It was my father's war -- the one he didn't want a
part in. I don't know why. Maybe he just didn't believe in killing people.
I'm sure he agreed with the ultimate goal. Or maybe he was a scared kid.
They conscripted him, though, and fortunately discovered his gift for radio
operation and repair. That kept him out of the infantry, but he was close
enough to the front, this man-child, to get a good long look at what evils
humans are capable of inflicting on one another.
For my generation, it isn't popular to honor those who served in World War II. "Nam" is the hip war -- the unjust war -- the one we make a point of thanking the vets for fighting now because they found little or no welcome or appreciation upon homecoming then. Korea? That's a page in our history text. We barely know it happened, let alone when or why. The numerous smaller conflicts peppered throughout that century we treat like gnats. We swat them away from our awareness, other than to acknowledge it was certainly hell for those involved.
World War II, for my generation, is still the "big one", but we view it not as triumph but as tragedy. Yes, Hitler was stopped, and that's good. yes, the camps were liberated, finally, and that's good. The Pacific Theater? I'm afraid I still don't get what that was all about. But it's not the cause or circumstance that disturb us. It's the numbers. We're overwhelmed by the volume of blood spilled -- or vaporized -- in the process. We memorialize the sacrifice of our personnel, certainly, but what of the sacrifice of innocent civilians? Are we not to memorialize them as well? Children routed from home in hopes of sparing them from the raids. Families ripped apart, sorted according to their usefulness to their captors and shot, gassed, burned or pressed into slavery. Civilians vaporized not just in two Japanese cities, but also many others in the more traditionally inflicted firestorms of Dresden, London, Tokyo.
Historians, ethicists, politicians and veterans will forever debate the ifs and and buts of choices made through the decades -- and centuries -- of human conflict. Today, though, is Memorial Day. Today is a day to set aside the questions and answers and simple reflect on the losses. Lost lives. Lost dreams. Lost innocence. Lost faith. Lost sanity.
My father returned from the war physically intact. But
as I read the letters he wrote home, and especially as I look through the
pictures taken of him through those years, I know he was a casualty. His
light went out. We saw flickers of it in the last years of his too-short
life, but it never did fully return.
He wasn't one to talk things out. He didn't believe in therapy. He believed in burying the past and pressing on. This, too, I mourn today, cause there was so much of him I was never allowed to know. The war years were supremely formative for him, yet he never spoke of them in a way that had meaning. He'd talk about the civilians he met, about the beautiful places he saw, about slipping on the ice -- even about getting drunk on V-A Day. But he didn't talk about the bombed out cities, the orphans, the widows. In particular, he never talked about Dachau. I only know he was there because his mother told my mother and she told me. I'm left to speculate about the impact of Dachau on an idealistic Baptist Eagle Scout of 18. So far from home. So far from familiar comforts of body and soul.
One man-child, one story, one light blown out. This is the story I bring to Memorial Day. This is the life I mourn. This story and life I lift up with countless others on this day of not picnics and jazz jubilees, but of remembrance. My heartfelt gratitude goes to all who gave their lives in the belief that they were doing so for just cause. My heartfelt grief goes to all who grieve with me that such sacrifice ever was, ever is and ever will be deemed necessary.
It was with these thoughts in mind that we decided
to honor the pull I felt to go to the World War II memorial at Capitol
Park. It never occurred to us that someone would hold a parade for the
occasion, yet we found ourselves walking right through the staging area.
The parade was just about to begin, and people in every conceivable sort
of uniform stood ready, talking and laughing with one another. People in
period costume answered chirping cell phones. Every U.S. war appeared to
be represented. There was even a helicopter from the Vietnam War that would
be making its way down the route, sans whirling blades. We never did make
out just who all was gathered for the march, but we saw Sikhs and high
school bands, and even the guys with the tasseled fezzes and their corny
little cars. Who doesn't love a parade?
Well, let me tell you.
We made our way across the street and into the park to the memorial we'd come to see. It was deserted. Various donors were named on slabs and plaques and benches. A video screen stood mute and vacant near the entrance. The centerpiece of the memorial was an obelisk of dark marble, which appeared mottled from a distance. As we neared it, though, photographs took shape, emerging from the supposed mottling. There were photos of soldiers, civilians, war machines -- the usual depictions of strength and sacrifice. At last, one photo caught my eye -- and my heart.
Muskets fired from the street, just yards from that solemn place. The crowd applauded. Cannons joined in and the crowd cheered. Children waved flags as veterans and junior ROTC marchers moved past. Teen girls in sparkling outfits tossed batons while march music played. Sergeants called drills and marchers replied as they had trained to do so many times. What a show! Hurray for the U.S.A.! "Every heart beats true for the red white and blue, where there's never a boast or brag!" Was this irony lost on everyone but us?
Bam! A gray squirrel cringed at the blast of another rifle.
I've never understood vets who've seen action who participate in such spectacles on Memorial Day. Veteran's Day I understand, but Memorial Day? Participate they did. Wave after wave rolled and marched by, and soon we realized that the musket blasts were nearing us again from the other side. Of course. The parade circled the park; we were completely surrounded. I tried to ignore the fuss and concentrate on the memorial. That photo. It had always moved me. It's famous, and it's my favorite of all that document the second world war. In it, one soldier cradles another who is sobbing.
Theirs was the stiff upper lip generation. Don't talk about it. Forget about it. Pretend it never happened. Focus on the purpose and the victory won. But victory came at a terrible cost, measured in the sobs of countless souls. That is Memorial Day.
Skirting the festivities as best we could to return to
our car, I leaned toward my husband's good ear and suggested we try the
cemetery if we want to see memorializing. He agreed, but it would have
to wait until next year. It was nearly noon -- time to go home and return
our flag to full staff.