If one were inclined to study a map of the United States, he would discover that in the middle Western part, there is a river that flows from the north and winds up in New Orleans. That of course is the mighty Mississippi, which was celebrated in 1927 by Jerome Kern’s production of Showboat. In that stage play, the most moving song is sung by a bass, and is named, “Ol’ Man River”. You may recall his partner Oscar Hammerstein’s lyrics about the river are, “he jes keeps rollin’, he keeps on rollin’, rollin’ along.” On its way to New Orleans, the Mississippi passes St. Louis. Further downstream, near the confluence with the Ohio River, comes a town called Cape Girardeau.
Missourians generally refer to that town as “the Cape”. Cape Girardeau enjoyed great prosperity as the West was being settled. In that era, heavy freight was carried on river boats that regularly stopped at the Cape to unload their cargoes for southern Missouri, Arkansas and the West. With the coming of railroads, highways, trains, large trucks and even airplanes, the prosperity of Cape Girardeau tended to diminish. Some freight still moves up and down the Mississippi and there are boats that carry tourists to and from New Orleans that sometimes stop there. But the halcyon days of Cape Girardeau are in the past.
In a few moments, we will return to Cape Girardeau, but for now the discussion turns to the grandchildren of the Chicka-Carr family. There are five grandchildren, all of the male persuasion. Their parents are affluent beyond the wildest dreams of the parents of Judy and myself. Those grandchildren know that college, of course, naturally follows after completion of high school graduation. It is not a question of whether to attend college, it is a matter of which college. Can the parents of those grandchildren handle an Ivy League tuition fee? Of course! My delight is to see how far, educationally, the family has traveled. My father attended on occasion, between crops, a country school where he finished the second reader. He quit school at age 16 or 17. I had no hope whatsoever of attending college but my two daughters are college graduates who married men having the same educational level. My father would be stupefied to learn how far his great grandchildren will go educationally.
Over the years, it has been my intent to remind the grandchildren that there are poor people in the world. Accordingly, for example, at the year’s end, I had dealt with Heifer International in Arkansas which provides farm animals to needy tillers of the soil. On several occasions, we have ordered goats because they are hardy animals who give milk and who will eat almost anything. But one year we gave them a water buffalo, which was described as a mighty animal engine to work on a farm. The whole idea in contributing to this organization, which enabled them to buy the animals and to distribute them, was to remind the grandchildren that there are people in this life who are much less fortunate than they are.
Over the years, the grandchildren have been told that they have contributed toward the purchase of goats and sheep and water buffalos etc. As the year 2007 draws to a close, in consultation with Judy, my wife, a decision was made to replace the farm animals with a product that comes from – don’t be surprised – Cape Girardeau, Missouri.
Aside from caring for the less fortunate, it seems to me that there is a corollary responsibility to care for the United States. And so it was decided that the most poignant reminder of that duty might be a replica of my dog tags that I wore during World War II, from 1942 until November of 1945. I wanted the boys to know that patriotism demands sacrifice. And I wanted them to know that our freedom is something to be guarded jealously.
One way or another, Judy with her internet sources soon located a company in the Cape that provided exact replicas of World War II dog tags. I had no idea that a company would be in that sort of business, because the people to whom they would sell the dog tags are either dead now or soon will be. Most of us are well into our 80s or into our 90s. Manufacturing dog tags for people of that age is like manufacturing hub caps for 1947 Chrysler De Sotos or the ill-fated Crosley subcompact cars. A marketing executive would have told you that there either was no market or there will soon be no market. But nonetheless the people in Cape Girardeau were as nice as they could be and they produced exact replicas of the dog tags worn by this old essayist during World War II.
As you will note from the attached letter addressed to each of the recipients, there are two Costa Rican boys who call me their “Grandpa in America” as well as Daniel Commodore, a gentleman from Accra, Ghana. The Hidalgo boys won medals for their excellent play in a soccer match, which they presented to me. Those medals have been framed and hang near my desk where I can touch them. Daniel Commodore says that when I walk toward his work station at the Whole Foods Market here in Millburn, he often thinks of his own father. I am deeply honored and flattered.
And so it is that the dog tags have been distributed to the eight recipients with the fervent desire expressed in the letter that this old soldier hopes that they will never have to wear dog tags of their own. The boys can wear these dog tags or they can put them in the top drawer of a dresser or they may carry them in their pocket. But no matter what they do with them, they should know that this old soldier hopes that they should never have to wear their own dog tags.
