Happy Veteran’s Day – an open letter to my big brother Danny – a veteran

A dining room table bounced off a pickup and stood upright in the second lane of the northbound 101. It was probably the first thing I told my brother Danny about when we finally saw him… what else would I say… he was 18, graduating basic training at Fort Ord. I was 13 and mom and dad piled us into the Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser – that shattered a dining room table in the heart of Los Angeles –all of us who remained: Tim, Kathleen and me to watch the first of us, the only one of us, prepare for war.

The table transfixed us- mom ducked in the front seat, clutching her only daughter – as if to shield off the incoming. Dad flinched. Dad didn’t flinch much – especially not while driving – people in the lanes around him maybe… but not dad. Sitting in back with Tim, so clearly, as if we were entering the three-way exchange this evening, I remember we leaned forward to watch as it tried to steady itself at high speed.

We talked about it moments later- we all thought the same thought –as if it somehow was just part of this awful letting go of Danny… into growing up… into the army… into the clutches of war… that in an instant- had the table top stayed secure, before the legs collapsed and it all shattered into a million pieces beneath our wheels, how very easily it might have come through the windshield.

13, it’s what I imagined war might be like; random, inflicting fear, family memory and legacy, altered forever. The thought of never seeing my brother again- falling victim to another family’s loss of their table –or Danny falling victim to the war that occupied every moment of our teenage thoughts, was a fear that shattered what should have been the peaceful sleep of the spoiled third child.

As a child, I was quite certain our family had given more than enough to bring peace. As an adult, a father, I can’t begin to imagine how my father- a veteran –of WWII –one of many who refused to tell many stories… who even gave up hunting – said he’d seen “far too much blood, too much death.” It was dad who inadvertently planted an image in my brain I’ve never been able to shake as he told the stories of walking day and night with the liberation troops- stumbling blindly onto the unexpected horrors of the concentration camps –of people, skin just hanging onto bone, who nearly worshipped them as they opened gates, shared chocolate… of people: he always said it the same way: “bodies, stacked like cord wood…” Tears would fill his eyes…

Mom- well mom lost her heart in WWII… not once but more times than she knew how to share. At night, dad was reading and the four of us kids huddled round the television, she would slip off to be alone- well within our view –and write. The sound of a simple, manual typewriter was so very familiar in the evenings… when the keys fell silent it wasn’t uncommon to look over at mom, Kleenex to her eyes, remembering. We hated to watch mom cry.

Her closest brother was lost in the battle for Iwo Jima. He’d enlisted as a conscientious objector, because of his Christian faith… but when kamikazes took aim at his ship: The USS Bismarck Sea, he manned a 40mm gun. Wikipedia says this about it:
“On 21 February 1945, despite heavy gunfire, two Japanese kamikazes hit the Bismarck Sea, first on the starboard side under the first 40 mm gun (aft), crashing through the hangar deck and striking the ship’s magazines.”
Each of us children had held the letters from his best friend- who survived, from his commanding officer, who wrote of his heroism to the end. We’d seen granny wait for him to come home- his body one of too many lost at sea. We’d sat with mom when she would get out the letters… and cry.

Mom and her brother Doyle had been inseparable – save by war and death. Her first love- an older man she looked up to… and then another… brutally ripped away. I never understood why she worked for the Veteran’s Administration as a civilian – as a child I thought: “Run Mom, Run!” So much lost… the people, the family, the stories who became the legacy written across our hearts in tears. A legacy we shared with so many other families who’d given loved ones: a child, a sibling, a parent, to serve their country and who, like us, prayed for their safe return.

We were all so proud of Danny in his uniform on the parade grounds that day. He won a marksman award – I got to hold it that night. The family – along with so many others – went out to dinner together. Looking at my oldest brother, the one I’d lived in fear of, the one who’d protected me, I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

A few short months later Danny got his orders in the middle of the night- Dad and Mom got to see him before he left for battle… the rest of us prayed… and worried… and suffered those awful holidays when a loved one’s away at war.

I wondered sometimes- if while dad and mom watched that table teeter on the edge of our existence, just over the hood of our car –they might have for a second thought: “This would be easier. This would be quicker.” I thought about it sometimes…and he wasn’t my son… my first born. More importantly, I hadn’t tasted war in all its brutality… we were merely children of war.

February, 1945, when my uncle was lost, was separated by just 22 short years from 1967. 22 years ago seems like nothing today… To me, in 1967, at the age of 13, 22 years might as well have been eternity. Not to Dad and mom… and now the nightmare was taking their son. They were incredibly brave. They watched the news at night to see if they could spot Danny in the battles. Mom baked cookies, cakes, put together care packages and mailed them to distant lands in hopes that her son might touch a bit of home. We prayed… it’s what you do when someone’s away at war… we prayed.

Danny came home… alive. We celebrated. My friend Skip, the kid down the street who sold me pigeons, like tens of thousands of others, never came home. I’ve rubbed my hand across “The Wall” where his name is inscribed- laughed about old memories, tried to push away the time Danny was gone and only remember the day he came home… and thanked God that table didn’t take us all out that evening on the 101. Life can be so random.

Veteran’s Day and I’m thinking about my family – thanking God – they’ve served our country. Thankful for my uncles, father, father-in-law, brother-in-law… so many who wore the uniform of our nation, ready to pay the ultimate price, so that we can sleep in safety and comfort.

Most of all I’m thankful for my big brother Danny, the veteran who may mean the most to me, the one who slept in the next room growing up, who walked me home from school when I was in first grade, who took me on “the scrambler” long before mom would’ve approved, who sailed an entire summer with me when he came home… the one I wandered the streets of Europe with in the summer of 1971 – slept in bed and breakfasts, pensions and sometimes just barely got by as he played the guitar and we sang together- panhandling on the streets of Vienna – in the shadows of St. Stephen’s Cathedral.

Take a moment to thank a veteran. If you’ve got a family member who served, or is serving still, thank them… they carry a burden we can never share – one we may never understand… and at some level – deeper than they possibly can understand –they carry it because of, or even for us… the BIG us… the “We The People…” us. And I’m proud that my brother served… for us.

Thanks Danny for carrying on our family’s tradition of serving our country. For putting your life on the line in places I’ve never heard of and will probably never visit. Thanks even more for coming home, alive and for letting me share your life, your grand adventure. I love you and am so incredibly thankful for and proud of you today and everyday.

Happy Veteran’s Day!