By Guy Smith
On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, the armistice ending major hostilities in World War I, the “war to end all wars,” went into effect. The following November, President Wilson proclaimed November 11 to be Armistice Day to commemorate the end of the war and to recognize the “heroism of those who died in the country’s service and with gratitude for the victory.” In 1954, following America’s involvement in World War II and the Korean War, Congress replaced the word armistice with the word veterans and established Veterans Day to honor all veterans. In his proclamation, the first Veterans Day President, Eisenhower, encouraged all to “solemnly remember the sacrifices of all those who fought so valiantly, on the seas, in the air, and on foreign shores, to preserve our heritage of freedom.”
As I remember those who sacrificed, I always reflect on my father’s service so many years ago. Inducted in 1943 at Fort Jackson at the age of 25, Dad trained at Fort Bragg (now renamed Fort Liberty) in North Carolina before heading overseas with the Sixth Army, 33rd Infantry Division. He served in the field artillery in New Guinea, Morotai, and the Philippines. He was also part of the troops who served as occupying forces in Japan after their surrender in August of 1945. All told he was in service in the States for about seven months and overseas for a year and eight months.
Growing up, my buddies and I watched World War II movies when we could and faithfully viewed “Combat” on Tuesday nights. We played Army in the backyard and in the woods behind our houses. My sister and I would occasionally pull out the boxes of treasures from the Pacific that Dad had shipped home, like coins, kimonos, silk handkerchiefs, and a couple of Japanese flags. We would look at the memory book printed for his unit or the picture album from his World War II travels. It was real-life National Geographic material. Occasionally, we could handle the Japanese rifle, bayonet, and sword that were stored… oddly… in the corner of the storage shed, right next to the shovels, hoe, and rake. Rarely, however, did we hear stories from the war.
There were a few things. Dad refused to eat lamb or mutton. He said he had had enough while overseas. He also did not care for potatoes, a combination I think of his family’s penchant for rice and his KP experience in the Army. My sister, who is three years older than I, remembers him referring to rotting garbage as smelling like “death.” He stated on a number of occasions that he was only scared once while in the war… “from the time he left until he got home.” The only thing close to bragging about his duty I ever heard was his reference to the 33rd being part of the forces that liberated Baguio, the Summer Capital of the Philippines. Never a big flag-waver, he was quietly patriotic, only donning his World War II baseball cap, given to him by family late in his life. Not once did he encourage me to join the military.
I am ashamed to say that I was well past grown before I realized that Dad, like several of his biological brothers, and millions of his brothers and sisters in arms, was an honest to God hero. I also came to believe that while he made it home with no physical scars, he probably carried emotional and mental scars I was too blind to see. For some reason, I forgot he was at one time a young man shipped halfway around the world, surrounded by mud, mosquitoes, malaria, death, and danger. Perhaps those memories of lost friends and the unfathomable destruction he saw in Japan haunted him more than
I knew. Dad was always a loving father, but occasionally those demons would seep out. I hope I gave him the grace he deserved at the time. I certainly do now.
So, on this Veterans Day, make a call, send a card or text, attend a parade, and fly a flag. If you served, I know you could have said all of this so much better than I ever could. For those of us who did not serve, let us give thanks, give grace, give respect, and give love.
HAPPY VETERANS DAY!
