Dakota Beacon

Memorial Day has rolled around again . . . the beginning of the glorious season of summer in America.  Along with the traditional observances of the day of the valor of our fallen heroes, we recall, with Dr. Kengor, the lives of survivors of our wars, men and women who came home to rebuild their lives, nourish their families and enrich their country further through many other contributions. 

This year I recall my own dad, who passed away in January.  He was a young Marine in World War II.  He enlisted and eventually saw service in the South Pacific.  Growing up I knew very little about his war years.  He only referenced them in tangential comments.  He would feel silk and note that that was what the parachutes were made of.  He did describe the Figi Islanders and how amazingly agile they were.  Onc when I was talking about learning languages he remembered that on a transport ship across the Pacific he was standing next to a young Dutch sailor.  He said something to pass the time about the weather and was rebuked by the sailor: “You Americans!  You are so arrogant.  You speak to everyone in English and don’t learn their languages.”  He was taken aback and, he said, humbled.  In all fairness, he shouldn’t have been.  A Dutchman is only a few miles away from Germany, France or England.  Why shouldn’t he know their languages?  It’s not so easy in the dead center of North America!  At least it wasn’t before the advent of the internet.  And I have an enduring memory of his singing “Waltzing Mathilda” to me as an infant, as well as all my younger siblings in turn, a penchant he picked up, undoubtedly, in the South Pacific. 

And one other thing.  When we kids were watching a WWII movie on the Late Show, he commented once, “You know, we didn’t know we would win the war back then.”  It was a chilling moment.  They didn’t know.  It was up to them to make it happen that way, but they did their work not knowing what would happen to them.  That is why we call it courage.

But as to his actual war experiences, we heard almost nothing.  In my dad’s later years my younger brother had many conversations with him and some of this came out over the occasional glass of beer or in long evenings with little other diversion.  My father was a paratrooper.  I did know that he “cheated” to be allowed to serve as a paratrooper because of his defective vision.  He wanted to jump out of airplanes into jungles under fire because it carried extra pay with it. 

There is a letter extant, a copy of one written by my dad to the parents of his buddy.  They were part of a unit in Peleliu, where the most vicious combat of WWII took place.  His troop commander asked for volunteers to go out on a scouting mission to find where the Japanese were.  My dad and his friend volunteered.  They went out to search, and, finding no Japanese came back to camp to find that every single man in the camp had been killed.  My dad and his buddy were the sole survivors.  The Japanese had been too close already.  As they stood taking in the scene of slaughter, a sniper’s bullet felled his friend.  My dad was the last survivor.  It was left to him to write to the parents.  It was an eloquent letter and reassured them of the courage and honor of their son and the loss he felt as well.    Then he was reassigned to another mission and went on.

Upon the war’s end he came home, went to school, went to work and retired from managing a major electric co-op.  Then, last January, he completed his mission as a civilian while visiting my sister in Mississippi.  I often wish he had had more to say about the war, but I really understood deep down, that it was not a pleasant memory.  He shared the brighter parts with us, talking about New Caledonia and Figi and the scenery and the atmosphere of the tropics.  He did not desire to get together with his former companions, being something of a lone-eagle type personality.  He was mostly self-effacing and preferred not to think about the past.  Much of it died with him but for what he imparted to my brother in those long nights when he was in failing health. 

A few years ago I was working as a journalist for a local newspaper and was asked to cover the stories of WWII veterans.  This was spurred by the sudden realization that it was a generation now entering its final years and dying off.  I encountered some of the same diffidence among the former soldiers and sailors I spoke with.  Many declined to be interviewed, while some spoke mainly of others and not so much of themselves, except I did learn that the common knowledge was that if you wanted to get the best food, join the Navy!  It is a typical characteristic of that fading generation that you don’t talk about yourself.  You give credit to others.  You step out of the spotlight. 

But this country was nourished with the blood and sacrifice of these young men and women.  They did none of this for glory or to be remembered, but remember them today we must.  Some years ago my youngest sister, Lucia, was working for the UND campus bookstore.  She was asked to prepare a window for Memorial Day.  The result was amazing.  She and my husband (a WWII vet himself) built model planes and ships.  There was a submarine, photos of soldiers from several wars (including her brother-in-law, our uncle and our dad in WWII Army and Marine uniforms and our great-uncle in WWI uniform) , Gulf War cards, miniature solders pointing to various books about our country’s wars, a WWII helmet and a miniature paratrooper, whose wafting in the air currents caught the eye.  As it happened, it was also class reunion time for WWII veteran students.  Countless vets stopped and commented, brought others to look.  Some stopped in the store to ask whether it was possible to buy the war cards.  The memorabilia display was expertly presented and worthy of any museum.  Her manager’s reaction?  “What’s all this?  I thought you were doing a Memorial Day window.  Where are the sunglasses and picnic basket?  What’s all this war stuff?”  She was asked to take the window down immediately.

We all deserve better.  We deserve to know our history and what has given us the nation we call America.  Our fallen heroes, whether at  Bull Run or Pearl Harbor or Peleliu, Normandy, Afghanistan or Benghazi, deserve to be remembered even if their survivors are reluctant to remember it themselves.  As another summer season is initiated amid the picnic baskets, gardening and trips to the lake, let’s pause to say a humble “thanks” to these quiet American heroes.  And while we thank them, let’s make sure we’re doing all we can to preserve the freedom for which they fought and died.