This Bud's for you Dad ...

Real Memorial Day

Roy Raymond (Roger) West My dad's buried in the American Cemetery and Memorial, Hamm, Luxembourg.  Bulge.  Mortar round.  Same cemetery where George S. Patton rests.    When my step-dad (Pop) was dying of cancer we talked about old times.  It was only then that he told me the story about my late mom's rift with my paternal grandparents.  I knew there was a problem, but always thought it was because she married a Catholic, or that he  adopted me and sister, giving us his name. I had no reason at all to think that, but it's where my imagination led me.  I don't think I ever had any meaningful conversation with mom about it.  She didn't talk about him. Pop, who himself was shot during the Bulge,  said  that the War Department later offered mom the opportunity to have dad's remains returned for burial in the U.S.  She declined.  Because she could not bear to rekindle her grief . My grandparents understandably wanted him back home, and were more than a little miffed.  Since I found that out, I've wondered whether I should inquire about whether that can still be done.  Even now.  If my grandparents were still alive, I think I prolly would already have. Ofttimes it's better to leave fighting men to rest with fallen buddies.  But —   dad was  a replacement, and had only just landed at Normandy and sent to the unit.   I don't think he was there two days.   I've learned that replacements were generally ignored by the old guys, because nobody wanted to befriend someone who would probably be dead in a few days.  So chances are he didn't know a soul in the 137th Inf.  But, this is where it gets confusing.  I spent my summers with Gram and Gramp West on their Indiana (Lewis)  farm.  One day gramps took me with him to Indianapolis.  He'd hired a truck to haul some livestock for sale.  The driver of the truck was introduced as knowing dad during his short stint overseas.  He was someone who was near enough to him to have seen the mortar round  hit.  He picked up what was left of dad's rifle and took it home, where he later gave it to gramps.  When we got home, gramps showed me the splintered wood stock (it resembled an M-1 carbine) with some twisted metal.  Never saw it again.  We didn't talk about it.  Obviously gramps set up that trip to Indianapolis so I could learn that.  We don't talk much in our family, it seems.