Part one: The Rosette

The train from Bruges, Belgium with a quick change in Brussels, took us to Mastricht, Holland, on Friday, 25 May 2007. It was the start of the Memorial Day weekend at The American Cemetery in nearby Margraten. Two ceremonies were planned – one, the traditional Memorial Day honoring of American war dead; the other, a fulfillment of a promise made on a still-winter day in March 2001 when I saw my father’s name on the Wall of the Missing for the first time. Hans-Guenther Ploes and I were about to embark on our journey across three countries in search of my father’s long-missing crash site. A bit over six years later on a somewhat warmer spring day, and after countless subsequent journeys, Hans-Guenther and I were meeting again at my father’s name on the wall.

In 2001 I knew only that I wanted to find my father and to bring him home. It remained unclear how (but not IF) that would happen. I was on the cusp of shattering the long-held belief that he would never be found or his fate determined. As I stood by the Wall, witness to the engraved evidence of my father’s life and death, I noticed a curious thing. A tiny bronze flower was set into the wall to the left of a few names. I inquired about this occasional deviation from the pristine symmetry of the wall and the cemetery beyond to learn that the tiny flower, a rosette, meant the person named was no longer missing.

That tiny indicator became my mission talisman. I ran my hand over the sturdy deep letters of my father’s name, carved at the very bottom of the row, and traced each letter on borrowed typing paper - like a museum rubbing of a precious artifact. Hans-Guenther helped me hold the paper in place and, despite the elements, we made a perfect tracing of my father’s name. As we stepped back from the wall, I told him we would come back one day to put a rosette by my father’s name. He had only just met me and had miraculously been convinced to be my guide on this quest for illumination. He warned me that this was a mission of time, patience, and deduction and that if (I always thought “when”) the crash site was found, the excavation was another challenge altogether. Because I believe that you don’t have to see the whole staircase to climb the stairs, I calculated the probability of success and I knew that I had miraculously and circuitously found exactly the right person with whom to transit this unknown terrain.

Hans-Guenther’s cautionary tale about the difficulty of finding the crash site of a lone fighter pilot and his plane shot down at the end of the war, was no exaggeration. Indeed, it took time to unravel the twisted myths and facts of a decades old event. But on that day at the Wall, we took hopeful pictures of us standing by my father’s name, got into the rental car, and headed back into Germany to accomplish the improbable.

During the subsequent search, discovery, excavation, repatriation, and burial of my father in Arlington last October, I met countless people along the way. Among those who shine the brightest is Mike Yasenchak, the Superintendent of the American Cemetery at Margraten. Before the Elsnig excavation in August and September 2005, I emailed Mike to tell him we were expecting to bring my father home and when that happened, I would like to know what documentation was required to order a rosette. Mike followed the excavation via this blog and email, and looked forward to placing that rosette order as much as I did to seeing it next to my father’s name. Five years and nine months after countless miles traveled, obstacles overcome, magic acknowledged, discussions held, plans hatched, negotiations navigated, films produced, and friendships forged, that tiny bronze flower was finally ordered for Lt. Estill. It was 61 years 11 months from Friday, April 13, 1945.

By the time we arrived in Margraten this time, the upcoming ceremonies were planned and in rehearsal. Mike and I had weighed options and finalized details over the last year plus a few months. Ernst Eberle, of the original German search team and extraordinary friend, guide, and translator, would be driving from his home in the German Eifel Mountains to take us to the American Cemetery on Saturday afternoon. The formal military ceremony to place the rosette by my father’s name was scheduled to follow the dress rehearsal for Memorial Day celebration, attended by thousands of visitors. Hans-Günther, Wally Busch, and Traudl Thiel, my dear German friends and charter members of Team Estill, came from Aachen, and Elsnig, Germany.

It was an overcast rainy day with dim skies that were the antithesis of the brilliant austere clear day in Arlington seven months earlier. The occasion was auspicious and solemn in that ceremonious way I have learned to expect; the cemetery in full bloom and gorgeous even in the drizzle was energized by anticipation of Memorial Day.

Our smaller but no less significant ceremony had become a press event and I was scheduled to speak to the media - television, newspaper, and radio -about my missing pilot father. I agreed in advance that the press and any members of the public visiting the cemetery would be welcome to witness the ceremony. Also in attendance were the Honorable Mayor of Margraten and Mrs. H.J.G. Van Beers, and Ambassador and Mrs. Roland Arnall, the U.S. Ambassador to the Netherlands. Among several of my fellow war-orphan siblings and representative of the American World War II Orphans Network, was Gerry Conway Morenski, who traveled from Massachusetts, to honor her father, Cpl. David L. Conway, KIA 4/14/45 in Weissenfels, Germany and buried in this American Cemetery at Margraten.

Press interviews are always revelatory and those arranged that day were no exception. I am, even after all these years of similar interviews, amazed by the historical knowledge and deep awareness of the reporters who tell my father’s story. His story, told and retold in many languages, has become a microcosm of hope – a quest with a discovery; an ancient saga with a new ending; someone lost and found again; answers closing a questioning circle; dreams realized; honor paid in full.

The backdrop for the interviews were the 8302 cross-market graves of American WWII dead, plus 1722 names
on the Wall of the Missing, of whom 48 listed have been recovered and identified. Tiny U.S. and Holland flags had been placed at each grave. It occured to me that 62 years of history may separate us from WWII but Holland remains
grateful for our liberation efforts on their behalf.

