My Dad was a new volunteer for the Army, just on his way by boat to the Philippines when he was told WWII was over. He trained to be a paratrooper but never had to jump into enemy territory. I talked to him today, and he said he was very glad when he heard that the war had ended. He said that the boat had been sailing with no lights and once the war ended, they got to turn the lights back on. What were his thoughts as the darkened ship crossed the Pacific? I can only surmise.

He told me that when they were asking for volunteers to join the paratroopers, he didn’t really think it over, he was just a young kid and stepped up. He also said that when a lot of his friends joined the Army, he wanted to join, too. This is a man who was so soft-hearted that when my grandpa took him hunting as a young boy, he cried because he refused to shoot a rabbit. (I’ve heard that when you hurt a rabbit they cry like a human child.)

We laughed about the fact that it is better to jump out of a plane when there isn’t anybody shooting at you. But it’s also a fact that he offered to do so if his country called him to. He went on to serve overseas in Philippines, Korea and Japan and went home in 1947. He married my Mom in December of 1947, and I joined the baby boom a little over 1 year later.

My Dad is 84 and is thinking about doing an honor flight to DC. That is where they fly veterans to see the WWII memorial. I hope he does get to go, I think it would be good for him to recall what his country meant and still means to him.

http://www.honorflight.org/

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Activists Taking Action: Unified Patriots

Goes for all soldiers and family members lost

The beautiful simplicity of the words express heartfelt love. Your grandfather sounds like he was a wonderful example of the, “The Greatest Generation” yet as you noted, he said so little about it over the years,which shows he was the typical American of that time. Ordinary men and women who did extraordinary things, and returned to the lives they left behind, expecting nothing more.

May you find peace and comfort in knowing that your grandfather was so special, and I am sure he passed that onto you, as well.

after reading what you wrote. Very nice, BRW.

My dad, like your grandpa, never talked of the bad things he saw during WWII. He spoke only of the funny things, and even then only when we prodded. I miss my dad down to my bones. I, too, was rather surprised at the number of people who flew in from the west coast and drove from parts all over to attend his service at Arlington.

I used to subscribe to the “greatest generation” mentality until I saw what our current warriors are accomplishing. I have come to realize that service, commitment, and bravery are not generational. I suspect you grandpa would be very proud of those currently serving. And they, him.

on penguin’s diary about the flag the other day, you owe me money for at least a giant sized box of Kleenex. It doesn’t help that I’ve just been watching the Memorial Day Concert on PBS, too.

You know, it’s with a sense of such longing that I watch these things– would that the military wasn’t the only segment of the American government that we feel safe in honoring. It is bitter indeed to know that we cannot trust the Commander in Chief to honor the sacrifice and service of these wonderful men and women.

of WWII, Korea, and the early stages of Vietnam. He passed away in 1977 when I was 10. He lived on in my mom’s memories…but how I wish I could have had him longer. I have all of his military stuff and I know they mean something. What I would give for the stories those relics hold.

And in this sense, your magnificent Grampa is still very much alive. When you recall him, you no doubt remember the sound of his voice, the way he walked, the funny stories he had, or the millions of other things that, to this day, remind you of him–, only more sharply because of his absence. In the storehouses of your heart, he seems as alive as ever. And he IS, when you share stories of him.Time is a funny thing that way. And I, for one, think these small remembrances are the way we all might achieve a measure of Immortality. Just like your Grampa.

When I was a child, I was fascinated with the scar on my Dad’s leg; it wouldn’t tan the way the rest of him did. It was rather rope-like, encircling the whole of his right calf. It came from “the war”, us kids were told, and that was pretty much all there was to The War in our house, other than a few oddments at the bottom of the filing cabinet: Two purple heart medals, some poorly developed pictures of my Dad in an army uniform, posing with a little Italian boy, or with a few buddies in similar uniforms. In our home, that was about the extent of The War.

And, of course, the scar on his leg.

As the years went by, the scar was less noticeable. And, it wasn’t until the last ten years or so that we learned more about what happened at the Battle of Monte Casino, in the shadow of Mount Lungo. “Ah, we were just cannon fodder”, my Dad said, “They told us to go out and draw fire, so they could get a bead on the German guns on the high ground. So, we did.”

“Go Out and Draw Fire”. Can you imagine? Nineteen years old, a couple days before Christmas in some hellishly muddy hillside halfway around the world from your home in Michigan, and some First Sergeant tells you to “Draw Fire”.

It’s a long way from that moment to say, Christmas, 1974, when Dad took me and my brother skiing; or from the endless summer days at the cottage on Lake Michigan. At least it seemed to me, as a kid, enjoying the fruits of what he and so many others did when THEY (like your Grampa) were told to “Draw Fire”. They did– simply, straightforwardly. They were heroes, though, undiluted heroes. But, Dad was always so humble about this, so quietly stoic… like your Grampa, and like so many others.

No, to me, he was (and, thank the Good Lord, still IS) my Dad. The War was part of the dark and obscure past that children see their parents emerging from, right alongside the chrome breadbox in the kitchen, and their tales of life Before Television. And, like so many others, Dad seldom talked about The War, saying “I stopped being in the Army the minute they let me go home”.

Mr. River Wolf, I can verily picture your Grampa showing you his maps and atlases, engendering a love of adventure, of loving life. It’s not so much that their generation was The Greatest, it is just that ours pales so thinly in comparison. With the very notable exception of the magnificent men and women in the Armed Forces of the United States stationed in the war zones (and around the world), we have never been ordered to “Draw Fire”. All I’ve had to do is sit in relative obscurity, absorb the treasures that men like your Grampa and my Dad secured, and type mostly anonymous notes to people I’ll likely never meet. Oh, yes, I’ve fully engaged my responsibilities as an American (..A wife, two amazing children, etc., etc.,), but those responsibilities are so mild compared to “Drawing Fire”.

And in this simple order, is a perfect metaphor for how I am trying to proceed, and urge others to, in the memory of their Grampa, or Dad, or Uncle. It adds another measure of Immortality to their words and deeds. We owe them nothing less. I am trying to get out of my comfort zone (a zone that has grown so out-sized to its own importance), and Draw Fire.

You seem a wonderful, loving, patriotic, impassioned, American citizen. I’ll bet, like my Dad, your Grampa wasn’t much into sentimentalism. Go out, and “draw fire” for your Grampa. Imagine what our nation would look like, if folks like you and all the wonderful Red State folks picked up the banners as they falter around us, and weren’t afraid to “draw fire”.

I’ll bet your Grampa would help out.

Thank you for the wonderful post.