Dad joined the army in 1942. He was assigned to the 96th infantry division, known as the “Deadeye Division,” and participated in the amphibious assault on Leyte Island in October of 1944. He was 20.
He was wounded on Leyte and ended up in a field hospital on New Guinea. He described that hospital as a malarial hellhole — a swampy, hot, humid, cesspool of infection where the odds of survival were slim.
So he walked away. He hitched a ride on a plane or a US Navy ship and returned to Leyte Island. Upon reporting to his commanding officer, he was told he was listed as AWOL could be shot as a deserter, but since they were going to invade Okinawa the next day and needed every soldier they could muster, he should return to his squad.
So in April of 1945, Dad landed on Okinawa. He survived the battle, and returned to the mainland US. He earned his J.D. at Northwestern University in 1952. He married Mom and started a family in 1954, practicing law at a small firm until he started his own, hiring two associates who stayed with him until he retired.
Other than telling us the story of his reprieve from execution, the only other war story I remember Dad telling was a funny one about coming upon members of his squad “digging for pineapples” on whatever Pacific island they were occupying at the time.
Nobody was diagnosed with PTSD in 1946. The condition made it into the DSM-III in 1980. But in Dad’s era, they just called it “battle fatigue” and expected veterans to “get over it” and deal with it on their own. Many of them did, self-medicating with alcohol, or by joining veterans organizations where they could hang out with guys who understood.
Others took a more tragic route. After coming home from his service in Europe during the war, Dad’s older brother Johnny shot himself in a hospital bathroom on his way to see his psychiatrist.
Their mother hung herself when Dad was 12.
So Dad endured a lot of trauma both before and after the war, in addition to the horrors of the war itself.
Every April, Dad would descend into a dark place, sitting in his drinking chair – a chair where I now sit and read, and often, drink. He kept a bloody Japanese war flag in his bedside table drawer. I must have asked about it. All Dad said was that it had belonged to a soldier who was killed when he might have been trying to surrender, but instead was assumed to be the WWII version of a suicide bomber. He wasn’t.
No wonder Dad didn’t want to talk about the war.
But Dad kept his purple heart and his combat ribbon. That combat ribbon was the only commendation he was truly proud of, because it was awarded to soldiers who actually endured the blood and death and muck and sweat and exhaustion of war, not those who spent their time behind a desk. Dad also saved his uniform jacket, which my brothers fought over every Halloween. Whoever won the right to wear it trick or treating wore it home covered with shaving cream (spraying shaving cream being the preferred “trick” of our era).
Dad’s bedside table drawer also held a .38 revolver and a Walther PP handgun, until it occurred to him that his curious kids might get ahold of them. Eventually he locked them up, along with the modified revolver his brother Johnny brought home from the war in Europe, and may have used to kill himself.
Although his life was filled with trauma, and the stress of defending the accused, where the consequences of losing could be severe, Dad carried on. He provided. He took us skiing on spring breaks, he took us to Mexico, he paid for the part of our college educations that student loans didn’t cover. And he taught us how to solve problems by “using our beans” — a process of calmly observing, trying a solution, and if it didn’t work, trying again.
Dad found romanticizing war offensive. He didn’t want thanks. He didn’t want a damn parade. He just wanted some peace. He often found it at the bottom of a glass of Scotch. But that was better than the alternative.
So on this Veteran’s Day, I salute my Dad for enduring, surviving, and carrying on, which takes enormous courage, endurance, and perseverance, when the temptation might be to give up, drop out, or just leave, abandoning work and family, or even abandoning life itself.
I love you Dad, and miss you always.
If you are a veteran experiencing a crisis, or you are concerned about one who is, contact the Veterans Crisis Line by dialing 988 and then pressing 1.