Today is Veterans Day so before we go any further, be sure to thank a veteran for his or her service to this country and to you. Shake a hand or two. Buy breakfast or lunch. Verbally thank someone for what he or she did to ensure you have the freedom you enjoy today. Remember those who are no longer here, too. We lose more and more of them as each Veterans Day passes.
On Veterans Day, like a lot of people, I think about my father. He served in the U.S. Navy from Nov. 17, 1942, to Jan. 25, 1946. Growing up, I always knew he had been in World War II, but he never talked about it. And we – we being my two older brothers and me – never asked.
Well, we did but he would never talk about it. And when I say never, I mean N-E-V-E-R. His bomber jacket is still in my mother’s attic, in the same box where it has been for as long as I can recall. It has a bullet hole in it.
But he would never talk about it. And, yes, when I say never, I mean NEVER.
He received the Distinguished Flying Cross, five air medals, the Presidential Unit Citation and the Good Conduct Award. Those lived in a box in the top of my parents’ closet when I was growing up. The only time I have ever touched them was in January 1987, right after he died and my brothers and I were helping my mother write his obituary.
They are still there. And they won’t move until my mother passes and we clean out that closet.
That was the way Daddy wanted it. I always knew he had served in combat. I had stumbled across the photos of him, some of him in uniform, some of him in his combat uniform, some in front of a plane, some with the members of his squadron.
He had hair then. I always giggled when I would see the photos because he didn’t have hair by the time I came around.
I don’t know a lot about his experiences in World War II. In my mind, I can picture my father, just 19 years old, out of high school, from a small town in Georgia, enlisting to go to war. His first day of service was on a Tuesday, his last was on a Friday. He was in the military for 1,165 days – three years, two months and eight days.
My late brother Walter had a passion for World War II – an obsession almost – that I always attributed to Daddy being in the military.
The room he shared with our older brother Doug looked like the sky over the Pacific when we were growing up: a B-17 Flying Fortress here, a B-29 Superfortress there, a P-51 Mustang over in one corner, a Hellcat hanging haphazardly in another and an Avenger ready to swing into action at the door.
Not to be undaunted, Walter also had the ground covered: an aircraft carrier in one corner, a battleship in the other, a destroyer manning the windowsill, a submarine on the floor.
He watched every movie about World War II that he could, read the books, bought the books detailing the history of World War II as well as the wars that came before it.
As I sit here now, I wish I had done the same. Perhaps I would have understood why Daddy never talked about it. Perhaps having some idea of what it was like for him and his fellow soldiers, I might have felt closer to him on days like today.
Maybe.
But being a journalist has afforded me the opportunity to meet a lot of veterans – both men and women – and through them and their stories, I have come up with a pretty good idea of what it was like for him. For that, I thank them.
Their stories have always fascinated me, especially when the interviewee is willing to share the details of what it was like.
My interview with George Epting, featured on the front page of today’s paper, was one such interview, perhaps for more reasons than I knew at the time.
I admit I didn’t know a lot of the details of Daddy’s service until I sat down a few hours ago to write this column.
It took a search on Ancestry.com to find out how he was listed in the military and then a search of a military record database to get the exact dates of his service.
When I found out the specifics of my father’s service, I knew right away why I had felt a particular kinship to George Epting. They were born less than two months apart in 1923 and enlisted less than two months apart, Daddy in Georgia and George in Columbia.
They served in the same theater during the war and were discharged honorably six days apart, Daddy on Jan. 25, 1946, and George on Jan. 31, 1946. It is possible — and quite likely — that the two of them traveled back home to the South aboard the same train – George said the train that brought him back to South Carolina made a stop in Georgia first.
In my heart’s mind, I can picture my father, all 5-feet-7 of him, duffel bag in one hand, a cigarette in the other, stepping off that train to begin his life after the war. I can picture George Epting as the face of Every Soldier, looking out the window as the train pulls out, headed home to South Carolina.
And knowing George Epting might have crossed paths with my father? Well, that just makes this Veterans Day one of the best I have had since 1987.
So happy Veterans Day to George Epting, to my father, Hugh M. Edwards Jr., and to every man and woman before them and since them who have served.