Memorial Day

On September 16, 1943, my father turned 18. Shortly after that, he was drafted into the U.S. Army and accepted into the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP).

The ASTP is one of the lesser known programs from World War II. Its goal was to produce highly trained specialists to fill vital technical roles within the army. My father was to receive training as a meteorologist. Entrance requirements for the ASTP were more stringent than those required for Officer Candidate School. ASTP candidates took the same test as officer candidates -- essentially an IQ test -- but were required to score higher; a minimum IQ of 120 for the ASTP versus a minimum IQ of 110 for OCS. Soldiers in the ASTP would spend 13 weeks in basic training then be sent to a college campus for accelerated training in their assigned field.

My grandparents were very relieved when Dad ended up in the ASTP. What parents wouldn't be relieved to know their child was safe on an American university campus rather than fighting in France? Their relief was short-lived. By late 1943, the army had a severe shortage of infantry men. With over 250,000 men enrolled in the ASTP, all of whom had taken basic training, the solution was obvious. By February, 1944, the ASTP was officially cancelled. America's best and brightest, including my father, were off to war.

Dad spoke very little about his time in combat, even in his later years when he started attending reunions for his army company and battalion. When I was young, he told me of the time his platoon found themselves in a mine field. They discovered it when the three men directly in front of him were killed by a mine. The platoon very carefully turned around and walked back out of the field by stepping exactly where they had stepped coming in.

Another time, he and two other members of his platoon got separated from the rest of the platoon after a German ambush. They wandered for two days, trying to find their way back to allied lines. Finally, they spotted three soldiers in the distance. Overjoyed to finally be safe, they waved and shouted and walked towards the other soldiers. The other soldiers looked just as happy to see my father and his buddies, waving and shouting back. It was only when the two groups were closer to each other that both groups realized the truth. Those other soldiers were German. Afraid they were close to German lines, Dad and his buddies turned and ran. The German soldiers ran, also. No shots were fired. Later, Dad figured the three German soldiers were probably just as lost as he was and ran for the same reason.

My favorite story, which Dad didn't tell me until sometime in the late 1990s, was about the liberation of the French town of Bitche. Approaching the city, the American soldiers speculated that the town's name must have a French sound to it. Most figured it was pronounced "beech." It wasn't. The name is pronounced "bitch," as in a female dog. Yes, the pronunciation is important to the story.

The 100th Infantry Division attacked German forces holed up within a citadel overlooking Bitche. Built in the 17th century, the stone citadel had never been fallen to any attack or seige, not even during the German blitzkrieg of France. The 100th Infantry Division broke the streak, taking it after a three month seige. In appreciation, the town immediately adopted the 100th, naming them the "Sons of Bitche," a title the 100th Infantry Division flag carries to this day. From that point on, the 100th had a great time telling everyone who would listen that they were the meanest Sons of Bitche in Europe. I could see why Dad didn't mention that while I was growing up. He also somehow failed to mention it in his letters home to his parents, either. My grandfather kept every single letter sent by my father and I've read them all. Not once does he refer to himself as a Son of Bitche!

On April 20, around 5:30 PM -- only 18 days before the end of the war in Europe -- a German howitzer shell exploded near my father. Later, Dad said he never heard the explosion, just remembered finding himself in a ditch and trying to raise himself up on his knees. A German soldier who had just surrendered knelt and offered his first aid kit. That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in an army hospital.

On May 5, the telegram arrived at my grandparents' house in Greenville, SC. My grandfather was at work and my grandmother was out shopping. Only my father's grandmother, who died years before my birth, was at home. Understandably, she was terrified about what news the telegram contained. She dithered for almost half and hour before finally opening the telegram. The telegram was terse, only informing them that my father had been "seriously wounded" on April 20. Through my uncle, who was in a military clerical position in Greenville, they learned that "seriously wounded" meant wounds that would require hospitalization for at least one week.

On the same day my grandparents received the telegram, a second telegram was dispatched to them. It arrived nine days later, on May 14. This one informed them Dad was "making normal improvement" from his "wound of right thigh." While the telegram was terse, my grandparents considered its words more beautiful than anything they'd ever read. My grandmother carried the telegram with her so she could show it to anyone and everyone who even remotely knew my father had been wounded.

