- A tribute well deserved
People back home told him war is hell..
What is hell on the battlefields?
Seventeen years old (lied about his age) he found
himself resting against a tree on an island in the South Pacific.
The scent of mortars filled the air. Small arms fired crackled.
Blood, guts, cries for “mother” laid all around.
Victory, what a price was being paid.
One day after landing, several days out of boot camp, he
came face to face with death, screaming buddies, the smoke, sound and fury
of both sides fighting for their very lives.
The sheer terror caused his body to shake, his eyes always searching the brush
for his Japanese killers.
Physically exhausted, he rested against a tree: helmet by his side.
What were the marks ? Either side of the helmet bore the creases of
bullets: he survived by inches the fate of the Gods.
With others, he charged up hills to confront Japanese caves and nests: life hanging in the
balance: kill or be killed.. Firing into huts: hearing screams: watching others die.
The seemingly endless nightmare returns to this day.. now we call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Proud of his service: wondering WHY he survived when those around him died,
This 80 something patriot talks wistfully of the war. Tough, wizened, laughter on
The outside, years of pain on the inside.
Rubbing his nose, eyes glistening from tears, part of the past comes rushing back. He looks away,
paces the floor, grapples for the right words. Shoulders bow, one sees the memory tapes
passing before his eyes: the smells, sounds , and consequences of the war and life since are
evident.. he tries to hold back – but there is a need for him to share, to talk, to again relieve
the pain of life’s journey. To share his story so that those who follow benefit from history.
Three marriages, businesses created, relationships moving on:
It took 30 years to begin the recovery from being .
“Always the need for excitement, the desire to be in control , to survive”,
The ghosts of the cries of buddies dying on the battlefields –
Those for whom he really cared– true men friends for the 1st time in his life.
The fear lingers deep in his soul fear that in life there is no permanency, or trust, or faith.
Seventy years have passed into the annals of history.
Why me he asks, why did I survive and others beside me die?
He carries his military exploits close to his chest
Not a chest pounding hero
A small Semper Fidelis sticker on his vehicle
Marriages unraveled , children without a family
Money squandered: Johnny Walker consumed by the gallons.
Fear, like a low grade fever, is always present. Trust whom?
The ripple effects of combat inexorably, silently pass from generation to generation.
One , just one of the unspoken prices paid by the “ Greatest Generation”.
rlhassociates 