He looked down and then said, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. You know, some poor guy got sent out in his place, probably died. And all because of that little decision I made.”
I sat silent. Even the heroic act my father had just described could be twisted around to seem like a terrible one. There wasn’t a guidebook for this kind of conversation. There was no etiquette book for decisions made with the best of intentions that ultimately result in someone’s death. I felt so useless; he needed someone else to talk to, a counselor or something.
“Have you thought any more about talking to someone at the VA?” I finally asked.
“A shrink?” he asked. “I’m not going to see a shrink. Shrinks are for crazy people.”
He shook his head adamantly, and then pulled his plate closer, forking a bite of egg and swirling it around in the cheese sauce.
“Dad,” I said. “That’s not true. A psychiatrist helps people with lots of things. Just like a regular doctor does. And the ones at the VA work with veterans every day. I think it would help you to talk to someone.”
“I am talking to someone,” he said.
“But I’m not trained at this, Dad. I don’t know anything,” I said. “I’ve never been in a war.”
He shook his head emphatically.
I wanted to say, Well, what if I am the reason that your nightmares and flashbacks have become more frequent and more vivid? But I said nothing. We were so far into this process and, although I did believe that talking about it might help him, I wanted to offer him more.
After all he’d been through, he deserved the best treatment available. Maybe there was some special treatment for PTSD that would help him. Maybe talking to someone who’d been in war, who could truly understand him, would be the answer. I was just an adult daughter, one who’d only seen war on television or read about it in books. I couldn’t even begin to imagine all the emotions involved in it: the trauma, the horror, the guilt.
I’d heard that there were support groups at the VA for Vietnam veterans and Iraq veterans. I knew that they had to have some sort of common ground with my father. He’d never even talked to someone with PTSD. I imagined it would make him feel less alone, less crazy, if he heard someone with a story that paralleled his in some way. He wouldn’t feel so alone. As much as I loved him, and as much as my mother prayed for him, we could never be more than outsiders trying to understand.
On the other hand, here was my father, sitting across from me, sharing things he hadn’t told anyone. Maybe he was right. Maybe talking to me was enough. I guess it would have to be, because like it or not, I was all he had, all he’d accept. I just prayed it was enough.
“You know what?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Thomas came home to marry and have kids and probably grandkids.”
“Did he ever know what you did for him?” I asked.
“No,” he said soberly. “He never knew.”
“Well, you did a good thing, Dad.” I said. “Regardless of how many ways you twist it around, when it comes right down to it, you saved his life. And that is a good thing.”
He almost smiled.
“I suppose,” he said.
May 9, 1945
Dear Folks,
I guess this is the way I start most of my letters. Nothing new since last night when I last wrote. Have finished all my tests including the final with the exception of the procedure test. Haven’t got up enough nerve to tackle that yet.
Got a letter from Thomas Coldwell today signed with a “RM 3/C”. So I lose a dinner party next time we meet stateside. I bet him I would beat him to a rate before we left Farragut. Guess he beat me by a month. The censor had cut a big chunk of his letter but according to the rest of it, he has seen a lot of water and several new islands a long ways farther west, but no fighting as yet. I’ll have to get off an answer to him later tonight.
Just got back from taking an anti-tetanus booster shot that comes around every six months. Now my right arm is beginning to get a little sore. Good thing I don’t play baseball. The team here has a game tonight and some of them can hardly raise an arm.
The mail to this address comes in three times a day direct from the states so we are always looking forward to the new mail. We go after it three times a day. Tonight is my turn again.
You know, I think I’ll start a foto album of scenes of things I see on the island. I’ve seen practically everything of interest and they have a lot of nice cards to be bought in town. I could make up a nice small album and then send it to you to look over till I get back.
I got another issue of the Chronicle Dispatch yesterday. The Waitsburg Times hasn’t gotten started yet tho. Newspapers are sure the post office’s headache. So darned many of them come thru with names torn off and the majority are such a small printing that you have to stop and slowly examine each one instead of just glancing at each one as is the usual case in processing letters. We always have piles of it stacked all around that is lost or no address or address faded out. But the boys sure are glad to get them, so I guess it’s all worth it. And it doesn’t matter how old they are. They are still hometown news.
Mom, if you want perfect foot comfort, take the hula gals’ advice, just go barefoot. When it starts to rain here even the business people just roll up their pants legs and take off their shoes and socks and wade down main street in their bare feet. It’s sure crazy to see a man about 80 years old with a dark tan and white hair (if any) walking down the street barefooted in bathing trunks and a polo shirt with loud pictures all over it.
As for the fiat. I guess it’s OK to paint the wheels but I sure wouldn’t advise painting the body unless you absolutely have to. I know from experience that it never produces a job that you can wax with much success. To give it a spray “factory” paint job at an auto shop later is almost impossible with out sanding all of the old paint off down to the bare metal. Then of course white sidewalls always look nice with a dark car. Usually needs at least 3 or 4 coats of that special side wall paint tho. Not regular paint. The good part about that is that you can always repaint them black any time you want or wash them or repaint them white if necessary.
