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By Grace Smith

Ahh…the relaxation of Memorial Day! The weather is warming up, children are getting out of school for summer and much of the "working world" is anticipating its "day out of the office." This national holiday, set aside for Americans to observe the men and women killed in military action, quickly becomes a holiday jam-packed with picnics, beach visits, family gatherings and sporting events.

We all love Memorial Day, but how many times have we ever paused – even for just a moment – during that special spring day to pay our respects to those who, in serving our country, have sacrificed everything?

The reality is many of us plow right through the holiday, enjoying the much needed relaxation and the company of our loved ones, while the real meaning of Memorial Day is lost somewhere among the picnic plans and the innings of our baseball games. Sadly, I’m as guilty as the next person.

My 90-year-old grandfather, Ivan W. Smith of Billingsley, is a veteran of World War II. Ever since I can remember, he’s willingly talked about his time in the military. Many afternoons, my brothers and I would listen to his tales of sleeping in "foxholes" under the snow in the unrelenting Belgian cold, of the anxiety he and his fellow soldiers faced struggling to beat a determined enemy and of his longing desire to be back at home with his new wife, Louise. I’ve probably heard those stories a thousand times, and now, after 23 years, they’re finally starting to hit home.

Each month I am assigned certain articles to write and last month one was sprung on me at the last minute. I was asked to interview Philippe Mahieux, an AFC computer services employee. I had talked with Philippe several times in passing through the office, but I’d never heard his family’s unbelievable stories. I didn’t know much about him, but there was one thing I noticed immediately. Although Philippe speaks English eloquently, he has a distinct accent, so I knew he wasn’t "from the area." This unmistakable accent made his stories so real and vivid as we spoke that afternoon.

Philippe told me he was originally from Maillen, a town about 50 miles from Bastogne, the main site of the Battle of the Bulge. After joining the Belgian Air Force in 1976, he came to the United States in 1978 as a student for the Nike Hercules missile at Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville. While there, he met his wife, Donna Grimes, a native of Alabama, and in 1979 they were married. The day after their marriage, Philippe, along with his new wife, moved back to Belgium. But in 1985, they returned to the United States to live; and in 1987, he and Donna were blessed with a beautiful daughter, Sara.

Philippe’s story of moving to a new, unfamiliar country and finding love was interesting itself, but it was his parents’ stories that brought me to speak with him that afternoon.

Philippe’s parents, Joseph Mahieux and Marie-Josee Flahaux were born in small towns just outside of Bastogne, Belgium, in 1933 and lived there their whole lives, even during the tumultuous years of the Second World War. They were only children during those years, but even children weren’t spared the violent images of the war, leaving scars of fear and unrest in their minds.

During WWII, Joseph’s family home was requisitioned by two Waffen SS officers. You may recall from your history lessons that SS soldiers were the "worst of the 

Philippe spoke of his grandfather’s bravery in standing up to the soldiers. His father told him that one day one of the officers entered the bedroom before removing his muddy boots. His grandfather, sitting at the table, called to the officer and asked him, "When you are at your home, do you walk in the bedroom with muddy boots on?" The officer answered him with a "no" and proceeded to remove his boots.

Marie-Josee, Philippe’s mother, had a different story. Some of Marie-Josee’s aunts and uncles were involved in the Belgian Resistance, which was organized to combat the workings of Nazi soldiers throughout Belgium. From the beginning, her family hid guns and other weapons used to combat German soldiers, in their home.

Her family soon expanded its "resistance duties" and took in two Jewish families. This was an attempt to protect them from Nazi soldiers who sought to "exterminate" all Jews in a deliberate effort to achieve one "superior" Aryan race.

Philippe told stories of how his grandparents feared that Marie-Josee and her siblings would accidentally tell someone about the Jewish families living in their home. His grandfather would stress to his children not to speak of the hidden families each day before they left for school. The children never did and after the war was over, the families were saved.

As the war dragged on, Philippe said his parents longed to see a cease to the hostility. But the war continued. In December of 1944 soldiers were fighting in what became known as The Battle of the Bulge, which in its entirety, grew to become one of the bloodiest set of battles during WWII.

Philippe said his parents told him of the relief they felt as American soldiers arrived in their towns. After weeks of fighting, American soldiers were able to restore peace in his parents’ towns. Philippe said his parents viewed the Americans almost as "gods" because of the role they played in ultimately winning the Battle of the Bulge and ending the violence that had become commonplace in Belgium.

As Philippe told me of his parents’ experiences during WWII, I couldn’t help but recall those stories my grandfather had shared with me over the years. Listening to Philippe tell "the other side of the story," I finally began to realize the significance of my grandfather’s sacrifices.

My grandfather, "Granddaddy," as I know him, was in the 630th Tank Destroyer Battalion. He explained that his battalion was part of the "anti-tank" support for the 28th Infantry.

After speaking with Philippe, I asked Granddaddy to describe his experiences during the Battle of the Bulge and this time, I really listened.

He explained that during mid-December of 1944, his company had been in a "holding position" along the Luxembourg/Germany border. But on the evening of December 15, Granddaddy’s platoon sergeant informed his gun crew, the number 1 gun, and the number 2 gun crew that there was suspected "tank activity" on the other side of the Our River in Germany. Granddaddy and his fellow soldiers were given orders to move their guns toward the suspected "activity." So they left that evening.

"There was a little village just across the river," he said. "We set our guns up about 300 yards away [from the village] in a field. It was dark and turning cold, but we had to

Granddaddy said things had begun to quiet down that morning when Allied soldiers with three self-propelled anti-tank guns, which were smaller and more portable than Granddaddy’s "towed gun," went ahead of them toward the enemy. Later, some of those soldiers returned with one of those self-propelled guns. The soldiers informed my grandfather and his fellow soldiers that the other two guns had been destroyed and that a column of German tanks was traveling toward them on a secondary road.

Because of the size of Granddaddy’s gun, they had to dig a pit in which to set it up. Unfortunately, the gun was positioned toward the primary road, not the secondary road where the oncoming tanks were traveling. Granddaddy and his crew would have to dig a new pit to turn the gun in the appropriate direction, and they had to do it quickly as the enemy tanks were already headed toward them.

He said they were able to get their gun set up just in time for the enemy tank to come into view. They fired at the column’s lead tank, crippling its tracks, but not inhibiting its cannon. The enemy tank fired back, using highly explosive ammunition that knocked all of them to the ground. The explosion sent shrapnel flying, striking my 

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