May 04, 2003

A TRIBUTE TO HEROS

        Yesterday afternoon at Yankee Stadium had the feel of countless summer days as the sun warmed the cheering crowd. My thoughts drifted back to World War II as the West Point band played the National Anthem. The 7th inning stretch was marked by Kate Smith's recording of God Bless America. Many in the crowd gave full throated accompaniment. Bob Shepherd the ageless voice of the public address system, advised us to say a silent prayer "for all those men and women in the military currently overseas and those who have sacrificed their lives in Afghanistan and in Operation Iraqi Freedom to preserve our way of life". The crowd seemed unusually subdued and respectful during these moments, unlike in pre-9/11 times when the National Anthem seemed an unwelcome intrusion to many who kept their hats on and chattered away until the game began. Perhaps they momentarily thought hard about those youngsters who never got the chance to enjoy such afternoons, those who have died in wars to preserve our freedoms--including the freedom to enjoy our great national pastime. When I returned from the ball park and switched on my computer, the following tribute--both personal and universal--- was in my emailbox. It is by a friend of Horsefeathers, Ruth King.

IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF PRIVATE 1ST CLASS HAROLD H. KING A.S. NO. 32922362
WHO DIED IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY IN THE EUROPEAN AREA JULY 10,1944

HE STANDS IN THE UNBROKEN LINE OF PATRIOTS WHO HAVE DARED TO DIE THAT FREEDOM MIGHT LIVE AND GROW AND INCREASE ITS BLESSINGS. FREEDOM LIVES AND THROUGH IT HE LIVES- IN A WAY THAT HUMBLES THE UNDERTAKINGS OF MOST MEN.
FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

        This message from the President was received several weeks after his family was notified of Harold’s death. While they were observing the Jewish period of mourning for Harold, the news came that George, his older brother had also died in the Normandy invasion only days and a few miles apart.
        The brothers were from Bayonne, New Jersey, a working class community whose residents were Jewish, Polish, Irish and Italian Americans. There were no ethnic enclaves, but even the schools were not melting pots, and most kids adhered to their parents’ admonition to “stick to your own kind.”
        When they enlisted in 1942 George was a tall, strapping, handsome young man of twenty three hoping to go into law enforcement. Harold, at eighteen, a slight young man, had just graduated from high school and entertained hopes of becoming a dentist. They were rather slim hopes, since his father was a house painter who never really recovered from the 1929 depression. George was accepted immediately, but Harold was rendered 4F by a pilonidal cyst, which he had surgically repaired, assuring his anxious family that the army would pay for his college.
Both adored their thirteen year old brother whom they called "the kid." They let him steer their jalopies while sitting in their laps; they taught him to ride a bike and catch a ball; and they teased him endlessly, often messing his well coiffed pompadour and playfully elbowing him.
        After completing basic training in Fort Dix, New Jersey, Harold was sent for combat training in Maryland and George went to Kentucky where he was trained for the military police.
        On his first leave at home, George married his high school sweetheart and the next time the family saw him was many months later on a train taking German prisoners to a detention camp. The train stopped for half an hour in Bayonne, and the family exchanged waves and thrown kisses. Shortly after this George requested and got permission to leave the military police and join regular infantry. Within months he was sent overseas. After one short leave, in 1943, Harold was sent to England for additional combat training.
        Throughout the nation families with relatives in the service exhibited flags in the windows. Occasionally these flags had a gold star in the center for those who had perished in action. Families relied on censored army mail and radio broadcasts on the war by Gabriel Heater and H.V. Kaltenborn.
        Harold wrote reassuring notes to his parents and sent pictures holding rifles, eating at mess with buddies, and riding military vehicles. "Don't worry about me too much. We'll be home soon. We get to see a lot of movie stars (the names of the performers were crossed out by army censors who feared that information would reveal their whereabouts) and I wish Ann Miller could come." To “the kid” he wrote “take care of my car and when I get home I’ll teach you to drive.”
        George sent cursory notes to his family, but to his pregnant young bride he wrote romantic letters. "Thank you for that picture of yourself in the pretty dress. When the war is over, I'll blow it up and make a million copies and we'll paper all the walls in our house with it."
        When the news came that both brothers had been killed in action, there were no intrusive reporters; no cameras and recorders; no perky telecasters to ask vapid questions; only unendurable grief. Neighbors from every corner of Bayonne came every day to stand a respectful vigil outside of the home. They placed flags and flowers and sweets and messages of condolence on the steps. At the conclusion of the seven days of mourning they moved on, many to face losses of their own.
        The house remained dark and draped in unbearable gloom, two flags with gold stars in the front window. When the war was finally over, there were no celebrations in the shrouded home. No radio. No laughter. In 1946 their mother brought their caskets home from France, and George and Harold rest in a family plot in Staten Island next to their parents who wore pain and regret to their dying days.
        I look at their pictures now, as American families are confronting their losses. I would not choose to tell them that the nation they died liberating is a sullen, ungrateful and dubious ally. I would not tell them that movie stars no longer entertain troops; that even those actors and directors who have made movies commemorating their sacrifice, do not have the decency to thank American soldiers fighting today.
        I would tell them that George’s son is a handsome, healthy and successful grandfather of five. I also think they would like to know that "the kid" grew up to be a fine man who remembers them with love and pride and never doubts the justice of America’s cause.
        I would tell them that the country they so proudly served remains the most benevolent democracy on earth- better than ever; that America honors their memory and sacrifice; that there are still young people who go to fight and dare to die for freedom, and families who accept the risk and sacrifice that is the collateral damage of all wars.
------Ruth S. King

Posted at 08:52 AM by