Memorial Day

The following probably would have been better had it been written closer to Memorial Day. My mind was in another place when the holiday rolled around. Given that we are approaching my parents anniversary, I've been thinking a lot about Mom, Dad, and their lives in the 1940's. 

In a few weeks my parents would have celebrated their 68th anniversary. When Mom was able to tell me stories, she loved to tell me about Dad coming home from the war in Europe and their wedding.

The war in Europe had ended. Dad was coming home on leave before shipping out to Japan. Mom was working at Willow Run airport in Ann Arbor when she received a call from Dad saying he was coming home. Dad had been gone three years.

"The phone went dead before I could find out when he would get home (to Grand Rapids)," Mom has told me. "I packed my stuff, gave my immediate notice and came home."

At home Mom waited. And waited. And waited.

"I spent two days sitting in a chair all dressed waiting for your father to call again," Mom said. "When the phone finally rang I was so excited I jumped up to get it. My heels had been hooked on the rung of the chair and I snapped the heels off my shoes."

Dad finally arrived at home. They got married August 4, 1945 and while Mom and Dad were on their honeymoon, the United States dropped atomic bombs on Japan. The Japanese surrendered on August 15. Dad returned to the army to finish his hitch, but he served it in Seattle.

While in Europe Dad was a fireman stationed at an airfield in London. He put out fires on bombers as they returned from their missions. That's all I know about his time in the service. He never talked about it.

Despite his reticence to talk about his experiences during the war,  I've always had a penchant for stories from those who have served in the military. I think veterans were some of my favorite interviews I did when I was an editor. The interviews were not easy, and I generally let the veterans tell me their stories by whatever means they felt comfortable. Some spoke from the heart, some had lists of things they wanted to share, others just talked and talked and talked. I would listen, take notes, wipe my eyes and listen some more. Some, like my father, did not want to tell their stories, others found it was the catharsis they needed.

What struck me with each and every one of them was these were boys. . . young men who were the same age our (King and I) sons were when they were just starting out in life. Fresh out of high school and ready to explore the world. The men I interviewed never had that chance to do the kind of exploring the way our sons did. They saw the world through the sight of a gun.

They spoke about the fear, the constant gripping fear. The cold. The heat. The idiosyncrasies of the military. These were not John Wayne movies where dying was glorified and heroes rode off into the sunset with their women watching adoringly. These were real, honest men who did what they had to do and considered themselves lucky to come back home.

I sat with these men and listened to their stories. World War II vets, Korean War vets, Vietnam War vets. Stories of storming the beaches at Normandy, wading to shore pushing bodies out of the way. I learned about the Battle of the Bulge as no history book can ever describe it. I listened as they described the heat of the jungles where danger hid behind every tree and bush. I listened as they spoke about transport ships that criss-crossed the Atlantic to avoid submarines and felt their helplessness while watching other ships in the convoy sink. I learned of the horror of being among the first to see the concentration camps and witnessing the worst of humanity. I rejoiced in the heroes welcome home for some and felt the anger of trying to avoid picketers for others. . . They all came home with one thing in common; they were young men who witnessed some of the most horrific things one can imagine and now they were home and had to try to pick up their lives and continue on as if nothing had changed. As if they were the same young men who had left home two and three years before.

The war for these young men did not end when they laid down their weapons. For some of them the battles were still being fought 30, 40, 50 and 60 years beyond. It's something to be cognoscente of with veterans returning home now.