Nothing Ordinary About These Ordinary People

We pause every year in November to recognize the veterans who have stood in the gap for us. From those brave soldiers who won our freedom at Lexington Green, Bunker Hill, Trenton, and Yorktown, to those who defended it, and us, at San Juan Hill, in the Argonne Forest, at Omaha Beach, in the freezing cold of Korea’s Chosin Reservoir, the jungles of Vietnam, and the blazing heat in the deserts of Afghanistan and Iraq.

Our pause is not long enough—never long enough—to do them justice. And although our gratitude is absolutely sincere and heartfelt, I’m not sure we even scratch the surface….

The first veteran I met was Daddy. He was a quiet, unassuming man who would play chase with us after supper and would sharpen my Barlow knife when I dulled it trying to cut down an oak tree. He mowed the yard and would work on the washing machine if it quit. He was about as ordinary as they come. Certainly, this man could not be a war hero….

When I asked Mom if Dad’s hair had always been white, she explained that it “turned that way” in the 17 days and nights he was cut off behind enemy lines and completely surrounded by the Japanese. That was on Biak Island. Of an entire company, only 20 men were alive when they were finally rescued.

I got snippets of his two and a half years in the South Pacific as I grew older. But never from him. Mom would fill us in when we wanted to know about the ribbons and bronze stars on the old Eisenhower jacket in the closet.

By junior high I got up enough nerve to ask him about the war. He said the natives in New Guinea were friendly and it rained every day. Thus ended his eye witness report on World War II.

When the musket fire boomed at Lexington and Concord in 1775 those same “ordinary” farmers and merchants dropped their tools and came running toward the sound of battle. They did not fight for glory, honor, or worldly conquest, but for the idea, still young and untested, that all men are created equal, and liberty was worth dying for.

Every generation after them had big shoes to fill. And fill them they did! Our citizen soldiers rose to the occasion again in 1812 when the British tried to reenter our picture.

You ever wonder why the death tolls were so staggering during the Civil War. The answer is blatantly obvious. It was American soldiers fighting American soldiers. Neither army backed up. Nobody on either side gave an inch. They fought in the rain and mud. Over hill and dale. Day and night. They fought twice at Bull Run. If the South hadn’t run out of food, men, shoes, ammunition and money, they might still be fighting today.

In 1917, when America entered the Great War (to end all wars) thousands of young men flooded recruiting offices. Many had never traveled past their respective county lines. Within months they were sailing across the Atlantic to foreign trenches, fighting for a peace they may never live to see.

The German high command marveled at how rapidly the American forces were deployed to the front lines. Will Rogers famously explained it, “It only takes half the time when you just train them to go one way.”

That scene was repeated immediately after December 7, 1941, but on a much larger scale. Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq raised some eyebrows as to our involvement in those areas of the world. It did not diminish, tarnish, or distract from the courage, sacrifice, fortitude, or the ideas that our young soldiers fought, and died for.

What an exclusive club they belong to, those soldiers who have borne the burden of our safety for 250 years, and counting. If you ask them about their service, they wave you off with the standard, “I was just doing my duty” line. Humility is another common thread with these warriors.

When we see the flag raised high, we should remember them. When we practice the many freedoms that we sometimes take for granted, we should remember how they stood watch on stormy nights in lonely, and often dangerous, places.

When we bow to thank and honor them this November, let’s remember that freedom is not a birthright, it is a gift, purchased by the blood, sweat, and tears of the American soldier.

I remember thinking, “that’s not even possible” when Mom told us about Dad’s hair turning white in the 17 days he was surrounded by the enemy on Biak Island. As I grew older, and a bit wiser, the whole premise of that story changed. It wasn’t about hair color. It was about ordinary heroes fighting for a just cause. Because of their faithfulness, dedication, courage, and steadfast loyalty to this nation, I have never been surrounded by anything…except peace, love, joy, and happiness.

I wonder sometimes if we appreciate enough the 80 percent of Daddy’s company that gave their last full measure on that tiny island so long ago, so far away from home….

Respectfully,
Kes
kesley45@aol.com