My dad never talked much about his experiences during World War II. He was in the South Pacific for 33 months, serving in the Army Signal Corps. He was never in active combat. As he got closer to his dying time in 1996, I asked him to describe his war experience. He paused thoughtfully and said, "Deprivation. Sheer deprivation." He said it matter-of-factly, making it clear that he had nothing else to say. When I found this picture years later I got a sense of what he meant. Dad was a big guy. His wasted appearance and haunted look said it all.
I grew up an Army Brat. Although my dad retired as a Lt. Colonel a couple of years after I was born, the military was a huge part of my life. We got our healthcare, did our shopping, ate out and spent endless hours at the swimming pool on military bases. I remember jumping out of the pool to salute the flag as it was slowly being lowered on late summer afternoons. As I got older, I always loved standing next to my dad at Cheney Stadium baseball games when the National Anthem would play. Even though I was a flaming peacenik, I knew my dad was proud of his service. He had a right to be.
But he never quite understood all the hoopla around Veterans Day. He never had any desire to join the Veterans of Foreign Wars or the American Legion. Dad's retirement certificate and acknowledgement of his Bronze Star Medal hung on our family room wall. But that was it. He had kept his medals, of course, but I smile when I think of how he gave them all (except for the Bronze Star) to me, his "tom-boy daughter," when I was eight. He knew I would love to pin them to my shirt and march around with them. Which I gleefully did for a couple of years. He didn't need them anymore.
My dad was proud of his military service. I am proud of his military service. But like so many veterans, it's complicated. Memories of my eight year-old self prancing around with his medals remind me that the veteran I have been closest to ~ my dad ~ held the tension between his pride in his service and pushing away memories of things best forgotten.
Thanks for the lesson, Dad. Happy Veterans Day.
