As a kid, I knew he’d served in World War II, but that was a distant fact in the background of my growing-up years for a variety of reasons, one of which was, looking back, my dad not particularly wanting to talk about that part of his life.
But years ago, one of my kids was learning about World War II in school, had questions and obviously wanted more than textbook answers, so I said, “Ask Grandpa.”
Maybe enough time had finally passed. Maybe being in a different part of his life made a difference. Maybe it was something special about a grandchild asking about his life.
In any case, Dad opened up, at least somewhat, about his World War II experiences.
Since then, we’ve heard his stories, some a bit funny. In training, an officer told him to hold his rifle a certain way. Dad did, and kept missing the target, so Dad adjusted his hold. The officer told him he wasn’t going to do any better holding the rifle the “wrong” way, but Dad started shooting anyway and hit all the targets dead on. The officer looked amazed. Dad explained he’d been hunting since he was four, and had developed his own style of shooting. The officer agreed that it obviously worked for him and so Dad could, ahem, hold his rifle however he wanted.
Dad went on to be a Purple Heart decorated BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle) man in the Army. I have discovered, over the past few years, that if I’m talking with someone who knows about military weaponry and World War II, and I mention that my dad was a BAR man, the instant reaction is a sharp intake of breath and a look of respect.
Many stories are, of course, sad. Dad’s BAR assistant gunner died right next to him. Another friend died when he got so nervous that he couldn’t stay quiet in a foxhole and thus drew enemy fire. Dad got lost from his unit in the heat of battle and was reported dead, both to his family and his officer.
Dad also passed along a few photos from his war years. My favorite is of him standing next to an ox, in Germany, on Victory Day. He’s young and smiling, and happy to be alive and now, my Dad would tell you, he thanks God all the time that he survived.
A few weeks ago, Dad finally got the chance to visit the World War II memorial in Washington D.C., thanks to the Honor Flight Organization (www.honorflight.org), a nonprofit organization, with a chapter in Dayton that transports veterans to our nation’s capital to visit their memorials.
The flight left early and came back late, and Dad asked if I’d drive him to and from the airport.
“Of course,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said.
You’re welcome Dad.
But far more importantly, at last, let me say: Thank You.
Sharon Short’s column runs Monday in Life. Send e-mail to sharonshort@sharonshort.com.
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