Dem
47
GOP
53
Another collection of shorter accounts:
E.L. in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, TX: My grandfather was too old to be drafted in World War II but volunteered to join the Navy. He almost never spoke about the experience, and growing up all I knew was that he participated in D-Day. He did tell us a little more after my grandmother passed away. It turns out that he was trained in demolition, and very few members of his unit survived since they were some of the first sent onto the beach. My grandfather was a kind and helpful person, but there were signs of the trauma he endured. My mother only remembers him with white hair. Despite living in coastal Florida, he almost never went to the beach. Another major impact of the war was that, after he returned, my grandfather and his brother changed their last names to something that sounded less Jewish because of antisemitism in the U.S.
D.S. in Oscoda, MI: I was spurred to write because no servicewomen have been mentioned yet. My mother, from Michigan, turned 18 on December 7, 1941, and joined the WAVES soon after. Since she had been working as a secretary after graduating high school, she was sent to secretarial school/basic training in Oklahoma. My father, from New Jersey, joined the Navy at age 17 and became a pharmacist's assistant on a hospital ship stationed in the South Pacific. They met in New York City when my mother was assigned to handle his mustering out paperwork at the end of the war. They married in 1946, eventually relocating to Michigan, where I was born and raised. My mother was thrilled to be able to visit the Women in Military Service for America Memorial, near the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery, after it was dedicated in 1997. She saw her name listed in the computer database set up at the memorial and received an honorary medal.
F.H. in Akron, OH: Reading the stories of World War II men and women prompts me to tell you something shared by my professor at the University of Pennsylvania in 1962 or 1963. He had been a serving officer aboard ship in the Pacific when they heard about the explosion of the first atomic bomb. He asked us in an anthropology class how we thought the men on that ship had responded to the news. What would American students in their twenties think? Of course, that those sailors would rejoice, knowing that they would not now be facing death in battle. "No," he said. Wrong. "We were furious." Their thinking: If we had that sort of weapon coming along, why did all those other guys have to die fighting the Japanese. Why couldn't the government and the military just slow the effort, sparing that suffering and death, and just bring the bomb along as fast as possible? The intervening years had not changed our professor's mind that his shipmates' reaction had been the sensible one.
A.G. in Denver, CO: My father, Samuel Gerber, was born in 1920 in lower Manhattan, the child of immigrant Ashkenazi Jews from Ukraine and Russia. He went to New York City public schools and then majored in Chemistry at City College of New York. He was in his senior year in 1941 when Pearl Harbor occurred and was drafted into the Army. He got an exception to complete his degree, and went to basic training in 1942.
As was typical for a college graduate, he was soon sent to Officer Candidate School and became a 2nd Lieutenant. He spent the bulk of the war teaching chemical warfare to pilots in California and Arizona. When the war in Europe ended, he went back to infantry training to lead men in the planned invasion of Japan. Thankfully for me and my sister (yet unborn) that never occurred. He was part of the occupational forces in Japan and worked both in the Quartermaster corps and Military Police, where he developed a lifelong love of detective work and Sherlock Holmes. He was not given a middle name at birth, but in the military started writing "M" for a middle initial, and then "Michael," which stuck for the rest of his life.
He returned to the U.S. and got his M.S. and Ph.D. in Physics at Columbia, where he met my mother. He wrote/edited two popular books about "Chemistry and Crime" and was made a member of the "Baker Street Irregulars," a prestigious Sherlock Holmes society. He had a long career in the chemical industry, and passed at age 93 in 2014.
P.D.N. in Austintown, OH: Two stories not of heroism but of the vagaries of warfare—and life.
My father was with the Fifth Army in World War II in Italy. His captain liked him and one day sent dad to take a message to some GIs staying in a farmhouse. They asked dad to stay and have a drink but dad said no, he had to get back. Five minutes later, the farmhouse took a direct hit and everyone was dead. When the Fifth Army got to Rome, dad's captain promoted him to Supply Sergeant. He had 45 Italian civilians under his purview and proved himself a natural manager. The Army awarded dad a Bronze Star and the Military Infantry citation.
My in-laws were Korean and, during the war, when Korea was under Japanese occupation, because he was a Presbyterian minister, the Japanese authorities removed him and his wife and all the other pastors to a camp in Japan. It was outside Hiroshima. One day, everyone was told they would have to move to another camp and reluctantly they left. A month later, the Americans destroyed Hiroshima.
B.Z. in Atascocita, TX: Having read all of the Never Forget stories submitted so far, I felt that I would be remiss not to include my own father's service during World War II. However, his story is not one detailing military battles or personal courage in far off lands, but rather is one that may be simply described as a home-bound love story.
My dad, John, was born in 1916, the fifth of six children born to Polish immigrants in Newington, CT. He joined the Army near the beginning of the war and, instead of being sent overseas to fight, he was assigned stateside to the coastal town of Westerly, RI, where cannons were temporarily situated to help protect America's shores from any enemy vessels or possible invasions. His primary job throughout his deployment was truck driver. The camp held weekly dances for the troops, and Dad would drive his truck into downtown Westerly to pick up groups of single women and girls and transport them back to the base for the dances, then return the ladies back to town at the end of the evening.
One dance night, as he was waiting for the women to load, one young lady named Ruth decided that, instead of riding in the back of the army truck with the other girls, she was going to ride up front with that handsome soldier behind the wheel. This happened week after week, and eventually John and Ruth fell in love, resulting in their marriage in October, 1943.
At the conclusion of the war, John and Ruth stayed in Westerly, where they eventually raised a family of six children (I was fourth of six). Dad worked a number of jobs before being hired by the U.S. Postal Service, where he worked as a letter carrier for over 20 years. As a side note, my older brother John Jr. was nicknamed "Jack" to honor Dad's older brother Jack, who was killed in action in Italy during the war.
Thanks to all of you. (Z)