A little bit older, a little bit slower, but 80 of the vets showed up for my father's WWII military reunion in Ft. Mitchell, KY. Over 200 altogether with kids and grandkids. A pretty good showing. My father has tried to go every year since 1995 when he first decided it was important. Two years ago, he was in a traffic accident the week before. Last year he had to go into the OR two weeks before the event. This year he made it! With Mom, my bro, me and wife. He spent most of his time in the memorabilia room looking at wartime photographs and talking everyone's ears off or holding court in the hotel lobby. Of course, he only heard about half of what was said back to him. He kept adjusting the hearing aids. Earnest H. from North Dakota came by Greyhound. 34 hours by hisself. He's 91 years old. The last of his family and bent over with arthritis. He said he didn't want to miss it. There were a lot of mule stories. More mules below ...
My father's unit fought in the jungles of Burma in 1944 and marched behind Japanese lines over a 4,000-foot mountain range. 3,000 went in. 600 made it to the objective. Most were casualties of malaria, typhus, trenchfoot, dysentery. They hated leeches. They hated General Stillwell who they were/are convinced wanted them all dead. They loved their mules, who carried all the heavy equipment up the winding mountain trails. Each mule seemed to have its own personality, which the old boys joyfully recalled. My father's platoon commander, the Fightin' Preacher, was among the most decorated officers in the US Army--WWII, Korea, even special ops training for Nam. He died last year. Audie Murphy had nothin' on him. Both of his daughters were at the reunion. My father was trained in the pack artillery. He was the star catcher on the baseball team on New Guinea and assigned to light duty because he was an asset to the winning regimental team. The word came down that FDR wanted volunteers for a hazardous mission with the p.s. that they'd all probably get 30-days leave. Hah. That didn't happen. My father and most others volunteered to get the leave. (Before the unit went into action, two dozen took their promised vacation by going AWOL and hanging out in Calcutta for two weeks. They were never brought up on charges.) At Nhpum Ga, my father's platoon was leading the way to try to lift the siege of 2nd Bttn, ready to jump off, when somebody tapped him on the shoulder and said, RED (not much red left there today), they need you back at HQ. His squad was hit pretty hard that day, but he had been called back to operate one of the 75mm pack howitzers that had just been parachuted in. The two howitzers turned the tide of battle and the Old Guys give them all the praise. So long as my father has the strength and the Old Guys survive I want to get him to his reunions. I talked to the daughter of a Cheyenne (I think) Indian, whose father at age 84 continues to bale hay. She was worried about him early in the summer. Temperature 95. He was lying underneath his baler. She thought he had keeled over but he was just trying to clear up a jam. She said, dad, you should come in out of the sun, get something cold to drink, rest a bit. He lifted himself up, looked her in the eye, and said, Daughter, if I can't bale hay then I just need to die. Considering the alternative, she left him alone to bale his hay. He looked good in his native decorated vest at the reunion. We owe these Old Guys respect and gratitude for their unselfish service.