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.
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