Memorial Day Tribute to My Dad

Happy Memorial Day!

 The reason I write this is because we need to honor our heroes before it is too late.

 Memorial Day has become one of those holidays that are losing its true meaning. Memorial is supposed to be a day to reflect on fallen and living heroes. It is a time to let those that have served our nation know that we respect them and are grateful for their sacrifices. Isn’t that why the small flags are placed in seemingly endless rows on burial markers? 

Has Memorial Day lost it’s meaning? Christmas has lost its meaning. Do you remember when it was about religion? Christmas is now a time where family is an obligation not a celebration. We ponder the requirements of gifting more than the joy of sharing. The drudgery of the season has overtaken the spirit of God’s great gift to the world.

Memorial Day has also lost its significance. It has become a day for pontoon rides on crowded lakes, high cholesterol brats charred on Weber grills and mass consumption of designer beers. Instead of being a national tribute to our living and departed heroes, it has become a reason to leave work early on a Friday.

We must remember our heroes before it is too late.

My father was a hero. He served in the 10th Mountain Division in WW II. He went to war. In my opinion, that alone made him a hero.

 He didn’t want to go to war. Who does? In fact I believe that if you really want to go to war... you should be the last person to go. My Dad tried hard not to go to war. He left his wife and infant daughter to go to work in a shipyard in San Diego. Dad hoped that if his job were important he would not be drafted. Then came Rosy the Riveter.

When the government started drafting married men with one child, the family rumor is that he drove a Model -T Ford from San Diego to Milwaukee just to try and get my mom pregnant with a second child.

My father didn’t volunteer. He was drafted. My father was not swept up on a wave of patriotism. He did all he could to avoid having to kill people or be killed. He had a wife and a little girl. Yet, he answered when his time came. In my opinion, the simple fact that he went to war when his country called makes him a hero.

War is dangerous. War is uncertain. War is war. It has no equal.

I don't care if my dad sharpened pencils for the weather department or dug latrines for midget pilots (a secret wing recently revealed to me while watching the History Channel called the Muskegee Half Airmen.) He showed up for induction. He took the gun. He had no idea what would happen. He was a hero. Case closed.

I know a little of how he felt. I remember registering for the draft when I was 17. I was so scared that I could barely drive my 1968 Javelin to the Post Office. I trembled when I got my draft card. What was going to war really like?

My Dads war record was reluctantly revealed to me over several years of prodding and questioning. Revelations of the war never came readily. My father never got a major medal. We never found a ribbon or citation in his footlocker. As far as I know, he never rushed a tank with a sharpened stick, stormed a hill waving a tattered flag or captured a company of Nazi officers in his sleep. Maybe he did. He never told me about it.

My Dad never filled my childhood with bloody stories of illustrious attacks on Nazi holdouts or of an ambush upon an Italian patrol. There were stories. Most of the stories were about the camaraderie of his foxhole brother. There were stories of dependence on those that surrounded him during attacks. There were stories of how a silenced voice from the darkness informed him of a lost friend. The stories always told of one constant. He was afraid. All the soldiers around him were afraid.

My father was 23 years old when he was inducted. He had a wife and two young daughters (the car trip from San Diego was successful). He was a hero. All those who served were heroes.

After my father passed, my uncle Jerome revealed the greatest of all war stories to me. Uncle Jerome was a certified hero. He had numerous purple hearts, medals from the U.S., France and England. He volunteered for international military service in 1940.

My father was drafted. But my uncle thought of him as a hero because of this story. I know that family friends, relatives and veterans have shared this story across Wisconsin. I will try to report it as it was told to me.

By the wars end, my father, because of field promotions, had reached the rank of Sergeant. This should be read as: lots of brave officers had been killed in battle. My Dad was the oldest guy left alive (25). When Germany surrendered, my father and his platoon were deep in the Italian mountains. The 10th Mountain fought hard. The soldiers welcomed the wars end. They thought that they might be going home.

