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It didn’t matter that he was the youngest in his squadron or that he had never flown a plane before. What did matter was that he believed in himself and his comrades and above all else – he believed in his country.
As the navigator for the 401st Bomb Group of the Eighth Air Force during World War II, dad completed 266 missions.
“The train dropped me off and I had to walk three or four miles to get home,” Dad said of the day he returned to Independence.
“My parents were sitting on the screened-in front porch, just like they always were. They didn’t even recognize me when I came up the walk. Finally I had to ask them if they were going to let me in. That’s when she began to cry.”
I’ve heard the story a hundred times about my grandma’s relief when her son returned home from the war. It’s always been good memories for Dad and I’ve always encouraged him to remember with picture albums and other keepsakes of his time spent in the military.
Dementia has robbed Dad of remembering day-to-day occurrences, although the memories of being in the war – so deeply ingrained – play a major role in his life. Most conversations are centered around life in the cockpit of the plane, and, until recently, were told with a smile, a chuckle or two, and ended on a good note.
The only time I’ve seen Dad cry was on the morning of Mom’s funeral. It broke my heart to see tears streaming down the face of the man who was always the strongest, the most independent and the brick in the wall that never crumbled.
As Dad began to tell the story again of the return to his parents’ house, I noticed tears forming in his eyes. By the time he was done we were both crying.
It’s happened several times and I’m beginning to worry that he is upset about something more than just memories of the war.
Over the years when he’d describe the flights, the bombings, and the love he has for those who served beside him, Dad never once said how scared he was, how lonely, how glad he was to return home – until now.
I tried to comfort him as the tears flowed but that wasn’t what he wanted. I just sat and listened and handed him his handkerchief when there were more tears than words.
It didn’t matter that he was the youngest in his squadron or that he had never flown a plane before. What did matter was that he believed in himself and his comrades and above all else – he believed in his country.
As the navigator for the 401st Bomb Group of the Eighth Air Force during World War II, dad completed 266 missions.
“The train dropped me off and I had to walk three or four miles to get home,” Dad said of the day he returned to Independence.
“My parents were sitting on the screened-in front porch, just like they always were. They didn’t even recognize me when I came up the walk. Finally I had to ask them if they were going to let me in. That’s when she began to cry.”
I’ve heard the story a hundred times about my grandma’s relief when her son returned home from the war. It’s always been good memories for Dad and I’ve always encouraged him to remember with picture albums and other keepsakes of his time spent in the military.
Dementia has robbed Dad of remembering day-to-day occurrences, although the memories of being in the war – so deeply ingrained – play a major role in his life. Most conversations are centered around life in the cockpit of the plane, and, until recently, were told with a smile, a chuckle or two, and ended on a good note.
The only time I’ve seen Dad cry was on the morning of Mom’s funeral. It broke my heart to see tears streaming down the face of the man who was always the strongest, the most independent and the brick in the wall that never crumbled.
As Dad began to tell the story again of the return to his parents’ house, I noticed tears forming in his eyes. By the time he was done we were both crying.
It’s happened several times and I’m beginning to worry that he is upset about something more than just memories of the war.
Over the years when he’d describe the flights, the bombings, and the love he has for those who served beside him, Dad never once said how scared he was, how lonely, how glad he was to return home – until now.
I tried to comfort him as the tears flowed but that wasn’t what he wanted. I just sat and listened and handed him his handkerchief when there were more tears than words.
Seeing my Dad cry is something I will never get used to, but it seems that once he let the emotions out, his stories are returning back to happy memories.
Dad has no idea that Wednesday is Veteran’s Day, nor will he remember that it’s even Wednesday. What he does remember is that he served his country – with all his might, worth and heart. There is no greater sacrifice.
I have a feeling that I will cry with Dad again, very soon, and I’m honored to be the one to give him his handkerchief.
Thank a Veteran – today, tomorrow and every day – as their sacrifice is our freedom.
