When my wife and I went to the basement this morning to begin our exercise routine for the week, Miss Chicka turned over the calendar and announced that it was November 8th. I wrestled with that thought about why this date seemed significant. Quite soon I came to realize that on November 8, 1945, I was discharged from the American Army. It is hard to imagine that 65 years have passed since that event. When you do the mathematics and subtract 1945 from 2010, the answer is still 65 years. When that discharge took place, I believe that the average life span of an American man was no more than 65 years. Now follows a twice told tale, which are often the best ones.
On the day that I was to be discharged, I arose from my bed in my in-laws’ home and caught the 5:00 AM streetcar on Manchester Road in Maplewood, Missouri. After a transfer or two, the streetcar took me to the bus station where there was a Scott Field bus to take me to that location in Illinois where the discharge was to take place. I arrived sometime before 7:00 AM, with the thought in mind that if things went well, I would get my discharge and get back to St. Louis in time to have lunch with my new wife. That was not in accordance with the plans of the Army of the United States.
In previous essays, I have commented extensively on the events of that day. Simply put, the Army was being as bastardly as they could be in an attempt to make me re-enlist. Short of that, they wanted me to join the Ready Reserve and/or the National Guard, which I of course refused to do. For nearly 12 hours the Army harangued me about re-enlisting. I had no intention of ever doing such a foolish thing. When the soggy day turned into evening, I intended to take things into my own hands and demanded my discharge. It was an officious Sergeant who was the chief haranguer, and finally I told him, “Sargeant, f… you! I want my discharge, and I want to get the hell out of here.” That seemed to do the trick. But a Corporal who was typing up my discharge made one mistake after another. He was copying from another discharge paper and he ballooned my medals and citations by a great amount. I figured that the idea was to get the hell out of that place and straighten out the problem with the discharge papers later. Around 7:00 PM or a little later, the seamstress appeared and finally sewed what we called “the ruptured duck” onto my jacket. The ruptured duck signifies that the soldier has been honorably discharged.
The 65 years that have passed since that event were of great significance. During that time, the United States assumed the leadership of the world and was opposed by the Russians in a cold war. There was the resignation of Richard Nixon and I was fairly glad to see him gone.
When John Kennedy was assassinated, my daughters were small; perhaps one was eight and the other ten or eleven. I found out about the assassination while standing on a street corner on lower Broadway in New York City. People were dumbstruck. When I arrived at my house in New Providence, New Jersey I took my usual seat near the fireplace. I held one daughter on my left knee and the other daughter on my right knee and I told them that a terrible thing had happened to the world on that day. But life goes on. Now I have two married daughters and five grandchildren. My hope is that they are never involved in a war situation or with the United States Army. My war, the Second World War, is now ancient history to youngsters. Since that war, which was described as a just war, took place, we have had the Korean War, Reagan’s adventures in Nicaragua, the Vietnam War, the Afghan War, and George Bush’s ill-advised invasion of Iraq. Wars come and go, I suppose. Every man who has been involved in such a war remembers.
In the 65 years since I was discharged, I have only written one essay describing my involvement in that war. It was called, I believe, “They Never Betrayed Us.” Far from bragging about my involvement, the Italian people who hid us and nurtured us were the heroes of that essay called “They Never Betrayed Us.”
Here we are 65 years later. We hope that the Iraq War will soon be finished. At the same time, there is a war in Afghanistan in which we are involved. It has now gone on for about ten years. And lurking around the corner, there are war hawks in this country who want us to engage in Iran. That would be a stupid thing for us to do. And in recent days, the Korean conflict seems to have been reignited. I am aware that there are things in international relations of which I am uninformed, but it seems to me that the Middle Easterners such as the Pakistanis and the Afghanis are playing us for complete suckers. The war hawks, particularly on the right wing of our political system, want us to keep at it.
Today in New Jersey it is cold and rainy just as it was on this date in 1945. Peace always seems to escape our grasp. On many occasions I have thought to myself that we should withdraw from the Middle East and devote what we are spending there to our infrastructure, which is sadly in need of repair. But nobody asked me for my opinion. So we will do what my mother suggested the day I left to join the Army. When I told her that we would be helped by the British, she said, “You mean the English?” Her final words were, “In that case, son, you will have to do the very best you can.”
And so it is that while this country is doing the best it can, the divided electorate is troubled. During World War II, once the objections of Senator Robert Taft of Ohio were overcome, we fought that war, we paid our debts, and we sponsored such things as the Marshall Plan. I am an old man and an old solder too. When I was discharged on November 8, 1945, the United States was ascendant in this world. It may not happen in my lifetime but I hope that that ascendancy will come back to the American people. But in the meantime, we must do, as my mother suggested, “the very best we can.”
E. E. CARR
November 8, 2010
Essay 511
Postscript: In the years since November 8, 1945, I have been happy to be out of military service and have expected no thanks from my fellow Americans. However, two years ago and again this year, as Veteran’s Day approached, a troop of Brownies (Girl Scouts) brought me a gift of chocolates and a flag plus a card that they had made. In both cases, the cards expressed appreciation for my service. I am greatly heartened to know that the youngsters around here are being brought up with thanks in their hearts for those of us who have gone before. I was both flattered and humbled to receive those gifts from the local troop of the Brownie organization. The Hershey chocolate kisses in my present were delicious.
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Kevin’s commentary: Good on those girl scouts. It’s a little crazy to think that he’s been out of the war for so so long; it kind of emphasizes how young most of our fighters really are. For those curious, you can see the ruptured duck pin here. I actually have in my possession a good number of Pop’s medals and pins, but I don’t recall ever seeing that one in particular.
