My father called a few weeks back to tell me that the French government was going to give him an award for his World War II service.  As I wanted to visit him – he had just moved into a new apartment – I figured the timing was right.  I’m a somewhat responsible son though I probably don’t call or visit either of my parents as much as they’d like. But a few days in Florida are always nice even in June (though not as nice as January) Dad is 94, his wife is 89.  He recently had hip replacement. Never one to complain about pain, it was causing him enough trouble to finally convince a surgeon to take him on – and it was successful.  He is in better shape now than a few months ago. But his wife’s health is deteriorating, and they moved to an “independent care” apartment complex.  Basically it’s like a hotel – a dining room, housekeeping services and activities.  Sort of like the Catskill resorts they used to frequent years ago – only this time surrounded by palm trees.    I wasn’t there for the actual move – which I gather was a good thing – the step-family is a little frantic (I am being very polite here).  But I did want to see his new place and considering this “award” I flew down in time to be there for the ceremony.

Some sort of “award”  

It turns out the “award” was the French Legion of Honor – initiated by Napoleon in 1803 http://ambafrance-us.org/spip.php?article3150 and is France’s highest honor.  Six years ago the French government made a decision to bestow it to all veterans who served in Europe in WWII.  In fact my father had been called by the veteran’s groups a few years ago – and at that time he declined claiming that his time in France was limited – and not exactly on the battle front (he always smiles when he recalls the liberated Paris – liberated in every sense of the word).  But he was called again, they insisted and he accepted.

My Father and the War – as told to me as a kid

Growing up in the 1960’s almost everyone’s dad was in “the War.”  It was a given – but details were few.  The war was many years ago and far away from the comfort of the middle class life we led.  When asked about the war my father usually went into a story about how after it ended he was with some Russians who gave him such strong vodka that whatever hair he had on his head stood up and marched away leaving him bald; or how he paid a German artist in occupied Berlin two packs of cigarettes to sketch the portrait that hung on the wall of his office (with hair – obviously done prior to drinking with the Russkies). On Tuesday nights I’d sometimes sit next to him and watch “Combat” with Vic Morrow but it was boring to me.  McHale’s Navy with Ernest Borgnine and Tim Conway was always more fun.  He was never a member of any vet’s organization though each Christmas he would send and receive cards from army buddies who had served with him in Europe.  They all had names like John, Thaddeus and Steve – very different than the Bernie, Irv and Mel that were his friends and associates in New York.  On a few occasions one would show up at our home if they were visiting New York.  Dinner would be served in the dining room, after I ate in the kitchen, but I would stick around listening to their conversations  and hoping they would discuss the war – but invariably the conversations were dull adult topics about what happened after – family, career, and current events.

I knew that Jack had been in combat at the Battle of Bulge.  He’d mention the battle usually when there was a cold and snowy Christmas.  He would recall it was bitterly cold in December, 1944 and in one of his few references to the hardships of the war he would sometimes remark that it was so cold that he stuffed his boots with newspaper (a trick his father taught him) to keep his feet warm.  He barely talked about the fighting or being wounded in the battle or returning to his outfit when he recuperated.

It wasn’t until he was 80 that he started to talk openly – and write – about his wartime experiences.  For his 80^th birthday we privately published his autobiography, Through Rose Colored Glasses.  He asked me with help editing it – though in the end I barely changed a word.  There’s a lot in it – about family, growing up in Brooklyn and probably a little too much information about his extracurricular exploits – but hey – it’s his story not mine!  Truly shocking to me were his wartime experiences – things I never knew until I read the draft.  I had heard him once mention a  night in a cold barn where he and Thadeus had to remain absolutely quiet – but I never knew the ending of that story until I read about his hand-to-hand confrontation with the enemy.  On a few occasions when the subject of the Holocaust came up (which in the 1960’s it rarely did – it wasn’t even called the Holocaust – in our house it was referenced as the “six million” and we were reminded that it included my grandfather’s entire village and his mother and siblings) he would mention being at Nordhausen when it was liberated – and speaking Yiddish to – and giving – a former prisoner a chocolate bar. The man died shortly thereafter as he was so starved his body could not tolerate solid food.

Into his 80’s he was more comfortable discussing the war.  Partially it was two generations ago and he knew getting it down on paper was important.  But also the Christmas cards from the men in his outfit were dwindling – and he was a repository of information.  He started wearing a baseball cap inscribed “WWII Vet.”  He likes it when people thank him for his service (and a few times it even gets him a free breakfast in the diner).  Being a combat vet he also is moral authority.  When people – who didn’t see battle – are aggressively hawkish about events overseas and suggest that we go and “kick the shit” out of them, he can remind them what war actually entails. While he’s no pacifist he knows what war is – and as he has written and said, “you never forget the stench of death.”

Flash forward to Boynton Beach, 2015

This morning I drove him to the ceremony.  In the days prior he felt comfortable enough to trade in his walker for a cane – the result of doing his exercises, physical therapy and walking in the pool (I had to get swimming in here somewhere!  Before the event I joined him the pool. I did my laps – he did his walking.  He walks as fast as I swim – that’s a better reflection of his abilities than mine!) He dressed in a blazer as the invitation asked that he wear a jacket.  He was one of the last to arrive.  I walked him over to the chair in the front row that was reserved for him.  I really had not given much thought of what the ceremony entailed but as he took his seat I looked at the row of ten men in front of me.  Some were in wheelchairs; others had walkers or canes like my father.  The youngest was 89, the oldest 98.  They were subdued compared to the small but noisy crowd of family and friends gathered close by.  The men greeted each with a handshake and a few polite words but there were no real discussions or even broad smiles.  They just sat and waited for the ceremony to begin.  As I looked at them I tried to these envision these men 72 years ago – in their late teens and early twenties.  The would have been laughing and boisterous, tall and swaggering with full heads of hair and muscled bodies – all not knowing what was next as they may have joked with nervous energy prior to their journey to Europe.  That journey would change them.  But after they returned to the states they all went on to have lives, families and careers.  World War II was a long, long time ago.   After brief speeches each man was called up by the French Counsel General and individually inducted into the Legion of Honor and given their medal.   As the ceremony concluded I was emotionally overwhelmed as I looked at these men with their medals pinned to their lapels.  Each of them had stories I am sure – no doubt horrific. But here under the hot Florida sun it wasn’t the time to tell these stories – though I am sure they were in minds of all of them.  Sitting there they comprised the most dignified group of honorable men I had ever seen.  My mind kept flashing between what they were, where they had been and why they were here today.  And my heart was heavy, knowing that someday these seats will soon be empty.