The day I helped pick out what I wanted from Pop's basement was full of surprises. Pop loves his tools; where one wrench existed, there were at least five "just in case" ones. X-Acto knives. Screwdrivers. Vice grips. Scissors. Swiss army knives, one actually purchased in Switzerland, which came home with me.
My Uncle John presided over the offerings; I asked him, right away, if there was anything I could not have.
"You can take anything but Uncle Herschel's bayonet."
Huh?
Pop apparently had this piece of WWII history in his basement, since his brother Herschel's death. I suppose it's not something you think of when you're displaying your genius for your grandkids to remember you by.
"May I see it?"
"I think it's on that shelf over there," my uncle replied.
I found it under a cigar box full of bolts. I picked it up reverently. Over time, the carbine darkened, but the bayonet itself held its edge remarkably well. I called Adonis over for his purview. I showed him where it attached to the rifle, and explained its use.
I looked hesitantly at my uncle. "Did it get used?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Uncle Herschel never talked about the war."
I handed it back. That sounded too much like a "yes" to me.
You see, my idea of war was the surgical war first fought in the first Desert Storm. Impersonal. Precise.
The bayonet? It brought the wars of our past uncomfortably near.
In World War II, 446,000 American soldiers lost their lives. The overwhelming majority were foot soldiers, who used these up-close-and-personal weapons. They attached to guns about 45 inches in length.
In the forest, out in the cold, in a jungle, or in a pit dug for protection. The attack launches in waves. Ammo is low; it's hand-to-hand fighting.
I have trouble watching violent movies. With today's amazing computer rendering, special effects, and other props, it's too darn real. Full Metal Jacket now looks like a ketchup fight compared to some of the newer movies available.
Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.
But the ammo is gone.
I suppose a long arm reach was something to thank God for. Pushing through the lines, trying to take the hill, trying to fight your way through to safety?
No wonder Uncle Herschel never wanted to talk about it.
Perhaps America reaches its long arms and sticks it's nose into international business but, you know what? Unlike European war veterans, they left war-torn countries and nobody drove past battlefields on their way back home. Nobody, with the exception of those stationed in Hawaii, really had to contend with a constant reminder of what they did to serve their country. America acts proactively, and we don't have to fight on our own soil. I looked up the numbers for civilian WWII casualties. About 41 million in civilian deaths. Japanese civilian deaths, even with Hiroshima and Nagasaki, totaled 580,000.
Staggering.
So, with a burst of American pride, I'd like to point out to all of those Europeans who look down their noses at us, that after you get up and brush your somewhat crooked teeth, put contacts in you brown eyes, and brush your brown locks, please note that you will go outside and wave casually to your neighbor instead of proclaiming "Heil Hitler" and goose stepping to the nearest transport, while patting the head of the child of your neighbor who has Down's Syndrome.
My Uncle Herschel wouldn't talk about it, but he fought, with a bayonet, to secure your freedom. He, a gentle man of respectable roots, put his life on his line to keep his country safe, and kept a lot of people for being a poster child, a "perfect specimen," for Hitler and his cronies. Given Hitler's obsession with the master race, do you really think he would've stopped with Europe? Come on, Asian features just don't match up with his idea of the master race, so you think he would've stopped there? Look at the numbers for the "imperfect" Soviet army, a blend of some 180 nationalities, from Caucasian to Mongol, who lost over 13% of their population, an overwhelming 23 MILLION people, both soldiers and civilians.
To my Great Uncle Herschel, WWII soldier, to my father, C-130 pilot and logistics specialist, and to my brother, F-18 pilot, thank you for serving an American military who thinks ahead and keeps the war from hitting to close to home. I don't want another 9/11.
Thanks to all our men and women in military service. May you come home.
