We often point out that while Veterans Day was
established to honor those who serve in our military, Memorial Day is dedicated
to those who gave the last full measure of devotion, as Abraham Lincoln put
it.
That was not my father’s situation. While he passed away just days ago, he did
not do so in combat nor as a result of any harm he incurred while serving his
country. So in a way this is a bit
awkward in its placement.
However, and not to take away the distinction of those
who did in fact lay their lives down in the service of their country, the lines
can be a bit blurry on this distinction. First of all, not every soldier, sailor or marine who
died during a war died in combat. The
number of those who died during World War I for instance includes a large
number who died of the influenza epidemic that broke out in 1918. Some die by accidents.
Second, you don’t have to be a combatant to die in a
conflict. It is often pointed out that
for every front-line combatant, there are 9 others who are serving in support
of them. As Kathy pointed out, nurses,
and women service pilots died in the course of the war. No one who went overseas during that area was
immune from the risk of being killed.
Just ask those who served in the merchant marine, which was not even
considered a bona fide branch of the military.
But there is another angle. There is a saying I like that goes something
like this. What is a veteran? It is someone who has written a blank check
payable to the United States of America, for an amount up to and including his
or her own life. Everyone who serves
during war time especially knows that the cost of their induction could go that
far. So in a sense every service person
has a certain ‘devotion’ about them.
Also, the matter of who lives or dies in a war is not
something amenable to management. Not to
downplay the role of good training, protocol and leadership in preserving the
lives combatants, but there is always an element no one can control. Depending on how you think the universe works,
call it Chance or Fate or Predestination or “the bullet with your number on
it”. There are heroes who die, but there
are also heroes who live, some without even a scratch. There are ones who could be thought of as bad
soldiers or cowards who live, but there are also those who die. And in between is a great throng of men and
women who are neither. They simply do
their jobs. And of those, again, some live, and some die.
My father was in the latter group from all I can
tell. He was not highly decorated, he
just received the good conduct medal. He
was in some dangerous places, but was never even wounded. He was good at what he did, and he did it.
Another aspect of the devotion of a service man is
that you don’t really get to pick your assignment. You take an oath to obey the orders of those
who are over you, and you go where you are sent. So because someone ended up manning a desk,
driving a truck, or working battlefield construction, your service was no less
valuable or honorable than those who stormed the beaches.
My father had a great story he told that demonstrates
this. He did not tell us any gruesome stories of what he saw in the South
Pacific. He told us the funny
stories. One was when he was inducted
into the Army at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.
He graduated from High School in 1940, tried to join the Navy as a
pilot, but was turned down because he had an overbite. He was eventually drafted in mid-1942. He was asked what he had done since
graduation, and part of the answer was that he had spent some time at his older
brothers welding shop in Mt. Carmel, Illinois, as a kind of errand boy. The interviewer said, “Hmm” and pulled down a
book off his shelf about welding. He
broke open the book to some random page and asked some really basic question
that anyone would know who had ever spent an hour in a welding shop. He went to another random page and asked a
similar banal question, which Dad answered.
So he wrote on the induction form “Expert Welder."
Dad was exasperated by such silliness and a bit of a
row ensured. Dad said at this point a
huge Master sergeant walked over and wanted to know what the trouble was. Dad explained he felt the interview was a bit
misguided (or something to that effect).
The Master sergeant said, “Well, OK, recruit, what do you want to
do?” Dad replied, “Well, I had hoped to
be in the Air Corps, or perhaps in the Quartermaster Corp, but I don’t want to
be in a tank.” The Master Sergeant wrote “AF” on Dad’s form and handed it back
to the interview, basically ending the conversation and interview.
As a result of this, Dad found himself on an overnight
train to someplace further east. He said
when he woke the next morning he looked out of the window and saw a sign that
said, “Welcome to Fort Knox, Kentucky. Home of the Armored Force.”
He did his basic training there, and because he had
grown up duck and pheasant hunting in central Kansas, and knew his way around
guns, he was made gunnery instructor, and spent more time than he wanted at
Fort Knox. After lobbying hard to be
given a chance to see action, he was eventually sent to the West coast, then to
Pearl Harbor, and then to the South Pacific, where he was involved with the
landing on Peleliu, the long fight to control the island. His last activity was a little known invasion
of a tiny island called Iheya shima, to the north of Okinawa, the last amphibious
landing of the war.
But his life was not defined by having been a
soldier. He came home, and got on to normal life. He
married in 1950, had children, endeavored to make a living, did well at
whatever he did. But he didn’t have a College
degree, which limited his advancement, and many of the firms he served so well
did not provide retirement benefits during that era. So when he turned 65, the only thing he had
was his Social Security check and whatever he could earn with his own
hands. He worked until well into his
80’s, ended up in the Southwest, finally settling in Reno Nevada, 1000 miles
away from anyone else in the family.
We were all kind of hard hit by the recession, and
were not in any position to travel to see him, nor he to come see us. I began
to be worried after he past 90 that he would pass way in poverty in Reno, and I
would not even be able to afford to come to his funeral, much less pay for it. But because he had grown up during the
Depression, he knew how to be frugal, living off a $1,000 a month Social
Security check, actually saving a little money.
In early 2019 he was diagnosed with severe dementia, so
his savings came in handy to get me out to Reno and get him out of the VA
Hospital there. And the US also takes
care of its Veterans. I discovered that
as a combat veteran, now disabled, he was entitled to strong support to live in
a Veterans Home, one that could offer the kind of Memory care that he
needed. The closest one I could get him
in was in King, Wisconsin, about 3 hours north of here. He took up residence there in late March last
year, and was well cared for. To give
you an idea, the facility in King has had exactly 0 incidents of COVID 19 to
date. So after 20 years of not seeing
him face to face, I was able to visit him regularly over the past year.
He died peacefully in his sleep on May 12, not alone,
not as a pauper, but surrounded by caregivers who loved him and near the
largest remaining part of his family. I
was able to be at his bedside during his last hours.
This country loses a lot as this World War II
generation fades away. As a child, my
father lived in a world that was not too far removed from the days of the
Pioneers. Things like indoor bathrooms,
electricity, the telephone, movies, the automobile and even the airplane were
fairly new items at the beginning of his life.
But he lived to see television, computers, smartphones. During the last few months he marveled as my
wife and I were able to do Skype sessions with him. We are losing their connection to our
countries past, to the perspective they had on life in general and the American
experience.
In addition, as a Baby Boomer, the passing of the
World War II Generation gives me a certain sense of misgiving. While as a young person I touted the virtues
of “My Generation”,but as I began to see my Father’s generation fade, I had a
change of heart. In fact, my reaction
was almost, “oh my, we are losing all the adults”, with a sense of foreboding
like one feels in reading Lord of the Flies.
I am not as confident now in my own generation. While they had their shortcomings, I feel
they had a lot to teach us, and I for one think we would be wise to attempt to
gain all we can from their story. I know
I have tried in the few years to gain from my father's.
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