Man who lost sight in WWII will mark D-Day in France
By Renee Stovsky
Of the Post-Dispatch
05/30/2004
Hyrum "Smith" Shumway stormed the beach on D-day.
(David Carson/P-D)
The last sight of America that Hyrum "Smith" Shumway saw as he stood on a troop transport ship, headed to England in February
1944, was that of the Statue of Liberty.
Shumway was 22 at the time. An aspiring doctor, he had recently graduated from the University of Wyoming. But instead of heading
to medical school, he had joined the Army, and much to the dismay of his college sweetheart, Sarah Bagley, he wound up in
Officers Candidate School at Fort Benning, Ga.
A scant four months later, on June 5, 1944, 1st Lt. Shumway, Company B, 18th Regiment, 1st Infantry Division, found himself and his
rifle platoon loading by dark onto a landing craft on the English coast, headed for Omaha Beach. Though he survived D-Day and
helped secure the Normandy region of France for the Allies, his fighting career on the front lines was short-lived.
On July 25 - just six weeks after the invasion - Shumway's outfit began the push to Paris, 100 miles or so away. On a sunken road lined
by hedgerows, a tank accompanying the platoon hit an anti-tank mine laid by the German resistance, and Shumway was hit by shrapnel
in his legs, arms, chest and face. Most of his injuries - he had more than 100 stitches in his face alone - would heal with time.
But Shumway was left permanently blinded.
This week, Shumway, now 82 and a resident of Richmond Heights, is heading back to France for ceremonies marking the 60th
anniversary of D-Day. And though he will not be able to see all the pomp and circumstance, he'll have 30 pairs of eyes - children's
and grandchildren's - there to help describe the scene for him.
Shumway has made his mark since returning from the war, becoming a national leader in education of the blind, and maintaining
an independent, active lifestyle even now.
He certainly doesn't need assistance to remember, in his mind's eye, what D-Day was like. Interestingly enough, what impressed
him most that morning was not the terrible sight of the massive casualties sustained on that narrow strand of shoreline, but the
deafening noise that accompanied the invading force.
"I was part of the second wave to land, at about 9 a.m. that day," Shumway recalls. "We waded ashore in waist-high water; there were
dead bodies, disabled tanks and equipment everywhere. The 116th Infantry had arrived first, cleared the mines and marked a path,
with white strips of tape, for us to follow up to the bluffs. Our captain was killed on the beach, but most of us made it up the cliffs in
about two hours.
"The carnage was awful, but we couldn't really stop to look - we were just trying to dodge the mortar shells firing all around us.
What I'll never forget is the sound of war - the 12,000 planes, the 6,000 ships firing artillery overhead, the German machine guns
firing in the pillboxes," he says.
Other sights, in later days, would make lasting impressions on Shumway - the two German soldiers he captured behind some
hedgerows; a tree next to the one he had climbed on patrol bursting into flames from a shell fired by an enemy gun; a GI who
emerged from the foxhole they shared, unbloodied by shrapnel but with a gaping hole in his helmet.
And then, of course, there was the day everything suddenly went black. Shumway says he does not remember being hit, just
the sensations afterward - the blood streaming down his face, the teeth he kept spitting out of his mouth, the incredible pain, then
finally the realization that he could still breathe.
Shumway was evacuated to a hospital in Southampton, England. Three months later, he arrived back in the States aboard the
Queen Elizabeth. And though he could no longer see the Statue of Liberty upon his return, he resolved to live his life to its
fullest.
"I had been feeling pretty sorry for myself aboard ship until I realized I was surrounded by soldiers who no longer had arms or legs,"
he remembers. "That's when I decided that if I could still walk and talk, I was in pretty good shape."
Shumway was sent first to Dibble Hospital in Palo Alto, California., then to a rehabilitation center in Farmington, Conn., where he
learned Braille. He became a rehabilitation counselor in Baltimore, earning a master's degree in counseling from the University
of Maryland and helping to find jobs and apartments for other blind people so they could live independently.
He also married his college sweetheart, against his future father-in-law's objections. "At first, he didn't think a blind man was good
enough for his daughter," says Shumway of Lester Bagley, who would go on to become President Dwight D. Eisenhower's
assistant Secretary of the Interior. The couple eventually had eight children and 41 grandchildren.
Shumway returned to Cheyenne, Wyo., in 1955 as director of blind and deaf education for the state government. He set up schools,
camps and centers to help the blind and deaf function to the best of their abilities in a sighted and hearing world. His innovations
put him in the national forefront; he met with both Helen Keller and President Harry S Truman. And he led by example, learning
to do everything from playing violin and harmonica to rappelling, skiing and rollerblading.
Shumway is now widowed and living with his son and daughter-in-law, Dr. Joseph and Maryan Shumway. He continues to maintain
his independent lifestyle, swimming daily at the Center of Clayton, reading voraciously and entertaining grandchildren with
his professional-level magic shows.
