Thoughts on Memorial Day
It’s Monday afternoon, May 28, Memorial Day. The annual Western Hills Veterans Council Parade has ended. At the memorial service following the parade an officer gave a speech about service, duty, honor, and sacrifice. He spoke about the families and friends left behind. He reminded us that those who fought and those lost their lives helped win the battle for freedom at home. It is only right and fitting that we honor their memory on this day. Listening to his speech, I couldn’t help but think about my father. My father passed away this past December quietly surrounded by his sons and the woman he loved for almost 60 years. My dad was a veteran. He loved Memorial Day.
Like my father, I am a veteran. I wanted to go to college and my father wanted me to join the army. He thought that discipline, training and time away from home would benefit me greatly. We compromised. I joined Ohio Army National Guard. I reasoned that if I liked the Army, I could go to officer school after graduating college. On the day I left for Fort Benning, Georgia from CVG my father seriously gave me this advice. “John, there are four things you need to remember during basic training.” “Never make these three people angry, the guy who feeds you, the guy who pays you, and the guy that delivers your mail. Most importantly obey your orders, but don’t volunteer for an unspecified mission.” I hugged my mother and shook my father’s hand. He calmly stated, “You’ll be fine, son.” Armed with this knowledge and my father’s reassurance that I would be fine, I boarded the plane for Georgia. A new chapter in my life began.
Five weeks into basic I realized those mystic bits of fatherly advice I received were true. It was the first time in my life that I thought, “Damn, maybe the old man really does know what the hell he is talking about.” That night we were rousted from our bunks early. Our entire training command staff was in our barracks screaming for us to get out of our bunks, grab all of our gear and get on the street. We were dressed in full battle gear, standing in pouring rain when my company commander announced that the Argentine Air Force sank the HMS Sheffield. We were going to war to support our good friends the British. He then marched us to the armory. They issued us weapons (with the bolts). We marched to the airfield where C-130 troop transport aircraft lined up waiting for our arrival. Or so we thought.
We stood for two hours in the pouring rain watching combat troops board the transports. Our company commander brought us there to observe America’s finest preparing for war. The commander turned to us, cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “This is why we train you so hard.” He was yelling at the top of his lungs so that we could hear him over the drone of the enormous engines. For the first time in my life I understood, even if for only a moment, a small portion of the terror my father must have experienced during World War II. I took basic training even more seriously after that night.
Eight weeks later, I graduated from “Advanced Infantry Training” and returned home a changed young man. Basic and AIT training was the single greatest, life changing experience in my short time on Earth. I was more confident, focused and serious about the direction of my life. From my father’s point of view his mission was accomplished. Once again, I was left thinking; maybe the old man knows what he is talking about. My father and I now shared a unique bond. Our time in the Army had changed us, made us better men. I more deeply appreciated how his generation’s time in military service helped change a nation.
Like most of the young men of his generation, he volunteered for service following the attack on Pearl Harbor. My Dad was a very smart person, highly motivated and always wanted to fly. He was recommended for officer candidate school. He joined the Army Air Corps. He served his time in Italy as part of B-24 Liberator crew. His unit served with distinction and won two unit citations. Like most veterans, he was proud of his service. He rarely talked about the war. “I did what I had to do,” is how he summarized his service.
When he spoke of the war, it was softly and in a hushed voice. In those rare moments, we opened our eyes to his memories. He gave us a glimpse into the real war (not a Hollywood version). His stories were both riveting and harrowing. I was amazed at the detail he could remember. Transported back to the mission, he was alive in a moment of history. His story would reach a dramatic point until something would come over him. He became more thoughtful, deeply introspective, a bit troubled and saddened. He was measuring what he remembered. He weighed it against what he chose to tell us. Was he protecting us from the horrors of air combat? Was he protecting himself from reliving the most frightening moments of his life? You could feel that he was skipping over parts and fast-forwarding to the happy landing. Sixty-one years after the end of the war and he was still haunted by the events that he survived. He made his peace with himself, his God and his country.
He rarely talked about friends that he made or the places he was stationed. Dad never flew again – ever. As part of this countries “Greatest Generation” he helped, in his own small way, to win the war against Nazism. He helped save the world. He married his high school sweetheart, they raised seven children. They settled in to build a nation. They prayed the Peace would last.
The words the officer spoke are embedded in my soul. Their truth cannot be doubted, only lived. Service, duty, honor, and sacrifice. Thank you to all of our servicemen and women. Thanks Dad. This soldier remembers.
