Veteran's Day, My Dad, and a Humble Thanks

There is a photograph on the wall of my sister’s home that is both precious and haunting to me.  It is a restored, blown up and framed photo of my father on his way to the South Pacific during World War II.  It was taken by an Army photographer from a small tender craft as my Dad’s ship, the S.S. Monterey, left harbor.  In a happy accident, the picture was taken with a close up of Pfc. Frank G. Yatckoske front and center.  He is in the midst of a host of soldiers leaning over the rail, all smiling and mugging for the camera.  My father is leaning out from the rest, his arms braced on the rail of the ship, his smile—a straight, wide grin filled with mischief—is set in a young, lean, handsome face.  Every man on that ship seems filled with enthusiasm, bonhomie, even a sense of adventure.

Those poor young men didn’t have a clue. 

            I don’t want to contemplate what happened to most of those men.  I know that “I” Company of the 63^rd Infantry, 6^th Division went on to see terrible action in New Guinea.  I know that more of them died than lived.  My father, a mortar gunner, was badly wounded and came back to the United States needing extensive healing in both body and mind.  My father’s war was within sight and sound of the enemy.  Some times it was hand to hand.  I can not, I will never be able to, imagine having to kill or be killed.  Thanks to my Dad and so many other Americans I will never have to.  But that freedom was bought with a price.

            I am not one of these daughters who believe my father was a paragon of perfection.  He had as many faults as the next person.  But he was brave enough to do his duty.  He was strong enough to want to live when lying down and dying must have seemed like an easy alternative.  More importantly, he was willing to make the effort to put this horrible, life altering, hell-on-earth behind him when he came home.  He and my mother moved from the pain, nightmares and fearful memories of the war to make a life for themselves.  They kept putting one foot in front of the next toward normalcy. 

Normalcy.  What a sweet word.  On this Veteran’s Day it occurs to me that of all the things we can and should thank our Veterans for, one of the things we forget, is their willingness—even eagerness—to return to the humdrum of a normal life.  When the Revolutionary War ended, the king of France asked Benjamin Franklin whether George Washington would assume leadership of the government or the Army.  When Franklin informed the astounded king that Washington would do neither, but had returned to his home to continue farming, Louis VII said, “This, indeed, is a great man!” Washington did what millions of others have done; he pounded his sword into a plowshare. 

There have been too many wars since my father came home from the Philippines on a hospital ship.  My cousins fought in Korea.  My husband served in Viet Nam.  The sons and daughters of my friends and family have been in the Middle East.  The world is an imperfect place and the Devil is always at work.  But the brave serve.  They return home and embrace peace.  “Thank you” is too small a word, but it is the only one I have.

Give praise and thanks for our Veterans, and keep the faith.