Called to Arms Again: A Tribute to the Greatest Generation

by J. L. Salter

  Coffey smiled. “I already like this issue and you haven’t even written it yet. I think they finally got the right reporter on this assignment.”

  She smiled self-consciously.

  Coffey had the smooth, folksy voice of a small town radio broadcaster. “Maybe it’ll help you if I just rattle on for a few minutes. If we come across something you think you can use, stop me and we’ll dig a little deeper in that spot. Okay?”

  With some people she’d interviewed that would be a recipe for disaster, but Kelly had a notion she could listen to Commander Coffey for hours. “Okay.”

  Coffey leaned back in his chair and looked up at the corner of the ceiling. A small drip had formed a coffee-colored stain near that corner, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Manifest destiny. When a few generations of American pioneers headed out west, they had what we since call pioneer spirit. They relied on themselves and maybe a neighbor, if they had any. They struggled to reach the land, worked hard to transform their land into crops and pastures, and then fought to protect that property. Somebody you don’t know rides up, they’re suspected enemies until they can prove otherwise. That toughness, self reliance, and willingness to fight — that’s at the heart of what it means to serve your country in uniform.”

  Kelly scribbled notes as fast as she could.

  “Now, things are a lot different in today’s military — air conditioned dormitories, limits on physical activity, restrictions on company punishment, and so on. But when our doughboys trained to go fight in the trenches of France, they lived in canvas tents with mud floors, used a slit latrine, and sometimes ate standing in the rain. My daddy trained at Camp Sevier, right down in Tennessee. I’ve seen photos. You talk about primitive conditions. Those soldiers were also pioneers of a sort. What they did goes back through the Civil War and as far back as when Minutemen helped carve out a new and free nation out of an expensive British colony.”

  “Bring it up to the Second World War. We still have a good number of surviving veterans.”

  “Okay. Well, they served because they were needed. They were willing — most of them, anyway — because this was their land. Some of them had sacrificed to get here from Europe and other places. During the Depression, most had struggled just to survive, and many had to fight as part of growing up. America was their land and they weren’t going to let foreign empires attack us without paying consequences.”

  “I’ve seen several special booklets which feature Pulaski County veterans.”

  “Yeah. Different groups put them out. But they’re all good. Gives these old-timers some recognition for serving our country and doing their duty.”

  “A lot of those bios are pretty short, sometimes hardly more than a list of units they were in and countries where they served. I’d like to interview a couple of Pulaski men who were really up to their elbows in combat. Could you point me toward a few like that?”

  “We got lots of fellers that were up to their necks in combat.” His meaty hand touched right below his ample chin. “I’ll tell you one that still amazes me. You know Pete Henley?”

  Kelly shook her head.

  “He runs our Post’s Honor Guard.”

  “My landlord’s a member, if you mean the men who shoot rifles at funerals.”

  Coffey nodded. “Who’s your landlord?”

  “Chet Walter.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He smiled broadly. “Me and Chet go way back. I’ll be. You live in that creepy old house on Chet’s farm?”

  “No, but I’ve been inside it a good bit. Everybody says it’s haunted.” She smiled and then cleared her throat. “No, I’m up on the hill. Pop built a little cabin up there.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it. Nice little cabin. So that’s you up there all alone, right next to the cemetery?” He winked. “Quiet neighbors?”

  Kelly ignored the very tired quip. “So tell me about Mister Henley.”

  “Master Sergeant Henley. Your landlord knows the story better than I do.”

  “Let me hear your version and I’ll piece the two together.”

  “Well, it was the European theater, Battle of the Bulge. Henley’s platoon, maybe his whole company, was pinned down by direct enemy fire to their exposed front. Behind them was cover but German 88s were shelling those trees like crazy, so they were out on the fringe and dug-in to shallow foxholes in the freezing snow. Somehow or ruther, maybe they’d made a charge but had to come back to their former position, their platoon leader was badly wounded and left between the lines. They could see him and hear him squalling, but nobody could get to him. Everybody knew the L-T would die if he was left out there. If not from the wounds he already had, then from German snipers. So Henley told the rest of his platoon to lay down covering fire and he crawled way out there to the lieutenant. Then Henley slowly dragged him back in, low as he could scrape the ground. With Mausers and machine guns firing all around him, Henley somehow got that platoon leader back near the foxholes. When they got within about fifteen yards, some of the other men scrambled out of their holes and helped carry him in.”

  “Wow! So that’s what you meant by up to his neck in combat.”

  “The lieutenant lost his leg but he was still conscious when medics came to take him back to the aid station. Last thing he said was, ‘Henley, I’ll see you get the Bronze Star for this.’ Well, officers were always promising medals. Some of them used it as a bribe. But G.I.s aren’t stupid. They’ll risk their life if they have to, by orders, or out of duty, but not because somebody dangles a medal. Most guys knew they’d never see any decoration.” Coffey sighed heavily. “So the war eventually ended and Henley never heard another word about that medal.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Until about fifty-five years later.” Coffey smiled. “He got a call one day from Lieutenant So-and-so. The lieutenant says: ‘Henley, you remember how I promised I’d get you a medal for saving my life at Bastogne? Well, I’m sorry it took this long, but I finally sent up the paperwork. I located some men from your unit who witnessed what you did and they’ve got affidavits on file. It’s all in the channels now and I just wanted you to know. I didn’t forget my promise. I’m just running behind schedule’.”

