My father, the un-veteran

We made a point of arriving at 11:11 a.m. on 11/11/11…and the first words I said to my father were “Happy Veteran’s Day.”  He smiled, but only because he was glad to see us; he has no use for most holidays, especially those with a military connection. There’s a common belief that old people are deeply patriotic, but whoever believes that never asked my father his thoughts.

Dad in the Beetle

Gene served honorably in what many people consider the last “good” war. As a technical sergeant he was involved in radio operations and helped build a bridge over the Saar. When asked about combat action, he recalls the sound of bullets whizzing overhead a few times, along with some V-2 rockets in England.  If pressed, my father will also speak of the dead he saw after arriving in Germany, mostly straggling inmates of the concentration camps who were shot by the fleeing Germans; the liberation had taken place recently, so he was spared the most gruesome sights.

I recall as a child reading the letters he’d written home from one post or another; while restricted from specifying his exact location or where he would be going, he’d developed a semi-elaborate code with his parents that allowed him to communicate approximately where he was.

The cards and letters provided a fuzzy snapshot of my dad’s wartime experience—in general, he strived for an upbeat travel-diary tone so as to not cause undue concern, but as his parents’ only child, there could be no other option than worry from the time he was drafted. (Somehow, the packet of letters was either misplaced or thrown out, so it may take years to locate them, if I ever do.)

For all his direct involvement in the war and the contribution he helped make, once it was over he moved on, never wanting to get involved with any veterans groups or patriotic celebrations.  I recall his frequent derision of “the military mind,” and the military in general. He sneered at figures like MacArthur and Eisenhower. And though I pleaded as a kid, he never gave his consent to display an American flag in front of our house. “We’re not flag wavers,” is all he’d say. “I don’t need to prove anything.”

Maybe, as I think about it now, he’d already proven what denotes loyalty and patriotism—not in words or empty symbols, but in action. And all I can do is say thank you.

Gene in post-occupation Germany