"He's just such a positive person. He's never been bitter about his war injuries; as a matter of fact, he feels he wound up in the
right place, professionally, because of them," says Maryan Shumway.
In 1996, Shumway took a vacation to France with a few family members and made an unplanned side trip to Normandy. Though he
couldn't see the coast line or the countryside, he could still visualize it with amazing accuracy.
"We would be driving along, and he would say, 'Look up to the left and you'll see a pillbox,' or 'Around the corner there should be
a church,'" says Maryan Shumway. "It was unbelievable."
What amazed him the most, though, he says, was the peace and quiet.
Last year, he took another trip to France and happened to be there for the 59th anniversary of D-Day. He attended a ceremony and
was astounded by the outpouring of gratitude he received.
At the urging of his son-in-law, John Bennion of Salt Lake City, he added his story to the oral history program at the D-Day Museum
in Normandy. It was selected along with two others to be transcribed into a book being released in commemoration of the 60th
anniversary. Hence, the return trip this week. "They tell me I'll have autographing duties while I'm there," he says.
And though Shumway still insists that neither he nor any of the soldiers in his platoon had misgivings about the war on the eve of
D-Day, he says he'll never forget the terrible price exacted to achieve peace.
"The night before we left England, a minister told us we were lucky to be the ones to take care of that viper Hitler, and we all agreed.
While we were on the landing craft, some people were quiet, others were anxious, but no one was afraid. We were excited to finally
be in combat," Shumway recalls. "But after experiencing D-Day, I often think that if Roosevelt and Hitler had been on Omaha Beach,
they would have found a quicker way to end that war."
Reporter Renee Stovsky
E-mail:
[email protected]@post-dispatch.com
Phone: 314-863-6205
_________________________________
H. Smith Shumway
2nd Lt, B Company, 18th Infantry Regiment, 1st Infantry Division
Version Française
I was born in Salt Lake City, Utah on 27 November 1921. When the USA entered World War II in 1941, I was 20 years old and was
hoping to serve as a full-time missionary for my church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons), but instead I
joined the Army.
On June 6, 1944, I was a 2nd Lt. and an infantry platoon leader in the First Infantry Division, 18th Regiment, Company B. My unit
was assigned to land on Omaha Beach, in the section called "Easy Red", in the second wave. We rushed down the ramp of the
LCI [landing craft] into water about knee deep and ran up to the beach to re-assemble there. There were dead bodies floating in
the water and many on the beach. Some tanks had been hit by artillery. The confusion on the beach made it impossible for me to
get my bearings. Death and wreckage were everywhere. German mortar shells were still hitting the beach. The noise from the
planes, boats, artillery explosions and gunfire was almost unbearable.
There was a red-headed fellow with a very white face looking up at me in a kneeling position on the beach. I stepped back from the
sight, and was given a push by a man kneeling on the ground behind me. He yelled, "Do you want to get us both killed?" He was
in the process of disarming a land mine. I gestured and muttered something about the red-headed fellow in front of me. The
soldier exclaimed, "Don't worry about him, he's dead! Just watch where you put your feet." I then came out of my daze and was
very alert to everything around me.
We all lined up and started up the hill, one after another, following the soldiers that were removing the mines. There were explosions
all around us but I couldn't see anyone firing guns at us. There were uncovered land mines on both sides of the path so we knew we
had to watch our step. It seemed to take a couple of hours to get up the hill.
Before we went over the top of the hill, I looked back and contemplated the scene before me. Hundreds of ships and boats were
circling in the Channel. LCI's and LST's were landing men and tanks. With planes soaring overhead, big shells bursting on land
and sea, and the beach littered with men and machines, I thought of the millions of dollars and thousands of lives being spent to
wage war and the tragic cost and horror of it all. At the top of the hill we had to cross a mine field, after which we dug in for a
counterattack, which never came.
For the next several weeks I led my platoon, moving forward during the day and digging foxholes for the night. It was very tedious
fighting from hedgerow to hedgerow. After about six weeks, we dug in and held the line.
Finally, our unit was relieved from the front lines and allowed to rest for a few days. I was able to take my first shower since D-Day -
it was wonderful! One day after I was relieved, the man who replaced me in my foxhole was killed during a German counterattack.
At that time and following several other close encounters with death, I felt that my Heavenly Father had blessed me and spared my
life for a reason.
On July 27, 1944, a few miles to the west of St. Lo, my life changed forever. I was walking on a narrow sunken road bordered
with hedgerows, about one meter behind a tank. Suddenly a horrible explosion occurred, which I learned later was due to an
anti-tank mine. Immediately everything went totally black. I thought, "Something has happened to me and I don't know what, but
I will be okay in a second." There was a steady, strong current of air hitting my face, chest, and legs, and I seemed to hang suspended. There was a deafening sound that just kept ringing and it seemed as if it would never stop. Finally, however, the strong current of
air and the explosion died out. I started to get very weak all of a sudden and I collapsed on the ground. It occurred to me that one of my legs might be blown off, so I used my left hand, which later proved to be the only part of my body that wasn't hit, to feel my legs.
