MY DAD'S WAR

World War II was a hard time for Dad and men and women of those times.

They were "War heroes" when they returned after the battle 

unlike most of the Vietnam Vets who were treated

 as the problem, such as my brother, Peter. However the Vietnam generation

 looked at war differently then in World WarII.

Even if you had lost a brother, cousins and multiple friends

 you were the lucky one if you came home and you rarely spoke about it.

 Celena does not remember any stories my dad ever told of World War II.

While she visited with me last week I shared

  with her the stories Dad told me about being in the war.

 I do not know why he told them to me nor do I know when he told them to me. 

I just know that sometime in my life, he told and

 they were his stories. 

Perhaps he shared some of them with me

 as I lay in a bed at five years old so sick that he actually thought

I may die. Or maybe he saw me as fighting my own war 

 when the doctor said, "bring her home 

and if she still alive in three months bring her back." 

Maybe for him this was harder than what he battled in the war.

Today, I will share one of these memories from Dad.

 Daddy explained that during his time in battle he and his platoon

 had a mission to blowup a small village. He and his comrades believed that the 

mission was a success as the whole village was eerily quiet and smoke filled the area.

 He told this story with little emotion, robotic. I took this to believe that you

 could not think of it as a human thing but a mission as you had just took part in

something you did not personally condone,

 death by your hands. He had taken part in wiping out a small community.

 However, very shortly, for him this particular war tactic would became very personal.

 My Momma was pregnant for one of my siblings, with one of his children.     

 Just as he and his platoon began to leave, one soldier heard a baby crying.

 He and his battalion began searching this fire blazed area filled with smoke

 to find this child. After some time,
 they finally approached, among many dead, a small infant.
He did not share much about the baby's condition except to say
 that this baby was not well but still crying.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

My Dad knew that this child was not going to live
and he also knew that there was no way
he could bring the child with him.

 I can't even imagine the personal war each of these men must have fought

internally between their hearts and heads. Just the thought of this seems like 

one of the worst battles he and his peers faced.

Dad went on with the story, he and his army buddies

 put the baby under a tree where they had no choice but to leave it.

There was silence all the way back to their safety area.

Sometime after what this war considered a successful attack 

my Mother gave birth to his child.

 The one who was safe back in Golden Meadow and far away from the

danger of war. Yet, his torment continued as

as each time their own infant would cry,

 his very own flesh and blood,

the child that he and my Mama had prayed for, 

it was not his baby but the baby under a tree that he remembered.

 He kept this to himself as his child and family grew to be 7 children.

Somehow he felt like he wanted to share such a horrific story with me. 

Maybe, as I have said before,

 it was told during one of those long nights in the hospital where I received

treatment and we often fell asleep hearing babies cry for their parents.

 Back in 1968 in a hospital children's ward, parents were not allowed

 to stay with their sick children. My parents found this unacceptable and

 never left me. After visiting hours, 

one of them would reenter the waiting area to spend the night with me. 

After I was settled, He rocked many crying babies in that ward.

I want to believe this gained him some peace from the horrors of a war 

he was called to fight to keep our Country free. 

This story and others he told me through my growing up years was a rare thing.  

He just did not talk about the War. I do believe it is why I

feel such patriortism to whoever is President. Why each time I stand for The Star Spangled Banner, hand over heart, I sing and get teary-eyed. 

War is never pretty and so many have given so much so we can live free. 

I know many of my siblings have either never heard some of the stories

 or they have forgotten. 

Maybe he shared them with me because

 in that dark hospital ward, hearing so many children cry 

brought this one such story up from a deep place in his soul to the surface. 

Perhaps he subconsciously knew that I would share it one day 

in the way I share so many other stories of my life.

Whatever the reason, this is my thoughts about differences between Vietnam War

 and those Wars that came before it. 

Whether these men and women soldiers were recognized 

as hero's or never received that recognition, the personal war

 inside themselves that they battled throughout their lives, 

 that they all had to live with molded them into who they were

for the rest of their days.

War is never pretty for those who were called or chose to serve,

Nor for those left behind at home who love them.

I praise you always.