The stated "wound of right thigh" was only the most serious of Dad's wounds. Two pieces of shrapnel went right through his right thigh. More shrapnel deeply slashed his back, right buttocks and chest. Another piece of shrapnel cut off the upper half of his left middle finger. The slashes on his back and buttocks required skin grafts to heal properly. The skin for the grafts was taken from his left thigh and unwounded areas of his right thigh. Removing the skin for grafting left large scars; in reality more like indentations in his thighs. The scars were five to six inches long, about two inches wide and maybe a quarter of an inch deep. They were only visible when Dad wore a bathing suit. His left middle finger was the only wound always visible.

Dad's been gone for nearly four years as I post this. It's Memorial Day, a day that seems to have lost its original meaning in this overly-commercialized culture of ours. Memorial Day means many things to me, none of them having anything to do with "big sales events" at the mall.

On Memorial Day, I remember the missing half of my father's left middle finger. I remember the scars on my father's legs. I remember the Purple Heart he was so proud of. I remember his surprise when, at the age of 66 he found out he had been awarded the Bronze Star 46 years earlier and never known it. I remember his pride at having performed the toughest, most dangerous job in the army -- infantryman -- to the best of his ability. I remember crying as Taps was played at his funeral.

On Memorial Day, I remember the Son of Bitche who taught me to be the man I am today.

On Memorial Day, I remember visiting Arlington National Cemetery and looking upon row after row after row of simple, white headstones, overcome by awe and wonder at the enormous sacrifices they represent.

On Memorial Day, I remember those who died so I could live free.

Writer's Day: The Petition Drive For a New Holiday

"Hello," I said to the man on the street. "Would you like to sign a petition in favor of the creation of a new holiday, Writer's Day?"

"Righter's Day?" the man asked. "No, I'm left handed. You righties have it easy enough without getting a holiday, too! I'm part of a persecuted minority-"

"No, no, I don't mean 'right' as in the opposite of 'left,'" I said. "I mean 'write' as in to use words to convey a message or story, such as writing a novel."

"Oh. That's different," the man said. "Still, why do we need a special holiday just for writers?"

"An excellent question!" I said. "On Writer's Day we would remember the wonder and joy we receive from the written word and celebrate those who bring the written word to us! And we'd mail cards to our favorite writers, wishing them a happy Writer's Day."

"Ugh. You mean I'd have to celebrate Lenny, the CFO, who keeps sending us long-winded memos about using pens until they run out of ink, tells us ten paper clips a week should be a gracious plenty or says we should print out our emails and read them with the computer off to save power?" the man asked.

"Um, no. Lenny isn't the kind of writer I had in mind," I answered. "I meant to celebrate the giants of literature such as William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Bruce Bethke."

"Aren't those guys all dead?" the man asked.

"Bethke's not," I answered.

"But I've never read anything by him," the man said, "so why would I send him a card?"

"It doesn't have to be just one of those writers," I said. "You can send cards to any writer whose work you enjoy!"

"Maybe, but I don't read novels," the man said. "I don't see what I'd have to celebrate."

"Do you read comic strips?" I asked.

"Sure! That's my favorite part of reading the paper on the subway," the man said.

"Then send a card to writer of your favorite comic strip," I said.

"Wait, someone actually writes those things?" he asked.

"The words have to come from somewhere," I answered.

"Imagine that," the man said.

"Or you could send cards to the writers of your favorite TV shows or movies," I suggested.

"You're telling me someone writes those, too?" the man asked. "I thought the actors made it all up!"

"Have you ever read anything written by an actor?" I asked.

"Yeah... It was kind of stupid," the man said.

"I rest my case," I said. "So, how about signing the petition?"

"I'm still not sure," the man said. "What kinds of cards would people send to their favorite writers?"

"Ah! I have a couple of samples with me right here!" I said.



"Here's another one," I said.



"Those don't seem very friendly," the man said.

"Friendly? No, you've got the wrong idea! They're funny!" I said. "See, we give our favorite writers a chuckle. Just like the chuckle they give unpublished geniuses every time we ask them to critique our work. Yes, exactly like that! Now the ingrates will get a chance to see just what it's like to have no-talent hacks telling them their work sucks! Oh, yes, I can see it- Hey, where are you going?"

"I'm, uh... I'm late for a meeting. Or something. Got to run!" the man said, all the while backing slowly away from me.

"Don't you want to sign the petition?" I asked.

"Maybe some other time," the man said before turning and scurrying away.

"Some people..." I said before turning to another passerby. "Ma'am? Would you sign a petition?"