My right thigh was bloody, my left knee was bloody, and my right hand which had been holding my carbine was just numb. It was
all bloody, and whether it had some fingers missing or not, I neither knew nor cared right then. My chest was starting to hurt and
feeling it with my left hand, I knew it was a bloody mess also. I couldn't see, so naturally I felt my face. It was bloody also. I wondered
if my lungs were punctured as my chest was an aching mass of flesh. But after drawing a few deep gulps of air, I decided they were
all right. But everything was black and I was getting scared. I had been stunned at first, but now pain was engulfing me.
My aid man, Private Nonamaker, was standing by me then, and how he got to where I was so fast, I never knew. Someone asked him
why he didn't give me morphine, and he replied that he couldn't give it to anyone with a head injury. He said, "How are you,
Lieutenant? It's not so very bad, you'll be okay; it always seems worse than it really is." He kept talking to me in this same manner
all the time he was sprinkling sulfa powder and dressing my wounds. The pain seemed lessened when the sulfa powder was
administered. He was the best aid man I ever knew.
I guess I had lost a lot of blood by now because I suddenly became very cold, and asked for a blanket which was immediately taken
off the tank and thrown on me. The pain which had been getting worse stopped a little as my body started to get cold and my arms
and legs became numb. I kept wondering why I didn't pass out, and I sincerely wished I would.
When my aid man was dressing my wounds I remember thinking, 'Golly, maybe I am going to die. Do I want to live? If I can take a
deep breath without something breaking or blood rushing to fill my lungs, I'll be OK.' When I found out that I could still breathe well,
I knew I wanted to live. I was filled with hope that I wouldn't die because I could still breathe.
I remember spitting quite a bit when my aid man came up. There seemed to be a fine gravel in my mouth. And after a few seconds
of thought, I decided it was my teeth. It was very hard to say anything because there just seemed to be a small hole for my mouth,
and I couldn't breathe through my nose. My tongue and face were pretty badly swollen, what was left of them. I remember pleading,
"Don't cover my mouth with a bandage, or I can't breathe."
When no one seemed to be around me, I said "Somebody say something, keep talking." The last thing I remember was calling out
my concern about the mines. Then oblivion came.
I woke up in a field hospital on the Normandy coast. The realization that I was permanently blind came slowly over the next few days.
I asked the doctor, "Please, tell me what chances there are of my left eye being all right?' (my right eye had already been
declared inoperable). He hesitated, then said, "With my experience I would say about one chance in fifty thousand." Then I knew
he had been trying to let me have it slowly.
They told me my right eye would be removed, both legs cleaned out, shrapnel removed from my chest, my chest sewed up, and
my hand fixed.
I asked for some Mormon elders (from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) to come to visit me so I could receive a
blessing before the operation. None were available so I asked for some olive oil. Due to wartime shortages this request was
impossible also. They brought me some mineral oil and I anointed and blessed myself as best I could. This brought me much
needed peace of mind.
In addition to blindness, I had lost the right side of my chest, my calf and thigh muscles from one of my legs, and I had shrapnel
over my entire body. Some of the shrapnel has been slowly working its way out of my body over the past 50 years! I still occasionally
get a painful boil on random parts of my body; when it pops they invariably find a fine metal speck, like a grain of sand. To this day,
I consistently trigger the airport security devices.
Following the injury, I spent the next two years in a variety of hospitals and rehabilitation centers, recovering from my wounds
and adapting to life as a blind person. In July 1946, I was hired in Baltimore by the Division of Vocational Rehabilitation in the
Maryland State Department of Education as a Rehabilitation Counselor for the blind. In this capacity, I visited factories and demonstrated
to both factory managers and blind people that a blind person could perform a particular task. Often the blind person was more difficult
to convince than the factory manager! Once I had proven to all concerned that a blind person could do the job, I was then replaced by
one of my blind clients, and I went on to the next "opportunity." Over the course of the next several years, I qualified many jobs for the blind and was told that I was "leading the nation" every year for 10 years in terms of the number of jobs qualified by a blind
rehabilitation counselor.
After gaining the personal self-confidence that I could hold a job and support a family, I proposed to my college sweetheart,
Sarah Bagley, by saying, "If you'll sort the socks and read the mail, I can do the rest." She accepted, even though her parents
tried to discourage her from marrying a blind person. Ironically, in later life my father-in-law became blind himself and I helped him
adapt to his new circumstances.
We were married on 1 September 1948 in the Mormon temple in Salt Lake City, Utah. In our religion, marriage is not just for this life
only, but for all eternity. It gives me great comfort to know that in the next life I will be with (and see!) my wife, our eight children, and
our 40 grandchildren.
H. Smith Shumway (December 27, 2003)
SOURCE: http://www.6juin1944.com/veterans/shumway.php
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