So did I. And here's a photo of my dad in his Army uniform.
Truth be told, though, my father didn't have a plethora of heroic tales to share. He did go overseas, yes. To Japan where he apparently complained about the food. But, major action? Er, no. He worked in an office and his mightiest struggle may have been with a pesky typewriter ribbon.
My dad's family was a microcosm of America during the 40s and the homefront years. My grandparents had four sons and all of them served in WWII. The oldest son, Augie, was in the Army and had some involvement with the D-Day invasion of the beach at Normandy. My namesake was also in the Army and didn't make it back. He was killed in the south of France about two weeks before V-E Day. I believe Fritz was in the Navy, since I recall a photo of him with one of those Navy berets.
My dad was the youngest of the four and wound up as far from action. The only weapon he had to worry about was likely a pair of chopsticks. He didn't really ever said much about the experience, except that he hated the food. Because, as was the case with this generation, they didn't mention anything.
Once again, if you wanted to find out about the past lives of your parents, you had to ask very specific and appropriate questions. And, if you were extremely lucky, you got an answer. Or, as was usually the case, you got bounced to the other parent who would immediately deflect you back to the first parent. Suddenly, you weren't their child. You were a ping pong ball.
Now I saw all these military headshots strewn around my family's walls and shelves. I was curious. I had always had a romantic attraction to the American homefront years, which was probably the last time this country was completely unified. I wanted to learn all about it. And I had all these first-hand witnesses, right?
I figured I would start small. I'd ask my dad the most innocent of questions and then ramp up from there. We were riding in the car one day to the super market and I dove in with both feet.
"So did Mom write to you a lot when you were in the Army during the war?"
Fairly mild and only slightly invasive, I thought. But the look on my father's face made it seem like I had kicked him in the groin.
"What kind of stupid question is that??"
Ummm....
Dad paused for an eternity of ten seconds or so. And then he offered up a morsel.
"I wasn't dating your mother. I was getting letters from Muriel."
Muriel? Like the cigar??
I asked the follow-up question and got the usual follow-up shutdown.
And this was one that I couldn't circle back to Mom for more information. Suppose she didn't know about Muriel, who I later discovered was a woman in our church and still around for all to see and behold. I didn't certainly want to start World War III in my own household. So, I did exactly what all the adults in my family were very, very good at.
I kept it all to myself.
Nobody talked about those war years and, of course, Grandma was particularly close-mouthed about it all. She had lost a son. For years, I didn't know what that purple medal was that hung in her living room. I later discovered its significance. But that was a subject you didn't go into. All the stories about my uncle with the same name as mine seemed to stop with 1944.
Years later, my dad announced that he would give me a metal strong box that contained a lot of memorabilia about our family's loss in the war. I found a yellowed and withered letter from the War Department that detailed the exact burial site for him. It was in the south of France. What was the reason why they didn't bring him home to the states for his final resting place? Why?
In this case, my father was as clueless as I was.
"I don't know."
I noticed that the letter or wire announcing his death was not amongst the snippets of a military life in that box. What happened to that? My father knew.
"It went in the garbage."
Along with all the emotions that went with that devastating news.
Even though he didn't talk much about his Army tenure, I think my father was particularly proud of it, even though the only weapon he touched might have been a desk stapler. He displayed his pride by taking me to every military movie that came out in the 60s.
"The Longest Day."
"The Guns of Navarone."
"The Bridge Over the River Kwai."
"The Train."
"Von Ryan's Express."
All seen with my father. While my mom handled all the Disney and biblical films, Dad was the exclusive conduit to Hollywood's various depictions of WWII. And, as good as every one of those movies were, he always had the same comment afterwards.
"I don't think it happened like that."
Oh, really, how do you know that? Tell me more. Please!
He never did.
There were only two times in my life that I actually saw my father cry. The first was when he came into the house from work after my grandfather had just died. But, the second time blew me away. It was sudden, spontaneous, and, the time, unexplainable.
He had taken me out for a Sunday drive and, in a rare deviation from our typical route in the Bronx, we wound up motoring down the West Side Highway in Manhattan. Since Mom was nowhere in the vicinity, the car radio was tuned to my father's favorite, WNEW-AM. Suddenly, there was that ominous news bulletin alert. That was always scary in itself.
"GENERAL DOUGLAS MACARTHUR HAS DIED."
Who? I didn't know at the time. I was that young. But, I looked to my father and there were tears streaming down his face. I asked him what was wrong.
"My boss died."
His boss? I suddenly realized that, to someone who had been involved in the military during World War II, this man had tremendous importance. And apparently commanded eternal loyalty.
There was a pause of a minute or two. Dad wiped the tears from his eyes and then kept driving on.
In the usual silence.
Dinner last night: BLT sandwich at Blue Plate.
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