Memoral Day

I couldn't help but think about Dad yesterday. World War II defined his life in a profound way. It was a double edged sword for him. On the one hand, he was proud of the fact that he had been tested and proved that he could stand up to anything that the world could throw at him. On the other hand, it scarred him. I do not think there was a day that went by that he did not think of all the people he had killed. He once told me that the was pretty sure that he was headed to hell after death for that reason alone. It tore my heart to think that that tower of strength, that unyielding will, that morally straight man was being suffocated by such gruesome guilt. He was a country boy who answered the call of his country, and did the best with what he had. His reward was a lifetime of remorse for acts that he was forced to do in order to survive.

Yet he never whined or complained about it. He shouldered it as his burden and got on with his life. He had his nightmares, but so did others. He had his fits of depression, but so did others. He also had a loving and devoted wife and a whole passel of boys that had to be dressed and fed. No matter what life did to him, he took it and moved on.

I don't know if this is a fitting tribute or not. In the depression, he did what many did not do. He survived. He also survived on Omaha Beach, and in the Battle of the Bulge, and in the Hedgerow country of France, and in the Hurtgen Forest. He survived when the Allied Chemical plant in Detroit closed. He survived a heart attack and a stroke. He raised a family, loved a wife and doted on grandchildren, and in the end he wanted to be known as a good man. No more, no less. I wish you could have met him, I think you would have like him.