Andrew's View of the Week

The following is a repost of a piece I wrote three years ago about my father.  Seemed like time to repeat it.

I am proud to say that my Father served overseas in the US Army in World War II.  He was a radar repairman and operator in the Alaska Department serving on the Aleutians Islands as part of the Coast Artillery Corps. My father would dismiss any sense of pride in what he did.  It is just what young American men did in the 40’s – fought a war to end Imperial Japan’s hold on the Pacific and crush Hitler’s Nazi war machine.  What’s the big deal?  That was his attitude.

Father died in 2001 at the VA hospital in Menlo Park after a string of strokes and related health problems.  He wasn’t an old soldier, but rather an old civilian who had served his country.  He didn’t leave behind many objects – physical possessions or war memorabilia. His entire collection of things from his service included:

His dog tags
Alaska Department patch (polar bear with star)
Rank patch – technician 5th grade
Campaign medal for Asia-Pacific
Two garrison caps
His discharge paper

The only other thing I have from his military service is his flag.  When a veteran dies, the VA gives a US flag to the family.  I remember the day father died, the doctor called me early in the morning with the bad news and later in the day someone from the VA mortuary called to ask where to send the body and the flag.

We displayed it at father’s memorial service (father was cremated so there was no casket) and afterwards my brother and I folded it.  My wife bought me a display case for it and now the flag sits atop my memorabilia cabinet next to my desk.  As I write this, his flag and memory sits over my right shoulder.

Perhaps that is as it should be.  There is rarely a day that goes by that I don’t remember one of his jokes, or one of his stories, or bits of wisdom.
I could go on for days listing all the things I remember.  Here are a few of his often spoken quotes:

When told, “Good to see you.” He’d always reply, “It’s good to be seen.”
“I didn’t quite smoking, I became a non-smoker.”
“You are who you say you are.  Be careful what you call yourself.”
“Can we say that in a positive way?”
“There’s the right way, the wrong way and the Army way.”
“If I had to live my life over, I would.”

Father also told, and retold, a number of his Army stories.  One that came to my mind this last week was his story of “Dock Duty.”  Here is my retelling of that story (I’ll do the short version – dad’s version could take 20 minutes or more depending on the level of embellishment):

A couple of times a month the supply ship would come into port and all enlisted men were called for dock duty to unload the ship.  Father didn’t really like this heavy lifting detail and like any good enlisted man did his best to figure a way out.  Normally the arrival of the ships wasn’t announced – mostly to give the men as little time as possible to think up an excuse to get out of it.

Being in the coast artillery and working the radar set, father often found out about supply ship arrivals well before anyone else (some times even before his CO knew).  Well one, cold snowy day, father had learned the ship was coming in and came up with a plan.

He went down to the radar shack just before he thought the lieutenant would be around to collect all the enlisted men for dock duty.  When the lieutenant came into the shack father was ready – he had his maintenance manual out, a set of tools and the log book.

The lieutenant came in and called out, “Fall out for dock duty.”

No doubt father put on his innocent face and replied, “That’s today sir? I’ve got a problem, the set needs it’s weekly maintenance and it should really be done today.”

“Dock duty is important too, Reynolds, now move it,” replied the lieutenant.

“Yes, sir,” says my father, “Could you just sign my log book saying you sent me to dock duty instead of working on the set?”

“You son-of-a-bitch, you’d do that too,” said the lieutenant, knowing that if he signed the log that anything that went wrong with the radar could now be blamed on him.

“Just following procedure sir, you see I’ve already started and if I don’t do it, it should be noted in the log.”

The lieutenant didn’t press the point, didn’t sign the log and father dusted the vacuum tubes, made a few voltage checks and put on a pot of coffee.

Father claims he did this twice.  Then one morning father was in the barracks when the lieutenant burst in and called out, “Dock duty, everyone fall out.  and you Reynolds, I suppose the set needs maintenance work today?”

“Yes sir, I was just about to get started,” replied father.

“Well, get going, Reynolds,” growled the lieutenant.

Father hadn’t been on the radar set the night before so didn’t know that a ship was coming in.  He just figured the lieutenant was just tired of the game.  Father said that he never did dock detail after that day.

But father did his share of KP – I suspect because it was the best way to steal extra food from the officer’s mess, but that is a story for another day.

Till next week,
Andrew

As we get closer to Father’s Day, my father’s jokes come to mind.  Yesterday I went to get my hair cut which reminded me of this exchange I had with father when I was a teen:

Me: I think I need a hair cut.
Father: Why don’t  you get them all cut?

More wisdom next week,
Andrew

Tonight there are two subjects on my mind.
One close to home,
and one a world away.

The reality of helplessness.
I can’t fix my brother,
I can’t stop the shooting.

I can’t decide whether I should write, or if the words in my heart need to come out as prose or poem.  Over the next few days we’ll see a flood of words – laments, calls for action, calls for revenge, calls for peace, and cries of pain.  All of which tear at my heart.

Hearts.  Billy called again today.  It is difficult to know if he needed comfort or if he was trying to be the big brother when he said, “I’m fine, I’ll be okay till Tuesday.”

Tuesday, eleven days after our trip to the ER, seven since we saw his doctor and still no resolution other than a bottle of pills to dull his mind until Tuesday with its promise of a new doctor and the hope of new answers.  Hope for relief.

I can’t help my mind from rewriting the scene on that Friday in the emergency room filled with the sick.  Imagine the scene. You’re waiting for a doctor when the PA system announces that a large number of trauma cases are coming.  Suddenly, a nurse appears pushing a wheelchair stacked with supplies, then a security guard stands in front of the door – then more and more staff as the confusion grows and the ambulance door opens.

Flooding the world with
pain that has no words.
Sadness beyond measure
as the wail takes flight, “WHY?”

And again I wonder what I can do?  Or should do?  What action, what words would be a benefit at time like this.

For tonight helplessness longs to be changed into hopefulness, into action that will transform the world into justice, understanding, caring and love for one another.

For tonight, there is nothing more on my heart, or in my mind than a prayer for a brother here and a world out there.

May both be healed.

Peace,
Andrew