Each July, I post a story to honor those who've served. The problem is... I spent this June gallivanting around France. So, my heartfelt thank you is a month late. It's in Loving Wives because that's where my readers look for me.
I'm not fond of lengthy introductions. But I need a disclaimer. First and foremost, the events are real, but the thoughts and actions of the main characters are entirely my invention. I don't have the slightest idea how they might have behaved in real life. Nevertheless, their documented actions illustrate what personal strength and commitment look like. Hence, they deserve recognition. That's my only purpose here.
I try to tell the stories of unsung heroes. It's the reason why I focused on combat nurses last year. This year, it's the WACs. The WAC badge is Athene Pallas- Athena to the rest of us. She was the Greek goddess of war and strategy. She was also the goddess of wisdom. The Women's Army Corps embodied both of those qualities.
The WACs were all volunteers -- in an era when most of their male counterparts were drafted. Their willingness to do the Army's menial tasks freed up eight fighting divisions worth of men -- one hell of a contribution. Yet, they were clerks, not riflemen, and even more significantly, they were women in this man's Army. So, the WACS never got the credit they'd earned and richly deserved.
As in most of my stories, I take my hero from boy to man. Growing up early was mandatory for the Greatest Generation. I mean, seriously... the boys in the landing craft at Normandy were an average of twenty-two. Do you remember what you were doing when you were that age? It probably wasn't anything like that.
A few days ago, I ran across a yard sign that said, "Land of the Free, BECAUSE of the Brave." Those are the people I dedicate this to. Thanks for reading me - and I hope you enjoy...
THE QUEEN OF SHANGRI-LA
If you live long enough... your life will merge into a series of reminiscences like scenes in a movie. Forgotten recollections will resurface, and you will ache with remembrance. That was what was happening to me as I sat on the porch of my beachfront cottage at Montauk.
It was a grey day in early November. The cold wind was blowing off the big water, and the waves beat angrily on the shoreline. A violent storm somewhere over the horizon was whipping the ocean's fury into a froth of whitecaps -- just as my recent loss roiled my own sense of well-being. My beloved wife was gone, and I was alone in the twilight of my life.
I sighed as I lit my battered pipe. The ancient Zippo had a roaring lion and A-20 insignia of the 312th Bombardment Group. I puffed to make the tobacco in the bowl glow cherry red and thought back over the years.
I recalled the thrill of our first kiss, the happiness of our marriage, and the joy each child brought. I hadn't thought about those things much. But sixty years had flown by, and all that remained were the vignettes of my life.
*****
Lord knows!! I didn't ask to be drafted... still, the "Greetings" arrived on Thursday, the eighteenth of November, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and forty-three. A week later, I was standing in a line of scared kids wearing nothing but my underpants -- Happy Thanksgiving.
The Army took a day to poke, prod and administer the oath. Then they put me on a train to Fort Benning, in Georgia. That was the first time I'd ever been on a train. In fact, it was the first time I'd been away from home.
I don't remember much about the ride down. You don't think clearly when you're overwhelmed by anxiety. I mean, seriously!!... one day, you're a kid with a comfortable life. Then BAM!! You're stuffed onto a train full of strangers, going God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. The situation would stir up anybody's feelings.
There were a few boisterous types, idiots who thought this was a great adventure. There wasn't a lot. But they were yukking it up in the front of the car. Most of us sat in stony silence, staring miserably at the passing fields - swathed in our desolation.
I wasn't afraid of death. Hell!! No kid EVER thinks that far ahead. But the loneliness and all-encompassing fear of the unknown pressed down on me like a giant hand.
I tried to sleep, but the seats were uncomfortable, and there was too much movement around me. I heard people talking. But the dominant sound was crying. That included the guy I shared the rock-hard, second-class coach seat with. He was a skinny kid, like me. But he was a lot shorter. I should've said something to him. But I was afraid ... mainly because I was one teardrop short of joining him.
I was tall for my age, maybe six-two and a hundred and seventy pounds. I had grown into my gangly frame and was a pretty decent baseball player. But I was just a boy with every child's insecurities and vulnerabilities.
Of course, I also had all of the teenage urges. Those manifested themselves in pimples and persistent blue balls. I might've found relief from the latter. But my Pastor had stressed the sinfulness of Onan. Thus, I was hesitant to take the problem in hand - so to speak. Later on, that particular fairy tale was one of my chief problems with Lutheranism.
I felt lost as I stared at the frozen fields and the passing small towns. I kept telling myself, "You gotta face it like a man Erik." But I didn't believe a word. I knew whatever was waiting at the end of my miserable ride was going to be worse than what I'd experienced so far -- and with that, the tears began to fall.
*****
Our gang hung out at the Hotspot, which was the town diner. It included Jed Sharpe, who was the smartest kid in our school, and his girlfriend, Betty Moran, who was the prettiest. There was also Ace McClure, who lived down the block, and his girlfriend, Maggie Patterson.
Ace was the only fellow who could handle Maggie -- if you catch my drift. But then again, Ace was a lot worldlier than the rest of us. I put it all down to the books he read. Ace didn't belong in our backward little town, and Maggie was never going to leave. Nonetheless, they were sweethearts in their own way.
