My dad was a war hero. I didn’t really know that until a few weeks before he died. He never talked about the war during most of his life. On his death-bed, under the influence of pain medication, he spoke of it to me for the first time.
When the flag was raised at Iwo Jima, the act which was captured in the most famous photo from World War II, my dad was at the base of the mountain. He told me the picture was actually a recreation. Guys were asked to volunteer to climb the hill again just so journalists could take the picture. There were not a lot of takers. There were still plenty of enemy around, still firing live rounds.
My dad never won a bunch of medals. He talked about being scared to death as he did his job running telephone line from one fox hole to the next. He talked of his high school buddy from Abbeville who ran with him and who was killed in a fox hole next to him. He talked about getting his high school diploma, also in a fox hole. He talked about lying about his club foot to the draft board so he could get into the Marines.
He was a hero just like millions of others who went, who fought, who did it scared to death, but did it nonetheless. He came back home, raised a family and worked for a living. He never talked about his experiences. It’s just what the greatest generation did.
Please join me as I honor Pop and those like him who just did what needed to be done. We can write blogs, and say prayers, and tell his story. I think what would honor him most is just to do what he did – what needs to be done. There’s a lot that needs doing.
Thanks Pop.
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