Saturday, May 29, 2004, was the day the long awaited World War II Memorial was to be dedicated.
The broadcast was carried by most of the major television networks. On one station, we were told that World War II veterans were dying at the rate of 1000 to 1100 per day. Another station said the rate of deaths was more than 1100 per day. A third station said the rate was 1200 per day. So we had our choice on the casualty lists.
If we take the 1100 rate of deaths, arithmetic tells us the annual rate of our guys cashing in their chips comes to 401,500 per year. There are only some 4,000,000 World War II veterans left. And if we assume that the rate of deaths will increase as the WWII population continues to age, it may be that in six or seven years, we will all be angels. We will come back to these numbers in a couple of minutes.
The cameras panned over the enormous crowd. Many of the old soldiers used wheel chairs. Some needed help in walking. Others needed help in dealing with the throngs attending the dedication of the Memorial. About the youngest faces were former Senator Bob Dole and former president George H. W. Bush. Both of these men are now about to reach 80 years.
The rest of the faces in the crowd clearly showed the effects of ageing. Some looked a little better than others, but by and large, it was a gathering of women and men whose best years were behind them. As an old timer myself, this old reprobate felt free to call this a convention of geezers.
Somewhere in the proceedings, the ineradicable thought struck me that this old soldier is indeed a geezer as well. The men that were called geezers by me were my comrades in arms. And this old geezer is older than some of the women and men who showed up at the dedication.
And to top off that revelation, my mind which never had a mathematical sort of inclination, told me that as a soon-to-be 82 year old soldier, those casualty figures of 1100 deaths per day applied also to me. Fortunately, this disclosure came as Miss Chicka and her husband were working on a bottle of Zeni wine from Trento, Italy, so the shock was absorbable.
The speeches were pretty good. Tom Brokaw and Tom Hanks were articulate. For my money, Bob Dole stole the show. Dole was grievously wounded in the Po Valley campaign in Italy. He is still largely unable to use his right arm. At the outset, Dole mentioned that this enormous crowd failed to show up when he was running for the U. S. Presidency. Dole always represented a party that did not appeal to me when he was in politics, but he has always spoken as a simple Kansan who disarms people with his genuine humor. He did it again Saturday.
While the speeches were in the main, interesting, two people of color made a lasting impression on me. You may recall, that during World War II, segregation applied in this country. People of color were for the most part, denied entrance to the military. When the military took them in, it was generally in backbreaking physical labor such as longshoremen at military ports. Only the Tuskegee Airmen evaded this degradation and their numbers were infinitely small. Everyone with whom this old soldier served was white. Blacks need not apply.
We have come a long way since WWII ended – and it has been an uphill struggle all the way. For me, the most moving part of the dedication ceremony on Saturday came because of the offering of two black people. First was Denyce Graves, an opera singer. She sang the Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful. Madame Graves was in magnificent voice. She moved the audience.
Finally, the benediction was delivered by the black Chaplain of the U.S. Senate. His theme came from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah. In Chapter 2, verse 4, the Chaplain quoted the famous words, “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”
Believers and non-believers joined in praise of this black preacher who is a credit to his race.
Finally, the point about why the Memorial was delayed for more than 50 years has to be addressed. It would be fair to say that the people who gave me the honor of soldering with them, never asked for anything but to be let out of the military to lead their own lives. We did not ask; we did not demand. We simply went about our jobs and later got married and tried to get ahead for our families. So the Memorial was 50 years too late. That is fine with me. This old soldier served out his enlistment and survived in shape to go to work every day for 43 years. It is probably true for nearly all of us; that was enough. Having a magnificent memorial dedicated to us is mighty fine, but it was never owed to us. We simply did our duty. And so we thank the people of this great country.
Bob Dole has a habit of injecting a spot of humor in his remarks. Sometimes it is cynical, but always in good taste. So this little essay will end with an aside having to do with leaving the U.S. Army.
There may have been 1000 or 1500 of combat airmen sent to a base in Greenwood, Mississippi to prepare for the assault on Japan. But while we were there, the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, and Japan surrendered. And so a titanic struggle broke out. On one side were the full time officers of the U.S. Army. Members of the Air Force at that juncture were members of the Army. If the full time officers lost thousands of soldiers like myself, there would be no need for majors and colonels and generals to tell us poor grunts what to do.
On the other side were soldiers such as myself and millions of mothers, wives and sweethearts who wanted their Johnny soldier boy to come home now!!
At this point, the Army made a fatal mistake. Each soldier was told how many discharge points he had accumulated. Discharge points represented length of Army service, time overseas, medals won and things like that. In my case, the Army said that this old Sergeant had twice as many points as needed for discharge. Many of the other men at Greenwood were in the same boat with me. We wanted out – NOW! And the women went to Congress to see what was the holdup. They petitioned and badgered Congressmen and Senators endlessly. Hurray for them.
