Mom, if you want perfect foot comfort, take the hula gals’ advice, just go barefoot.—May 9, 1945
With his story now out in the open, I thought our conversations would be easier. And they were in some ways. But there were still times when the answers eluded him and it seemed that the harder he tried to remember something, the more evasive the answers became. Sometimes it never came to him.
Sometimes he’d even answer a question from weeks or even months earlier without seeming to know he was doing it. That was the case with his job after Okinawa. It had been several weeks since we’d talked about the work he did after coming back from Okinawa.
Mr. Ed’s remained our constant. We were mid-conversation, between bites of our Benedicts, when he suddenly blurted out, “You know the one thing I just hated about that job? My boss, the commander, made me do the dirty work,” he said.
I was drawing a blank. I didn’t know what he was referring to. But he continued and after a bit more information, I realized just what he was talking about.
“There was this metal drawer that sat on top of a file cabinet. Inside were 4 x 6 cards and each card had the name of a sailor who was in amphibious forces but not assigned to be out there fighting. And it was the commander’s job to go to that file and pick a name. Whoever he chose would be sent out to the war. Well, the commander wouldn’t do it.”
My father looked down as if searching for the picture in his mind. Then, to my surprise, anger flashed in his eyes.
“He made me do it,” he said. “I argued with him. It was his job to do that. But he didn’t want the responsibility. After all, what we were doing was replacing some poor guy who’d been killed. It was like Russian roulette. Well, I didn’t win that argument. He made me do it. So, I decided I just didn’t want to know the name. Each card had the name, rank, and special training of a sailor in amphibious forces. I’d go to that file, close my eyes or look away, and take the first card. I didn’t want to know who I was sending.”
“I never thought about that,” I said. “I guess someone had to make those decisions.”
“Yeah, well, it shouldn’t have been me,” he said.
Dad had stopped eating. Everything about him was tense. He was nearly gritting his teeth.
“There was only one time that I looked at the names on those cards. But I had to do it.”
Now I was curious. I stopped eating too. At this point, with all we’d gone through together, anger seemed an easy emotion to deal with. There wasn’t any guessing or pretending. It was a relief to be able to actually see an emotion in my father.
“Who was it?” I asked.
“Well, it was somebody I knew,” he said. “A guy named Thomas Coldwell. We went to radio school together and he was a Dayton boy, just like me. We were always giving each other a hard time. We kept in touch, and we were both radiomen, so we tried to beat each other to the next rate classification. He was a good friend. Do you know what a Dear John letter is?” he asked.
I nodded. “It’s a letter that someone writes to end a relationship or a marriage,” I said.
“Yes. Well, so many guys got those, it made me glad I didn’t have a girlfriend, or a wife for that matter. Well, this guy, he’d come around fairly often and we’d talk about the life we left behind. He had gotten engaged right before he was drafted. Well, one day he got one of those Dear John letters. He was more upset than I’d ever seen a man be. He was all torn up about it.”
My father shook his head, remembering.
“Well, he rushed into my office one day,” he continued, “and he said he wanted to volunteer to be sent out in the next Beach Patrol Party, or B.P.T., as we called them. Beach Patrols were the first ones to go ashore during invasions. It was well-known that they had an 85 percent casualty rate. He knew the guys being sent out were returning in body bags. So he said the next time there was a draft out, he wanted to be in it.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
I watched my father’s expression change. So much time had passed, and yet his emotions were raw, as if the events had just happened. He’d lost his best friend Mal. And now he was faced with losing another one. I wondered, How much can one person take? I watched him as anger turned to resolve.
“I decided right then that if his name came up, I wasn’t going to put his name in,” he said. “It was the only time that I had to look at those cards. I looked just to be sure he didn’t get sent. I knew he was upset and even suicidal. But I couldn’t let him go.”
“And did his name come up?” I asked.
“It did,” he said. “But I didn’t turn it in. I put it back in the file, probably at the back. I didn’t want it to come up again, and it didn’t. Not long after that, I got a letter from him and he was aboard a supply ship, so I knew he was safe—well, safer than he would have been on a Beach Party Team anyway.”
He looked down and then said, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. You know, some poor guy got sent out in his place, probably died. And all because of that little decision I made.”
I sat silent. Even the heroic act my father had just described could be twisted around to seem like a terrible one. There wasn’t a guidebook for this kind of conversation. There was no etiquette book for decisions made with the best of intentions that ultimately result in someone’s death. I felt so useless; he needed someone else to talk to, a counselor or something.
“Have you thought any more about talking to someone at the VA?” I finally asked.
“A shrink?” he asked. “I’m not going to see a shrink. Shrinks are for crazy people.”
He shook his head adamantly, and then pulled his plate closer, forking a bite of egg and swirling it around in the cheese sauce.
“Dad,” I said. “That’s not true. A psychiatrist helps people with lots of things. Just like a regular doctor does. And the ones at the VA work with veterans every day. I think it would help you to talk to someone.”
