his 3rd Army comrades. While there, I struck up a conversation with a gentleman who would have a profound effect on the Jarret family. He was a member of the American Battle Monuments Commission, and as such, caretaker of those hallowed grounds. Accustomed to hearing the mournful wail of taps and being peppered with questions from visitors, he casually mentioned that a large part of his day was spent assisting American visitors with locating the final resting place of their fallen loved ones. When I mentioned the plight of my Uncle Freddy, he May 2022
remarked, “Our recordkeeping has gotten a bit more sophisticated since the war, lieutenant. Follow me.” I dutifully fell in behind the gentlemen who brought me into a cavernous room containing large, leather-bound books (I’ve since learned that much of this information is now computerized), containing the names and final resting place of the fallen. Within minutes of telling him my Uncle’s name and place of birth, he looked up at me and smiling said, “Your Uncle is buried in the Lorraine American Military Cemetery in St. Avold, France.” And that was it. In the flash of an instant, what some would call fate, coincidence, or just plain luck, a 40 year old family mystery was solved. After receiving permission from my commander to verify the information, I drove straight through the night, arriving in St. Avold just as the morning mist rose lazily into the sun. And that’s where I found Uncle Freddy, buried among his comrades-in-arms atop a green, peaceful meadow that twice in one century had experienced the ravages of world war. Upon returning to my base in Germany, I called home, inquiring of my mother what she suspicioned would be my father’s reaction to the news. She correctly surmised, “He’d be delighted son.” And he was. Two months later, I flew my parents over to Germany for their first and only visit to Europe. I took my dad to where his brother lay. Mom and I gave him time alone with Freddy. Today we call such experiences “closure.” To dad, it was a chance to finally say goodbye to his beloved big brother. Over 400,000 Americans lost their lives in WWII. Lest we forget!
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