My Father Fought the Nazis

Dad 1941? 42? He's in the center.

My father (1913-1999) was a life-long Republican. He was especially fond of President Eisenhower, who, of course, had led American forces in Europe, forces who helped our allies defeat the Third Reich. Dad had a story he loved to tell about Gen. Eisenhower. It was a cold morning in France; Dad, who was serving in the Army, was in the mess tent having coffee when the General's Jeep pulled up, and into the tent he came.

"Any coffee?" he asked. They found some. And Dad exchanged salutes with him as he got in his Jeep and headed off somewhere more important. Dad never forgot that salute.

These days, men and women of my generation are thinking about WW II, the war that cost millions of lives, that destroyed cities in Japan and Germany and elsewhere, the war that showed the darkest sides of our species. A war that in many cases involved our parents. (I've seen some recent posts on Facebook about it.)

Dad joined the Army right after Pearl Harbor and trained to be a chaplain (he was an ordained minister--Disciples of Christ). He served in both theaters (South Pacific, Europe), and although he was a chaplain, he saw lots of combat, was fired upon, fired back. He earned a Bronze Star for courage under fire. He never talked about it.

I remember when I found out about that medal (I was an Oklahoma boy fascinated with firearms), I went to him, all excited:

Danny: Did you ever shoot your gun?

Dad: Yes.

Danny: Did you ever kill anyone?

Dad: I hope not.

That stunned me so much I didn't even think to ask, "Why?"

But I know this: I wouldn't want Dad shooting at me. He was a crack shot, grew up on an Oregon farm, where he hunted regularly. I went hunting with him years later a few times, and I never saw him miss.

Anyway, Dad was involved in some major battles (from D-Day through the end); his unit was among those that liberated Dachau--and he would never talk about that. Many years later, the mid-90s, I went to visit the site, and it remained horrifying to look at--to contemplate.

I also visited Bergen-Belsen, the camp where Anne Frank died in 1945. I was born in 1944. So while my mom had me in a stroller, pushing me around our Oklahoma neighborhood, Anne Frank was dying in Bergen-Belsen, probably of typhus.

Dad rarely talked about the war--hardly at all. I think he was profoundly changed by what he'd seen. I think he was trying to forget.

But he remained in the Air Force (to which he'd shifted), in the Reserves, got called back to active duty during the Korean War. Fortunately, he did not go overseas but to Amarillo AFB in Texas, where we lived from 1952-53. He stayed in the AF until he retired as a Lt. Col. He insisted his military information be on his gravestone. It is.

Anyway, Dad had seen firsthand what the Nazis were capable of.

And so I imagine him seeing our recent news: the invasion of our Capitol. And I absolutely know what he would think, the horror that he would feel, the disbelief that all of this could come here.