“There goes the Arizona…there goes the California…there goes the West Virginia.” I don’t remember being spellbound too many times as a kid while sitting at the dinner table in my Los Angeles boyhood home, but the night my Uncle Ted recounted his experiences on a December morning in Hawaii in 1941 is etched in my mind as well as any childhood memory. Like a lot of his peers (and just about every one of my other relatives of that generation that I ever knew), I don’t recall Uncle Ted talking much about his WWII service. However for whatever ever reason on that night, he uncharacteristically provided a thorough account of much of what he remembered from that harrowing morning.
He was relaying the radio reports of a fellow Navy Officer who was providing almost play-by-play account of the attack from his perch above high above one of the other U.S. warships. I couldn’t have been more than about 10 years old at the time my uncle told that story, which means the actual events had happened less than 30 years before (less time that I’ve now been out of high school). To attempt to retell my uncle’s story wouldn’t do it justice, but I remember being amazed, even at my young age, at the apparent chaos and horror conveyed through his graphic account. He always seemed like such a relaxed, reserved and mellow man. However on this night while recounting the events from that morning in Pearl, he seemed like an almost a different person.
Over the course of my life, I can recall only a handful of similar times when I had the privilege of hearing from Veterans that served in the military and in battle. One of those times was listening to my own dad recounting the time his carrier, the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, was hit by two Kamikaze planes in the Pacific in January of 1945. Actually, for some reason, I had heard that story a couple of times…always as a result of my own coaxing. I always got the sense he didn’t like to talk about it, but I suspect as much to teach me about the the horrors of war, he typically repeated the story in an unemotional and matter-of-fact way.
The last time he told the story was in response to a request I made at the dinner table on a Christmas Eve sometime in the late 1990s. It dawned on me that my wife Julie had probably never heard the account, so I asked my dad to recount the events of that January day. My father reluctantly obliged, but as he moved through the story this particular time something was different from the usual nonchalant tone that he typically used to paint the picture. On this holiday night, as he recounted the horror of what he saw on the fight deck immediately after the attack, he began to cry.
Quite thankfully, I don’t have any stories about military service, or tales connected to the dreadful nature of battle. I can’t tell you about the trenches of Europe, the cliffs at Normandy, the jungles of Southeast Asia or the deserts of the Middle East. I can’t tell you about watching a buddy get cut down by machine gun fire, parachuting into a hail of gunfire, dodging roadside bombs or wearing the same underwear for months on end. I’ve never froze in a foxhole outside Frankfurt or boiled over in a bunker near Bagdad. As a matter of fact, due to timing, luck, and probably a relative life of privilege, I never had to suffer in battle on foreign land.
Sure…I do have legitimate stories of sacrifice here at home. Just in recent months alone, there are sobering tales of clogged shower drains, broken sink p-traps, non-functioning ATM machines and navigating paralyzing gridlock traffic while attempting to commute 4.6 miles home up 16th Street. One recent Sunday, I was literally stranded when the battery died on my Harley while in Alexandria, VA (not exactly friendly territory) and I needed a jumpstart from a complete stranger. Just this week, I was literally schvitzing up a storm while sitting on the couch in my office…something to do with the temperamental thermostat. Just this very morning, I’m grappling with the hassle of walking to the Metro (and it’s kinda cold) versus driving in and having to fight the pre-holiday traffic on the way home.
Thinking back, people like my uncle Ted and my father never really had a fair appreciation for my own struggles here on American soil. On the eve of this Veteran’s Day, I’m awfully grateful for the sacrifices they made on foreign land…so I have the luxury of suffering here at home.
A couple of years ago we were travling with another couple over in France. We had headed out to Normandy for the afternoon...and after getting lost, we arrived on the cliffs about sunset. As darkness set in, there were lights twinking from a what appeared to be a small town at the bottom of the cliffs right next to the beach. We made our way down to the charming hamlet of Arrowmanches and walked into a near deserted cafe. As we sat down at the table...this song started to play.
Happy Veteran's DayBTW...absolutely no time to proof today...so I apologize for the many likely mistakes.
J'ai deux amours - if I remember my French, that means I have two loves. And since I don't remember enough of my French to understand the rest of the song, she's talking about the two loves being her church and country, right?
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