11-11-11

ProetyPlace Blog 27 11-11-11

    Each year on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, our elementary school class took pause from whatever study we currently pursued to solemnly stand and face the east, hand over heart in silent reverence and remembrance of those who fought in  World War I, the “War to End All Wars.”

    In 1954, Armistice Day was amended to Veterans Day, a day to honor all who served in the military during the ensuing WWII and Korean Wars. Now, 95 years after that 1918 armistice, we shall again pay tribute to those veterans who have sacrificed so much to help preserve our freedom and our way of life.

    The extent of their sacrifice and their suffering became again dramatically clear as I recently watched the movie, War Horse, and several episodes of Downton Abbey set during WWI. Tomorrow morning at 11 o’clock, 11 November, 2013, I will once again pause to give silent thanks to all who have served and who are currently engaged in yet another distant war on my behalf. I invite you to join me in that.

    I am a proud veteran of the Korean War. Although I trained for 16 weeks to become a skilled infantryman, I gratefully did not see armed combat. I was sent instead to a remote and sleepy Army outpost in France and spent my time behind a desk at battalion headquarters fighting paperwork. The following is the first segment from my memoir of military service entitled “Soldiering and Such.”

Soldiering and Such: Part I

    The hardest part of joining the army was leaving home. Yes, I was 20 years old. Yes, I had survived and thrived those long summers away from home and family on the farm in Peshtigo when I was only 12—no email, no telephone, perhaps a short note or two, read by lantern light before bedtime. But that was different, a home away from home, with people I knew and loved, free to explore and grow and act on my own volition. Besides, now there was a war going on.

    Mom kissed me on the cheek, and held me at arm’s length. “Stay out of trouble and do what they tell you. Do you have everything—your toothbrush . . .?”

    I said “Yes Mom. Bye now,” carefully examining the floor between us. I kissed her, a quick peck, and bounded down the front porch stairs, small handbag in hand. At the curb, I looked back as she raised a hand in a hesitant wave, then placed it softly on her mouth.

    I had taken it all for granted up until now—living in the familiar home of my youth, eating Mom’s home cooking, taking a full curriculum in nothing in particular at the Wisconsin State College in Milwaukee, borrowing the family car for occasional dates with Dolly.

    Then I had taken a break from academia to work full time at the Mautz Paint and Wallpaper Store on North Avenue, trying to earn enough to pay tuition and board at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. That is when my friends and neighbors sent me a special invitation to become a member of the United States Army, the army being pounded by the Chinese Peoples Army in Korea.

    I still saw Dolly most weekends. We were more or less exclusive by then, though I did not take that for granted. She was finishing her degree work in Elementary Education and would be taking a teaching job soon. I still had two years of undergraduate work to complete for a degree. After I moved to Madison, I would be able to see her only on holidays or whenever I could hitch a ride into Milwaukee. Now the Army had put another two-year hold on my already uncertain career plan. Our future looked shaky, at best.

    Dad took off work to drive me downtown to be inducted. I gazed out of the car window, not seeing the familiar city roll by, but suddenly feeling a deep sense of loss for what I was leaving behind. My dearest high school friend, Dave Mueller, a proud member of the United States Marines had died just weeks before, mortally pierced by fragments of a mortar shell somewhere on a snow-covered Korean mountainside. Would I ever see my family again?

    When Dad asked, “You okay?” I answered in a hoarse whisper, unable to speak aloud. Tears welled in my eyes. Shit! What’s he going to think? This is no way for a grown man to act. And Dad watched the road intently, without a sideways glance.

    Heroes in 1953 were still the strong and silent type. I’d seen them all, growing up, at Sunday matinees—Alan Ladd, John Wayne, Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, even Jimmy Stewart. Their calm and confident strength never yielded to tears. Sensitivity was not a virtue. They could take care of themselves. So would I.

   “Well, goodbye, Dad.” I choked back my emotions and recovered my façade of manliness by the time Dad and I shook hands just before noon. Maybe he couldn’t risk more intimate contact either.

    “Goodbye, Son. Your Mom will want you to write soon.” And I was alone in a crowd.

    I reported to a uniform holding a clipboard and joined the group of strangers on the bus that would carry us to Fort Sheridan, Illinois, my first excursion outside of Wisconsin. It was my first of many experiences with the Army’s “hurry up and wait” procedures. Dusk had settled on that January afternoon before the bus left, hours late. What kind of military discipline was this?

    In the darkness of the quiet bus interior, I felt my personal identity slipping away, becoming part of a heterogeneous mass. “I’m Anderson.” I introduced myself to my seat companion, a black named Bailey, then closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.

Richard Allen Anderson http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com