Veterans Day Remembrance

I called my dad this morning. I wished him a happy Veterans Day. It might be the last time I wish him a happy Veterans Day. We talked about his 6th Marine Division reunions. I reminded him of the photos of him and his mates, drinks in hand, laughing and recalling their service together. 

One of his buddies, a burly barrel-chested guy from Missouri, attended the reunions. In one photo he and my dad are leaning into the camera laughing about something. My dad went through two and a half years with barely a scratch. That buddy lost a leg. He had stepped on a mine after they had secured Enjebi. My dad had walked over the same ground just seconds before his mate had his leg blown off. Maybe they were talking about that moment. My dad didn’t remember.  

The first reunion was well attended. Then fewer showed up. Then, fewer still.  

My dad stopped going. Most of the men he knew, and fought with, were gone.  

“They are all gone now,” he said. Below is a photo of his JASCO graduating class. Dad and his mates were about to be sent to war. 

I doubt my dad is the last of the 6th Marines, but he is certainly one of a few hundred World War II Marines left. Over the years, he shared some fun memories about his time in the Marines. Some of his cherished memories were of simpler and fun moments – not harrowing combat, although he had plenty of those memories too. 

Here are two:  

He and a Marine buddy were returning from a leave, but they were in a restricted area. Shore Patrol stopped them. They were informed that they were in trouble. Big trouble. One of the cops took out a notepad and asked my dad’s buddy for his information. Name and unit. He didn’t ask for his ID card. My dad noticed that. When he asked my dad the same question, my wily dad gave up a fake name and the wrong unit.  

When the cops left, his buddy turned to him and said:  

“You are in big trouble! What happens when they find out that you gave them a phony name!” My dad reminded his buddy that he was in trouble, not my dad. The only real name the cops had was his buddy’s. 

After Japan had surrendered, my dad’s regiment was shipped to Sing Tao, China, as an occupying force. The Marines were told that they could not carry weapons on leave. Marines were getting robbed and beaten up, so they were told to travel in groups. But no weapons. My dad wasn’t having it. He carried his 1911 under his blouse. The group of Marines with my dad all knew that my dad was armed. They had stopped at a bar and were having a great time. They rolled up a bill. His buddy Marines waited for my dad to use the head.  

When my dad was out of sight, they told the bartender that “the guy in the bathroom” was going to pay the bill. My dad emerged. His buddies were gone. He didn’t have enough money to pay the bill. “You pay!” my dad was told. He gave him what he had. Not enough. The owner barred the door and demanded to be paid. My dad pulled out his pistol and told the owner to open the door.  

Once outside, his mates were laughing their heads off. They all ran to avoid the inevitable Shore Patrol.  

When they weren’t fighting, they had time to recreate. My dad is on the right. He played with and against men who were major league baseball players who also answered the call.

My dad reminded me that he was very lucky. He was able to come home, meet his wife, play baseball at Gonzaga University, and raise his family. Many of the Marines he went to war with never left the sands of Pacific islands or the hills of Okinawa. Some came home missing a limb, like his Missouri buddy. Some, like my dad, lived out their lives. 

Veterans all. 

God bless them.

This post was originally published on this site