My dad served his country in World War II. When he was a young man, he went to sign up for the Marines, but his fiance, fearful of stories of "canon fodder" said she would not marry him if he did, so he chose the Navy instead.
He was in the South Pacific until the time where the bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, along with the declaration of war against Japan by Russia, ended the war. It was also during the time of the Kamikaze, or "divine wind" which terrorized the young sailors.
Some 25 years later, as a boy, I heard him scream in the middle of the night, "The Japs! The Japs!" but he would not talk about it much, at least to me. My mother explained that he still suffered from nightmares and night terrors about the kamikaze pilots who flew suicide missions into the American naval fleets.
Peace did come, in 1945, and my father returned home to meet his now, almost 3 year old daughter, of whom he had never laid eyes upon. He adored her and she grew to be a lovely, intelligent, successful mother and teacher, and a grandparent. She also went on to have 9 more siblings, including, 20 years further down the road, a baby brother named Peter.
My father was a different sort of naval volunteer. He had lost his own father and felt an obligation to take care of his mother, as well as his wife (whom he married on leave and who became pregnant) so he took his naval pay and sent it to both. In spite of the hot Pacific temperature, he never tasted a beer, nor did he keep back any money for shore leave or even for card playing; every cent went to his mother and wife. He was quiet, responsible, and did his duty without complaint. He was young during the depression and had to wait on "soup lines"in Brooklyn; where as a 11 year old boy, he worked wherever and whenever he could, but would often stand, sometimes for hours, in a line for just a bowl of soup. For depression era kids, waste was a terrible sin, and he would not be able to live with himself if he knew his mother or wife were hurting for food while he wasted money on beer or poker. He found honor in duty.
My father did share one 'war story' with me that has always stayed with me.
He was an "old guy" on board the ship, a signal man with a quick mind, who was, regrettable, always "out there" in harm's way, exposed to enemy fire as well as the kamikaze attacks. At the ripe of age of 26, he came above deck to find a 17 year old boy asleep. The boy was caught and was going to be shot dead in a court martial hearing, thousands of miles from home. The officer grabbed my dad and made him the eye witness to it all, that would cause the death of a young boy, scared, who could only break down and cry for his mother.
Under oath, what would he do?
My father eschewed lying.
If he lied, he could save the boy's life, but then he would have to live with himself, perhaps in self-loathing, and feel that he is betraying the United States Naval Code of honor, but if he told the truth, some mother would weep for her boy, who would die, not fighting for his country, but because he drifted off to sleep.
He knew that given the present danger, a watch was something that should it be neglected, could mean the death of many. Although this boy was 17, he had been charged with the duty of alarm: if he were to see enemy planes on the horizon, he was to sound the alarm: hundreds of sleeping sailors were counting on him to take his turn, and keep up the vigilance for the rest.
My father spent a sleepless night fretting over what he would do. He knew he would be placed under oath, before God and country, to tell the truth.
Just before trial, he felt someone lean in to whisper in his ear:
"you can't always tell if someone is asleep just because you see his eyes closed" the mysterious voice said. It had been one of the accused buddies, sticking up for his friend.
Under oath, my father testified that he saw the boy's eyes shut, but he could not swear that the boy was asleep.
The young sailor was acquitted and his life spared, as was a life time of pain my father would have suffered has his testimony had killed that poor boy.
I've never forgotten that lesson. My father said that he only saw the young sailor's eyes closed for a moment and he appeared startled at my father's appearance on deck, but he could not swear before God that the sailor was asleep, and he was relieved to have the boy's life spared.
Since then, Solomon has shown me many times that there is always more to a story than meets the eye and I love getting to the truth, no matter the outcome. The truth, itself, is what it is: endless, timeless and eternal. Pilate said, "what is truth?" and sealed his own fate by his own weakness.
For me, duty comes first as a husband and father. Duty has received a bad name of late, with modernity missing some of the beauties found in provision, and honor found in labor.
The "me generation" misses the call of duty and has not always understood how deep fulfillment can be gleaned from answering the call. I share stories of my father with my children, hoping to instill in them a love of truth, and a love of duty. They did not meet their grandfather but can be inspired by learning of his sacrifice, even if it is only of shore leave money, so that he did not fret that his mother, or his wife, were hungry. He knew what hunger felt like, as a boy, and did not want his own to go without. His duty was to provide, and even in small amounts, it felt good, satisfying something deep within him. I remind my young ones, just before we eat, that the giving of thanks is more than just words, but an attitude of graciousness; one which does not feel entitled, but rather, thankful.
Memorial Day is a day of remembrance, and so it should be, that we remember the sacrifices of few, so that the rest of us may live, safely and securely, and be thankful.
We owe a debt to those who have sacrificed, and it is good that we share the stories of those who answered the call of duty on our behalf, with our young ones. Mine are fortunate to have Heather's family as a source of blessings, as her grandfather served as a soldier in World War II (in the Pacific) and her father served in the jungles of Viet Nam. Her dad's love of duty is another source of valuable lessons for me and the children.
Memorial Day: a day to exercise our memories.
God bless you, today, and bless those who keep us safe.
No comments:
Post a Comment