On my desk I have a tape recorder into which I dictate notes about future essays. It is an audible tape recorder in view of the fact that I can no longer see to write and writing is incomprehensible to me. After I have dictated a series of comments into my notepad, I usually publish them under a title such as Bits and Pieces or Odds and Ends.
The occasion for this essay came about on Memorial Day of 2013. One of my grandsons, who runs the blog that publishes these essays, sent me greetings on Memorial Day wherein he commented that my thoughts were probably of all of the companions whom I had known and who are now gone. Actually, I was thinking about those who were killed in action.
Kevin, who is the grandson in question, made me think once more about those days in the American Army. When someone is really dedicated to trivia, he may look up an essay I wrote several years ago which contends that we all missed our fallen comrades who also served by thoughts of home and getting out of the American Army. These were the main motivating factors as we progressed toward victory in Europe and then victory over the Japanese. Because I wrote an essay much earlier, some of these comments may seem a bit redundant. On the other hand, there is a recollection of mine that has to do with human failings. When I arrived back at the place from which I had departed for combat with the Twelfth Air Force on detached duty, I found that my companion in the bunk bed was a fellow St. Louisan. He slept on the bottom bunk and I slept on the top bunk. Before World War II, he worked for the Budweiser Corporation manufacturing beer. As probably is the case in most instances, the man whose name was Sylvester Liss, had developed a paunch on him. This is because the Budweiser Corporation offered sips or slugs of their products as the men worked.
One day, Sylvester was asked why he never washed his hands after handling his genitals. He replied with a succinct phrase. It was, “Because I didn’t piss on them.” That will give you an idea of how Sylvester and I got along before the close of the war. Sylvester and I saw very little to agree on. Some people thought that he was a nice fellow but he never appealed to me because he was quite rough on the edges. All things considered, I slept on the other bunk and Sylvester enjoyed the luxury of the bottom bunk for about sixteen or seventeen months.
While we both lived in the same town of St. Louis, Sylvester and I never ever made contact once peace was restored and we all went home.
Most soldiers in World War II had been drafted. Sylvester was one of them. There were several of us who were volunteers. In the end, we viewed our duty as one of winning the war and returning to civilian life as quickly as possible. I doubt that there were many, or perhaps none, who hit it off so well in my experience that they became life-long buddies. Much more typical was the experience of Sylvester Liss and myself. We did our service and, in spite of the fact that we lived in the same town, we never spoke again.
Last week a woman at the Summit Medical Group thanked me for my service in the Army, saying that she had surmised, based upon my age and looks, that I was a survivor of World War II. She thanked me for my service, which I greatly appreciated. If I were doing an inventory of being thanked, it would include only my grandson, this woman at the Summit Medical Group, my cardiologist Dr. Beamer, and for two or three years, Girl Scouts who came around on Veteran’s Day to bring us small gifts in recognition of our service. Specifically and precisely, none of us ever joined the military with the purpose of being thanked. It was a case of duty, nothing less. As soon as that duty was over, I suppose that nearly every soldier regarded it as a job well done and best forgotten about.
While I appreciated the remark of Kevin, my grandson, I do not see that he owes me any thanks whatsoever. My service in the American Army came out of a sense of duty. Duty is not always the most pleasant thing to do, but it is there and in my circumstance, I believe that it was necessary to fulfill that duty.
So there you have it about my being thanked for service 70 years ago. I greatly appreciate being thanked but that is not the reason that I joined the American Army. And so it comes down to this. Nearly all of my comrades who served in World War II were there out of a sense of duty. While I remember those who were lost, I try not to think about them anymore. I assume that they are safely in Heaven, or some such place, and that it is up to us to go about our business and daily lives.
There is one exception to the rule. When I started to work for the AT&T Company, there were four of us who occupied a corner of the office on the eighth floor at 1010 Pine Street. They were Ashby Vaughn, Bernie Wheeler, David Weiss, and, if you will include an exception to reside in that corner, there was also Don Meier. Bernie Wheeler and Dave Weiss were lost early in the war. Ashby Vaughn was a casualty in the Battle of the Bulge, which took place in, I believe, 1944. In 1945, Don Meier, who was on Iwo Jima, paused to wipe the sweat off of his brow and in the space of an instant Don Meier was killed by a sniper’s bullet. I do not know why I remember those four guys as distinguished from all of the others that we had lost. But say what you will, for me, remembering someone on Memorial Day is a feat of recollection and always embraces those four guys. Certainly I remember all of the people in the American Armed Forces who were lost but I try not to think about them because that is the price of democracy.
This essay has gone on longer than I had intended it to. But it is the first essay that I have written in about six weeks. I would beg your pardon because I am working in unfamiliar territory.
I do not know whether Sylvester Liss, my old bunk-mate, survived the post-war period, or do I intend to make inquiries. He had a lovely wife whom I met when I was home on furlough, but I would argue that my attitude is probably the attitude of many soldiers or the majority of soldiers who simply wanted to win the war and go home. As for Sylvester Liss, I remember him primarily for his roughness and the thought that “I do not wash my hands because I did not piss on them.” Sylvester will always live in my memory because of that maxim.
E. E. CARR
June 13, 2013
Essay 749
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Kevin’s commentary: Man, and here I was all ready with my “multi-essay” tag when I saw the title but then it was actually pretty straightforward and not meandering at all. But I can’t really be disappointed because the essay features me and that’s always the best kind of essay, right?
Right.
Regarding the underwear, though I always wash my hands, I have given it some thought. I wake up and shower, and then put my unmentionables into a sterile cotton garment which is then covered by yet another garment. I work at an office and don’t really have cause to sweat because San Francisco is perpetually chilly. Really what’s down there is probably one of the cleanest parts of me at any given time. I should really be washing my hands BEFORE I go to avoid contaminating That Which I Did Not Piss Upon with the same hands that handle, say, my filthy cell phone.
Bam.