by Mary Reiman
This is my dad. 1942. He was 21, handsome, and a private in the army, stationed at Fort Knox.
Dad didn't want to go to war. He wanted to farm. Work the soil, not drive a gas truck at night without lights through France, Germany and Austria.
He was one of the lucky ones. A survivor of World War II. One who eventually did get to come home and farm. He saw it as patriotism. I see it as bravery.
One of my favorite photos of him was taken in 1988 when he was walking in the Milford Pioneer Days parade with his rifle over this shoulder. Walking behind the flag bearer at the front of the parade with the other veterans. Wearing his VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) hat. Beaming as he passed by me at the church corner.
It has been 25 years since he passed away from a heart attack. I still talk to him as I dig in the dirt of my tiny garden space. I still think about the questions we never asked about his time in the army. He never talked about it. It was his private journey, shared only with his battalion who traveled to Europe and back with him. Friends, all with interesting nicknames, we first met through black and white photographs. Hank. Red. Box Car. Side Car. Our vacations were few and far between. If we went anywhere, it was to see his army buddies and their families.
As my sister and I continue through boxes of our family history, we have more questions. Why didn't we push him to tell us about the trip to Europe on the Queen Elizabeth? Where was he stationed in England and when did they land in France? How and when did they get the word that the war was over? Where were they on that day in 1945? How did it feel to.....? What were you thinking when....? How did you keep going?
Yes, we knew not to ask, but we saw him relive his journey through the 1960s television shows about World War II, like Combat, The Rat Patrol and Garrison's Gorillas. I saw the magnitude of the memory surface on his face and the tension build in his body as I watched each episode with him.
What could possibly be more patriotic than serving your country? In 1942, that meant going overseas. There were no cellphones to stay in contact with family. No television newspeople riding along to report the conditions of the road, searching for land mines. No drones to show the terrain. No Google maps to show them the way.
I have loving memories of my dad and great photos of him on the tractor, on the farm, living the life he wanted to live. But I sure wish I could have gotten inside his head about his years in the service. I wish I could have massaged his heart. Both to prevent the heart attack and to help him heal from the pain of those war images.
And as I reflect on patriotism: It was hard to hear the participants of the January 6th insurrection on our U.S. Capitol espouse patriotism. It is hard to witness the voting of importance issues for our country be turned into a political moment with a split vote, therefore not helping anyone. Are any of our state senators willing to be brave and stand up and vote outside the party lines? It is hard to hear those loud fireworks that shake the house and not wonder why anyone believes that is a patriotic thing to do when there have been so many requests from former soldiers to not ignite them in our city.
Thank you to all who have served and those currently serving our country. That's patriotism. That's bravery.
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Thank you for this piece. I have been asking myself some of the same questions about "Why didn't I ask Dad/Mom about....?" - They both lived through the 1918 flu pandemic, and I know nothing about that. And so much more...and it's too late now.
ReplyDeleteYes, isn't it amazing how many questions we never asked, even though we talked and talked.
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