The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Wartime Education

On this Memorial Day weekend, we remember those in uniform.  Soldiers we don't know.   And those that we did.

Here's a photo of my dad during World War II.  Unlike his three brothers, he didn't see any battle.  From what I was told, he was stationed in some US Army camp in Japan.  This would explain the bag of Japanese money and a samurai sword that I found in his closet after he died.  But, things weren't that heated where Dad was.   His biggest fight was likely with a typewriter ribbon.  He worked in an office.

Unlike many veterans of the war to end all wars, my father wasn't particularly scarred by the memories.  Again, his biggest enemy was probably a typo.  So, while others chose not to speak or recall wartime atrocities, Dad loved to dwell in the era.

When I was a little kid, it was already a retro experience to think about World War II.  There were several TV shows on prime time that focused on those war years.  The military was an in thing.  Around this time, they started to put out those GI Joes---not dolls, but action figures.  I bought mine at the Firestone tire/toy store on White Plains Road in the Bronx.

Meanwhile, a grade school pal of mine had soldiers on the brain.  I think Russell even wound up with a long term career in the Army.  Back when we were in the third grade, he would come over to my house on a Saturday and we would play...what else...combat.

The vacant lot around the corner became our weekly battle theater.  It had plenty of weeds and dirt and places to hide.  It could easily have doubled as Anzio or Corregidor or Normandy Beach.  We were always battling some unseen enemy likely lurking around the corner of the Sunshine Biscuits warehouse next door.  

One week, Russell came dressed for the part.  Camouflage outfit.  Green helmet.  The works.  I needed to join in.  I got myself the same headwear the very next week with my allowance.

As I bounded down the back steps on my way to maneuvers, I ran into my father in the driveway.  He took one look at the helmet and the reaction was not exactly "gee, I'm so proud of what you're wearing on your head."  I told him I was off to play war.  That statement didn't help either.

"You don't play war."

I had touched a nerve.  Maybe it was understandable.  His older brother, the uncle I never knew who I was named after, never came back from France in 1945.

"You want to learn all about what that war was about?   I'll teach you."

And he did.

Over the next year or so, he took the time to teach me some history.  I heard about what happened at Pearl Harbor.  I learned about the homefront and rationing and war bonds.  He told me very little of what happened to him or his brothers.  But I was learning nonetheless.

Then, he let the silver screen fill in the blanks for me.  My father took me to every war movie that was being produced by Hollywood.   I will never forget the memories that were built from those afternoons with Dad in RKO Proctors or Loews or the Wakefield.

This was the very first one he took me to.   And I have relished this film ever since.  I saw it again on a big screen about ten years ago and, in an odd bit of symmetry, I was there with Ron Howard on the concession line.  He was taking his son to see it.  Likely, his dad had done the same.  

Indeed, while I was enraptured by it all, some of these films were a bit of a stretch for a kid who was still waiting for the next Walt Disney cartoon to come out.  I remember seeing this one with Dad in the Brandt Theater on South Broadway in Yonkers.   It came with a pre-movie warning.

"You're going to have to sit still.  This is a long one."

To me, "The Longest Day" was really the longest movie.  It's about three hours, but it felt like three weeks.  I spent more time trying to recognize all the Hollywood stars appearing in cameo roles than understanding what was at stake on D-Day in 1944.  No worries.  Each movie came with a recap from my father in the car ride going home.

For some reason, a bunch of war movies always played at the Elmsford Drive-In.  This exciting film was one of them.  There was always the tell tale sign that we were going to the drive-in.  I'd see my dad down in the driveway applying some Windex to the windshield.  Ah.  I knew what was coming.

My dad had taught me how important trains were during WWII to transport the troops.  They must have since, like "The Train," this one was set on a railroad.  While this film added to my overall education, it was met with a little disdain from my father as we drove home from the Elmsford Drive-In.

"I wouldn't have put Frank Sinatra in that movie.  That skinny son-of-a-bitch never enlisted."

Okay.

Perhaps my favorite of all the war movies that my father exposed me to.  I got to see it again on the big screen a few years back when the Aero Theater in Santa Monica ran it.  Another flood of memories and I can remember my dad's stern pronouncement to me after we saw it at...of course...the Elmsford Drive-In.

"Remember.  Like in this movie, not everybody got out alive."

Indeed.  By saying very little, Dad was really saying a lot.

I've written before of seeing this one with my dad.   As a result, it is one of the must-see holiday movies for me to watch every Christmas.   Yes, there is a Christmas scene in it.  But, more importantly, I saw it with my dad at the RKO Proctor's in Mount Vernon, New York Christmas Eve Day.  My mom was wrapping my toys and a diversion for me was required.  

This was a different kind of wartime movie offered by my father.   It was a comedy.

My dad was convulsed with laughter.  Mind you, this was not a sight I saw frequently.  Plus there was one line that he repeater over and over and over when we got home.

"Can this submarine go down?"

"Like a rock."

For some reason, Dad loved that exchange.   Years later, we watched it again when it came out on video.

My father laughed again.

As I look back on my wartime education, I realize that, perhaps, Hollywood should not have been the main source of my information.  The films might be glorified or magnified beyond belief.  That's a truism.  But, I also remember that I had the world's foremost expert on what really happened in the driver's seat alongside me on the way home.  Dad always filled in the blanks.

Like all fathers did.

Happy Memorial Day to all.  Remember the soldier in your life.  And watch one of these movies.  I certainly will.

Dinner last night:  Italian panini.