“I am talking to someone,” he said.
“But I’m not trained at this, Dad. I don’t know anything,” I said. “I’ve never been in a war.”
He shook his head emphatically.
I wanted to say, Well, what if I am the reason that your nightmares and flashbacks have become more frequent and more vivid? But I said nothing. We were so far into this process and, although I did believe that talking about it might help him, I wanted to offer him more.
After all he’d been through, he deserved the best treatment available. Maybe there was some special treatment for PTSD that would help him. Maybe talking to someone who’d been in war, who could truly understand him, would be the answer. I was just an adult daughter, one who’d only seen war on television or read about it in books. I couldn’t even begin to imagine all the emotions involved in it: the trauma, the horror, the guilt.
I’d heard that there were support groups at the VA for Vietnam veterans and Iraq veterans. I knew that they had to have some sort of common ground with my father. He’d never even talked to someone with PTSD. I imagined it would make him feel less alone, less crazy, if he heard someone with a story that paralleled his in some way. He wouldn’t feel so alone. As much as I loved him, and as much as my mother prayed for him, we could never be more than outsiders trying to understand.
On the other hand, here was my father, sitting across from me, sharing things he hadn’t told anyone. Maybe he was right. Maybe talking to me was enough. I guess it would have to be, because like it or not, I was all he had, all he’d accept. I just prayed it was enough.
“You know what?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Thomas came home to marry and have kids and probably grandkids.”
“Did he ever know what you did for him?” I asked.
“No,” he said soberly. “He never knew.”
“Well, you did a good thing, Dad.” I said. “Regardless of how many ways you twist it around, when it comes right down to it, you saved his life. And that is a good thing.”
He almost smiled.
“I suppose,” he said.
May 9, 1945
Dear Folks,
I guess this is the way I start most of my letters. Nothing new since last night when I last wrote. Have finished all my tests including the final with the exception of the procedure test. Haven’t got up enough nerve to tackle that yet.
Got a letter from Thomas Coldwell today signed with a “RM 3/C”. So I lose a dinner party next time we meet stateside. I bet him I would beat him to a rate before we left Farragut. Guess he beat me by a month. The censor had cut a big chunk of his letter but according to the rest of it, he has seen a lot of water and several new islands a long ways farther west, but no fighting as yet. I’ll have to get off an answer to him later tonight.
Just got back from taking an anti-tetanus booster shot that comes around every six months. Now my right arm is beginning to get a little sore. Good thing I don’t play baseball. The team here has a game tonight and some of them can hardly raise an arm.
The mail to this address comes in three times a day direct from the states so we are always looking forward to the new mail. We go after it three times a day. Tonight is my turn again.
You know, I think I’ll start a foto album of scenes of things I see on the island. I’ve seen practically everything of interest and they have a lot of nice cards to be bought in town. I could make up a nice small album and then send it to you to look over till I get back.
I got another issue of the Chronicle Dispatch yesterday. The Waitsburg Times hasn’t gotten started yet tho. Newspapers are sure the post office’s headache. So darned many of them come thru with names torn off and the majority are such a small printing that you have to stop and slowly examine each one instead of just glancing at each one as is the usual case in processing letters. We always have piles of it stacked all around that is lost or no address or address faded out. But the boys sure are glad to get them, so I guess it’s all worth it. And it doesn’t matter how old they are. They are still hometown news.
Mom, if you want perfect foot comfort, take the hula gals’ advice, just go barefoot. When it starts to rain here even the business people just roll up their pants legs and take off their shoes and socks and wade down main street in their bare feet. It’s sure crazy to see a man about 80 years old with a dark tan and white hair (if any) walking down the street barefooted in bathing trunks and a polo shirt with loud pictures all over it.
As for the fiat. I guess it’s OK to paint the wheels but I sure wouldn’t advise painting the body unless you absolutely have to. I know from experience that it never produces a job that you can wax with much success. To give it a spray “factory” paint job at an auto shop later is almost impossible with out sanding all of the old paint off down to the bare metal. Then of course white sidewalls always look nice with a dark car. Usually needs at least 3 or 4 coats of that special side wall paint tho. Not regular paint. The good part about that is that you can always repaint them black any time you want or wash them or repaint them white if necessary.
Well the guys are beginning to holler for mail. I’d better get after it.
Write. Love, Murray
As I read about Thomas Coldwell in Dad’s letter, I thought about how my father must have felt. After secretly putting his card back in the file, which probably saved his life, getting a letter from him must have been a relief. When Mal was killed, he’d been helpless to do anything. But when he had a chance to save another friend’s life, he’d resolved not to let it happen again. Knowing the story surrounding Thomas Coldwell, I smiled. The man had come home to find love and live a fruitful life. And he’d never known that, thanks to my father, he’d literally dodged a bullet.