The rumor floating around the unit was that the 10th was slated to be the initial force in the potential invasion force of Japan. This was later verified. The dropping of two atomic bombs on Japan changed his future. Thanks Harry Truman. Sorry Hiroshima. But my Dad, and millions more American soldiers lived on. My father’s platoon was ready for the war to end. 

The soldiers were waiting for their orders near a small Italian mountain village. Deep in the Alps, the division had few motorized vehicles. The standard mode of transport on muddy mountain trails was a pack mule. A corral had been built to contain the mules.

 I have been told that the policy of the U.S. military, when American forces leave a theatre of war, is that the livestock are not transported home. In most cases they are either, released, left behind with locals or destroyed. As my uncle tells the story, the Italians were aware of this policy and were drooling like Pavlovs test animals. Most of the Italian villagers were near starvation and had not had any meat since the fall of Mussolini. While telling the story my Uncle Jerome could not resist stating that all the Italians needed a “ good piece of ass.”

A newly assigned and graduated lieutenant, that had yet to serve in battle, approached my sergeant father. He was shocked to see a platoon of soldiers relaxing and enjoying the hospitality of the villagers. To assert his authority he commanded his large sergeant to action.

The officer ordered my father to have his platoon clear a nearby field of German land mines. This gave my father concern. The fighting was over and he had just survived the most dangerous war in the history of mankind. He was happy to be alive and was planning on going home. Now, he just got ordered to look for hidden, buried explosives.

The war weary soldiers were happily welcoming the battles end and a chance to go home with all their limbs. The electronic metal detectors (now readily available at your local Radio Shack) were not available to my fathers platoon. They would have to find Nazi mines the old fashioned way. They were now being ordered to get down on their hands and knees to search for explosive devices by poking in Italian soil with the rusty bayonets from their idled rifles. After surviving the Nazis they were being ordered to go rutting into the ground blindly like a squirrel searching for exploding nuts.

On the first day of the probing, two brave men lost their lives when their bayonets struck a hidden mine. Another soldier was wounded.

 My father was a loyal American. He was an OK soldier. He had been busted in rank before for what would probably be termed today as "thinking independently." My uncle Jerome informed me "thinking of any kind is not welcomed in the military."

Dad had been busted for refusing to put his B.A.R (Browning Automatic Rifle) in the automatic mode. The mode turned his rifle into a machine gun. It seems the Germans loved to throw hand grenades at machine guns. Dad didn’t like people from any country to throw grenades at him. Busted.

 My father was loyal to the soldiers that had fought beside him. He would not put these brave men in harms way any longer. The end seemed was so close. He believed, that this war was over for these men. 

My father was a smart man. He had a simple solution. When the Lieutenant left, my father opened the corral door where the mules were kept. He repeatedly fired the Browning automatic rifle (he finally got to use the automatic mode) over the heads of the pack animals. The mules ran. The mines were found. The soldiers were safe. The Italians butchered the mules to feed their children. 

As the story was re-told to me, my uncle Jerome could not resist one more, “ That night, every Italian got a nice piece of ass!”

As the story is told, my father was a hero to his men. He had just invented the world's first organic mine detector. He was a hero to the Italians. You know how they celebrate! They carried him around on their shoulders. 

 He was a hero to my uncle Jerome! He is a hero to me.

Dad got busted to private for his actions. My Mother was very angry. In order to pay for the destruction of military property, my father was forced to stay in Italy for an additional six months to repay the government. He had to pay for a handful of mules, that were going to be destroyed by the U.S. government.

He probably knew that this would be the consequence of his actions. He also probably hoped that simple, compassionate reasoning would save him from military stupidity.

He was wrong. And he was still a hero.

All of our veterans, from every war, are heroes.

We must honor our heroes while we can. I did not hear this story until after my father’s sudden death. It is sad because I would have loved to have looked him in the eyes and told him how proud I was to have known a man that had the courage to do the wrong thing ... at exactly the right time

Remember your heroes before it is too late.