The Heroics of Being Alive, Part 2

The Romance

Author’s Note: Friends, for the past several years, I’ve made a point of adding or updating an essay about my father’s military service and posting it around Memorial Day. What began as a short remembrance of my dad, who was a reluctant soldier, has grown substantially. I add to it each year, including this year. Despite its expanding, I fear we still haven’t come to any conclusions. But we’ll keep trying, if for no other reason than because my father deeply disliked being a soldier and perhaps he’d appreciate my attempts to come to terms with this part of my family history.

So, this year, we’ll present you this new updated essay in five parts – Today, Part Two, is titled The Romance. Link here for Part One: The Ceremony. I leave judgement to you all and post without further comment.

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Uncle Ted, on left, with his Invader

Part 2: The Romance

The romance of military service never existed in my family like I see so often in other circles.

My uncle, my father’s brother, was a crew member of a Douglas A-26 Invader, a long range, heavy bomber. My father always referred to him as a gunner, so as near as I can figure, his job was to man the Invader’s rear 20mm cannons. Some versions of the Invader had gun turrets mounted under the wings, and up to eight 0.50 caliber machine guns mounted in the nose. My uncle’s plane could fly as fast as 355 miles per hour, had a range of 1,400 miles and, finally, could carry up to 4,000 pounds of bombs.

She was powerful, and deadly. No wonder the plane was often referred to as the “grim reaper.”

I don’t know this because he told me. In fact, I know only the most rudimentary details about his role in the service because he refused to talk to me about it. Lord knows I tried. As a young man, such a job felt adventurous and, dare I say it, fun. I begged him for stories, but he’d just smile and shake his head.

“Let your uncle alone,” my father would scold. “He didn’t do anything worth telling.” The two brothers would share a glance, and even at my young age I understood that look to mean, that he did indeed do many things worth telling.

It was only much, much later that I realized that those things were horrible things.

My father was drafted into occupied Japan right at the end of the war. He spent his time there, overseas, as a supply sergeant. Unlike his brother, as near as I could tell he saw no engagement. But he did have to deal with being an occupier. My dad, unlike my uncle, was more than happy to talk about his time in Japan, a place and people he grew to respect and a culture – I believe -that fashioned his worldview.

He spoke often about how polite all the natives he met were, expecting them to hate him, expecting them to harbor anger or resentment. He recalled a day when he and his buddies decided to drive as far up Mount Fuji as they could. The Jeep broke down and it took a “little old Japanese man” to do the repairs.

“But what did you do as part of the military,” I would ask him. I was looking for adventure. I wanted my dad – there in a foreign country, in a uniform – to be bold and noble and exciting. But he was not. At least not in the way my young, foolish self was looking for.

“Well,” he’d begin slowly, “mostly I didn’t listen very well and ended up walking up and down a lot of stairs. Mainly I peeled potatoes the entire time I was there.”

Tomorrow, Part Three: The Heroics