Like many of you, I have been watching the Ken Burns series "The War" on PBS. I can't stress enough the importance this series and my sincere thanks go to Ken Burns and Lynn Novick for their efforts in putting it together.
While watching the first episode, I remembered a visit with my Grandpa, a WWII veteran, back in 2004. This was a rare occasion where my grandpa talked about the war – in fact, he had never talked about it with me. After we talked that night, I wrote down everything I could remember, as best as I could. Over the past few weeks I have struggled with whether or not I should post the story on dKos. (I published it on my short-lived blog a couple years ago)
I’ve decided that it’s best to post this story since I think we can learn from our past. And I think it is timely considering the epic series by Ken Burns and Lynn Novick. You can read the story below the fold.
UPDATED: To spell out "World War" in title.
Talking with Grandpa, A World War II Veteran
11-Nov-2004
I was visiting my grandparents on the way back from a business trip. Grandma had gone to bed while grandpa and I caught up on sports and other headlines. Stories about the Iraq war were on "Headline News". We discussed a couple issues briefly. Grandpa related, rather painfully, that he was disturbed every time he heard a story about another soldier being killed. He feels for the families even though he doesn’t know them.
Initially, his voice was calm and matter-of-fact. The emotion began when he repeated himself... "Every time I see that another soldier was killed...," his voice trailed a bit. His voice was even lighter when he repeated it again. It wasn’t a crackling voice, just quieter. It was as though his mouth was moving but the breath had been stolen from his lungs. "Every time..."
Grandpa was rubbing his head, which he does a lot. Both hands would run slowly and deliberately over his bald head, one following the other, as though they were running through hair that wasn’t there. He would pause briefly, and then he would continue rubbing his head and thinking about the war that he experienced firsthand. The more he thought about it, the faster he would rub. His simple habit was becoming a nervous tic as the memories of World War II came flooding back uncontrollably. I could tell he was getting upset just thinking about it, but there were no tears... yet.
I mentioned that a friend of mine is a former Marine. Even though my friend voted for Bush, he did not believe the President was correct to invade Iraq. Grandpa stopped rubbing his head briefly and sat up slowly. He looked at me and said, "I... I think it was a mistake."
"Then you must take offense to all the people who say that if you don’t support the war that you don’t support the troops?"
Grandpa sat back in his chair a little quicker than he had sat forward just a moment ago. The rubbing started again, getting faster as his emotions brewed. With a quiver in his lip, he strained to say, "I can’t tell you how much it bothers me to see the troops dying."
"Everyday," I added. "We’re seeing it every day on the news."
"Everyday."
I was starting to feel guilty for bringing up the subject. I could tell grandpa was getting emotional. On the other hand, grandpa had never opened up to me about this. He had rarely opened up to anyone. I firmly believe that we learn from our history, and I was hoping that grandpa might relate something that all of us could learn from, as painful as it might be.
But a nagging voice told me not to upset my 81 year old grandpa. I flipped the TV channel, hoping that we might change the subject. Grandpa looked at the TV briefly and then reclined fully in his chair. His hands came to rest mid-stroke, with his elbows out to the side. The emotions had already started to well up, and they couldn’t be changed like the channel on the TV.
Grandpa leaned up and to the side, looking me square in the face. His voice was calm and deep as he said, "I want to tell you a story." Then he paused before sitting back in his chair again. After two quick rubs across his head, the hands stopped in the middle again. He wanted to talk, but he needed time to gather himself. He was trying hard, but controlling these decades-old emotions was difficult. I could see him spasm a couple times... the convulsions that result from only partially fending off such strong emotions.
When grandpa finally began to speak about the war, there was not much context. I didn’t know if it was hot or cold; day or night; sunny or overcast; dry or muddy. I didn’t know if it was early in the war or near the end. All I knew was the he was on the European mainland engaged in ground combat during World War II. His tone was not dramatic. I didn’t have visions of undying heroism. I had visions of a typical 19-year old; a 19 year-old who was sent abroad not to study, but to kill or be killed.
"I was drafted into World War II. And, I don’t know, I suppose most people thought the war was needed.... I... I viewed it as my duty with all that was going on. And I think that’s the way most of us looked at it. If I wasn’t drafted, that would have been okay, I guess. But I knew the chances were high and I knew I would go. There weren’t protests against World War II like there were against Vietnam, at least not that I remember. And I think most people would still say the war was needed.
"And we were in a field. An open field. We were trying to advance and the Germans were ahead in the trees, so they had cover."
"You had no cover?" I asked.
"Well, we were in a field."
"Were you in France?"
"We were in Germany. We were trying to take a town that was well reinforced. There were a few waves of Americans before us."
