Sometimes when it's quiet, I think a lot about the folks that influenced my life. How different they viewed what was important in life.
Quiet little white haired man that shared our pew in church was in First Marine Division.
His youth was spent in Guadacanal. New Britain. Peleliu.
In Guadacanal, an artillery (naval gunfire?) shock wave blew him over a truck hood. Was almost deaf and bleeding from the ears. They found him another rifle and put him back in the line, told him he only needed to see Japanese, not hear them.
Peleliu injuries sent him to the states for the duration of the war to recover.
His son is in my Sunday school class. He shared he rented Saving Private Ryan. They didn't get past first 30 seconds. Seeing troops riding in on Higgins Boats was too much for him to watch.
Another little quiet smiling man & his wife sat behind us in Church.
In 1944, he was 18 and a senior in a Panhandle high school- he got drafted.
Spent his Senior year fighting in Belgium and Germany. He still cries about some Belgium girls that ran for safety and machine guns saw movement & cut them down. He tried first aid but was too much.
When discharged, he went back home, and finished High School along with 3 other veterans. Can you imagine sitting in high school with a combat veteran?
My dad was a WW2 vet. Served the war in Liberty Ship engine rooms. Was in the Philippine Invasions.
I read the exploits of Taffy-3 with a different perspective, thinking of my 19 year old dad, in a big fat target swinging at anchor. Shortly after VE Day he was in Norway and traded cigarettes for a Luger and binoculars, both which I now have.
My dad's brother made the trip walking across Western Europe with the Army. He died shortly after WW2 so I never got to know him. I have some of his mementos, some German postcards from Heidelburg, some Hitler postage stamps. I have a photo of him and my dad, they were able to meet up in New York City after VJ Day and have a drink together. Celebrating being alive and to the future.
My aunt's husband was a coxswain at Omaha Beach. I regret I never heard any of his stories.
My dad's sister heat treated 90mm AA gun barrels at Dixon Gun Works in Houston. At 19 years old, her and several of her friends left their farms and went to the city to work in war plants. All lived together in a rooming house. She could tell you in exacting detail all the steps it take to make a cannon, especially the steps in heat treating. After the war, she got married and became a rural mail carrier-something more appropriate for a young girl.
Each year on Nov 11, Armistice Day, day she put flowers on my grandpa's grave and also on her boyfriend's grave. He was in a B24 in the Ploesti raids and didn't make it home. My aunt said they buried an empty coffin.
My friend's dads all served, one was a B17 mechanic with the 8th, the other was a P38 pilot in the Pacific.
I had a HS teacher that was a tanker with Patton, he loved telling just the funny stories..
Another teacher was a driver with he Red Ball Express. He told us in High School about his convoy driving into a German ambush and seeing his good friend get shot and killed- and later finding his friend alive after the war- German medics had kept his friend alive which is notable since these were black soldiers.
The old man that owned the farm next door was a tank mechanic, trained as a loader. During the battle of Carentan he was pressed into service, the loader had an appendix attack. He said they lasted about 5 minutes in combat, never fired a shot, German anti-tank gun hit them, killed the tank commander and gunner. He said he woke up in a hospital in England. After the war, he never missed a reunion.
Both my grandfathers were in WW1 serving in France. One in Infantry, one in Artillery. I still have my paternal grandfather's infantry company photo taken in Metz, France.
I watched Jeopardy today. The contestants struggled to answer the WW2 category questions, mostly had no idea. It made me sad that my generation didn't honor the sacrifices and memories and teach the young ones.
Quiet little white haired man that shared our pew in church was in First Marine Division.
His youth was spent in Guadacanal. New Britain. Peleliu.
In Guadacanal, an artillery (naval gunfire?) shock wave blew him over a truck hood. Was almost deaf and bleeding from the ears. They found him another rifle and put him back in the line, told him he only needed to see Japanese, not hear them.
Peleliu injuries sent him to the states for the duration of the war to recover.
His son is in my Sunday school class. He shared he rented Saving Private Ryan. They didn't get past first 30 seconds. Seeing troops riding in on Higgins Boats was too much for him to watch.
Another little quiet smiling man & his wife sat behind us in Church.
In 1944, he was 18 and a senior in a Panhandle high school- he got drafted.
Spent his Senior year fighting in Belgium and Germany. He still cries about some Belgium girls that ran for safety and machine guns saw movement & cut them down. He tried first aid but was too much.
When discharged, he went back home, and finished High School along with 3 other veterans. Can you imagine sitting in high school with a combat veteran?
My dad was a WW2 vet. Served the war in Liberty Ship engine rooms. Was in the Philippine Invasions.
I read the exploits of Taffy-3 with a different perspective, thinking of my 19 year old dad, in a big fat target swinging at anchor. Shortly after VE Day he was in Norway and traded cigarettes for a Luger and binoculars, both which I now have.
My dad's brother made the trip walking across Western Europe with the Army. He died shortly after WW2 so I never got to know him. I have some of his mementos, some German postcards from Heidelburg, some Hitler postage stamps. I have a photo of him and my dad, they were able to meet up in New York City after VJ Day and have a drink together. Celebrating being alive and to the future.
My aunt's husband was a coxswain at Omaha Beach. I regret I never heard any of his stories.
My dad's sister heat treated 90mm AA gun barrels at Dixon Gun Works in Houston. At 19 years old, her and several of her friends left their farms and went to the city to work in war plants. All lived together in a rooming house. She could tell you in exacting detail all the steps it take to make a cannon, especially the steps in heat treating. After the war, she got married and became a rural mail carrier-something more appropriate for a young girl.
Each year on Nov 11, Armistice Day, day she put flowers on my grandpa's grave and also on her boyfriend's grave. He was in a B24 in the Ploesti raids and didn't make it home. My aunt said they buried an empty coffin.
My friend's dads all served, one was a B17 mechanic with the 8th, the other was a P38 pilot in the Pacific.
I had a HS teacher that was a tanker with Patton, he loved telling just the funny stories..
Another teacher was a driver with he Red Ball Express. He told us in High School about his convoy driving into a German ambush and seeing his good friend get shot and killed- and later finding his friend alive after the war- German medics had kept his friend alive which is notable since these were black soldiers.
The old man that owned the farm next door was a tank mechanic, trained as a loader. During the battle of Carentan he was pressed into service, the loader had an appendix attack. He said they lasted about 5 minutes in combat, never fired a shot, German anti-tank gun hit them, killed the tank commander and gunner. He said he woke up in a hospital in England. After the war, he never missed a reunion.
Both my grandfathers were in WW1 serving in France. One in Infantry, one in Artillery. I still have my paternal grandfather's infantry company photo taken in Metz, France.
I watched Jeopardy today. The contestants struggled to answer the WW2 category questions, mostly had no idea. It made me sad that my generation didn't honor the sacrifices and memories and teach the young ones.