Our little rosette ceremony for the 48th person recovered and identified, began at 4:00. In exquisite detail and exact sequence, Mike recounted the story of my father’s last flight and the subsequent search and recovery leading to that day’s events. Though I was nearly speechless, I managed to respond by telling the story of the promise made in 2001 to give my father a rosette. But mostly, I wanted to acknowledge that we wouldn’t be gathered on behalf of my father that day if it weren’t for the brilliance and persistence of Hans-Guenther Ploes, Air Historian, my excellent friend, and a man of patience, generosity, and mysterious deductions.

Hans-Guenther is not a man who seeks or welcomes attention though all of that changes if he’s discussing WWII aircraft parts. At my request, he came from the crowd to stand with me as the long-awaited and envisioned rosette was tapped into the wall next to my father’s name. We knew how far we’d traveled.

Then, in his glorious voice, Mike sang the Star Spangled Banner for my father but also for those who came to Margraten from all over the world to honor the American WW II war dead resting in this American Cemetery. My father was indeed honored, as was his grateful daughter. I realized how like at Arlington I was unable to express the depth of my gratitude for such exhaustive and exquisite planning on my father’s behalf. As if all of this wasn’t enough, at the end of the ceremony Mike presented me with another rosette which I will keep in the tri-cornered box that holds the flag from my father’s casket.

To look out into the crowd that day knowing that what remains, after all, are those who walk with you on such a quest. Each are my father’s gifts to me. “See,” he seems to say, “I am always here.” He surrounds me with people willing to take me into their lives and to watch after me when I forgot to breathe. This was perilously close to one of those days. There we were - gathered again on my father’s behalf – old and new members of Lt. Estill’s team.

When I imagined finding my father, I could not have envisioned the scope of what else I would discover. The day of our ceremony was also the German television premier of our Der Spiegel documentary. We planned to leave for Aachen with my German friends right after the ceremony to have dinner together, and then watch the film. We were all curious to see what Der Speigel made of our adventure.

Aachen, Germany is historic, fascinating, beautifully restored, artfully preserved, and full of good restaurants. Hans-Guenther wanted to return to the restaurant where we had dinner on the evening before we embarked on the search for my father. In the end, I don’t know if we found it but we were in the same neighborhood and it was Italian, our favorite during our travels. With the exception of a sub-basement-level Russian restaurant in Weimar, we knew how to find pasta and pizza throughout Germany.

We laughed as we remembered the people and events that defined our journey; we took silly and serious pictures; and, at Hans-Guenther’s insistence, had gelato for desert. The film was showing at 22:30 after which Ernst would take us back to Margraten, swearing that he liked driving enough to navigate mountain roads in the middle of the night. This generous declaration from a friend who always goes way beyond what is expected or deserved.

The film was, in a word, surreal, and also in German. To sit with the people who helped make this story a reality and to comment on our intermittent appearances on the very screen we were watching was something out of my ordinary. It was apparent that producer, Kay Siering had done an stunning job of showing and telling my father’s story and we pronounced it moving and powerful. It had been a long day, indescribably wide with emotion and action, but much remained in the days ahead. It’s always sad for me to say good-bye to Hans-Guenther but I do so with certainty that we will meet again for anther adventure.

Part two: The Movie

Hamburg is a full day’s train ride from Margraten via Liege and Koln. We arrived at the historic Fairmont vier Jahreszeiten Hotel, which was under heavy guard as the official hotel of the EU Counsel of Ministers meeting prior to the G8 Summit. I figured it was either the safest or the most dangerous hotel in Hamburg. Kay Siering came by the next morning to take us to the Der Spiegel offices for a private showing of the film. We walked from the hotel to his office in the rain which did little to mar the beauty of Hamburg along the way.

I was privileged to meet Hauke Ketelsen, editor of the film which is entitled, Love in Times of War: The Last Flight of Lt. Shannon Estill. Throughout the film, excerpts from my father’s letters are read along with reenactments of scenes pertinent to his life and death. The film will be translated into English sometime this summer.

Watching the film at Der Speigel minus the German narration and dialogue but with Kay Siering telling me the story in English, gave me a good idea of its impact. It goes far beyond what I could have imagined and is a visible link to my father unlike any other. With continued good fortune, it will be shown in the U.S. market and at film festivals worldwide.

Kay had arranged a celebratory dinner for the last evening in Hamburg with the incomparable Theo, our enthusiastic cameraman, who was involved with every scene and event along the way, and who always managed to put things into perfect historical context for me; and Christopher Gerisch. who competently and skillfully filled in for Kay while he awaited the birth of his second child. Over five years of filming, this group of creative souls became my friends, fellow-travelers, and collaborators in placing the pieces of the emotional puzzle I was solving.

So, is this the end of the story? Probably not and here’s why: I am working with artist, Jim Hartel, on a project for children based on my story of father-loss in war. The impact of the translated film released in the U.S. market sometime this year is anyone’s guess. There’s another larger writing project that will be adapted from this blog and contain the fine details that are the rest of this story. As always, and what has served me well, I remain active in the creation of my own present and future and in the belief my father’s sweet memory should be honored along with the memories of all those who died, as he did, in service to our country. I never forget that this story can be told only after paying the highest possible price for the rights to do so.

Thank you for joining me on this trek and check in once in a while because I still don’t believe in “closure” in any traditional sense.