Well the guys are beginning to holler for mail. I’d better get after it.
Write. Love, Murray
As I read about Thomas Coldwell in Dad’s letter, I thought about how my father must have felt. After secretly putting his card back in the file, which probably saved his life, getting a letter from him must have been a relief. When Mal was killed, he’d been helpless to do anything. But when he had a chance to save another friend’s life, he’d resolved not to let it happen again. Knowing the story surrounding Thomas Coldwell, I smiled. The man had come home to find love and live a fruitful life. And he’d never known that, thanks to my father, he’d literally dodged a bullet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Blurred Line
Really had a turnout at the [V-J Day] parade, on the ground too, according to the papers. It was all quite an experience.—September 2, 1945
When I pulled up to my parents’ house to pick Dad up for breakfast, he wasn’t watching out the window for me. So I went inside. Mom said he was out back and would be back inside at any moment. I sat beside her on the sofa.
“He’s not doing so well,” she said.
“I know,” I answered.
At times he was so sad, so disconnected, that it hurt to be with him. He even seemed to have aged, his posture bent and his walk a shuffle. But more striking than the physical changes were the emotional ones. Many days when I saw him, he barely spoke. Having a conversation with him was stunted and awkward.
Worse, my sweet father now often shot his anger at my mother, and for the smallest of reasons. He yelled at her, belittled her, and argued. Mom would just stand there, her mouth turned down, silent.
When either of my sisters came home for a visit, they stayed at my parents’ house. Invariably, within a few hours of their visit, one sister or the other would call me.
&
nbsp; “He’s just so mean,” my sister would say. “Something’s changed. He just yells at her for nothing at all. Is he always like this now?”
I wasn’t sure. Living just a few blocks away, I didn’t have a reason to spend the night, let alone three or four days at their house. But on occasion, I would see the rage. It would be over something so simple. And my sisters told me the worst of it: he called my mother stupid.
And yet my mom, she simply took it. I don’t know how she did it, but she did. It wasn’t that she was made of stone and not hurt by his outbursts. But she knew on some deep level that perhaps only fifty plus years of marriage could explain: that something was wrong with him. It didn’t make his words any less hurtful. But every time he hurt her, she prayed. And when he came back to hurt her again, she prayed even harder.
“He’s having nightmares,” Mom said. “Terrible nightmares, and he had a flashback the other night.”
“What do you mean? What kind of a flashback? How do you know it was a flashback?” I asked.
“You know, when I thought about it later, I half remembered hearing running water in the middle of the night. But I didn’t think anything of it. But when I went into the bathroom in the morning, there was water all over the sink and floor,” she said. “I took some towels from the cupboard to clean it up and yelled for your dad.”
My father had just stood there in the doorway as she soaked the water up.
“What in the world happened in here?” she asked.
“I had a flashback,” he said. “It was like I was back on that ship with Mal. I think I was half awake and half sleeping. My mind just ran the whole thing like a video, but I was in it. I looked down and I saw his blood on my shirt. I was standing here washing it off when I sort of came to.”
We heard the back door open. Dad walked into the living room, grabbing his coat and cane from the chair.
“How long have you been waiting for me?” he asked.
“Oh, not long,” I said. “Just long enough to talk about you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he joked.
He looked at my mother and then at me. Although he didn’t let on that he suspected what we’d been talking about, there was something in his expression that looked suspicious. Still, neither of us spoke of it.
“Are you going to the Veterans Day parade?” he asked on the way to the restaurant.
“Maybe,” I said. “When is it?”
“It’s on Sunday,” he said. “At ten o’clock.”
“But that’s right in the middle of church,” I said. “Why would they have it on a Sunday?”
“That’s just where it fell this year,” he said.
I hadn’t been to the parade in years. It just fell at a bad time. That’s what I told myself. I enjoyed the Fair parade in early September, when the weather was still warm. There was a nighttime Christmas parade in December that was fairly new to our town. However, three parades in four months just seemed a little much.
But after the intense and emotional journey we’d been on, how could I not go with my father?
It was bitter cold that Sunday. Ric filled a thermos with hot cocoa and I put some cups in a plastic grocery sack. But when it came to taking the kids, they did not want to go. The most vocal was our youngest, Caleb.
“Do they throw candy?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “That’s the fair parade. November is just too wet and rainy for candy to be thrown on the street.”
“Then I’m not going,” he said.
“Caleb,” I scolded. “It’s not about the candy.”
“Yes, it is,” he argued.
“Listen, Caleb,” I said. “Veterans Day is the most important holiday of the year. It’s the day we honor people who fought to keep our country free. Think of all the things you can do, all the freedom you have. All of that is because veterans fought for it. Like your grandpa.”
“Grandpa was in a war?” Caleb asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “He was in World War II.”
“Did he carry a gun?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “You know all those letters I’ve been typing up—of Grandpa’s?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Well, your grandpa did some really important things during the war. He broke a code called Katakana. And just like all of the young men who went off to fight, your grandpa was very brave. His country needed him and he went,” I explained.
