On behalf of Veterans Day, I want to dedicate this piece, and as I do, I also want to say a special thanks to Charles, to Brandon, and to Joe. You know who you are :-)
Someone very important died not long ago, but only a few people noticed. Where were the headlines for Ace Gibson? Surrounded
by family and staff at the veterans’ home, he quietly exited this earth. Why
did no reporter show up to cover this, his last great act of gallantry? Though
we live in a world of million-dollar sports contracts and block-buster movie
earnings, surely the passing of an old soldier is still important.
I know he wasn’t famous—not in the
way other men have obtained fame. He was not a film star. Not a NASCAR racer, rolling
out of control on a dangerous curve. He wasn’t even a politician or a small
town businessman. Yet surely this must be one of life’s more glaring ironies: Often those that
live and die for themselves receive much public acclaim, while those that live
and die for others, die in obscurity, unseen and unsung.
That’s how it was for Ace, anyway.
What he accomplished on the battlefields of
Europe
was infinitely more important than any celebrity “job” which ultimately benefits
only the celebrity himself. But to be fair, barely a handful of Ace’s buddies
are even alive to remember the days when they were all young together, and others
knew him to be just a regular guy who looked like any other old man, and they
never knew his past. He was a quiet man who lived a
quiet life. He stayed married to one woman for 60 years, raised a family and
worked with the railroad in
Kansas
City for thirty years. He never talked about war
experiences. Oh, he’d share the funny things—frying “borrowed” eggs in his
combat helmet—things like that.
“Did you ever kill anyone, Dad?”
his daughter asked one day.
His eyes looked far past her, and
finally he answered. “Yes.”
But that was all he ever said. So
maybe it is not anyone’s fault that no fanfare was blown and the nation’s flags
never moved to half-mast when Ace passed on. There he lay, where the frailness
of age and the ravages of Parkinson’s disease had brought him quietly to the
end.
It wasn’t until his funeral that things began
to surface. “Did you know that the battalion he was in landed on Utah Beach at Normandy just days after
DDay?” someone said. “He fought in the Battle
of the Ardennes and was on hand for VE Day.”
“He received five bronze stars for
gallantry in action,” shared another.
His wife doesn’t know where the medals
are, but she found an old map, yellowed now with the years. It shows the path
his battery, part of the Super Sixth Armored Division, took on those sad, weary days so long ago. A
dotted line shows where his young feet walked, the battles he fought, the
victories won. But it doesn’t begin to tell what his eyes saw, what his hands
had to do, and what he was willing to give for our freedom.
More than sixty years have passed. Other wars
have come and gone. And other men like Ace—some older, some younger—still hide
their stories behind quiet eyes. And this is what I wonder: How do I say “thank
you” to them before they, too, pass away unsung? Is there a way I can let these
soldiers know that someone somewhere appreciates what they did on the behalf of
women, children and a nation still free?
They don’t want to talk about it. But
I do. I’d like to speak to each and every one—the pilots, the sailors, the
infantrymen, and somehow convey to them that the hardships they endured, the atrocities
they witnessed and committed to purchase freedom—were not in vain. I want to
show them my children, laughing and carefree, and say thank you. Thank you for
doing what you did, so I and my children could grow up in a safe and free
country, where we can meet without fear and speak without apprehension.
I also want to say, “Thank you for
risking your youthful dreams to purchase mine.”
I’m sure they’d brush it off,
saying, as one has already said to me, “The real heroes are underground.”
But here’s what I cannot
comprehend, as I look at soldiers—some in nursing homes now, some still strong
in the power of their youth, and just returning from Iraq or Afganistan—why should men and women die for people and children they don’t
even know? And yet I know the answer, even as I ask: Because within each is
heroism, is gallantry, is the willingness to fight for the things that are
precious, even to the giving of life. Truly, “…greater love hath no man than
this, than that he lay down his life for his friends.”
So what I’d really like to say to Ace
and to each and every soldier, sailor, flyer and marine, alive and dead is
this: “May He who sees all things, bring to remembrance and hold in honor your
quiet heroism. God bless you, Ace—you and those like you. And on behalf of all Americans—a
deep and heartfelt thank you.”
For me, this stretch between the old year and the new seems suspended in time. Snow blankets the ground and there's a chill wind blowing as twilight creeps on, heightening the comforting fires in the fireplaces, while violin and harp music wends its way into the corners where people read (or play with their iphones or ipods). It's rather like a dream. And as too often happens with such times, beauty and perfection intertwine with lesser things (rattling windows, nose blowing, and having eaten far too much for comfort). The prosaic masks the poignant and leaves us not quite awake to its wonders.
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