I still wonder if we did the right thing. In 1983, after they moved into an apartment, a friend of mine found in a moving box pictures of his dad in preparation for the D-Day Invasion. Ron knew that his father had served, he even knew it was in combat, but Howard had never shared the fact that he had been part of the landing force that day. On a dark evening, in their living room, with the old-school TV news playing on an old-style TV set, we decided to get Howard to talk about D-Day. The old man didn’t want to, but we asked enough question that he finally gave us what we thought we wanted.
He didn’t look at us, he looked at the TV and spoke. “We came in under fire. Some guys were raring to go, other fellas were praying and some guys were probably crying, but you couldn’t tell with the cold water splashing on us. The gate opened, we jumped into that damned cold water and started trying to get to shore. Like I say, we were under fire, guys on the beach were getting shot. We kept at it to get to the beach, there was only ‘move forward.’ I heard it coming, someone yelled ‘down’, I pulled my buddy, Tim down with me under the water and then the whole thing went bright and loud and the Sea shook. I felt a blast of hot and stayed under a few more seconds, then popped up. Tim was still hiding, but we were marching toward the beach. I reached down to get him up. He didn’t have a head. His head was somewhere, just his body floating.”
Ron and I were silent. My chest felt tight and cold and Ron’s face looked wooden.
Howard stared at the TV for several minutes.
Still looking at the news, he suddenly said: “Jesus, boys. The water was just so-damned-cold . . .”
He never spoke of it again.
We never asked him again.
It’s May 30, 2022 and I still don’t know if we did the right thing, getting him to talk. But, being older and having gained a little wisdom, I do remember that Ron treated his father’s melancholy on Independence Day differently from that day forward; the old man hated fireworks and wanted nothing to do with them either at big shows or in the neighborhood, so he took the family on late night drives out to this sister’s ranch, getting there after midnight. His Memorial Day ritual of staying home from work and reading no longer caused Ron to bug him for lake time. When Howard died, Ron found more of his keepsakes, among them, a note from a woman. She wrote that she was grateful that Howard was there when her son, Tim was killed. But, there was nothing there for Ron, or his sisters. Their father never intended to tell them until we cajoled him. But, I don’t think we harmed him—Lord, I pray not—and I don’t think he was afraid to tell us for fear of how we would react, or he would feel. The old man, I believe, knew something stupid teen boys do not.
Some stories tell themselves.
Howard’s house was filled with pictures: his parents in Germany before they came to America. His late-wife’s Russian family on a ship headed for America. Their first business together, an Inn in Montana and Ron and his two sisters. The pictures of war, of men who fought them, letters from women who lost their fighting men, they were stored in s trunk at the foot of the old man’s bed. They were out of sight, but never far from where the old man lay his head and dreamed. I wonder, as his days come to a close, whether he dreamed of the men whose pictures were at his feet. That chest, in the place, the photos and letters neatly, meticulously organized but never displayed tells their own story: “these boys would have died for me—and too many did—and I for them. They were my brothers and there was a war. I came home, many men did not. Let their youth and my age remind you of how much was lost and how much was gained. Do not forget my brothers.”
The kids have copies of all the photos and letters. But, not the originals. They are at the feet of the bones of an old man, buried outside Bozeman, Montana near a ranch where his father moved after he came back from World War I. That was, of course, “the war to end all wars.”
Wars will only end when Jesus comes back. Until then, may God keep our soldiers. We love them.
Todd, Thank you for your story of a Army hero's story. It was very moving. And you are right. There will be wars and rumors of wars until Christ comes back for his bride.
You made me weep, brother. I love this country so much, and it all comes back when I see the old eyes of the Korean vets, the VietNam vets, when they come into the store where I work. Never complain, standing tall, while others bitch about not having a checkout line so they don't have to work to get their groceries. Lord, give me grace to stand tall and honor my nation and her brave citizens today.