“You know other veterans too, like your uncle Rudy. He is a Vietnam veteran,” I added. “And when people are in a war, they are never the same again. They come home to live their life, but they can never forget the things they had to do and the things they saw.”
“And that’s what the parade is for?” Caleb asked.
I nodded. Caleb, satisfied with my explanation, quickly put on his coat, hat, and gloves. Micah and Danielle had heard the conversation. They’d probably secretly hoped that Caleb would win this one, but he hadn’t and they too dressed warmly.
We met Mom and Dad at the designated spot, arriving early so we’d get a good one. Dad had already set up folding chairs for him and Mom. They were bundled up and had wool blankets across their laps.
Ric handed me the thermos as he unfolded chairs for us. A sparse crowd gathered at the curb.
As the color guard passed, my father raised himself, with some difficulty, from his lawn chair. He removed his hat and held it over his heart.
I leaned down to whisper in Caleb’s ear.
“Caleb, remember, we stand out of respect for the American flag and what it stands for,” I said.
“But nobody else is standing,” he whined.
I looked around, and then pointed out the few who were standing. After the flags passed, Ric served hot cocoa as we watched the parade. There were horses, vintage cars, and a few groups that marched by. Unlike the Southeastern Washington Fair parade or the Christmas parade, this one was sparse both in participants and in spectators. For a small town that was full of patriotic folks, this was a pathetic showing.
A short time later, the last of the parade passed us and we gathered up our things. Caleb looked up at me.
“That was it?” he asked.
I held his hand as we crossed the street.
“I thought you said this was important,” he said.
I again told Caleb the importance of veterans and the freedom they’ve given us, but I knew it was a moot point. You can’t fool a child; he’d already seen what people thought of Veterans Day. I couldn’t change that.
May 31, 1945
Dear Folks,
It has been about three days since I wrote last. I suppose you think I’m at least at Guam by now. Surprise! I’m still here.
I wouldn’t think a little thing like a ride home from Pasco would be much to worry about. Personally I would be glad to be turned loose over here in the middle of a pineapple field with orders to find my way back to Dayton.
I didn’t beat you far as to seeing “Here Come the Waves.” Saw it about a month ago. I notice most of the shows advertised in the Chronicle Dispatch are about the same ones we have here at the same time. Don’t tell anyone but I seem to know more about the DF news than Waitsburg news. That is except when they tell a bit about some old school chums. Saw Merle Eaton’s picture in the Times for example. Sure hope he was just a prisoner in Germany and is OK now.
I’ve often speculated too, as to what I’ll do when I get back. I change my mind about once a week. I understand I can start school any time within two years after I’m discharged from the Navy under the GI bill of rights. I imagine at least another year in the service and then I’ll be 25. That’s darned near too old to start a regular college course of four years so imagine if I go to school at all it will be to Kinmans or some kind of business course of a year duration or a little more. Kind of hate to lose out on a chance to get some free higher education but on the other hand, I’ll probably just lose out that much more time in getting caught up again on things on
the railroad. I’ve thought quite a lot lately, that it might be a better idea to take a few weeks off (if I can stand it) when I get out and then work for a year or so on the railroad (at Helix I s’pose) and then take in a year of school. But you are probably right mom as to cash. I think I’ll just run around until the dough runs out. That shouldn’t be long, as I figure it will take most of the total three hundred bucks mustering out pay to get new clothes. But then, we have a few days yet. Another thing—men (good men) must be scarce. All my old gal friends are pitching in and really writing nice letters. They’ll probably all be lined up at the depot and make me take my choice when I get back.
We got word a couple of days ago that the first four rows of tents along a main road here would have to be vacated in one hour. They assigned us to new tents about the same distance from the office—about 50 yards. I really hit it lucky there. I was put in a tent with four of the guys that practically run the school here. Of course I knew them all before but not too well personally. Two of them are storekeepers (Navy rate) who washed out of flight training last year. The other two are a radioman and signalman who are in the big shots.
We have the best tent on the base I think. They have a special floor of heavy painted plywood—smooth as glass and easy to clean. That makes it much cooler during the day. And the table in the center is varnished wood same as the individual chairs. We also each have a chest to put things in instead of living out of sea bag as before. Also have four radios now including mine. No use doing anything about sending it back tho as you never can tell about the Navy. I might be by myself again tomorrow. And the best thing about the change is the food. They all know all the cooks and bakers and do them favors now and then so we are well furnished all the time with any kind of meat anytime we want it. One of the men is a good cook so he does the cooking. Another takes care of the dishes and silverware. I drew keeping the table and floor clean. It’s really a pleasure after living in that other tent. Had the best steak sandwiches tonite I’ve eaten since I hit the “rock.” We really have a swell bunch. We all work together here and when it comes to any special favors now and then we can always help each other. I’m in the post office and of course can slip mail out a couple of hours or more early instead of waiting ’til mail call, and they can do me favors. That’s the way the Navy is run so I just as well take advantage of it.
Breaking the Code Page 15