  Kelly stopped writing.

  “Turned out the lieutenant had cancer that they couldn’t operate and he was taking care of some unfinished business in his life. Getting Henley that medal he’d promised was evidently pretty high on his list.”

  A tear fell onto Kelly’s tablet. “So Henley got his Bronze Star after all, even though it was half a century late?”

  “Well, that’s the final twist. When you submit paperwork for decorations, you never know what it’ll be like when it comes out the other end, so to speak.”

  Kelly sniffled audibly. “You don’t mean they downgraded it to something else.”

  Coffey paused and popped a candy in his mouth. “Nope. Upgraded. Henley got the Silver Star.”

  “How high is that decoration?”

  “Used to be only two medals between Silver Star and Congressional Medal of Honor.”

  Kelly’s mouth hung open briefly.

  “Now they’ve added a couple of new decorations and bumped Silver Star down a bit. But anyway, you talk to Pete. He’s a good one for your interviews.”

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “And Bastogne was only one of Pete’s war stories. You’ll need a thick pad to write all the stuff he did in the war.”

  Kelly shifted in her chair trying to get comfortable and glanced toward the adjacent chair, which looked just as unfriendly. “I guess you saw the angry letter by some kid’s mother about uniformed veterans coming to schools to talk about war history and such.”

  “Aaah. The Harris woman. You know I feel truly sorry for somebody that dimwitted. It amazes me how some grown people apparently think America’s independence is some kind of quirky accident. They don’t have a clue that it took people dying in battles to help preserve our liberty. That’s the very freedom she has to spo
ut off in her little frantic letter. It just galls me.”

  That hit a nerve. Kelly wrote a note and then flipped back a few pages.

  Coffey winced as he repositioned his left foot. “Miss Randall, let me pose a situation to you that I think might help answer some of the questions you’re asking me.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, here goes: Except for some battles on the islands off Alaska in World War II, before it was even a state, we haven’t fought a major military conflict on U.S. soil since the Civil War. So, what would citizens do if an invading army stormed into their towns and took over? What would ordinary folks do if invaders got up close and personal… marching down their neighborhood streets?”

  The question was very similar to his challenge in the editor’s office.

  “If it would help to visualize such a scene, just think of the movie, Red Dawn. It captures the situation perfectly.”

  “Didn’t see it.”

  “You ought to. Everybody should. Hmm. Okay, then imagine World War II’s French Resistance, but in modern day America.”

  Kelly couldn’t picture it and shrugged. She waited to learn if Coffey would answer his own question. He didn’t. Coffey evidently wanted to hear her notion. “Well, I don’t know. I’m afraid most people would do nothing except try to keep from getting killed.”

  “And how would they do that?” He leaned forward in his chair.

  “I guess they’d figure compliance would give them the best chance of survival. That’s what most trainers say, about personal attacks, anyway.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right — seminar trainers and the media do preach that kind of response. But that’d be wrong, dead wrong. Nowhere have folks been better off when they’ve just rolled over and let invaders do what they wish, take what they want, kill who they will. Look at the Warsaw ghetto and Nazi concentration camps. Stalin’s gulags. Pol Pot’s re-education centers. Nobody’s ever better off when they let a small number of thugs or invaders take over their homes and families, their lives, without a struggle. The only reason America has some two hundred and thirty years of independence is because a small number stood up and fought. Sometimes their very neighbors thought they were crazy and tried to convince them to roll over with appeasement.” Coffey paused again and put his large palms flat on his desktop. “So I repeat the question: What would people do, now, if invaders came at them?” He waited for the effect. “Here’s the answer: they’d look to the government to handle it. And what do you think the government will do?”

  Kelly wondered if she should respond.

  Coffey answered his own query. “Nothing. The government would spin in circles like they’ve done in so many other situations, including hurricanes and floods. Officials and agencies know they can’t rescue everybody, can’t feed everybody, can’t protect everybody. But it serves many purposes to perpetuate that lie, and there’s enough gullible people who want to believe it. When the chips are down, don’t count on the government to do anything but criticize other departments and maybe even arrest you if you stand up to do something.”

  “For example?”

  “Right after Hurricane Katrina, the New Orleans police confiscated legally owned firearms from law-abiding citizens — which is against the Constitution and all existing laws — and those poor souls became essentially defenseless against roving gangs of looters, thieves, rapists, and whatever.” Coffey scratched his fleshy ear lobe with a thick fingertip. “No, the government won’t protect you and might very well come after you if you try to protect yourself. But people need to remember the fundamentals of freedom — take a stand, pull together, and fight back. Don’t roll over, don’t try to appease invaders, and don’t surrender your rights. Or your guns.”

  Coffey had more to say in response to his own series of questions. Then he wound down. “Sorry, I guess that’s my soapbox.”

