Dem
47
GOP
53
Another "stew" of shorter reminiscences:
R.C. in Eagleville, PA: Dad served as an army medic during World War II; he gave medical aid to his fellow soldiers until he himself was wounded. The first time I asked about his war experience, he did not speak about fighting in the jungles of New Guinea and the Philippines. He did not speak about the elite unit he served with, the Alamo Scouts. He spoke about the hospital ship that carried him home from the South Pacific. Of all his intense wartime experiences, the most prominent memory, the first one he told his son, was of the hospital ship. He spoke about the sights, sounds and smells during the slow journey home. He saw the medical staff was overwhelmed, but he was fortunate to be able to clean and dress his own wound.
I attended the recent Memorial Day parade with my daughter and grandkids. As the kids fought over the candy thrown from the parade vehicles, I thought of all those on the hospital ship, especially those who did not complete the slow journey home.
M.D.H. in Coralville, IA: My late father, who later became a history professor, heard the news that an atomic bomb had been used on Japan while serving as a sailor on an American ship in the Pacific. His first reaction was relief: This would probably end the war and therefore he would have a future.
But, as he wrote in a letter to my grandmother that day, he strongly felt it had been wrong for the U.S. to use such a weapon, even though it might have saved his life. He also said in that letter the secret of such a bomb couldn't be kept for very long so other countries would probably have them soon. Those were not the majority views among Americans at the time.
J.E. in Winchester, CA: My cousin, Rudolf Kahles, became a Marine as soon as he finished high school. He was sent to fight on Iwo Jima and was dead by age 19. I remember his photo in military dress on top the buffet in my aunt and uncle's home. He was their only child. When Rudy was laid to rest, I heard the guns salute and my aunt and mother sobbing. I remember Fourth of July parades, seeing my aunt riding in an open limousine labeled "Gold Star Mother." She gazed straight ahead, proud, but with an enormous sadness in her face.
My older sister remembered Rudy's going away party before shipping off. She knew everyone was acting upbeat while hiding apprehension. Last month, she passed away at age 88. Now there is just me and a tattered page in my mother's scrapbook.
S.Y. in Skokie, IL: I'm not a vet; I managed to avoid Vietnam despite drawing the lottery number 12. Guys were coming home in boxes from a war that never made sense for us to be involved in.
In high school I used to wrestle against a boy named Glenn Cunningham. Good guy, sense of humor, strong wrestler, not in my circle of close friends, but I liked him—despite our wrestling battles, he acted like a friend.
After high school I heard he had died in Vietnam. It was a rumor, I didn't know if it was true. So years later, in the 90s, I was in D.C. with my young son and we visited the Vietnam wall. I found his name. He was born a month before me in 1950. We both graduated from Morgan Park High School on Chicago's south side in 1968. By the end of 1969, he was dead. What a profound waste.
I have not forgotten Glenn Cunningham. He deserved to live a long life as I have.
It was taken away from him by arrogance and stupidity.
R.M. in Williamstown, WV: I spent 25 years on active duty, some in pleasant places, and some in less pleasant places. But all of it with very good, very thoughtful, very patriotic other service members. As one might imagine, 25 years would, for the most part, be routine work—not that much different from what our civilian counterparts experienced, if perhaps in less mundane locations and circumstances. But some of that time was, indeed, different and uniquely military. 19 months spent in Vietnam, including the period known as the Tet Offensive. One year at a radar site in northern Labrador, Canada, where the weather could only be described as brutal. And 13 months in Korea (much closer to "normal" than the other two locations). But those who serve in the military adapt to these conditions, and they become more or less routine.
For the most part, my memories are good. There are a few occasions that bring more sober thoughts: The passing of a fellow service member in combat, the instructions read by a stewardess on a contract flight from Vietnam to Seattle, WA, which went (as best as I can recall it): "We have been requested by the Department of Defense to read the following announcement. You may encounter demonstrators when you exit the aircraft and make your way through the passenger terminal. You are not to interact with the demonstrators. If you are assaulted, you may defend yourself, but verbal comments, or spitting are not sufficient to permit a response."
In that instance, there were a few demonstrators, but their actions were fairly restrained. There was no spitting. Nevertheless, this was a sobering experience, and one that cannot be easily forgotten.
However, most of my memories are good. I served with wonderful people, doing work that gave me satisfaction and pride. Moving around a lot was sometimes difficult, but exposed me to different places, different cultures, and experiences I could not possibly have achieved in any other line of work.
I don't regret a single moment of it.
J.R. in Huff's Church, PA: My father, Earl "Sticker" Romig, was among the innocents who hated being too young for World War II. Turning a restless 17 in 1946, he got his dad's okay to enlist, and wound up in Battery B, 1st Field Artillery Battalion, 6th Infantry Division, on occupation duty in Chinhai, Korea.
Sticker told a good story. Here's my favorite from his army days: One deep winter night, cold wind howling out of Manchuria, he guarded a train on a rail spur near the former Japanese seaplane hangar where his battery was billeted. The train was strung together with old open-topped gondola cars. He wondered, as the night wore on, what they held. He scaled a short corner ladder on one of the cars and saw something he could never have anticipated: It was filled with bronze Nationalist Chinese coins. From his perch, it looked to him as if the other cars carried similar loads.
Thinking about it later, he supposed they'd been sent down the peninsula by Nationalists desperate to keep them out of Chinese Communist hands. It felt, to a kid from the Pennsylvania farm country, like he'd witnessed a strange manifestation of geopolitics.
He stuffed a handful of the coins in his pocket. I still have a few that he passed along to me with the story. To Sticker, the army experience was an adventure. He was home before the fighting in Korea began, otherwise he might have seen things differently. Regardless, as a boy I was intensely proud of him. I still am.
Thanks, all. (Z)