At Greenwood there was a large meeting hall or auditorium. The Army was feeling that heat. So the commanding Colonel of Greenwood had us all attend a gathering in the large auditorium. The Colonel himself addressed the crowd of enlisted men. In my case, the Commanding Colonel was completely unknown to me. Few of us had ever seen him. But on this occasion, he judged that only he could deliver his speech to the grunts. His pitch was for us to stay in the Army as a patriotic duty.
The Colonel started with platitudes about how wonderful all of us grunts were and why the Army COULD NOT do without us. Even though the war was completely over, the Colonel said we were desperately needed. Everyone in the audience knew that the desperation was in the ranks of full time Army officers, such as the Commanding Colonel, not among the enlisted men. We were simply desperate to leave the Army and go back to our peacetime occupations.
The colonel got so wound up in his effort to keep us from leaving the Army, he made some major mispronunciations in his speech. Some where in the audience, a GI stood up and yelled to the Colonel that he should try the mispronounced words “in a prone position.” That brought the house down and the colonel soon departed, presumably to lick his wounds.
Well, that is my story about the old geezers and the casualty rates and the magnificent Memorial . The story about the colonel was what Cajuns call lagniappe, a little something extra.
When the initial crowds calm down a little, this old soldier wants to see the Memorial for himself – assuming that the casualty rate does not catch up to me first.
A day or two before the Memorial was dedicated, there was a conversation with Lefty Vicendese, the major domo of Berkeley Hardware in Berkeley Heights, New Jersey.
When AT&T in its great wisdom transferred me from Chicago to Long Lines Headquarters in New York in March, 1955, my finances were pretty dismal because my pay was pretty small. Buying a house in New Jersey was out of the question at that point. So an ad was inserted in the Newark Star Ledger seeking a place to rent. It was answered by a fellow of about 35 years who wished to move to a religious seminary. He owned the 5 acre Rickenbacher farm on South Street in New Providence, a town that was completely unknown to me.
There was an ancient house on the property. The property itself was located immediately adjacent to the Our Lady of Peace Catholic Church. The property had outbuildings as well as many fruit trees and untold numbers of berry bushes. Our two year old daughter, Maureen, delighted in gathering the fruit and berries. On weekends, old Blondie hung around with me when grass was to be cut or when work had to be done in the out buildings. She was good company.
All of this started, as we said, in 1955. When hardware supplies were needed, people said that Berkeley Hardware in the next town to the west, could not be beat. And so it was that Lefty and his family became my hardware specialists.
One day in 1957, a priest came to our rented house to talk a little business. It seems Our Lady of Peace had bought the Rickenbacher Farm. We are not followers of the Catholic faith, but that did not prevent the priest from being absolutely decent to us. Obviously, we had to move, but the priest said we could have as much time as we needed. He told us the news as he played with old Blondie, nee Maureen. And so in the Fall of 1957, we moved to a new house, also in New Providence, so that we could be close to Berkeley Hardware. The mortgage on the new house was substantial, but the banker said he did not think an old soldier would run away. So we got the money.
As time went on, Berkeley Hardware prospered and moved around the corner to much larger quarters. In March, 1966, AT&T decided that this country could not do without me as an AT&T lobbyist in Washington, D.C. In the Fall of 1969, AT&T sent me back to New York as my three year stint as a lobbyist was over. Our new residence was in Millburn-Short Hills, which added about five miles each way to get to Lefty’s hardware store. But that made no difference as the Vicendese clan still had all my business.
Somewhere during this time, Berkeley Hardware added a bulletin board of Berkeley Heights World War II veterans, called an Honor Roll, at the main entrance. Five Vicendese people, three women and two men – Lefty and his siblings, are listed. Lefty’s name is shown as Anthony, which was previously unknown to me.
Now as Lefty has grown older and more dignified, it struck me that it would be more appropriate to call him Anthony rather than Lefty. So a week or so ago, Anthony, the former Lefty, demanded to know what my real name might be. Truth is a fixed star, so he was told my real first name is Ezra. All of this happened while Anthony was trying to get two or three customers taken care of at the checkout counter.
Well, it seems Anthony had never met a man named Ezra before. When Anthony spoke of Ezra, it came out as three or four syllables in length. He seemed to like the name Ezra. And so Anthony – Lefty- was asked by his pal Ezra, if he would he like to see the World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C.
Anthony’s reply was short and sweet. He said, almost reverently, “I would love to see it”. Upon reflection, it struck me that Lefty speaks for all of us old geezers who are trying to dodge the big reaper.
But in the meantime, remember that Berkeley Hardware, operated by five survivors of WWII, will fulfill all your hardware needs and supply some friendly back talk as well!
E. E. CARR
May 31, 2004
~~~
It’s a shame he didn’t end up liking the memorial when he want to visit.
According to the Department of Veterans Affairs, 697,806 American veterans from the World War II were still alive as of 2016. After all this time, that still seems like a tremendously high number of people, but I’m sure that number is still falling fast. It’s a bummer to think of all the stories that might have been lost from the vets who didnt, you know, write hundreds of essays about their lives.