  Kelly pulled out a sheet with notes on the different living generations. “Okay, here’s my final question. You’re a member of what Tom Brokaw called the Greatest Generation. You fought in World War II and you’re Post Commander in the American Legion. What’s your assessment of the generations that follow you? Is patriotism mostly dead these days? What does America’s future look like to you?”

  “Well, that’s about three or four questions. But, let me say it this way.” He reached two heavy fingers into the little glass bowl, picked up a yellow piece and dropped it back in. “Brokaw’s a good man for bringing attention to those of us who lived in that time. Mind you, some who served here at home were just as important as those fighting. Not as dangerous, of course — hardly any killing and dying on the home front. But we couldn’t fight over there without guns and ammo, tanks and planes, ships and artillery from back home.” He located a red candy, looked it over, popped it into his mouth, and rolled it around with his tongue. “There were some who shirked their duty overseas and in combat. And some who didn’t contribute a blessed thing back home. Profiteers and such. But, by and large, there was a host of real good Americans who stood up on their hind legs and did their best to keep the world free of two tyrannical empires. Three, if you count Italy under Mussolini.”

  That was a partial answer to one question. Kelly wondered where Coffey was headed.

  “But even with all the sacrifice, on the battlefields and here at home, I can’t say I agree we’re the greatest generation. We did a fine job and nobody could’ve done it better. But to say we’re the greatest would be a slight to those brave souls who created this republic.”

  Kelly nodded.

  “Other generations have stood up and been tested. My daddy served in France during World War I, along with about twelve hundred other Pulaski boys who wore the uniform. Of that bunch, thirty-five combat deaths. You ever looked at those monuments in front of the courthouse?” Coffey pointed that direction through the window. “Thirteen Pulaski men killed in the Korean Conflict and eighteen killed during Vietnam.” He obviously had these numbers memorized for speeches.

  “I’ve seen them. How many Pulaski names on our courthouse monument for your war?”

  The Commander had not forgotten the number of names in bronze on that large marble monument but he paused, probably because several were friends or relatives. “There were a hundred and ninety-three local boys killed in my war, Mizz Randall.” He swallowed hard. “But even that high number killed doesn’t make us the greatest generation.”

  Kelly thought he had argued the opposite point, but did not interrupt him.

  “As far as being patriots — that’s not something you wear on the outside. It’s deep inside each one of us and you don’t necessarily see it unless or until there’s a major crisis. Look what happened after the attacks on September Eleventh. Patriots emerge when the country needs them. The rest of the time, they’re working day jobs.”

  “What do you see in the newer generations?”

  “Well, I feel real good about most of you. Of course, not the druggies and what-nots. When the time comes, when our American way of life is threatened, most of you will hitch up your britches and do your duty.”

  “What is our duty? I mean, what will it be? You’re talking about military?”

  “Military’s the organized part — trained, equipped, ready. But so is law enforcement, fire control, hazmat teams, and health care responders. Ordinary citizens — teachers, preachers, and parents — will also stand up and do whatever it takes to keep this country free.”

  “So you’re pretty optimistic about America’s future.”

  Coffey leaned forward again. “Well, I’m optimistic about America’s folks. I think once they recognize freedom is slipping through their fingers, they’ll fight like crazy to hold on to it.” He looked down. “What worries me is whether they’ll recognize how fast it’s disappearing and whether they’ll catch it in time.”

  Kelly had wondered the same thing, though never verbalized it. She scribbled more notes and then flipped back to a different page. “Nearly seventeen million uniformed
Americans served in World War II and a large number of those, including you, went overseas to fight. That took a lot of courage.”

  “Maybe so.” There was a twinkle in Coffey’s eye. “Of course when they line you up by platoon and march you into the bowels of a troop ship, you kinda go along because it’s better than the stockade.” He held up a huge hand. “But I know what you’re saying and I appreciate the compliment.” Coffey shifted again in his creaking chair. “And I’ve got a feeling about you, Mizz Randall.”

  His thick forefinger aimed so intensely at her torso, she was tempted to look down and see if he had somehow penetrated her flesh.

  He continued, “I figure you’ve got the vim and vinegar to stand up and fight, too.”

  Kelly did not explain to Coffey that she had already proven her vinegar several times. And probably her vim, whatever that was. “I don’t know. Fear is a mighty big factor.”

  “‘True courage is being afraid, and going ahead and doing your job anyhow’.” Coffey formed two sets of quotation marks with his fingers.

  “I’ve heard variations of that quote. I like it.”

  The Commander was silent for a moment as Kelly looked back through her notes.

  “Mizz Randall, I’ve got the feeling maybe some of this isn’t really sinking in.”

  She started to interrupt, but he waved her quiet.

  “No, that’s completely understandable. Maybe it would help if you tell me something. Surely you had some relatives in the military. Tell me about one of them, and maybe I can help bring this home for you.”

  She considered mentioning her Uncle Edgar, a World War II veteran who retired from the Army, but changed her mind and did not reply.

  Coffey evidently sensed her reluctance. “Here’s my number.” He handed her an old card from his title company days. “If you have any other questions, call me. I’m usually up late.”