Continued from Nov. 2:
Dad had told stories of the word of the armistice spreading through camp and then a man on horseback rode through announcing it and he said any 4th of July celebration couldn’t hold a candle to how the camp reacted.
Within days they were marched across France to a sea port and put on boats for home. Oh, why didn’t I ask more or listen closer?
How many miles across France? How many days?
How were they fed and housed? Boats from where?How many? Many of them died of the flu on the way home and he often told of one especially sad event while on ship. Were they buried at sea? He told of standing in formation in the middle of the deck to keep from tilting the boat as they passed the Statue of Liberty and there wasn’t a dry eye on board. Captain McKay walked through the ranks telling the men that it was permissible to cry because he was and then he explained how they wouldbe deployed upon landing in New York City. It was obvious that Captain McKay was respected and admired. His name was mentioned often at these reunions and Mom told me that he had attended one time but told them it was just too painful for him so he wouldn’t do it again.
These men were in there 50s and there was plenty of raunchy language and ornery stories and a lot of good-natured ribbing on each other and as much as we girls would have liked to hear it, we knew to star far away from them because it was their day! Dad’s uniform, gas mask and boots hung in an upstairs room years after I left home but the folks retired, bought down to a smaller farm, cattle only, no hogs. Also smaller house and Mom threw things out the upstairs windows into wagons, taken to the ditch and bulldozed over.
Dad did tell me that his job was with the m-- company and he hauled loads of ammunition in wagons with four-horse teams through French mud, often times axle deep. Then they would unhitch and go to eighthorse teams. They traveled a quarter of a mile apart for obvious reasons and often delivered to a quarter of a mile from the front. But, several times in my childhood when I would try to question him, he would reassure me that he was never in any real danger.
On of the stories I heard being told among the buddies, and I know he told my brother after he returned from WW II, was that he and a buddy were given an overnight pass. They snuck out of camp and walked to a small French town tavern.
While there, they heard that the front had moved up, but they were to punch happy to realize what it meant.
As they started for camp a farm woman and her 14-year-old son stopped them and hid them two days until another French man led them around enemy lines.
Oh, why didn’t I push for more information? Where were they hid? Fed? Slept?
French underground? After Dad died, I tried to question my brother about the woman, but he would only say that I had romanced that story too much and the only real story was that war was horrible and everyone did what it took to survive.
By the time WW II came, I was old enough to know how fortunate we were.
My uncle had part of a heel shot off. Two neighbor families weren’t so fortunate.
My dad thought my brother and brother-in-law would be shipped straight home but it was different and they served out their full enlistment.
Opinion, Pages 4 on 11/09/2011