Usually I make the obvious choice, recognizing either my uncle Harold or my uncle Highlee — Charles to some — on Veterans Day.
Harold was posted to China in 1940 as part of the U.S. Marine legation guard. On the day of the Pearl Harbor attack Japanese troops surrounded the station. He and the others suffered through the entire war in prison camps, first in China and then Japan.
Although he survived, the torment that was life in a Japanese POW camp cut Harold’s life short. What I learned of his service came from extensive research and interviews with other former prisoners for a master’s thesis.
Highlee made the army a career. He fought with the 82nd Airborne in World War Two as part of the famed regiment known as the “Devils in Baggy Pants.” In 1967 he asked for a return to combat and served for three years in Vietnam.
For the most part he spoke of warfare as a professional, though he often punctuated his stories with humorous moments. When he occasionally passed along a harrowing tale — landing in a tree under heavy German fire, being caught in the middle of a rice paddy during an ambush — the matter ended in a laugh or a shrug.
Highlee preferred to speak of my uncle Fred’s time in the European theater. And who could blame him?
You see, Fred had little use for authority to start with and often failed to recognize its critical role in military life. For example, he skipped out on basic training (at least until hauled back to camp by MPs), candidly informing his sergeant it was just too hot for all that exercise. He planned to return when the temperature cooled a bit.
When his unit was ripped apart during the opening days of the Battle of the Bulge, Fred at one point ended up behind German lines, uncertain of the location of the scattered American forces. Others found themselves in the same situation and tagged along as Fred sought a way back. Of course, his distrust of authority included his own, so he quietly gathered the group together and informed them it was “every man for himself.”
On another occasion an officer selected Fred for outpost duty, fearing a German patrol. So my uncle sat high up on perch, visible to the enemy when the did, indeed, approach. When asked later by the officer why he failed to open up on the patrol, Fred offered a straightforward and honest response. “Oh, I didn’t want to get shot,” he said.
There were dozens of similar tales, highlighting an almost virtuously naive part in the most cataclysmic events in modern history. Yet Highlee, the career soldier and old sergeant, believed Fred a reliable man in combat. He fought well and with great discipline, when he saw a point to it.
It seems he harbored no grudges — not against the enemy, not against his own officers when they attempted to explain the whys and wherefores of duty to the unit. He operated on his own hook until he recognized the need to dig in against an attack or maneuver toward a difficult objective.
This reflects a different America, one of independence and personality, of pioneers striking out on their own, of colonists resisting authority imposed without their will. You see much of the same in the story of — well, movie version of — Sergeant York, who tries first to avoid service and then to avoid firing his weapon in anger. Or in the undisciplined antics of Dizzy Dean. As a broadcaster during World War Two, Dean sidestepped a rule against revealing weather information by explaining to listeners ‘I can’t tell you why the game is delayed, but if you stick your head out the window, you’re gonna get wet.’
I could see Fred doing that.
So on Veterans Day I plan on making room alongside the obvious heroes to honor the accidental soldier, those unaccustomed to the world’s more rigid ways, those who did their duty while maintaining their own, unique place.
