This Memorial Day, my heart is heavy with remembrance as I think about “Uncle Bernie” – my great-uncle Walter B. Sheehan – who gave everything for our freedom during World War II. He rests now in Luxembourg, sharing hallowed ground with General Patton and thousands of other heroes who never made it home.
I call him Bernie because that’s what our family always called him, though his real name was Walter, named after his father, my great-grandfather.
For over thirty years, Bernie’s story was lost to our family’s collective memory. When my dad casually mentioned that his father’s brother had died at Normandy, something didn’t sit right with me.
That offhand comment sent me down a research rabbit hole that would forever change how I understood our family’s sacrifice for this nation.
What I discovered broke my heart and filled me with immense pride simultaneously.
Bernie hadn’t died at Normandy – he had made the ultimate sacrifice during the Battle of the Bulge, one of the most brutal conflicts of the European theater.
On December 13, 1944, when his scouting patrol came under heavy enemy fire from a concealed machine-gun nest, twenty-two-year-old Sergeant Walter B. Sheehan didn’t hesitate. He defied the enemy fire and single-handedly annihilated that nest with hand grenades, saving his fellow soldiers’ lives.
But Bernie wasn’t done being a hero.
Just sixteen days later, on December 29, 1944, when his crew was suffering devastating casualties from another enemy machine-gun position, he once again charged forward. This time, he assaulted the gun position directly and was fatally wounded in the process.
For these acts of extraordinary gallantry, he was posthumously awarded the Silver Star – recognition for being an absolute badass Nazi slayer who put his brothers-in-arms before his own safety.
The tragedy isn’t just that we lost Bernie in the frozen forests of Luxembourg.
It’s that in just one generation, our family had forgotten his real name, the battle where he died, his awards, and even where he was buried. We had reduced a Silver Star recipient who died defending democracy to a half-remembered story with the wrong details.
This haunts me because Bernie deserved so much better from us.
There’s something beautifully poetic that my youngest child was born on Bernie’s birthday. It feels like the universe reminding us that life continues, that his sacrifice wasn’t in vain, and that new generations carry forward the legacy of those who came before.
Bernie’s story has taught me that we must be the keepers of our family’s military history. Too many heroes like him have been forgotten simply because no one took the time to preserve their stories.
I refuse to let that happen again in our family. My children will know about Uncle Bernie, about his courage, about his Silver Star, and about how he sleeps eternally in Luxembourg soil alongside General Patton.
To Bernie and all our veterans who made the ultimate sacrifice – thank you.
Your courage purchased our freedom with your blood. You charged enemy positions so we could live in peace. You left everything behind so we could have everything ahead of us.
This Memorial Day, I’m not just remembering Uncle Bernie. I’m honoring every veteran who served, every family that lost someone, and every person who put country before self.
Their sacrifice echoes through generations, reminding us that freedom isn’t free – it’s paid for by heroes who never asked for thanks but deserved so much more than we can ever give.
Rest in peace, Uncle Bernie. Your family remembers now.
