Stand

(Previously published but one of my favorite pieces I wrote about my Dad.)

In memory of my father, Vernon Boynton

The day was cold to tired lungs so the old man sat in the warmth of his car, waiting for the football game to start.  His grandson was playing today.  His grandson, with his young skinny legs and his strong pink lungs.  Fathers leaned on the hoods of their cars talking about their sons, each trying to subtly outdo the other, waiting for their young heroes to give them the glory of a win over the opposition.  These men stood out in the chilly air, unaffected, while the old man sat, incubated.

A tinny, abrasive voice came over the loudspeakers, announcing the playing of the National Anthem.  As I heard the announcement, I saw that old man – my father – open his car door and step out.  Even though my father passed away several years ago, I will never forget that image.  He stood in the cold in his blue, quilted, flannel shirt and took off his cap, the one that read RETIRED across the front, and placed it over his heart.  The Star Spangled Banner rattled and crackled, but the tune was the same.  It meant something to my father.  While other men continued to sit, baseball caps intact, my father, a World War II veteran, stood for his country.

My father enlisted in the Army in 1940 when he was eighteen.  He soon became part of the 1st Infantry Division – the Big Red One. (“No mission too difficult; no sacrifice too great; – duty first!”)  Dad was in Company C 1st Medical Battalion through the whole tour:  Oran, Tunisia, Sicily, Normandy, Northern France, Ardennes, Rhineland, and Central Europe – from November 8, 1942 to May 7, 1945, a total of 443 days of combat as a division.  He drove an ambulance in the war.  He used to say, “Driving that thing with the cross on it was like giving them a big target to shoot at,” even though the enemy was supposed to respect that red cross.  Dad said his ambulance was full of holes – holes of respect, I guess.  Many nights he had to drive around with no headlights.  “Came within a couple feet of driving off a cliff one night,” he says with a half smile on his face, just like all his funny war stories.  Dad never mentioned the bad stuff.  Growing up, I was oblivious to the horrors of war.  His Army hats and pins were play things for me, except for those Big Red One patches.  Dad showed them to me but then they were put back in their metal container and stashed away in the back of his drawer.

When I was old enough to appreciate the realities of war, I wondered what my father really lived through, what he saw, how that time had affected his life.  My husband asked him about Normandy Beach once.  “The water was red that day,” he said shaking his head, “And the bodies were stacked like cord-wood on the beach.”  “We drank a lot.” I heard him say, “We drank to forget.”  For the first time in my life, I saw a hint of the pain my father endured.  That was all I ever heard Dad say about real life in the war.

After my father passed away, I inherited all of his war mementos, including letters he sent home.  A telegram dated 12/18/42 – “Am well and safe somewhere in North Africa.”  A letter dated 5/30/43 – “Now that this thing is over with over here I guess it is safe to tell you that I have been in the middle of it from the start to the finish.”  (Little did he know at the time that it was not over!)  “…I had some pretty narrow escapes…more than once I thought my days were numbered but I always managed to get out.”  A letter dated 6/25/43 – “If he (his brother) thinks this stuff is a bed of roses he is badly mistaken.  Tell him to mind his own business and stay at home as long as he can where he can do the most good.  There are plenty of other fellows to fight this war…”

When my father returned home in 1945, my grandmother said she would hear him pace back and forth upstairs in the middle of the night, as though with each step he could erase a day of the war and find his way back home, but I don’t think my father ever forgot.  Those memories were stashed away, just like those Big Red One patches.

Dad was a gentle soul, had an easy going friendly nature and not much bothered him.  Perhaps it was his make-up or maybe everything he lived through in those years made him value even more those things he held dear and helped him overlook the small things in life which seemed so inconsequential in comparison.

I wonder how many young people today realize how fortunate they are.  The majority of us grow up complaining about trivial things while men like my father lost that whole part of their lives.  How many of us stop to think and sincerely appreciate what our veterans have lived through?  Do we all stand reverently to honor them when the National Anthem is played?

But there was my father that day, standing in the cold, while others did not move or were unmoved by the song’s stature.  To my Dad, each note was a comrade dying, a wounded man screaming for help, a day of innocence lost.  I will never forget that moment because I think I finally understood.  That war was tattooed on Dad’s heart and soul; as permanent as the skull and crossbones he had inked on the inside of his forearm (which we only ever knew as Oscar the Octopus).  It wasn’t just something he lived through, World War II was a part of his life forever.

There may be those who don’t honor the flag, or question our government and their leadership, or those who don’t hold any value in what this country represents.  For those who find no reason to stand when the National Anthem is played, I ask that you stand for a Maine farm boy who gave over four years of his youth.  Stand for a scared young soldier who helped to care for the wounded and dying.  Stand for a simple man, who somehow managed to survive the horrors of war, and had the courage and strength to return home to live a simple life.  Stand and remember him – my father – a man of honor.  In my heart he will forever remain a hero. I stand for him.