My
grandfather was a WWII veteran. He was a machine gunner in the United
States Army. He was a prisoner of war, captured by the Germans. I
remember him telling stories of the war, when I was growing up, and
being fascinated by his adventures. "Every man should experience
fighting in a war," he would often say. It wasn't until I had
grown up that I realized what he actually meant. It wasn't because it
was fun. It wasn't because of the chance to visit far-far-off lands
that you would probably never get to see otherwise. It wasn't because
it was an honor to do your duty for God and country. Those were
things that were partly true in his mind, and for others in his
generation, but they weren't the main truth. The real reason everyone
should have to experience fighting in a war is so that nobody ever
has to experience it in the future. If everyone knew the horrors of
war, the losses experienced by any soldier gone through it, the
complete devastation of humanity that continues long after the
treaties are signed, surely another means to the end would be
implemented.
Obviously,
as I am able to sit and write today, my grandfather made it home. The
stories he told, that I sort of glamorized in my youth, are treasured
memories now. But their true meaning didn't become clear until he was
long gone. For a long time, the movies made about WWII were watchable
by the family. They weren't true-to-life depictions. They didn't give
you any sense of the reality of it all. Movies about Vietnam, those
were vivid and made you realize what the boys over there went
through; why they had such a hard time adjusting upon returning home.
But WWII? That was still all "follow me boys," and "last
one to Hitler is a rotten egg." Then came "Saving Private
Ryan."
I wept
during the opening scenes of that film. I finally understood that war
was war. WWII wasn't any less horrible than Vietnam. It didn't have a
different effect on the boys who fought in one or the other. It made
sense, finally, why my grandfather was rarely without a drink in his
hand. It made sense why he went into law enforcement and chose a life
dealing with crime and accident scenes instead of going back to work
at a printing press. It was what he knew. It was what he had become.
It was because of what the experience of war did to him.
The men of
WWII came home changed forever. They came home broken and damaged for
good. It was a different time, though, there was a different mindset.
They pushed it away and tried to move forward with life, holding the
damage hostage behind alcohol or a sense of duty that hasn't been
seen since, or both. Those who were lucky enough to return home, like
my grandfather, may not have lost their lives for our country, but
they did lose some part of them. They left their innocence on the
battlefields. They left friends. They left the possibility of a
remaining lifetime free from reoccurring nightmares of their
experiences.
They did
their best, though. They raised families and locked things away as
they thought they should, giving only hints of what actually went on
behind those loving eyes.
On this
Memorial Day, I remember my grandfather as I do every day. I remember
everything he taught me, even the lessons I didn't understand until
after he was gone. I take to heart what he went through so that I
might exist and enjoy the life I have today; so that all of us can. I
remember all those who did the same, those who lost their lives doing
it, or just pieces of their lives. They gave so that we may gain.
Every one of us must always remember this.
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