Memorial Day Post

On the front page of the local paper this week is a large color picture of Mr. B, an Army veteran who was in Europe, proudly displaying his medals from WWII, with an article about Memorial Day. And for some reason this bothers me. ME, of all people!

Many years ago, when Old Sarge and I were new to the VF*nW, we were more or less mentored by another WWII veteran. I’ve written about him before, but for now will call him Poor Sharecropper. PS was a Marine in the Pacific, and was at Tarawa, Saipan, many other nasty spots. He’s in his 80’s now, very small and wizened, but very sharp. And he has issues with Mr. B.

We were having a breakfast at the VF*nW one Sunday, and Poor Sharecropper and I were taking the money. Mr. B comes, all his medals with him as usual. He never goes anywhere without them, it’s like that is all he has left in his life. I remarked to PS that it was a little sad, and I never expected the reaction I got.

“It’s bullshit, that’s what it is,” PS said, and I had never seen him look so angry.
“Why do you say that?”
“Look,” PS said, starting to wave his gnarled hands now, “You know I have a Purple Heart too. When they lined us up to receive our medals, I was never so embarrassed in my life. I had some shrapnel in my legs, same as B, and here I was standing up there with guys who were missing arms,” waving his hand, missing several fingertips, at his other arm, “missing legs,” now gesturing to his own legs, “guys who had it so much worse than I did, and here I am, a little shrapnel, no big deal. I didn’t deserve to be up there with those men.”

I honestly didn’t know what to say for a moment.

“But..but PS, you were ALL heroes! At least you are to me!”

“Let me tell you a little something about heroes,” PS replied. “Those guys who didn’t come home, those are the heroes. The guys who came home and had to live with their injuries everyday for the rest of their lives, those guys are heroes. The rest of us, hey, we were just doing our job. Doing what we were supposed to.”

I think about these two men, so different in how they view their service. Mr. B will continue to carry his medals with him wherever he goes, wanting to tell his story. I still think that now, near the end of his life, it really is all he has left. I would never judge him for that.

And Poor Sharecropper? This little 5 foot-nothing man enlisted at the start of the war, and never came home for four years, carrying a BAR all across the Pacific. When he did come home, he married, had a family and milked his cows until his boys took over the farm. His family and friends adore him.

Poor Sharecropper, you know, you ARE one of my heroes. Thank you.