"And you were in a field? Wasn’t there any cover? Trenches or something?"
"Well... I... I am going to get to that." He then paused for a calming breath. And I wondered if I was asking too many questions.
"So we were advancing. Some soldiers were walking. I was crouching at times, knowing that we were in the open. We would move in alternating groups while the other group was prepared to provide cover fire if needed.
"And then the Germans opened fire. And there was cover. The Germans had protected the town from this same field, so there were small trenches and a large number of foxholes that they had obviously left behind during our advance. So, as fire opened up, I ran... I really ran. And I dove, full speed, dove into a foxhole for cover. And I jumped from a full run." Grandpa speech was getting slower and more deliberate. "And I landed. I landed hard. I landed... on a dead German soldier...." Grandpa gathered himself. And I gathered myself as I tried to picture the scene and to imagine what he was thinking at the time. "I landed on this soldier. And the bullets were flying overhead. And I was in shock looking at this dead soldier’s face. I landed right on him. He couldn’t have been more than 17. He might have been younger. Hell, I was only 19!
"And blood was...," Grandpa motioned to his face, "blood was coming out of his holes. And I could tell he hadn’t been there long, but he was sort of blue in color by this time. And all of this going on... and you know the first thing I though about? The first thing I thought about was his parents. Here was this kid." Grandpa said "kid" with emphasis. "Here was this kid, dead in a hole in a field. And I’m sure his parents didn’t know. Dead in a field. I did not hate this man. All I could think about was his parents, wondering if he was dead or alive, and they had no clue he was dead in a hole in a field."
Grandpa took a few minutes to gather himself. We were silent, but it was not a dead silence. We both looked at the TV, though I couldn’t tell you what was on. When grandpa gathered himself, he continued.
"And as we entered the city the next day, there were piles of bodies. And they were American bodies. Just piled up in the street. I remember trying not to look." He described the bodies and the town. The sadness of the deaths contrasted with the elation of winning the battle. He was still emotional, but the tears waned. He continued. He continued and finally reached that point where the emotion was overcome.
He described another offensive in which he took part. He was part of a machine gun team. "There was a water-cooled gun and an air-cooled gun. I was on the air-cooled gun." He had the ammo and had to feed it through as the gunner squeezed off rounds, providing cover to other American soldiers. "Now the machine guns were primary targets for the Germans. We were providing cover. It was always that way no matter where we were... even if we weren’t firing, if they saw a machine gun they would shoot at it. We were always being shot at. One day a bomb exploded nearby and a huge piece of shrapnel flew right by my head." He described the size of the shrapnel with his hands. "I don’t know how close it was, but it was close. It lodged right in the dirt in the side of the hole. The piece was hot but we were there for a while and I dug it out and brought it back. Annette has that now. I don’t know why I chose to give it to her, but she still has it.
"We took fire on another occasion. The water-cooled gun was positioned at the front. As soon as fire opened up we lost both of the men on that gun. Two more soldiers were on the gun immediately, and they were killed almost as quickly as they got there. I was on the air-cooled gun and my sergeant told me to go get the water-cooled gun. He didn’t want to lose the gun. And I saw what had happened and I thought, ‘No way.’ It was suicide. And I paused. And he barked at me again to get that gun. And I said, "Get fucked!’ And I was thinking I would be in trouble as I said it, but I didn’t care. And that’s really what I told him, I said, ‘Get fucked.’
"Another group came up from the rear. Corporal ? [I can’t remember his name], who I had known since we got there, was with them. He was nuts. Really nuts. He had done a couple, I guess you would say, brave things before, but he was nuts. He saw the forward gun and started heading for it. I told him not to go up there, but he didn’t even acknowledge me. Instead of getting the gun to bring it back, he tried to open fire with it, which wasn’t the easiest thing to do alone. As he squeezed the trigger he was hit right in the jugular and he just fell over. And I told the sergeant to stop sending people up there to die if they couldn’t even get a shot off. They were sitting ducks. You don’t win the battle being a sitting duck."
As grandpa described his personal experiences, I realized how much we glorify war in our society. Stories such as his give us a glimpse of the reality rather that goes along with the glory. Is war needed in certain circumstances? Absolutely. But why go to war unless it’s the last resort? Why trivialize the deaths of hundreds or thousands of soldiers? Why do people who advocate war so often do so from the comfort of their own homes? Grandpa said that any decision to go to war must be justified. He and other veterans are the ones who know. They are the ones who lived through war; saw their friends die; saw their enemies die; saw the destruction of a continent. I fear that as more World War II veterans pass away that we will forget these stories. If you know any World War II veterans, talk to them. Write down their words. It is part of history.