If you read the letter written to the boys, you may discover that in 1942, I was a volunteer to serve in the United States Army. Of all the things associated with my service in the American Army, I am most proud of the fact that I volunteered. My parents disliked losing their last son to the Army but in their hearts they knew that it was the honorable thing to do. Some 65 years after my enlistment, I remain pleased to know that I did whatever I could do voluntarily. That takes nothing away, absolutely nothing, from people who were drafted. In my case, however, I felt a need to volunteer.
And so Army Serial Number 17077613 remains in retirement where it may continue to rest in peace forever.
E. E. CARR
December 9, 2007
ATTACHMENT A
Connor Shepherd Andrew Nollmann
Kevin Shepherd Will-yam Nollmann
Jack Shepherd Esteban Hidalgo
Daniel Commodore Fabian Hidalgo
Melissa Hidalgo
Señorita and Gentlemen –
In 1942, when a soldier entered the service of the United States Army, he was issued two identification tags to be worn around the neck at all times. The reason for issuing two such tags was that if a soldier were lost and his body were recovered, one tag was to remain with the body and the second was to be attached to the body bag or to the coffin. When an old soldier explained that rationale to me, I was impressed and realized that this was serious business. Soldiers have no reverence for what the Army has to say, and so it is in this spirit that soldiers universally referred to those identification tags as “dog tags”.
When I was discharged from the American Army in November of 1945, I had completed an enlistment of more than three years with 28 months being spent overseas. I wore my dog tags every step of the way. Recently, Judy found an internet provider who offered replicas of the original dog tags worn in the Second World War. The rubber silencers included here were completely unknown during my service.
And so I am offering you a replica of my dog tags to remind you of a principle or two. The first principle is that you should pay attention to what your parents tell you. But you should always have considerable doubt about what other people have to say. You must question whether it has the ring of truth to it. And secondly, hardly ever believe what you are told by the United States Army. This is eminently true when soldiers such as General Petraeus and General Colin Powell are prostituted by the political establishment.
These dog tags, which I would like to present to you, are authentic replicas of the ones worn by the soldiers in World War II. There is a notch on the corner of the dog tags. Nobody knows why it exists. The rest of the tag reflects my personal data. First comes name and home address. Zip codes came at least thirty years later. The “T43” is to designate that I had a tetanus shot in 1943. The “O” is my blood type and on the other side there is a “P.” When I enlisted, only three choices of religion were offered. There was RC for Roman Catholic, P for Protestant, and J for Jewish. When I told the sergeant in charge that I subscribed to none of the above, he arbitrarily assigned me the designation of “P” because I protested.
My serial number has some significance. The first numeral is one. This designates that I was a volunteer enlistee. Soldiers who were drafted were given “3” as their first numeral. About the only thing that was advantageous was that when pay day came, we volunteers were paid before the draftees.
The second digit, a “7”, indicates that I enlisted giving a middle western address in the United States. The remaining numbers are simply the serial number the Army assigned to me.
When I was finally discharged from the Army in November of 1945, I put the dog tags in a box in my dresser and for sixty some years they have resided there. I thought that this would be an opportunity for me to distribute the dog tags among my grandsons to encourage the principles that I outlined at the beginning. Again, those principles are: question everything that you are told by your elders, except by your parents, and believe almost nothing when it comes from the American Army.
I hope you keep these dog tags for a while, and specifically it is my hope that you never never have to wear military dog tags of your own.
Postscript: The Nollmann and Shepherd young men are our grandchildren. The Hidalgo boys are the children of Costa Rica immigrants. Those boys have adopted me as their “Grandpa in America”. They are the ones who won metals because of their soccer excellence and made a gift of those metals to me. Daniel Commodore comes from Accra, Ghana, and works at the seafood counter in the local Whole Foods Market. He said on one occasion that when I approach his counter, he thinks of his own father. I am honored and flattered. The final fourteen months of my service in the American Army were served in Daniel’s hometown. Now with respect to Señorita Hidalgo, it should be stated that dog tags are a masculine memento which are not proper for a beautiful young child. In place of dog tags, when the time is right, a suitable feminine memento will be offered to Señorita Melissa.

Connor’s Commentary: When I received these tags, I remember being interested by Pop’s comment that nobody knew what the notches were for. Consulting the internet, the prevailing theory seems to be that the notch was employed in the use of the “Model 70 ‘Addressograph’” machine, a tool of the WWII-era Medical Department. The tool basically made a rubbing of the dog tag and put it onto paper, and the idea with the notch was, it held the tag in the machine and made sure it wasn’t upside down. For pictures you can check out https://www.armydogtags.com/a_PurposeNotch.php.
I keep Pop’s tags in my apartment, but I am careful never to wear them in case I am hit by a bus or asteroid or something and my remains are identified as Ezra. E. Carr Jr., born 1922, which I imagine would be confusing for the coroner.