My Dad, Charter member of the "Greatest Generation"

Two years ago today, my dad was just being moved from the hospital to to a skilled-care nursing home. He was 85 years old, suffering the after-effects of a broken hip and resulting (or possibly, coincident) stroke. He had not been his former self for at least a couple years before the, then recent, fall. He had been showing some dementia -- it was sometimes unclear what or who he was talking about -- but he had always maintained his good-natured, uncomplaining, outlook. But, other times, he was as sharp as a tack.


My mom had become his full-time nurse -- and, like him, never complained. Only a year younger, but in much better shape, she almost cheerfully accepted this role. After all, they had celebrated their 60th anniversary with a nice catered family dinner only the year before. With her generation, taking care of a frail spouse was just what you were "supposed to do." I trust that there was nothing special about them (even though in my heart I think there was) -- their story has probably been played out a million other households.

My dad was one of the several million US World War II soldiers. He fought in Europe, in the Huertgen Forest between Belgium and Germany, in the 9th Infantry Division. I'm pretty sure he saw unspeakable horrors, in part because he almost never talked about it. The Battle for Huertgen Forest was one of the longest and bloodiest battles in military history, but it is seldom talked about today. Opinion is split on whether this battle even made sense. Historically, it seems that it was totally nonsensical, but looking through the prism of history sometimes simplifies events in misleading ways. In any case, he had to fight in a dense pine forest in the middle of winter with German ordnance fracturing trees all around him. He soon learned the survival strategy of "hug a tree." Even in at mid-day, visibility was often near zero.

In relative terms, my dad got "off easy," seeing active combat for less than 90 days. My father-in-law, by constrast, had 4+ years of combat. In absolute terms, though, I'm sure my dad lived through total horror. On December 12, 1944, he was shot through his shoulder by a German sniper while leaning back to look out of the shell hole he was in. My uncle told me that they immediately captured his attacker. Interestingly, my dad told me that he was first treated by a captured German physician. My uncle also told me that the commanding officer offered my dad first "dibs" on killing his attacker, and my dad refused. While his refusal sounds right, I'm not sure I totally believe this story. Shooting anyone would have been difficult or impossible for my dad, who had just had his right shoulder almost blown off, and I'm not sure why they would have killed the German soldier, anyway, as opposed to capturing him. But it was consistent with the personna of my dad to not want to kill an enemy soldier.

He spent the better part of the following year in and out of hospitals in Europe and the US (Fort Dix), even though the telegram my grandmother got said he was "slightly injured."

Back to two years ago, my dad lived only a little more than a week in the skilled nursing home in the Fall of 2008. His death, in many ways, was a relief. I have trouble saying that, even now, but we were all ready for his suffering to end. And I know he still lives through me and the rest of my family. I will always value the years I had with him, and the sometimes unspoken things I learned from him.