Dem
47
GOP
53
Today's account is from reader J.E. in Gilbertsville, PA:
"Never Forget." The true meaning of that phrase has been a slow-building burn for me, much like a firework. I will explain.
My grandfather died of a massive heart attack in June of 1983, the very week I turned 11 years old. 11 year olds take the world around them at face value, including their grandfathers. My grandfather George was a man who sat in the shadows. He drove the car when my grandmother, a very short and extremely chatty woman (my mother describes her as "4'11", half of it hair and the other half mouth") wanted to take me to the store. He was the man who sat on the sofa while my grandmother bustled about. He was practically a piece of furniture. He was the man who was the butt of so many jokes. Everyone spoke dismissively of him.
We knew he was "shell shocked," but none of us really questioned what that meant. Certainly not an 11 year old. Not his son, who was born after the war and had only known that version of his father. Possibly not even my grandmother. She was more the "ignore it and it will go away" type.
I never questioned this version of my grandfather, until one day I finally did. I forget what prompted it, but by that point I was in my 30s or 40s. Probably it was the phase where I became obsessed with our family tree and would spend hours researching on websites. I'm not sure. But whatever the prompt, one day I asked my father what branch of the service his father had been in during World War II. And the answer led us all down a path that changed our view forever.
It turns out my grandfather was in the 899th Tank Destroyer Battalion. He was born in 1917, so he was already 24 when Pearl Harbor happened. He enlisted in June of 1942. I'm not sure what my grandfather did as a military role, but apparently he spent the early parts of the war getting promoted and then demoted, repeatedly. He was a prankster apparently, and prone to highjinks.
But the war would change all that. His batallion started off in '43 in North Africa. From there they landed on Utah Beach in Normandy, attached to the 82nd Airborne Division, and supported the push to capture Cherbourg. Then engaged in intense combat in the Hürtgen Forest, his was among the first units deployed to halt the German advance during the opening days of the Battle of the Bulge. (The constant night bombings, intense artillery shellings, and nonstop, heavy direct fire from the Germans must have come as quite the culture shock.) Somehow, shortly thereafter, my grandfather found himself with a unit crossing the Ludendorff Bridge at Remagen Germany. This was one of the last remaining bridges left intact by the Germans. American forces captured the bridge on March 7, and began crossing as many forces and supplies across the bridge as quickly as possible, while under heavy fire from the Germans the entire time. The bridge collapsed on March 17th.
I don't know what day my grandfather crossed, and he rarely spoke about the war, but we do know that he made it across the bridge and into a railroad tunnel on the other side, but that is as far as his mind allowed him to go:
From there, he was hospitalized for shell shock. At the time, this was considered shameful. My grandfather was discharged in October 1945, a completely different man than he'd been before the war. (I've since been able to visit Remagen and I've stood where that bridge once stood. Not much remains.)
After discovering his military service, one day I found myself at a wedding of a distant friend. She rushed me over to meet her ancient grandparents, because they remembered my grandfather. (This was probably 30 years after he'd passed.) "Oh you're BOOMPSIE'S GRANDDAUGHTER!!" they gushed. "Who the heck is Boompsie?", I wondered. I never knew this man you describe, this man who was the life of the party, so full of puckish fun. I'll never know that man.
He's not the butt of anyone's jokes anymore, though. It's literally the least we can do for him.
In the below photo, my grandmother is the one standing. She has her hands on my grandfather's shoulders. I'm not sure, but I think this may have been taken during the "Boompsie" years:
Thanks, J.E.
We are, of course, still accepting submissions at comments@electoral-vote.com; please use subject line "Never Forget." (Z)