In past years, Northwood United Methodist church has always recognized its veterans on the Sunday before Veteran’s Day. On those days, Daddy always dressed in his best gray suit with a maroon speckled tie and a shiny American flag pinned to his lapel. All of the veterans, a noticeably smaller lot each year, gathered in the vestibule at the head of the stairs just outside the sanctuary and waited for their song to usher them in. Anchors Aweigh, the Marines’ Hymn, and the Army’s field artillery tune each accompanied the march of veterans of WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. Joining them were some who had served in the Air Force, stateside, or in more recent conflicts.
From the Halls of Montezuma
To the shores of Tripoli…
Even now, the ceremony continues each year as the veterans walk down the church’s center aisle, two by two, to seats reserved for them that are marked with red, white, and blue ribbon. Their numbers are never great, but the reverence sure is. Everybody dutifully stands and claps until the procession is complete, which seems a bit hollow given the sacrifices they each made, but it’s the best we can do and beats nothing, I suppose.
Mr. Gene Pickard, who was my 8th grade Sunday School teacher, had served in WWII and was my dad’s best friend at church. They each answered the call when it came, Mr. Pickard in Europe when Hitler was acting up, while Daddy helped stem the tide of communism a bit later in Korea. As the years progressed, so did Mr. Pickard’s dementia, so my dad would always choose to be his Veteran’s Day buddy. They walked the aisle together, Daddy steadying Mr. Pickard and making sure he got where he needed to be, with the dignity he deserved.
At least one Air Force veteran, the same Lt. Col. who piloted the SR-71 Blackbird in a coast-to-coast air speed record, usually makes the walk down the aisle alongside a WWII bomber pilot, preceded by an Army private who almost froze to death in Korea. The service of each, with or without national notoriety, is honored in that little church each year. The ladies make sure they receive a token of remembrance and then life goes on as usual.
Each Memorial Day, many years ago, a similar group of veterans donned their best and marched in remembrance of another cause. My grandmother once described for me in detail the annual event she attended as a child in Mississippi, watching the lineup and camaraderie of aging Confederate veterans for which the day was set aside. Wearing whatever remnants of a uniform each man possessed, or his Sunday best if he had no uniform left, the meager procession wound along the walk at Bay Springs in Tishomingo County and then enjoyed a dinner on the ground with family. The long-lost cause was no doubt still fresh and fragile in the minds of those hardscrabble hill farmers for which home and family and state had been worth fighting for so many years ago. At the time of their service, most could barely afford to feed themselves, much less own another human being, but they had dutifully defended those they loved, albeit in the context of their times. And each year they were honored by those they loved, no doubt mourning the many they had lost, just as we continue to do today. Far be it from us to judge their sacrifice or intentions. They loved and they lost and they believed, which we really do in every war, regardless of who wins on the scoreboard.
For most of us, respectfully recognizing the service shown a country or cause is just at our core. Even now, when my dad wears his cap with the U.S. Army insignia on front, he often gets a free coffee in the McDonald’s drive-thru line. Occasionally, someone who recognizes the emblem opens a door for him or maybe even buys his lunch. Once, it was an entire Cracker Barrel meal. We just feel obligated to do something—anything—that shows appreciation. We’re desperate to return a favor that can never be repaid, but still we try. I hope we always will.
I don’t think the tide of WWII had given much indication of turning in our favor when my father-in-law posed for the grainy black-and-white photo we found recently. In it, he leans on the hood of an Army truck, appearing at ease and unconcerned. His combat boots are loosely tied and his cap sits atop his head at a slight tilt. One of his uniform pant legs is partially tucked in a boot. He looks every bit the slightly cocky young man that he probably was, long before I knew him. It’s impossible to know precisely when or where the photo was taken, but there is no mistaking the soldier. If for no other reason, I’d recognize the tilt of that cap so many years later, when the Army insignia had long been replaced by that of the Morgan Farmers Co-op.
He never asked to join the Army and he certainly never made it a lifestyle, but for a few interminable years he toughed it out, probably never really expecting to come home. His assignment to Patton’s 2nd Armored Division ensured an unobstructed view of goings on in the theater of WWII, including a tour of North Africa, Sicily, Omaha Beach, France, Belgium, and finally a march into Berlin for the final liberation. His unit constructed river crossings and transported heavy equipment to the front. He was a farm boy, accustomed to driving tractors and pulling trailers and working with the land, so I guess he was well positioned for his skill set. No doubt, he was competent.
In the short time I knew him, I asked him only once to tell me something about those years, and all he said was that he vividly recalled watching trailers being lined up and stacked several layers high with bodies of soldiers, “like so much cordwood.” They were mostly just boys who had been hoping to return home to families, preferably breathing.
We found my father-in-law’s old uniform in a closet, a bit moth-eaten, but still sporting the easily recognizable Hell on Wheels shoulder patch worn by those in Patton’s army. Other patches and shoulder cords identify his rank and regiment as a member of the U.S. Army Infantry in WWII, as well as his participation in the D Day invasion.
We brought it home to share closet space with my grandfather’s more nondescript WWI uniform that he wore as a member of the 605th Army Engineers, also assigned bridge building duty in Europe, but during an earlier conflict—the one called the “Great War.” That one wasn’t numbered at first because it was to be the war to end all wars. We were pretty optimistic as a country there for a while, or maybe just incredibly naïve. Nobody expected Europe to be a revolving door.
The postcard of the Statue of Liberty that he sent the home folks after his discharge from the Army in 1919 simply read, “That old gal will have to turn around if she sees me again because I’m coming home.” Lady Liberty apparently doesn’t face Mississippi, as she never again caught sight of him.
In the same dog-eared candy box where I found the postcard and other war memorabilia, is a yellowed letter carrying the American Expeditionary Forces letterhead and dated February 28, 1919. It is signed John J. Pershing, Commander in Chief. Copied for every service member, the letter conveys his gratitude for their “splendid service to the army and to the nation.”
He continued, “By willing sacrifice of personal rights; by cheerful endurance of hardship and privation; by vigor, strength, and indomitable will…you have inspired the war-worn Allies with new life and turned the tide of threatened defeat into overwhelming victory…In leaving the scene of your victories, may I ask that you carry home your high ideals and continue to live as you have served–an honor to the principles for which you have fought and to the fallen comrades you leave behind.”
Not many of us could say it any better than that, but I’m betting a simple heartfelt “thank you” to a veteran of choice would suffice. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s a start.
