Photos Scanned images one and two and Story

Don't miss The Rest of the Story , after seeing the photos you should read what happened on our way home.

Please Sign Guestbook, your comments are welcomed.

Ghost, Apparition, or Imagination

June 6, 1994

The long two hour drive from Bricktown, NJ to Beverley, NJ was an emotional experience. The story actually began during the beginning of the year with the media attention given to the 50th Anniversary of the Invasion of Normandy during World War II.

While watching television one night in January or February a news story caught my attention. It focused on the Normandy Invasion popularly known as D-Day, June 6, 1944,  and announced the upcoming commemoration being organized for the 6th of June 1994 in Normandy.

I told Joan that my father was in the invasion and that he had mentioned it to me when I was a boy. He survived the invasion, but died in 1963 of cancer; I was sixteen years old. In 1994 I was forty eight years old and frankly had not given much thought to my father's war record. I decided to conduct some research on his unit.

Research began with his DD-214. As I read the entries I was immediately impressed. He was a member of the 1st Engineer Combat Battalion, 1st Infantry Division, known as the, "Big Red One". Not only did the Division and Battalion land at H-Hour on Omaha Beach June 6, 1944, they also were in the invasion of North Africa and Sicily. His unit,  the 1st Engineer Combat Battalion,  was awarded three Presidential Unit Citations. The degree of heroism required for this decoration is the same as that which would warrant award of a Distinguished Service Cross to an individual and  is considered an individual decoration. I began my research at the local library, reading every book I could find on World War II. As my research progressed media coverage of the commemoration increased and I realized that I and my family qualified to participate in the Normandy event that would take place June 6th, 1994. I applied for and was granted the maximum number of VIP passes allowed to each veteran or their family  to attend the commemoration. Unfortunately, time had run out for making reservations at hotels in Normandy and the expense would have been prohibitive for us to travel to England; then to the coast of France. An alternative  plan formed in my mind, I would travel to New Jersey in June where Joan's family lived and while she visited I would visit Beverley National Cemetery where my father is buried; a  tribute to him for his role in World War II.

Early on the morning of June 6, 1994 I began the two hour drive from Bricktown to Beverley. It had been fifteen years since my last trip to visit the grave. The drive became an emotional one. My mind raced with thoughts of neglect when I realized how long it had been. I wondered if he knew that the family had moved to Arizona. I began to have a feeling of urgency; that he was waiting at the grave to see if anyone would come; would anyone remember. I was on a mission.

The day was clear and bright. I drove through the main gate, driving slowly around to the right, then left, and headed for the rear of the cemetery. When he was buried in 1963 the area he was laid to rest in was almost empty, now it was full of headstones. I eased the car to the curb and parked where I thought the grave would be. A chain link fence borders the boundary of the cemetery with a white house just on the other side; I used these as landmarks. I exited the car and began the walk down the row of neatly aligned headstones,  walking straight to his grave. Thirty one years had passed since I stood there as a sixteen year old; the gun salute, the ceremonious folding of the flag, by the honor guard, that draped his coffin; the handing of the folded flag over to my mother, the playing of Taps. The significance of the ceremony, at the time, held no relevance. The scene to me was surreal, I was, after all, only sixteen. Years passed before I realized the enormity of my loss.

I stood there talking, out loud,  to him awhile and then had the strangest thought; go get a camera and take some pictures. I left, driving a couple of miles down the road and purchased one of those throw away cameras; drove back, parked in the same spot and began taking pictures as I walked back to the grave. Walk, stop, take a picture. Walk a little further; stop, snap; until I reached the grave. I  took a picture of the headstone, then took a step back, knelt down on one knee and snapped two more.

Two weeks later, back in Phoenix, I picked up the developed pictures and brought them home. I went through them in the order that they were taken, then passed them to Joan. She gave them back to me after she finished looking at them, and I took another look. That's when I saw the image in the picture that I had not noticed the first time. I exclaimed to Joan, "you are not going to believe this." Clearly there was something in the photo.

Shortly after, I scanned the photo and turned it black and white. The image was unmistakable. In 2000 I scanned it again and enlarged it, again in black and white. I make no assertions as to what the image represents. I can tell you, physically, what it is. I will let you draw your own conclusions. Here are the Photographs, untouched, unedited.

Click on thumbnails to enlarge

Chances are you will not see the image. Click Next Page where the image is identified.

NEXT PAGE >