He arrived on Easter Sunday 1910, just ahead of Halley's Comet. Born in the bedroom of a farmhouse where he'd live his whole life and draw his last breath at seventy. The fifth child and third son in his family.
Years later, he'd chuckle in retelling the story of his mother's doctor who encountered a rare automobile coming toward he and his horse as he reached the farmhouse to attend the impending birth. The frightened horse dislodged its rider and the unfortunate doctor flew through the air, landing on a large bush and seriously tearing his trousers. From that day forward, the doctor proclaimed that the newborn infant owed him a pair of pants. Country medicine has its price.
The baby was named for a maternal uncle and given his mother's maiden name as a middle name. Though his birthdate occurred in the early twentieth century, he always seemed like someone who might have been more comfortable living fifty or even one hundred years in the past. The farm was his paradise. He cared not for comforts and never seemed to notice heat, humidity, the lack of indoor plumbing, or the incessant dirt and grueling work involved in coaxing food from the land. He reveled in overseeing an array of animals who provided sustenance or bolstered the family's finances through the dairy operations.
Through the decades, he remained single and lived at home with his widowed mother as his siblings married and established their own residences. Farm work was combined with toilsome hours at the laundry and dry cleaners he owned with his brothers. This halcyon life might have continued indefinitely had not the world erupted in countries far from his eden.
An older soldier, honed by physical exercise and privations, and smoking incessently, he's volunteered for this omminous task. His rank's the lowest available but he's content to be mostly unnoticed.
Precious letters to two of his sisters survive. Each is unconditionally positive. He asks about their children, sends hugs to the little ones, inquires about a brother-in-law who's also serving, acknowledges his gratitude for much appreciated packages, inquires about the health of another sibling. Just once he casually mentions that he's working hard, but no further description is provided. He's almost eerily mute.
Training is exhaustive and must have been exhausting. He begins in a military camp near enough to his hometown to allow sporadic visits with his family. After some months, he's transported to the Mojave Desert, subsisting in tents where the enemy is torrid heat, endless sand, and dangerous scorpions. He'll next glimpse this bleak landscape three decades into the future.
Once he's thoroughly trained in desert maneuvers, those skills are no longer needed when Rommel's army is routed and the sand his soldiers conquered is once again safe. Guarding German war prisoners in Georgia delays embarkation and he meets the woman who becomes his wife.
The venerable Queen Mary is transformed into a troop ship and on June 6, 1944, he's among thousands of soldiers, sailing from New York harbor, bound for battle. Did they know of the events unfolding that day across the Atlantic? Did they hope that the conflict would be over before they reached Scotland?
Tidworth Barracks in southern England is a staging area. The men all know they're leaving this protected place, just not when. A quarter century later, I'm standing at nearby Stonehenge and notice British fighters streak across the sky. I'm overwhelmed with a feeling that he's with me. Does some of his spirit remain in this now peaceful place? At the time, I didn't know the location of his English camp. Returning home, I fail to share my experience and never ask him any war-related questions. I learn about Tidworth while researching his unit.
Within two months, the order is received. France is the initial destination for our farmer. The 7th Armored Division marches through the countryside, liberating small villages, pushing back the invaders, becoming beloved by the residents.
He continues to write his wife, mother, and sisters. Packages arrive sporadically and are gratefully accepted. Though losses escalate and months of inhospitable terrain must be endured, his determination to survive never wavers. Letters, heavily censored, barely hint at unimaginable circumstances. A postcard to a beloved young niece contains these cryptic words, "All the children here wear wooden shoes." He's unquestionably in Holland.
Inexplicably, he is able to send monogrammed Christmas cards from the carnage. He cannot fortell that it is almost his last Christmas.
Stories shared from these horrific months are sparse. One treasured tale captures hope and disappointment very clearly because it transpired away from battle. His unit walked through a small town and saw a cherry pie in the window of the local bakery. With only routine rations where dessert was always chocolate bars, the men longed for other sweets. Overcoming the language barrier, they offered candy and cigarettes for the coveted pie. With one bite, the soldiers knew the folly of their trade. The pie contained not one ounce of sugar, a very scarce commodity in wartime.
It's winter and provisions are inadequate to staunch the cold. An epoch battle rages. Snow covers equipment, roads, and shelter. Communication is erratic and men must rely upon their own wiles to outlast the enemy and prevail in the frozen forest. The Bulge has begun.
The feared telegram is delivered. It reads, "Missing, presumed dead." He's lost. Not with his unit. Can't be found in the vast whiteness, sprinkled with comrades' blood. The family waits, worries, imagines the unthinkable.
Another message arrives. He's been found and transported to a hospital in Paris. His injuries are serious. A burst eardrum. Frozen hands and feet. Recuperation is lengthy, arduous. But he's safe and after five months, the Queen Mary, now commissioned as a hospital ship, will carry him back to New York.
Army scrip, printed in France, continues his meager military wages. He's alive and will return to his beloved hometown to father me and my brother.
Older male cousins have said that he occasionally talked of his wartime experiences. I believe he wanted to spare his children from knowing the depths of his suffering and so he stayed silent with us.
We recognized his sacrifices. We'd painted his feet. They spoke loudly about our Daddy.
My mom used to tell us about her father's feet as well. He was a Navy pilot. Apparently, when he walked down the short hallway of their house, you heard ever floorboard creak along with the bones in his toes.
ReplyDeleteNow I know why you inspected my feet with such intensity when we first met!
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